Chapter 2      

Twice more during that long march, their first day in Moria, the Company halted while Gimli spun his faceted ring before Frodo’s bespelled eyes.  The Dwarf kept a close eye on the passive hobbit and would demand that they stop whenever Frodo seemed to be coming back to himself.   Gandalf kept them moving, the crystal in his staff glowing but faintly, providing just enough light to pool at their feet and throw more shadow than define the shapes about them.  Pippin was glad; he did not want to see more clearly.  He still felt sick from what he had seen as they entered the East Doors and beheld the ruin of Khazad-dûm.

Several more times they passed by scenes of old death, decaying skeletons of dwarves and orcs and goblins, each moldering face stretched in a rictus of agonizing pain.  Black arrows and broken shields, rusted swords and shattered axes littered the battlegrounds.  Rats’ eyes glinted at them from every dark crevice.  The bodies swarmed with enormous brown roaches, their shiny backs giving the decomposing corpses the illusion of movement.  Pippin grew to loath the little skittering sounds made by millions of clawed insect feet on rock and wall; the sound would disappear as they walked through a space, then resume immediately after.  They moved in a little oasis of light, and outside of it, all was horror.  Pippin turned his eyes away from these sights and shuddered, and more than once considered asking Gimli if the Dwarf would allow him the same unawareness granted Frodo.  Merry and Sam walked beside him, their faces pale and set, neither looking to the side.  Shamed by their courage, Pippin steeled himself and buried his fears down deep. 

By the time Gandalf raised his glowing staff to signal their campsite for the night, Frodo’s dreadful burns had sealed and Aragorn was able to wash them and wrap them lightly in athelas-soaked bandages.  The fragrance of the healing herb was a balm to their weary minds, a reminder that outside, the sun still shone and the world still existed beyond the dank caverns.  Frodo merely looked straight ahead as Aragorn tended him, his stare inward-focused, and the Ranger blessed anew Gimli’s knowledge of his people’s pain-easing technique.  The Dwarf spun the ring before Frodo’s eyes a last time, the diamond-points of sparkling light seeming to sink into Frodo’s  eyes, and told him to eat then sleep.  The technique which Gimli performed upon the hobbit was by no means secret, Aragorn knew, but it was a gift rarely given to those not of dwarven-kind.

Finishing his own meal, the Ranger covered the curled-up form with an extra blanket and rose to speak with the wizard.  Sitting beside his sleeping master, Samwise was scouring the stew pot with a rough cloth.  There was no water to spare for cleansing.  The Company had expected to refill their water supplies at the Sirannon, the Gate-stream, renown for the crystal freshness of its spring-born water.  Instead, that foul, stinking lake had greeted their horrified eyes.  As much as they needed water, Aragorn would never permit them to take it from that murky, vile-smelling reserve.  Not that anyone would consider it, after seeing that monstrous creature in the water.  Aragorn had poured the contents of his own water-skin over Frodo’s burns and used the rest to soak the athelas leaves.  The single remaining sip was all that he had drunk with supper. 

Pippin had already asked for a second cup of water and the Ranger had regretfully denied him.  His sharp eyes did not miss that Merry had poured a portion of his single cup into Pippin’s.  Sam, too, had poured some of his allotment into Frodo’s cup, taking advantage of his master’s enforced sleep to ensure that Frodo took it without protest.  Aragorn scowled into the darkness.  The injured Ringbearer would need water for his body to heal those acid burns, and they had none to give him.  They were all thirsty now; tomorrow, they would be truly suffering.  While they could go many days without food, the lack of water could finish them.

Several times along the march, the Ranger had thought he heard dripping water … all illusions of the echoing caverns.  With his superior elven hearing, Legolas had located a sprightly spring from which water burbled abundantly … from behind a solid rock wall.  They had placed the palms of their hands against the wall and felt the force of the rushing water as faint tremors in the rock.  It ran free and clear and forever beyond their reach.

As he had known it would be, the Company’s thirst was much greater when they rose to resume their march, the second day in Moria.  Aragorn used the last of the water was used to wash Frodo’s burns and moisten the athelas-wrapped bandages.  The wounds were beginning to heal but were very red and the new skin under that which had sloughed off was shiny and blistered.  The hobbit’s leg and wrist would still be tender beyond measure, and had to be safeguarded against infection.  Judging the pain still too much for Frodo to endure, Aragorn had asked Gimli to again perform his own brand of healing magic, and Boromir and Aragorn traded off carrying the entranced hobbit.

By the time they halted for the mid-day meal, all were desperately thirsty.  In the glow of Gandalf’s staff and the torches they carried, Pippin had thought he saw moisture gleaming on rock and had eagerly placed his tongue against it.  All he got was a mouthful of dust as he licked across a vertical vein of shining quartz. 

The wizard had extinguished the light on his staff and their only illumination was the small cook fire, built between what appeared to be highly decorated benches, conveniently tumbled on their sides.   The benches sheltered the fire from direct sight, and also absorbed the heat of the flames, affording the hobbits some unexpected but much appreciated warmth.  Torches were plentiful, lying scattered on the ground or even remaining in the many carved stone torch-rests that had once decorated the city.  Merry and Pippin gathered several from the debris and laid them by the fire for future use.  Their dry rations swallowed painfully, the hobbits curled up close together in their cloaks and slept.  Watching their small forms rest uneasily on the hard ground, Aragorn wondered if they were seeking perhaps to escape the ever-pressing weight of dead stone around and above them.

Of all the Company, it was perhaps the Elf that suffered most in the closed and musty space.  In these dark mines, Legolas felt constricted, almost as if the rocks walls inched a little closer with every breath.  Longing to feel fresh air on his face and missing the open sky, he would often raise his clear eyes as if to see past solid rock to the stars so beloved by his people.  Suddenly, Legolas gave a soft cry of wonder.

Above them, little points of light twinkled in the black unyielding darkness.  They could not possibly be stars; the cavern ceiling arched high and solid over them.  The Elf rose to his feet, seeking understanding.  The little points of light did not truly twinkle, he realized, but only seemed to move as his eyes roved from one place to another. 

The soft exclamation drew the attention of those awake, who then followed a long hand upward as the Elf gestured at the glowing points of light.  “What are they?”  Legolas asked. 

It was Gimli who answered, son of a cave-dwelling folk.  “They are luminescent lichen, a type of moss, a small plant that clings to rock.”  He took his pipe out of his mouth and rumbled, “I have heard it said that they are actually animals, but I cannot see how it could be so.  They grow like little flowers, strong roots eating into any crevice they can find.  Their light results from processes deep within them.  They are an interesting curiosity, but of no value or use.”

Legolas sighed.  “They do not guide us or light our way or lift our hearts, yet it gladdens me to see such things in this dark place.  Little touches of beauty to remind us that, outside, the stars still shine.”

Pippin had opened his eyes at the Elf’s soft cry.  Beside him, Merry and Frodo still slept and Sam snored softly.  He sat up and rubbed his eyes, listening as the Big Folk discussed the faintly glowing points of light.   Fascinated, he edged over to Gimli.

“Are they growing on the ceiling, then?  Like stars stuck on the curtain of night?”

The Dwarf chuckled softly.  “Some are.  Most of what you see is growing on the walls of this cavern itself, but the darkness hides the details from our eyes.”

Pippin stood up and stared, thinking of crisp nights in the Shire when the stars had seemed so close he could actually touch them.  More than once (and not so long ago) the youngster had raised himself up on his toes and reached for the shining stars.  When he was very small, he thought he could hold one in his hand, did he reach far enough…  There seemed to be a ledge directly under where the moss-stars started growing.  Some kind of raised gallery?  Pippin wandered over the cavern wall and regarded the fallen masonry and tumbled stone piled there. 

Behind him, the Big Folk continued talking softly and his cousins and Sam slept on.  Pippin wondered what the moss-stars looked like, up close.  Were they warm; did they give off heat?  Would they be diamond-hard and sharp like he imagined stars to be?

Almost before he knew it, the youngster had started to climb.  The very lowest of the stars looked not far above him.  Their glow was just enough for him to find handholds among the storied rock, and his tough, furred feet easily found toeholds in the carved and pitted masonry.   Sure-footed and hobbit-silent, Pippin ascended the wall easily.

He had almost gone as high as he could before a loosened stone betrayed him.  The treacherous rock bounced off another and started a whole avalanche of small stones, spraying the resting Company indiscriminately.  Pippin grimaced … he was in for it now.

“Fool of a Took!”  Gandalf was on his feet and staring up at him.  No one had been hurt by the small stones but now everyone was awake and no one looked to be happy with him.  Pippin momentarily debated the wisdom of staying up there until the wizard calmed down.

“I just wanted to see the moss-stars,” he called softly.  “I’m sorry!  I’ll come right down.”  Pippin turned back to the wall to start his descent.  The nearest moss-star was only a little above his head.  It seemed a waste to go to all this trouble and not get what he had come for…  Pippin flexed his knees and jumped, swiping at the glowing patch.  Not quite high enough…

“Pip, you come down here right now!”  Merry was in no mood for his younger cousin’s antics.  Asleep, he had been able to forget the thirst that clawed at his throat.  Rudely awakened by a stone bouncing off his ribs, he rubbed the bruise angrily.  Beside him, Frodo also sat up and gasped as he felt his injuries.

One more jump…  Pippin took a small running leap and caught a small handful of the glowing stuff on his way down.  His forward momentum carried him several feet past where he had been standing. 

“I’ve got -" the others heard, followed by a tremendous splintering crash.  Pippin disappeared from sight.  They heard a short wail and then nothing.

Legolas was up the tumbled rock before the echoes of Pippin’s soft cry had faded.  Aragorn caught up Merry as the hobbit rushed past him to follow the Elf.

“He’s fallen into some kind of hole,”  Legolas called down.  “He landed on a rotted wooden grate, which gave under his weight.  I cannot see him.”

* TBC *