CHAPTER 17: SHUTTERS

For two more days after Legolas’ horrifying nightmare, Aragorn’s company and the Shadow Host that was ever at their rear rode along the longer, hidden paths along the southern foothills of the Ered Nimrais, always heading east. They stopped only for quick, meager meals before picking their weary selves up to continue riding: two elves and several bleary-eyed Men of Gondor keeping to themselves, avoiding the eyes of the masses as if they were inflicted with the plague, when in truth there rode the noblest of Men and of Elves – a King and a Prince – with the purest of purposes in their unsullied hearts.

Yet, even the purest of hearts are housed in bodies that must needs be cleansed. Thus when they came across a large stream, an offshoot of the River Sirith, they allowed themselves the refreshment of a bath, and it mattered not that the water was almost painfully cold.

“Brrrr… that was chilly, but aaah…truly welcome!” Aragorn sighed happily as he emerged dripping from the stream, silvery drops of water running off his bronzed skin to fall noiselessly into the soft turf beneath his feet.

“And too long delayed,” Legolas agreed, sweeping his wet hair back from his comely face. He accepted the cloth Aragorn handed him and bent down to towel his long legs. 

Aragorn ceased his movements in the midst of drying his chest, and looked askance at his friend. “Was that remark meant for yourself or for me?”

A small laugh escaped the elf’s lips. “The desire was greater for some; and for others – the need,” he replied obliquely without looking up.

The King smirked and gave the elven arm a light punch. “At least you’re honest, my friend,” he conceded, resuming the task of drying himself before re-dressing. “Some clean clothes now would not be remiss,” he muttered.

“You will find no argument from me on that score either,” the elf mumbled from behind the shirt he was pulling on over his arms and head.

“I heard that clearly, too,” Aragorn snorted before he chuckled. He reached over and helped yank the shirt down over the moist skin. His heart felt lightened, not only by the bath he had just had but by the note of cheer in the elf’s voice. An air of despondency had seemed to surround Legolas since the morning the man had awoken to the tinge of nervousness on the elven face and the unexpected embrace, as well as the discovery of a pony tail that had magically formed during his sleep.

A round of questions from the King had yielded no clarification from the elf other than that he had been worried about the whole situation they were in, and that he had fastened Aragorn’s hair because it bothered him to see it thus unruly. Legolas’ obvious reluctance to dwell on the subject had made Aragorn refrain from probing further despite a lingering doubt. After all, the man thought, this was a difficult time for all of them.

“I am so sorry, mellon nin, that we are all in this mess,” Aragorn said now, brushing his fingers through his dark, wet locks. “Ai, what a tangled web it is that has been woven for us!” 

“But not one thread of it has been by your design,” Legolas rejoined as his golden head appeared from the neckline of his shirt. “And speaking of webs… you must be thinking of what is to come, Estel.”

Aragorn grimaced and cast a glance at where he thought the Dead would be waiting in the deep shade under the spreading branches of a low oak. “Aye, every waking moment, Legolas… like a constant nightmare, even with my eyes open.”

A twinge of pain crossed Legolas’ face at those words, and the keen eyes of the King did not miss it. The elf prince turned his back to his friend so that the man would not read his expression, and began drying his hair. But Aragorn walked up to him and picked up several strands of the elven hair between his fingers to study them before the elf could pull away.

“Will you still refuse to speak about it, Legolas?” the man asked quietly as the elf spun around to face him. “Come, my friend, it’s been two days. What ailed you that night, and why have you slept so little since?” He reached into the pocket of his tunic and closed his fingers around the cord of gold Legolas had fashioned two nights ago.

The elven face paled a little at those questions though the prince’s expression remained unruffled. “I have told you, Aragorn, I had a restless night,” he stated truthfully as he continued to comb his hair with his slender fingers. “But it is past.”

“Then why do you fear to sleep?” the man pressed on, never removing his shrewd eyes from the elven countenance. “And why was my hair fastened – with this?” He held out the finely braided cord.

“I had naught else to use – ”

“But why was there a need to do it in the first place?” Aragorn persisted. After two days of watching his friend’s disquiet, he hoped the elf would unburden himself from whatever was distressing him. Legolas never lied, the man knew, and if he probed long enough, he would discover the truth. He was thus taken aback at the sudden sharpness in the elf’s reply.

“As I said, I did not like to see your hair fall in that manner while you slept!” Legolas said, with an edge to his voice that had not been heard in a long while. “Saes, Estel – do not query me again.” The elf looked pleadingly at him with wide eyes, and to the man’s alarm, the elven lips began to quiver with an obvious effort to hold in some emotion.

Immediately contrite, Aragorn suppressed the urge to question him further, and grasped both of the elf’s arms. “I did not mean to distress you, mellon nin,” he said apologetically. “Forgive me, I will not ask again.” He tightened his grip when Legolas made to pull away, and he locked his eyes with those of the elf. “I’m no clearer about what so greatly disturbed you that night,” Aragorn said. “But please do not drown yourself in so much anguish, dear friend – my task is almost over.”

Smiling weakly, Legolas took a deep breath and nodded to put Aragorn at ease. Then Hamille, whose keen ears and eyes had perceived all that took place, approached them with light, tactful steps. When the two friends turned to face him, he donned an expression of cheer.

“The men have caught and roasted some hare to turn our lunch of stale bread into a veritable feast, my lord,” he said brightly to Aragorn before facing his prince with soft eyes. “And I have found some fresh berries you will enjoy, Bridhon nin. Come, if you are ready - some churning stomachs await our company!”

Legolas looked at Hamille gratefully, and the three companions strolled over to where the aroma of roasting conies beckoned, quipping about the wine and venison they would relish once their task was accomplished.

True to his word, Aragorn pried no further into the events of two nights past. But for each night thereafter, Legolas noted – to his great comfort – that his friend slept with his hair fastened with the soft, strong elven cord, and that he made certain that the elf saw it before he retired.  

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While the days and the leagues passed for Aragorn and his company along the hard paths south of the Ered Nimrais, Lord Celeborn and his companions were traversing a considerably easier route to the ruins of Isengard. Unlike the King of Gondor, they had no Shadow Host burdening them, and after they had crossed the narrow but quiet pass that Mathgor had led them to, they were free to ride swiftly upon the open Great West Road, and to stop where they wished for food and rest.

It was thus that they were able to make a brief stop at the Glittering Caves and then receive the hospitality of King Éomer at the Golden Hall, before they resumed their journey across the plains of Rohan to the former stronghold of Saruman. But where there had been three in the company, there were now five.  

“We will go with you, Gimli – we can ride!” a couple of younger dwarves, Bragor and Dagor, had said excitedly when Gimli brought Lord Celeborn and Elladan to the Glittering Caves.

Gimli’s eyes had gone round and wide as he looked from one brother to the other. “Now, why would that be necessary?” he demanded.

The brothers exchanged glances that carried some meaning Gimli could not fathom. But then they cast cautious glances at the elves and spoke in loud whispers, tumbling over each other in the Dwarven tongue to their friend and chief.

“You may be confident about throwing your lot in with these Elves,” said Bragor, “but we haven’t quite come to the point where we’re willing to cast caution to the winds.”

“Now hold on – ” Gimli had begun.

“Your friend the Prince we’re used to seeing – ” Dagor had said, ignoring the protest.

“Even his father, despite his arrogance – ”

“That was in the past! He was our visitor only recently!” Gimli had reminded them.

“ – but these are strangers – ” 

“Not that we think they will actually do you any harm, no, no,” Bragor had added hastily at the narrowing of Gimli’s bushy eyebrows. “But Aüle knows what fix they will lead you into – ”

“ – and we’d just as soon keep you from landing in hot soup as fish you out after – soggy beard, boots and all!”

“Besides,” Bragor had chimed in again before Gimli could say a word in retort. “We’ve been to Orthanc. It’s as solid as the rock of the Lonely Mountain – ”

“Harder! You can’t nick a dent in that devil-smooth black stone!”

“And even if you tried the door, the lock might turn your axe – ”

– and then you’d be grateful we were around to help!”

Bragor and Dagor had finished with identical glares and arms crossed firmly across their broad chests. Stumped for a rejoinder at the end of their argument, Gimli had simply opened and shut his mouth wordlessly for a few moments before throwing up his hands in surrender.

“Oh come along then!” he said a little impatiently, torn between his irritation at the dwarves for doubting his ability to take care of himself and his secret pleasure at what seemed to be their concern for him. “It’ll be less painful than arguing than you. But mind you keep up with us, or you’ll see nothing but the dust of our horses’ hooves!”  

And so two elves and three dwarves had set off for the ruins of Isengard, with Bragor and Dagor sharing a small horse that – to Gimli’s chagrin – had indeed seen the dust of the elvish horses and mare of Rohan for much of the way, being the bearer of two less experienced riders: the one in front doggedly hanging on to the reins with tightly clenched fists, and the one behind frantically clinging to his brother’s waist with sweaty hands. Huffing and puffing as hard as the horse to keep up with the three riders in front, the two dwarves had eventually abandoned bawdy beer-drinking songs for quick, solid curses.   

“It’s a good thing we didn’t have to lug any of that exploding powder along,” Gimli said as he stole a backward glance at the brothers.

“There is more in the store-rooms, you say?” Elladan asked.

“By Bragor’s account, yes,” Gimli replied. “We didn’t take that much from Saruman’s stores – just enough to help us break up the larger rock remnants at Helms’ Deep. There should be some left. In fact, there’s all kinds of stuff left in the store-rooms – the ones on higher ground, that is – above the water.” Gimli explained how Treebeard and his friends had saved what they thought they should from the pits around Orthanc before filling the gaping chasm with fresh water from the river.

“Who’d have thought the Ents could have turned that traitor’s stronghold into a beautiful place?” Elladan said, recollecting how they had all been pleasantly surprised by the scene that had greeted them after the Quest. Even in the short space of time between the destruction of Isengard and Aragorn’s return to it after his coronation, Treebeard and his Ents had revived Isengard with the planting of fruit trees and created a lake around the citadel.

“Aye, hidden away in Fangorn, old Treebeard may not know the full worth of his efforts,” Gimli agreed. “He has opened up the once-forbidden land of the Treeslayer, for many weary travelers stop to rest at Treegarth as it is now known, to derive pleasure from the fruits of the Ents’ labors – and I truly mean fruits! Why, someone has even left a boat to row on the lake, and you can go right up to the steps of Saruman’s precious citadel. No one can enter it, of course, but it’s close enough to vex that old villain if he weren’t dead. Ha! If he were alive to see it now, he’d die all over again from rage!”  

Elladan laughed lightly. “You make me wish to view it again this instant, Gimli!” he said. “There is a boat, you say? That is good – I had not thought about how we should get across to the Tower. It has been ages since I have rowed one.”

“You shall soon have the chance,” said Lord Celeborn, peering into the distance with his far-seeing eyes. “Already Isengard approaches.”

Indeed, the black, gleaming tower of Orthanc loomed into stark contrast against the sunlit sky before long, rising out of the sea of lush green orchards and shimmering blue waters of the lake. Two sentinel trees greeted them where once had stood the formidable gates of Isengard, inviting the riders onto the green-bordered path that ran to Orthanc. The two elves and Gimli waited at the trees till Bragor and Dagor had caught up, before entering Treegarth.

Despite the beauty of the orchard, Gimli’s memory was not entirely purged of what he had witnessed eleven years ago after the Ents had first wreaked their frenzied fury upon it. In his mind, he began to see the doors of the stone circle around Isengard lying hurled and twisted on the ground, much of the stone cracked and splintered into countless jagged shards, once-arrogant towers beaten into dust, and twisted pillars rearing their splintered stems above a bubbling cauldron of steaming water…

The warble of a thrush brought the dwarf’s wandering memory back to the present, and the images of the spoils of the war on Isengard faded into mist for the moment. For where once Saruman had destroyed and killed, there were now myriad signs of life: thriving green trees, their leaves sighing happily in the breeze; colored blossoms and fruit in abundance; birdsong to trill and delight waiting ears; and the silvery flash of darting fish in the cool, clear waters of the stream and lake.

“The face of the world changes ever, age after age,” Celeborn said quietly as his bright blue eyes scanned the scene around them, his long silver hair framing his wistful expression. “And what has passed – for better or for worse – shall never be again.”

Gimli pondered his words in silence, suddenly aware of the thousands upon thousands of years the elf lord had lived and walked this earth, and the dwarf could not begin to fathom how much the Lord of Lothlorien had witnessed and done, and all the changes that had taken place, and all the lives that had been and passed, while the Firstborn remained and lived on.

“Yet in one respect Isengard has not changed, Daerada,” Elladan said, breaking into Gimli’s thoughts. He looked straight before him at the gleaming tower that grew ever larger in their vision.

And indeed, eleven years had passed since the death of the White Hand that had once been its master; but Orthanc – Mount Fang to the elves, The Cunning Mind to the people of the Mark – still stood dark and strong on its rock island in the middle of the lake, still intimidating, like a silent challenge to its foes even in defeat.

“Do you think its walls still retain their strength?” Elladan asked. “After all, the power of Saruman is no more.”

“It looks as it did when last we set eyes upon it,” Celeborn noted, “but perhaps it was impregnable then only because of the dark wizardry that guarded it and was set in its stone. That force is extinguished – and with it we can hope for some weakening in the strength of his citadel.”

There was indeed a boat at the edge of the lake, and it was the source of quiet amusement for Lord Celeborn as he once again witnessed the lack of love between Dwarves and water-bound vessels. He had first seen Gimli’s discomfort during the Quest when the Fellowship left Lothlorien in the three elven boats, but the dwarf had apparently gained some confidence from that long journey along the Anduin, for here he was chastising the other two dwarves for holding them up with their refusal to get on board. The elf lord watched Gimli expend equal amounts of patient coaxing and what sounded like heated threats in getting his two companions to get into the boat in which Elladan was already seated, waiting to row them across.

“You quaky-livered brats!” Gimli griped. “You whined to come along – to help, you said – and now you’re shying away from a boat?”

“We do want to help,” Dagor rejoined. “But – ”

“Then get on board!” Gimli ordered, pointing to the boat.

“No, we’ll help in our own way,” Bragor said, crossing his arms stubbornly.

Gimli glared at him. “How?” he growled. “By staring at us from across the lake?”

“No, we – ”

“Oh, warg’s rumps! Stay if you wish,” Gimli said, throwing up his hands and preparing to unmoor the boat. “You might as well look after the horses – and don’t get lost wandering about!”

Dagor looked about to lodge a protest when Bragor hushed him. Together, they watched the irate dwarf lord board the boat with the aid of the amused elves, and were glad they had not elected to join them on the wobbly vessel.

From the water, Gimli cast a backward – and somewhat smoldering – look at the two dwarves on the shore, and was annoyed to see that they had tethered the horses to a tree but had remounted their own to ride off towards the north.

“Hoy!” he called out loudly. “Where are you off to, you brats?”

Receiving only a wave from Dagor in response, Gimli let loose a barrage of Dwarvish words too rapid and animated to be interpreted as blessings. Smiles carved themselves on the faces of Elladan and his grandsire.

“And I have heard you call us Elves strange folk,” he remarked, shaking his head and driving Gimli’s annoyance up another notch.

The dwarf decided to ignore him and turned his eyes on the citadel before him. With Elladan’s steady rowing, they were soon standing before the twenty-seven broad steps leading up to the great door of Orthanc.

Walking in front, Gimli recalled how Gandalf had led them up those very stairs in the past, to reason with Saruman and offer him a final chance to repent. The dwarf thought he could still hear, with each echo of his heavy footsteps, the cracked stone ringing with the saccharine response from Saruman, bitter poison coated with sugar. Even the songs of birds seemed to weaken here, as if coming to them through a wall that stood between the dark citadel and the rest of the world. Lord Celeborn and Elladan remained silent and grim.

At the top of the stairs, the three companions paused before the great door and ran their eyes over it from top to bottom. They knew it was locked: a mute, fast barricade against those who had no business to enter without the King’s leave. Gimli whipped out his axe and approached it, with no intention other than to initiate some kind of action.

“We shall see what we shall see,” he muttered before knocking the blunt end of the blade twice against the door. Not surprisingly, the door rang hollow as it had all those years ago when Saruman was still imprisoned within. “No way to break this down,” said Gimli, “or the Ents would have done so. But let’s have a look at the lock,” he said, and the Miner of Middle-earth examined it closely for the first time. It was a huge lock, with many pins to loosen, and he could now see why Saruman would have needed the heavy keys he surrendered to Treebeard, which were now far away in a vault in the White City.

“Hmmrph, it doesn’t look like it’s going to yield to any simple assault from my axe,” Gimli muttered. He peered at it again. “Can’t wedge anything heavy into it to pry it open, either. That old fool was no fool at all – he knew how to keep his home secure.”

Without warning, and with surprisingly precise aim, Gimli suddenly swung the blade of his hefty axe into the tiny gap between the door and its frame with a mighty and deafening whack. The elves saw sparks fly and jumped in astonishment. But when the loud echoes had died off, and they had recovered from their startled states, they saw that the lock and the great door remained stubbornly intact. 

“Great dragon claws!” Gimli exclaimed. “It’s harder to get in than Smaug’s lair! I’d thought for certain my axe would take care of it.” The dwarf was both disappointed and partly embarrassed that two Elf lords had witnessed his failure.

Lord Celeborn drew a breath and composed himself. “Do not fret, Master Gimli,” he said graciously, “Saruman’s craft was considerable; it is no small matter to undo what he has done.”

“But some kind of warning before any attempt to do so would be much appreciated, Master Dwarf,” Elladan said less delicately. “I feared my body and my skin had parted ways for ever!”

Already peeved by his failure, Gimli muttered what sounded like an apology before placing his hands on his hips. “How the hey do we get in now?” he growled. “Blast it!”

Elladan cocked an eyebrow at the dwarf. “Is that what you propose to do?” he asked, and because Gimli could not decide if he was being genuine or sarcastic, he scowled at the elf. Elladan decided quickly not to query further for the moment, and joined his companions in considering other, easier options.

Their eyes roved over the Tower and noted the sharp edges to the many faces of the stone. Many tall windows were cut deeply into the walls, but they peered out over the countryside from their locations in the horns of the Tower, much too high to climb to, and there were no footholds in the walls. Aside from the great locked door, the only possible point of access they could see seemed to be the window above the door, through which Saruman had spoken to Gandalf. It would open out to a balcony hedged with iron bars, upon which Saruman often stood, they guessed.  But the window was shuttered now, and the balcony too high even for the elves to leap up to.

“Bragor and Dagor brought some rope,” said Gimli, “but even if those two were here, we’d still need someone to fasten it to something up there.”

Lacking an immediate solution, the three companions descended the stairs and rowed around the island rock to look for other possible ways to enter the Tower. But when they failed to find anything remotely accessible, they decided to return to the great door.

“Perhaps if we hoisted you, Elladan, you could try to leap to the floor of the balcony,” Celeborn suggested.

“A remote possibility,” Elladan said honestly. “Still, we can but try. I would have to use Gimli’s axe on the window after that, and hope I can make a dent in it.”

“If that fails, we’ll have to try and blow up the door,” Gimli said without much hope. “See if it gives way.”

“Something must, for Estel’s sake,” Elladan said with more conviction than he felt.

“And before too long,” his grandsire added. “Answers need to be found here… my heart tells me so.”

The thought of Aragorn fuelled Elladan to row them back quickly. Still in discussion, the three companions reached the bottom of the long flight of steps once more, but as they stepped out of the boat, Elladan gave a gasp of surprise.

“How in Middle-earth…!” he said, pointing above the door. Gimli followed the direction of his finger, and he could not believe what he was seeing.

The window above the great door that had been shuttered was now opening slowly, the slight creak of its iron hinges accompanied by decidedly non-metallic grunts, snorts and excited chatter. Soon, a short, stout leg appeared over the sill, followed quickly by a broad behind housed in dusty trousers, and the other leg; and then a full head of long thick hair appeared as the owner straightened and dropped himself onto the balcony. A coil of rope made its appearance as it was flung out from the darkness within the window. Moments later, with surprising speed, a second figure followed, aided by the first.

When the two forms were safely on the balcony, they turned as one, and Gimli found himself staring up at the ruddy and bearded faces of none other than Bragor and Dagor, both looking as pleased as bears with their paws in honey.

Upon seeing Gimli and the elves, they gave whoops of satisfaction and slapped their thighs.

“Ah, my lords!” exclaimed Dagor, gesturing towards the open window with a flourish. “Welcome to Orthanc!”

Caught between astonishment, fury, and the memory of two exasperating hobbits who had greeted them in the same manner during the Quest, Gimli could only release a choked splutter as he went blue in the face. At the sight, Bragor broke into a broad grin, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and rocked back and forth on his heels.

“I told you you’d be glad we came along,” he said with a smirk.

Note: A hectic schedule at work has kept me from writing more or sooner, but I hope this will tide us over till the next chapter. Gads, I get lonely in between chapters. 

Thank you so much to all who posted the most recent reviews.