The Watcher in the Water

East March, 2980

A cold wind broke the veil of peace that surrounded the land, and left it flapping, now tattered and grey in its wake. It blew down the river, leaving the water’s surface to shudder from its touch, the little flowers on the bank to bend and shake, the tall trees to whisper and moan with a thousand voices left unheard as it swiftly passed.

It was this cold wind that caused the clouds to block away the sun, to hide its miserable purpose, and to bathe all in the cool shadow of neglect for this moment in time’s wide canvas.

And it was fate’s dark worker that waited below the rippling waters that day, waited for the small boat to glide lazily down its languid current, to come to the spot beneath the willow tree, the waters below it turned black and bottomless by the clouded sky.

Like a palpable ill-will, inky and cold, he sat there, waited beneath the swirling flow, as the waters ran into him, around him, through him; and he watched as the harbingers of furtive shadow seeped into the land, disguising the world to its grim intent. And he sat waiting for the boat to slither down, to come to him from outside of the hanging branches of the weeping willow.

The sun was blocked away, the purposeful hand of fate had covered her eyes, and sentineled the deed from the trees and the grass and the waters. The little wooden boat floated unknowingly into the dim shade of the looming tree, now darker for the shadow cast down from the sky, which rolled along the land until this foul deed was finished. And the tree’s hanging hands ruffled in the rushing breeze, and shook, as if to warn them: turn back! turn back...

And he who waited in the water reached his murky hand up, as was bid him, and the turbid waters were swallowed by his touch as he tickled the underside of the boat, rocking its bulging belly. He looked up with yellow eyes, yellow eyes that seemed black and greedy and sad, and reached his clawed grasp up to catch her, to wait, to pull her. He waited for the sound, he watched as the boat suddenly shuddered, as if someone had slipped, someone stood unsteady, and then saw as it warbled dangerously – as if someone had perhaps fallen out.

His eyes widened, and pleasure and despair glinted in the void of their depths, as he saw the splash from underneath erupt like a white rose, a mourning flower. He grinned his cracked, wicked grin as if he hadn’t thought to, and it spread across his face as if by its own accord.

He heard no sound, for there was no sound.

It was all swallowed up by the grim dark waters around him, her screams, the sound of her frantic spattering, her garbled breath, all this was turned to nothingness as the waters captured her, dragged her, claimed her.

And he reached up, seized her skirts with his gnarled claws, and made as if to pull her down into his wicked grasp, if only to ease her suffering... for this was such a terrible way.

But no, another hand, her latch to life, her love, fought against him from above the water’s surface, his hand holding fast onto her shoulder as he struggled to pull her up.

And realizing this the watcher sneered, pausing only a moment to register the sharp pang of guilt and loathing rinsed back on himself by this wicked stream that he could not feel, for he was numb. He ripped her from the warm clutch, and this courageous soul who clung to her joined her by tumbling into the torrential stillness that was the waiting waters.

For, it was silly to boat on the River if one could not swim.

A moment or two, and this edict was complete, finished, done. And he held her in his arms a moment, before releasing her into the waiting waters, and she was still warm, though she was motionless. He brought his twisted hooked-hand up to caress the raven locks away. What a pretty creature, he thought, and her skin was pale, her eyes blue, unclosed, but empty. He left her body there then, did nothing more, and turned his back, his job was finished.

And before the cloud barricading the light fully dissipated, its shadow giving way to the bright beams of sun once more, he swam up, and looked out upon the golden fields and lush hilltops, and sighed.

But something else caught his gaze, and he noticed, though his vision blurred with the strengthening sunlight, a lone child. A child with hair that was black and eyes that were blue and piercing – and he knew, a third life had been brought to ruin.

And before his time ran short here, in this quiet place, he looked and wondered what life had in store for this sorry child, what other scars would mar him, would shatter his wholeness into scattered parts too small to piece back together, too sharp to pick up from a dusty floor. What pains would beckon him come again to release this soul from the wicked world? The little lad ran down the river bank shouting names he could not hear – for, really, he had no eyes, no ears, no breath, no heart.

A rain began to fall from the sky. It was an unhappy rain, a grey rain, and it seemed the sun that was supposed to break through the clouds lingered yet in reluctance, she too swallowed in sorrow, shocked by the trickery that led her to turn her revealing rays away from this act of ill.

Unable to show her kind face when she knew that sunlight could not be of any aid. Not anymore.

So the rain continued to fall, like tears perhaps, and awoke sounds of sadness from the gurgling river and the shivering trees and the flowers hanging their heavy heads beneath the droplets’ weight, as they clattered down onto them all in an cheerless cacophony.

And as invisible, impalpable, untouchable as he was, he knew the child stared straight through him then. The little one’s eyes were wide, as his horror echoed into the void of the empty core inside of he who watched him.

And looking at the rain-soaked bank, he watched the small lad stand helpless in the face of fate, his young eyes startlingly knowing as he saw the boat float out from underneath the willow, empty.

***

Khazad-dum, 3019

He waited now. He waited at the bottom of the fathomless pool. It was black, black everywhere around him, black in his eyes and ears and nose, and the water was still and heavy and vile. Like grime and not water at all, but still he sat. He had waited there many years, but, years are nothing to him. They are like minutes or like seconds, and effect him as a shrill wind to a dyke of stone. He had waited in this spot for a long while, and sat quiet and patient as he tended to the remainder of his duties.

There was much unrest these days, he noted. This had kept him busy.

But now he sat, and something stirred in the great depths of the murky lake and awakened him, and using his swift, scaled feet he breached the surface of the lake, unnoticed and silent. He observed a company on the distant shore, a company of nine that reeked of unease with their every weary look, every sudden movement, every shuddered breath – and he could so easily read their anxiety. His gaze on them was allowed to be sharp by the comforting shadow of the Walls.

He smelt on the air the stench of fear that raked only those so close to death’s grasp. He flexed his hand.

A small tremor in the lurid lake cast his gaze back into its impermeable depths. He raised a brow, looking back up to sorry party ...This was them, then?

His gaze then traveled across them all, searchingly, and it stuck and was like slime on their souls and they all shuddered as a shiver racked their spines, though they hid their revolt well from each other, their repulsion toward this unseen menace; and they clutched their sides and turned their faces away. Fear – yes – it was only fear that made them so sickeningly nauseous. Or – this is what they told themselves.

But, his gazed then fixed on one, and this one intrigued him, though he knew not why. A tall stocky man he was, encased in armor, a shield and sword glinting at his side. Laden with the air of a soldier. And, yes, it came back to him then – the memory of this man.

And he saw him now as a boy in his mind’s eye, as if he had never grown. This boy had sat on a soggy wooden pier, alone. His blond hair of youth was tangled with sweat as the wind sifted through it. His blue eyes were aching, exposing his open, sorrowed soul. He appeared an awkward boy, as he sat there, pretending to be a man, the waters before him silent and shrouded by fog.

He too had suffered loss at the edge of a rippling water. The boy looked out, helpless, lost, uncomprehending, as those he laid eyes upon often were. The boy tried to breathe in the salty aroma of the mist and peer into the distance. Though, the sweet sickening scent of burning and ash and lavender still hung heavily in the air, and he clutched his stomach as it choked him and nearly made him retch.

He sent his gaze forth bravely into the shrouded distance, for he had always been brave; salty tears stung his eyes, dripping down his cheeks to fall into the briny waters, as if they had been meant there to mingle with the quiet Sea, melting into the quiet waves. He searched vainly to find an inkling of worthiness, some beauty surpassing her own, some merit worthy enough of the invaluable treasure that had now been gifted to it, swallowed up by its imbibing waves.

And he tried to find the beauty in it, hunted fruitlessly for the majesty she had for so long woven into tales to fill his ears by his bedside during a thunderous storm or frightening doubt, to calm away his woes with her words, as gently as the waves that lapped the shore. She had promised him sunset, orange, pinks, an explosion of color and life.

She had so loved the Sea, her people, her land in Dol Amroth – but all he saw was grey.

Though the harder he looked for the contentment and peace that she seemed so sure she would obtain from the salty shifting waters when she had bid them scatter her here, the more bitter he became. As he found nothing there, nothing but a vast emptiness to fill its vast space. Nothing but a lonely deceitful darkness in its great fathomless depths.

And he bowed his head. There was nothing in all its measureless reach that was deeper and farther stretching than her memory, quieted by the lapping waves; and nothing, nothing else but pain and hurt and her would be reflected back into his bereaved heart whenever he would gaze upon the waters.

And he covered his face, allowing himself this moment of weakness, for love was the one thing sure enough to shatter the resolve of one so brave with the piercing sword of sorrow. His muffled sobs echoed as he sat alone, the dark shifting sea carrying her forever away before him.

Ah, yes, the watcher thought. The memory faded in his mind, the picture of this man as a young lad becoming dimmer in his limitless memory. But, he thought, as he gazed at this restless warrior, he had been different then; a boy forged to a man by grief. And he lifted his head to hear the words spoken by this uneasy soldier across the waters. For the company’s hushed whispers came swiftly to his ears.

‘How I hate this foul pool!’ He stooped, and picking up a large stone he cast it far into the dark water.

The stone vanished with a soft slap; but at the same instant there was a swish and a bubble.

‘Why did you do that, Boromir?’ said Frodo. ‘I hate this place, too, and I am afraid. I don’t know of what: not of the wolves, or the dark behind the doors, but of something else. I am afraid fo the pool. Don’t disturb it!’

What is this? He gazed at this one who had spoken, the ringing voice fair and refined. The look in the haunted blue eyes struck him soundly, and he knew they belonged to the lad by the River bank those many years ago... How sad and tormented he seemed, and though he hid it well, the dark circles that shaded his gaze betrayed him. He felt the water stir.

Frodo felt something seize him by the ankle... The others swung around and saw the waters of the lake seething... Out from the water a long sinuous tentacle had crawled... had hold of Frodo’s foot... dragging him into the water.

He watched at this beast of the ancient world writhed in its purpose, screeching unbearably its pain as sharp edged swords bit at its hands. He was quiet and did not move from his spot to go toward the raucous.

Something far more powerful than he, a simple worker of fate, was at work here. And he waited, quiet, knowing not to interfere.

They had fled inside now, ...Many coiling arms seized the doors on either side, and with horrible strength, swung them around. With a shattering echo they slammed, and all light was lost.

‘I felt that something horrible was near from the moment that my foot first touched that water,’ said Frodo. He knew to follow.He slowed his step behind them all as he heard this, trailing further away, he was not needed here, yet. And he listened to the sad one’s voice echo in a frightened whisper in the dark mine, ‘What was that thing, or were there many of them?’

‘I do not know,’ answered Gandalf. ... He did not speak aloud his thought that whatever it was that dwelt in the lake had seized on Frodo first among all the Company.*

And he had followed them all, ever close behind in the long dark of Moria, waiting in the wake of their steps for a faltered stride. He had swept the bottom of the Great River, and emerged to stalk the forest of Parth Galen, and there he took one away, as was bid him, and watched from the bank as the waterfall engulfed the small boat in the swirling waters.

Now they would be together again at last, he thought, as he watched the wooden craft disappear into the mist, and drift out to the Sea.

***

And he followed the burdened hobbit, ever surrounding him in a fog, tripping him and waiting for the moment when he would be to be too weak to rise. Stalking his steps in the dark land.

He was sic on his heels, hot lurid breath breathing down his neck, tempting him with the reprieve of careless darkness. But he had not succeeded, this small warrior was strong, strong enough to deny both evil’s and his own empty enticement. And he was called away to deal with other matters in front of the Gates of Death while this little one completed his destiny.

And in the end, the watcher in the water stood staring in sudden melancholy, beneath the clear depths of the Grey Havens, as he watched the lone vessel sail into the West. And he felt pity sting deep inside him where for so long he had forgotten how to feel, knowing that not even the respite of wakeless sleep would be enough to heal the small one and bring him peace.

The water had taken him away, in the beginning on the River bank, and in the end here on the coast of the shifting waters of the Elven shore.

A sad fate it was for the two of the broken Fellowship to have been gifted, a fate of cold waters and salty tears. He knew that whenever they both had gazed upon the shifting waves in their lives they had felt unhappy and solemn – though they never knew it of each other. The same void of bereavement had swum beneath the resolves of both he who was weak and he who was strong, drowning their hearts with the lapping of waves and waters. Why then did one fail and the other deny temptation? The watcher wondered as the elven boat pulled away.

Ironic it was, that being taken by those very waves that they had averted, they had given to their companions the same sorrow of the waiting Sea that had long plagued them with eerie foreboding and sadness.

And as he sat there, watched the boat sail away, watched the water take the Burdenbearer to a place that he had yet to see, where the immortal dwelt and had no use for him and his prey on earthborn vice. A cold wind blew, and before he melted away again to continue his endless unhappy task that had long callused him to feeling and compassion, there were salt tears on his motionless face.

***

*From: A Journey In The Dark, The Fellowship of the Ring