The Price of Pride

Chapter 71


We started on our fourth march since entering Moria. I devoutly hoped it would be our last. Even with Gimli’s help, the Ring was beginning to wear on me. I feared that another night spent in Moria would see me descend completely into madness, even with Gimli to distract me. We climbed ano another flight of stairs, coming to a crossroads. Three shafts led off from the place where we now stood, three possible paths, only one of which would lead to our destination. I looked to Gandalf to tell us which door to take.

“I have no memory of this place,” Gandalf said, staring at the three portals, trying to decide which one would lead us toward the Eastern Gate. “We will rest for a few minutes,” he decided. We set down our packs and settled to the floor to wait. Frodo sat beside Gandalf. The rest of us sat on a landing a few steps below the crossroads. Aragorn, Gimli, Merry and Pippin all pulled out their pipes, taking advantage of the moment’s rest. I said nothing, but I did wonder what I had been done to be cursed with pipeweed on every side.

“Are we lost?” Pippin whispered to Merry after a few minutes.

“No,” Merry whispered back.

“I think we are,” Pippin countered, still in a whisper.

“Shhh!” Sam intervened. “Gandalf’s thinking.” I smiled at the interplay between the three Hobbits. Pippin’s innocence, Merry’s attempts to reassure him, Sam’s determination to have everything turn out for the best. Those qualities endeared them to me immensely. I must have been that innocent once, believing that everything could somehow work out for the best. I had lost that innocence long ago, but I prayed to the Valar that my Hobbit friends would find a way to keep theirs through all we were facing. If they could do that, perhaps we were not on such a fool’s errand after all.

All was silent for a few moments, then Pippin’s voice sounded again, still at a whisper. “Merry?” he said softly.

“What?” Merry asked, sounding a little annoyed.

“I’m hungry,” Pippin replied. I suppressed a chuckle at that comment. I had yet to see the Hobbits not hungry. They seemed perfectly capable of eating more than the Men twice the size. Then, I saw Frodo start suddenly, as if he had seen something that frightened him. Even as he went to Gandalf for reassurance, I peered back the way we had come, trying to make out what could have frightened Frodo.

“There’s something down there,” I heard Frodo say as I watched the stones below us.

“It’s Gollum,” Gandalf answered just as my eyes caught the skulking creature on the rocks below. I listened absently as Frodo and Gandalf discussed Gollum and how he might have left Barad-Dur. I could see his larges ges glittering in the darkness as he stared up at us. His hatred was almost palpable, even across the distance. Part of me recoiled, wondering what I had done, what any of us had done to deserve such hatred. Then, as if Gandalf had heard my question, he answered it. “He will never be rid of his need of it. He hates and loves the Ring, as he hates and loves himself.”

Gandalf kept talking to Frodo, about the sad story of Gollum’s life, but the words flowed over me, unimportant in the face of this revelation about the Ring. Gollum would never be rid of it, Gandalf believed. Did that mean that I, too, would suffer the temptation of the Ring until it was destroyed or until it destroyed me? I had thought that, once under the open sky again, I would regain my defenses to its evil, but now Gandalf’s words made me wonder. Had the darkness of Moria done me a lasting harm? As I stood there, waiting to move on, waiting to feel the wind again y fay face, the Ring resumed its taunting, assuring me that I was so completely in its power that I should just give in. I swayed under the force of its evil. Gimli and Aragorn both noticed, but Gimli spoke first.

“Why is it that Elves have no hair?”

I gaped at him. My hair hung more than halfway down my back. It always had. What did he mean Elves had no hair? I was about to ask him what he thought was on my head when I saw him stroking his beard. I paused, to come up with another retort when I realized what he had done. In my anger at his question, I had broken the hold that the Ring had gotten over me. And so I laughed at his question. Not loudly and not for long. Laughter did not seem appropriate in Moria, but I laughed nonetheless. “We wear our hair on the top of our heads, not on the front,” I replied sagely.

He chuckled in reply, though it was not the wittiest response I could have given him. Before I could say more, Gandalf’s voice drifted down to us again. “Even the very wise cannot see all ends. My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before this is over. The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of Men,” he told Frodo. I wondered if the wise, Elrond and Galadriel, had seen this end when they sent us off. Had they seen us trapped in Moria? Would they have sent us if they had.

Frodo and Gandalf talked a little longer, their words too soft even for my ears to catch. Then, Gandalf rose suddenly and pointed toward one of the passages. “Ah! It’s that way,” he declared.

“He’s remembered!” Merry exclaimed with a smile, climbing the steps to join Gandalf.

“No,” Gandalf replied, putting an arm around Merry’s shoulders, “but the air doesn’t smell so foul down here. If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose.” Gimli and I exchanged laughing looks at that advice. We followed Gandalf down the passage to the left, descending stairs, now, instead of ascending. The passage opened finally into a huge hall.

“Let me risk a little more light,” Gandalf said, raising his staff to illuminate the tall pillars and arched ceilings that stretched out before us. I was awe-struck as I stared mutely at the spectacle before me. Never before or since had I seen the like. The silence from the other members of the Fellowship told of their reactions as well.

“Behold the great realm of the dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf,” Gandalf said softly.

“Now there’s an eye opener, and no mistake,” Sam said when he could finally speak at all. I felt much the same way. The passages we had been traversing were mining shafts, functional only. This hall was built for beauty as we As As we crossed the hall, a beam of sunlight caught my eye, and Gimli’s as well, but Gimli saw something I did not. Or at least, something I did not know how to interpret. With a cry, he ran toward the room.

Gandalf called his name, trying to stop him, but Gimli paid him no heed, entering the chamber and kneeling in front of a crypt, though at the time I did not know what it was. We followed him slowly, arriving in the chamber just in time to hear him shouting “No!” over and over.

I moved forward to comfort him, but Boromir reached him first, a hand coming to rest on Gimli’s shoulder, offering whatever support the Dwarf needed. Gandalf, too, approached Gimli’s side, reading the runes inscribed on the stone. “‘Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.’ He is dead then. It’s as I feared.” Balin. Gimli’s cousin, who was supposed to welcome us with malt beer and roaring fires. This block of stone was all that was left of that Dwarf.

As I pondered the mortality of Dwarves, Gandalf handed his staff and hat to Pippin and bent down to retrieve a battered book from the grasp of a dead Dwarf. He opened it, cleared the dirt and began to flip gingerly through its pages. I knew that Gimli needed time to mourn. I knew that Gandalf wanted to know what had happened, but the sunlight through a crack in the ceiling brought home to me again all that I had not felt in four days. “We must move on, we cannot linger!” I told Aragorn urgently.

He nodded as Gandalf began to read from the heavy tome. “They have taken the bridge, and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep,” he read, turning the page carefully. “We cannot get out. A Shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out…They are coming.” His words resonated in the gloom of the chamber, holding us all in the terror of the events that led to the last standthe the Dwarves, there in that room. I met Aragorn’s eyes nervously.

As he spoke, Pippin’s curiosity got the better of him. He reached out and touched the arrow in a corpse on the edge of the well. First the skull, then the body tumbled down the well, echoing noisily for what seemed like hours, though it could not have been more than a few seconds. Finally, all was silent again. For a long moment, none of us moved. When the silence continued, we all began to breathe more easily.

“Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!” Gandalf scolded. The last time Gandalf had scolded Pippin, I had felt some sympathy for the young Hobbit. This time, I had none. Gandalf grabbed his hat and staff and turned to leave the chamber when the sound of a drum echoed up from below. One thump. Then another. Then several together. The terror that had receded with the silence returned in full force. I could feel it gripping everyone in the room. Sam suddenly called Frodo’s name and pointed at his sword. It glowed blue in the dim light. I had not known that Frodo carried an Elvish sword, but I knew very well what that blue glow meant. “Orcs,” I shouted, warning the others.

Boromir went to the door, to see if we could escape or to bar the door if we could not. Arrows landed in the door, right in front of his face with menacing thumps. Aragorn dropped the torch that he had been carrying. “Get back!” he yelled to the Hobbits. “Stay close to Gandalf!”

Even as he spoke, he ran to Boromir’s side, helping him push the doors closed. As the doors swung shut, we could make out another sound over the chittering of the Orcs, a deeper, more threatening sound. “They have a cave-troll,” Boromir said, rolling his eyes in frustration. As he spoke, I scrounged for spears and axes, tossing them to Boromir and Aragorn for them to use to bar the door. As soon as the door was secure, I drew my bow. Aragorn readied his bow as well. Boromir had his sword in hand, swinging it in preparation for the battle to come. Behind us, I heard Gimli leap atop the tomb. “Let them come!” he growled. “There is one dwarf yet in Moria that still draws breath!”

The Orcs began battering at the door, their weapons serving as axes. As soon as a hole appeared large enough for an arrow, I fired. Beside me, Aragorn did the same, the squeals we heard through the door letting us know that our arrows had found targets. They continued to hack at the doors until the spears and axes broke and they came swarming through. Aragorn abandoned his bow for his sword almost immediately, joining Boromir in hacking at our attackers. Gimli let out a roar as the first Orcs reached him, cutting them down as they came. Even the Hobbits joined in. I could hear them yelling as they attacked. I was aware of all of them even as I shut out everything, focusing on the rhythm of aiming and firing my bow. I had feared a battle in the darkness, but now that it was upon us, I found that my desire to live outweighed my fear.

The last of the Orcs came through the narrow doorway, the chain in its hand leading the cave troll we had heard. I fired immediately, my arrow landing in its shoulder, but that did not slow it down. The troll raised its mace, aiming for Sam who stood almost at its feet. I fired again, at Orcs around me, as Boromir and Aragorn grabbed the troll’s chain and tried to pull it away from Sam. They succeeded in distracting it from Sam, only to have it turn its attention to them. Aragorn ducked quickly, but Boromir was thrown across the room. As he tried to regain his senses, an Orc bore down on him. I had an arrow ready and was about to fire when Aragorn threw his sword, skewering the creature through its neck. I almost sighed in frustration as he left himself defenseless. Instead, I fired at the Orc that decided the Man with no sword was an easy target.

When Aragorn had retrieved his sword, I climbed up to a ledge, giving myself the advantage of altitude in the battle. The troll had turned its attention to Gimli, who had managed so far to avoid its mace. I fired two more arrows into the troll, but it still was not enough to bring down the foul creature. I drew one of my knives, taking out the Orcs that had joined me on the ledge. The troll pounded its mace down on the ledge, annoyed perhaps at my challenge. I dodged its blows, waiting for it to make a mistake. When the end of the mace came around a pillar, I saw my chance, catching it with my foot and securing the troll to the wall with its chain. The chain proved the perfect bridge. I danced across it, my feet barely even connecting, coming to stand on the troll’s shoulders. I fired directly into its skull, but that was not its weak spot.

As I jumped down, I heard Aragorn call Frodo’s name. The troll’s focus had changed again, this time to the Ringbearer. It grabbed Frodo by the ankle, dangling him upside down. Frodo called for Aragorn’s help. I moved that way, as well, but was intercepted. As I fought the Orcs that surrounded me, I kept an eye on my friends. Aragorn had grabbed a spear and had stabbed the troll, but the troll kept coming, knocking Aragorn away and pulling the spear out of its side. It stabbed at Frodo several times before finally hitting him. Merry and Pippin jumped from the ledge onto the troll’s head. The rest of the Orcs had fallen so all our efforts were focused on bringing down the troll. Gandalf and Gimli parried its blows, striking with sword and axe while the Hobbits stabbed from above. I prepared to fire and waited, hoping for an opening that would let me find a weak spot. Pippin stabbed the troll one more time in the head, causing the troll to rear up, shouting in pain. That was the opening I had been looking for. I fired into the creature’s mouth, the arrow penetrating its palette and embedding in its brain. As soon as I fired, I prepared another arrow, just in case. The troll moaned, then collapsed at our feet, throwing Pippin against the floor. Silence followed, a sudden change from the noise of battle.

As soon as we knew the troll was dead, all attention turned to Frodo. All attention, that is, except mine. I had seen Aragorn thrown against the wall, where he lay unmoving. My eyes raked over him when the battle ended, checking for injuries, wondering how I would explain my broken promise to Arwen if he was seriously injured. Fortunately, he had awakened and was crawling toward Frodo. He turned the Hobbit over, expecting to see him lying in a pool of blood. Then, Frodo coughed a little and struggled to sit up. His short was dirty and torn, but no blood stained the fabric.

“I’m all right, I’m not hurt,” he assured us all, panting a little, but then, we all were after the battle.

“You should be dead!” Aragorn exclaimed incredulously. “That spear would have skewered a wild boar.” He was right. There had to be some explanation for Frodo’s survival.

“I think there’s more to this Hobbit than meets the eye,” Gandalf said with just the hint of a smile. Frodo parted his shirt to reveal a vest of silvery rings.

“Mithril!” Gimli exclaimed in awe. “You are full of surprises, Master Baggins.” Even as he spoke, the cries of Orcs returned, signaling a new wave of attackers.

“To the bridge of Khazad-Dûm!” Gandalf ordered.