Chapter 5

“Well, that’s it, then,” remarked Merry, as he leaned on his belly over the raised stonework that formed the lip of the well.  “Can we go now?”

“Quiet, Merry.”  Gandalf leaned over the smoothed stones and peered into the dark depths of the well.  The wizard grasped his staff by the very end and lowered the glowing tip into the well and closed his eyes.  The crystal imbedded in the tip brightened, then blazed.  The Company, clustered around the well, leaned forward and sheltered the light with their bodies, eyes narrowed in an attempt to see past the radiant glare.  But it did not help.  Eyes tearing, burning, none could see beyond the brilliant light. 

“Drop a torch down,” suggested Sam, rubbing his eyes against the large blue dots that seemed to have invaded his vision.

“It is a very long drop.   It would make too much noise,” replied Aragorn. 

“A stone, then.  That will tell us if there’s water there, an’ how far down it is.”

“We are trying not to draw attention to ourselves, Sam.  We do not need loud, echoing noises – or the possibility of settling something afire, if the well is dry.”

Muttering under his breath, Gandalf muted the blazing light, pulling up his staff and lifting it high above their heads, trying to catch a reflection of the faint light far below them.  They leaned forward again, straining their eyes against the dark.  No dim spark met their gaze, and the wizard did not dare to brighten the light out of the protective concealment of the well’s walls.

Gimli had stood silent after leading them almost directly to the public well.  While the others sought a way of discovering if there was water down there, the dwarf had stood quietly, hands resting on his axe, as his deep eyes swept the destroying housing areas.  Here the damage had been particularly vicious, as if by striking at the heart of the City, its attackers had sought to obliterate its soul.  The gracefully carved walls of the courtyard, all arches and delicate filigree, lay in tumbled ruins around them, and smashed masonry and broken stonework were all that remained of the once-stately homes.  The homes had been looted, destroyed, defaced, and the hatred and maliciousness reflected here brought tears to the dwarf’s eyes.  Bisected by mathematically precise streets and alleyways, each home had been constructed and carved differently, some boasting stone columns and cornices, some carved gingerbread work.  The stone had been crafted with such care that even the dust and destruction could not obscure the pride and love that went into their building.  No two had been alike.  They were alike now, shattered and deserted, tenanted only by spiders and rats and sorrowful memory.

With an effort, the dwarf dragged himself back to the matter at hand, the news of Dwarrowdelf  he must carry to his people heavy on his heart.  After watching the fruitless discussion for a moment, he joined the others in peering down into the darkness.  “What about the lichen?”

Aragorn looked over at him.  “The moss-stars?  What of them?”

“Drop some down the well,” Gimli suggested.  “Their light is faint, but with a sizable piece, you can see it as it falls.  And if there is water, it will float and move and dip with the lapping of the water.”

The stillness that followed was absolute, until Gandalf planted his staff at his side and leaned on it, and began to laugh.  Heartily but silent, the wizard laughed, bent almost double with his mirth.  “Ah, good Dwarf,” he said at last.  “What would we do without your good sense?”

Legolas leapt lightly up one of the tumbled staircase, and gently gathered the glowing plant-stuff from the nearest wall.  He tugged tenderly on its roots, pulling out the fine stiff hairs with care to avoid harming more of it than necessary.  The luminescent lichen was the only fair thing left in the ravaged courtyard, and the combined light of its thick growth cast forgiving shadows on the ruin about them.  How beautiful it must have been when it was cultivated and cared for, and the Elf apologized to it softly in his own language as he eased it free of the wall.

The others stepped back to allow Legolas room to spread his arms and drop the saddle bag-sized lump of lichen into the well.  It did not drop heavily but wafted slightly from side to side, growing smaller as it sank into the distance.  Leaning far over (Aragorn placed a hand on Sam’s back as the hobbit nearly lost his balance), the Company was able to keep the moss-star in sight as its pallid light gleamed up at them.  There was the faintest splat as it reached the bottom.  It seemed to disappear for a moment, then returned, swaying and dipping as it floated.

A collective sigh ran through the Company.  “Water,” said Gandalf softly.

* * * * *

Sitting on the cold floor against the closed floor, Pippin was also thinking of water.  His eyes burned and his throat hurt and there was no more water in the water skin Gimli had so kindly given him.  He had wept until he had no more tears to give the dead of Moria.  Vaguely, he wondered if any of its people had had time to weep before the end; he hoped not, hoped that it had been quick for them.  Yet he knew, thinking of the bodies outside, that for some it had not been quick enough.

Though he was stiff from sitting, he did not want to explore outside the room again.  He would wait here.  And if they do not come, whispered a small voice in his mind.  Or if they came and left, while you so foolishly slept?  I’ll wait, Pippin thought.  I’m not going out there again.

* * * * *

After some searching, the Company discovered the well’s bucket under what had once been a bench.  The finely-wrought metal chain was rusty yet intact, but the wooden bucket splintered and broken.  It did not matter; the water skins could be tied to the chain and lowered, and the pressure of the water in the well would fill them.  They would gain enough to last the remaining two days of their journey, until they could taste the clean air and snow-fed streams outside the Black Pit of Moria.

Legolas tied the water skins together and to the chain, and Boromir lowered them and brought them up, ice-cold and dripping.  The hobbits cupped their hands under them as they were brought from the well and laughed as water puddled in their palms, tilting them to their mouths.   Aragorn untied his water skin first from the sloshing pile and handed it to Sam with instructions to make Frodo drink, then himself, and then pass it around.

Down went another burden of emptied skins and came up filled.   And another.  The Company drank until they could hold no more, and the ice-cold water caused more than one uncomfortable belly.  They poured some over their heads and hands, and if only succeeded in turning the dust into mud and swirling it over their faces, it made them feel better.  Aragorn poured two skinfulls over Frodo’s leg and wrist, and re-wetted the athelas bandages.  After the hobbit had stopped shuddering, Frodo tentatively eased himself to his feet and found he could stand.  The Ranger would not allow him more than a few steps, but the relief in all the hobbits’ eyes was immense.

Gandalf required them to top off each water skin with the contents of the last fishing, saying that too much water was better than too little, and they were not free of Khazad-dûm yet.  Much could happen before they saw the sun again.  Drunk with water, they agreed and poured the contents of the newly-retrieved water skins into each other until all were completely full.  That done, they laughed and much to Merry’s relief, set out to reclaim their missing member.

* * * * *      

Bored with sitting (and possessing a cold posterior), Pippin had decided that he could wait as well within the room as without it.  He rose and began to explore the shadowed recesses and great stone structures about him.  A cleaning closet revealed nothing of interest.  The junction room had also been used for storage, and Pippin curiously ran his hands along the crushed crates and looted barrels.  There was less destruction here, probably because there had been no defenders in such a place.

Fading light called him back to his small fire.  He added the fourth and last torch, and did not allow himself to think of the others not coming before it was consumed.  To keep his mind from such thoughts, he ventured in another direction of the room and came upon a great stone vat, as high as his chest.  One of the water-cisterns, surely.  Pippin pulled himself to the ledge and peered inside eagerly but the fire did not illuminate the shadows.  He reached down, then farther.  No water.  With a grimace, he shinnied around on the ledge and dropped down into it.  Twin puffs of dust stirred the hair on his feet.  Pippin sighed and pressed his palm to the bottom just to be sure.  No water.  The cistern was as dry as his throat.

He climbed out again, disappointed and depressed, and resumed his seat against the door, watching as the last torch burned.  Just when he was growing sleepy again, he heard a soft and much-loved voice murmur against the door, “Pippin-lad?  Are you there?”

 * * * * *

Far away from where the young hobbit joyously greeted the other eight, the one that had followed them, snuffling and sniffing on their trail, had also found the others of its kind it sought.  In the hisses and snarls of its own coarse language, it called them together and reported that intruders had entered the Mines, and told them of their number and kind and weapons.

The highest-ranked of these carried the report to the Orcs, their larger, more cruel kinsmen, who gloried in battle and death.  Softly, softly, so as not to alert the Men and Elf and Dwarf and whatever the small things were, word was sent for the troops to arm themselves and muster to attack.  It pleased them mightily when it was agreed to send for the great cave beast they held chained, that it open a way for them.  Not overly brave unless gathered in great numbers, the goblins laid plans to rush the invaders in some closed space where they could not get out.  They would watch and wait, and when the signal was given, would in a great mass converge upon the invaders and utterly destroy them.

The End