CHAPTER 18: CROSSING THRESHOLDS

Since Bragor and Dagor joined the company of dwarves who resided at the Glittering Caves, there had been few times when they had seen Gimli as astonished, flabbergasted – or as ready to shred them to pieces – as he appeared now.

It had not taken Elladan long to shinny up the rope the two younger dwarves tied to the strong railing of the balcony; then the heftier dwarf lord had been hauled up. Now, with Lord Celeborn standing safely beside him as well, Gimli took a moment to note that they were in a chamber – circular like the Tower – with a high ceiling and no other light aperture besides the window they had clambered through. But he soon turned a storm-cloud expression upon his kinsmen.

“A tunnel!” he exclaimed in disbelief. “You’re telling me you came in through a tunnel?”

“Yes, that’s what we said,” Bragor answered readily, hardly put off by the scowl on Gimli’s face and the bunched fists against his hips.

“Where? How?” Gimli demanded. His clipped questions invited a volley of half-statements as the brothers once again tripped over each other in their eagerness to reply.

“There’s a – ”

“You know that storeroom on high ground – ”

 “ – hidden door in a wall; behind a pile of crates –”

“Remember the Ents stacked all sorts of flotsam there? Of course they didn’t see – ”

“Very cleverly concealed, that tunnel is – ”

“ – goes deep underground, under the lake – ”

“Half a whisker!” Gimli halted them. “The tunnel goes under the lake?”

“Yes, yes! But it has solid, stone walls. Rock above and below, looks like – ”

“ – a little wet in places, but quite dry in most parts –”

“One of Saruman’s well-hidden escape routes?” Celeborn ventured in a whisper to his grandson.

“Aye, it must have been one of those Treebeard could not plug up with water,” Elladan whispered back. “But with the Ents on constant watch, and his powers stripped by Gandalf, Saruman would not have dared attempt to flee.”

“It leads to this tower – ” Dagor continued.

“When?” Gimli interrupted again. “When did you find out about it?”

“When we first came to look for the exploding powder, of course!” Bragor replied. “Our hair curled with excitement when it opened up, and we couldn’t get in there fast enough – ”

Gimli’s eyes would have fallen out if they had not been firmly entrenched in their sockets.  “You found a tunnel and you entered it without asking me?” he asked in an unmistakable tone of annoyance.

Bragor raised his own eyebrows. “What? There was a tunnel all laid out before us – and did you think a dwarf wouldn’t explore it?” he rejoined.

Gimli threw up his hands. “You – you reckless, foolish rascals!” he spluttered. “Did you ever think it could have been dangerous?”  

“But no more than the trip to Smaug’s lair!” Bragor retorted cheekily, referring to the very bold journey that thirteen dwarves and Bilbo had made to the dragon’s lair in the Lonely Mountain more than seventy years ago. “We merely learned from their example –”

“Some risks are worth taking,” Dagor agreed, nodding vigorously at Gimli. “And after all, look at that stash of Longbottom leaf we hauled out of here. You smoked some of it too – and enjoyed it immensely!”

Elladan had to suppress his laughter when Gimli began to resemble a beetroot. “I thought that was what you retrieved from the store-rooms – I didn’t know it was from inside Orthanc!” the dwarf claimed, wishing he could scrub the smug looks off the faces of the two younger dwarves. “Sweet rock of Arda! Why wouldn’t you tell us about this tunnel when we first arrived? Why make us – ”

“We didn’t know if we could still use it,” Dagor explained, suddenly a little meek. “We wanted to take a look first.”

“And besides,” Bragor added in Dwarvish, coughing a little and glancing quickly at the elves, “it was to be our little secret.”

Gimli opened his mouth wide then and gaped at them before he exploded. “Mother’s beards!” he cried in the Common Tongue. “Your secret? Why, you sneaky ferrets – no wonder you were so keen to come along. You came back here for the weed, didn’t you? The weed! There’s more of it, isn’t there?”

For the first time that day, Bragor looked a little sheepish, like a child who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Well, that might have been part of the benefit,” he admitted reluctantly.

“But we did want to help, too,” Dagor added brightly.

Gimli released a roar that made Dagor quake. “If your hide weren’t so tough, I’d chop you up and smoke you instead!” he declared. The outburst, however, did not intimidate the incorrigible Bragor.

“But we brought you in, didn’t we, Elder?” the dwarf pointed out. “That’s all that should matter right now, shouldn’t it?” He looked enquiringly at the two elves beside Gimli, appealing silently for their support.

Celeborn was caught in a rare moment of perplexity, uncertain whether to smile benignly or share Gimli’s exasperation. “That argument warrants some consideration,” he decided with some amusement.

Gimli threw his hands up. “It’s nothing or double for you two scoundrels, it seems!” he growled. “All right, all right – I’ll grant that some good came out of your escapades. But cross me with another ill-chosen secret, and you’ll need that tunnel to hide in.”

“We are not here for pleasantries, but let us not further darken this place with squabbles,” Lord Celeborn reminded Gimli while sweeping solemn eyes over the cold gloom before and around them, where the sun through the open shutters could not reach. “Neither can we spare the time, for we have urgent business to attend to.”

Gimli grunted. “That’s true,” he mumbled reluctantly. “We should start looking for the old villain’s notes – a library of sorts –”

“It’s at the top of those stairs!” Dagor announced eagerly, relieved that he now had a chance to appease the dwarf lord. He ran ahead into the dark to indicate a long spiral staircase that disappeared through the ceiling and led to another room on the floor above.

The little group followed the suddenly sprightly step of the dwarf, going further into the shadows. As they walked, they noted the stone walls and hard, cold furnishings of a former wizard who had lost his love for growing things. Paintings, trying hard to look cheerful, and once-rich tapestries, now dirty and tattered, hung sadly in stark and strange contrast with dark metal contraptions that suggested torture or some other foul use. Dust and echoes arose where the heavy boots of the dwarves landed, agitating the light cobwebs that joined furniture to floor and ceiling to wall.

Directly facing the stairs was a heavy metal armchair upon a slightly raised pedestal – once the seat of Saruman’s power, they guessed. They could almost picture the fallen wizard on it: his long, white hair framing a mean, wrinkled face; while his gnarled hands with long, sharp nails rested in alert repose on the arms. Black-beaded eyes beneath bristling white eye-brows stared at them, and his hooked predatory nose and thin, hard lips seemed ready to strike…

Gimli shuddered and shook off the vision, turning his eyes instead to a sleek column at the right of the armchair: it was waist-high for the elves, carved with intricate designs that looked snake-like, and it housed a bowl-like depression at the top.

“Here must have rested the palantir,” Elladan suggested quietly, “which caused his downfall, in part.”

Gimli frowned, silently thankful for the presence of the elves, whose fair radiance provided the only relief from the depressing atmosphere of Orthanc.

At the top of the stairs, the visitors did indeed find what seemed to have been the library of Saruman. A voluminous collection of books – some loosely bound – lined half the area of the rounded walls, standing like silent witnesses on many tiers of metal shelves that went up to a fair height, the higher ones accessible only by a wooden ladder that rested against the wall. At the side of the shelves sat a long table upon which were laid skulls, knives, spoons, glass and metal goblets of all shapes and sizes, and many bottles that housed liquids and powder, contents that had long changed color, the visitors were sure. Beside the table sat an old stove, upon which Saruman depended  to warm the library in winter, they guessed.

Facing the book shelves was another huge wooden desk laden with writing utensils, and stack upon stack of manuscripts – some more yellowed than others, some filed neatly, and some strewn about. Thumbing quickly through them, Lord Celeborn saw letters, maps, plans, lists, diagrams, and what looked like accounts and reports.

“This is where we might begin our search,” Gimli said, trying not to sound too daunted. He let out a long breath that ruffled his beard. “But what would we even look for?”

“Anything that is not written in the Common Tongue,” the elf lord replied. “It might look like Elvish runes, but I will know if it is the Black Tongue. I can only hope that Saruman made notes that can help me learn enough of it, that I may guess at the meaning of the writing I saw on the Paths of the Dead.”

“Do you think he might even have written down the spell used to imprison the Dead?” Elladan asked hopefully. “As you said, Daerada, they were all of evil mind and possibly in league.”

“For Elessar’s sake, I would not discount that likelihood,” his grandsire replied as his keen eyes then roved over the books on the wall and the volumes of parchments stacked on lower shelves. “This was an old spell, cast long before the time of the War of the Ring. There should be much history in those books and manuscripts. If you wish to look, I would begin with the older documents.”

“We will need more light,” Gimli observed, noting the absence of windows save for some narrow slits high above. “Come, you rag-tag rascals – you can be of some use here at least. You might know where to find some wood for the stove, or candles, or oil lamps.”

“Oh yes, there is wood to be found – dry and brittle, all the better for burning,” Bragor said with certainty. “We’ll bring it here in no time.”

“And the food in the boats – and more in the packs on the horses, we have to bring that up here. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here?” Gimli said miserably. “Like it or not, you two will have to return to the horses with me – in the boat!”

At the look of utter dismay on the faces of the dwarves, Elladan chuckled and stepped up to Gimli. “Let me take care of that chore, Master Gimli,” he volunteered. “It would be faster and easier – both on the rope and in the boat. You can stay here.”

“A finer suggestion than most,” Gimli agreed, albeit grumpily, as he squinted at the dark shadows. “Hurry up with the wood and candles, though, you two! I wonder if Saruman had cats’ eyes that saw in the dark – I thought only that Mirkwood princeling did.” 

“Prince Legolas has cats’ eyes?” Dagor asked in genuine wonder, his own orbs growing round.

Gimli snorted and growled at the dwarf. “Cats’ eyes or not, mind your own business – and mind it quickly now!” he answered. “We’ve work to do – or did you not hear? Lord Celeborn could do with some peace from your incessant chatter, and so could I, and would you know…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Elladan saw his grandsire shake his head in patient acceptance, and he sighed as he ran lightly down the stairs. His thoughts went to Aragorn and Legolas, and hoped with all this heart that they were making greater progress.

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Three more days and nights marked the east-bound journey for Aragorn, Legolas and their small company, and so scarce was rest and respite that they were held upright in their saddles only by sheer force of will. Still, they kept riding, and King Elessar’s human guards found themselves exercising their hunting skills daily, as they were often too far away from settlements to purchase supplies. The sharpening of those skills was the one benefit to be gained from this whole nightmarish ride, and the guards – despite their frequent hunger and thirst and aching bodies – appreciated the instruction from two accomplished elven archers as well as one of the greatest trackers in Middle-earth.

“So this was how you used to live as a Ranger of the North, my lord?” a young guard asked Aragorn one night, as they sat roasting a small deer they had unexpectedly encountered and managed to bring down that afternoon. Pleased at the fare awaiting them, Aragorn smiled and proceeded to recount some of his experiences to an attentive audience who had heard much about their king’s past but never dreamt they would be listening to the noted Ranger himself narrating the tales to them.

Legolas and Hamille watched from the branch of a tree where they sat keeping a lookout for foes that might come from without the camp – or from within. Legolas noted once again how bizarre that moment was: that Aragorn and the men of Gondor should be sitting around a fire in the dark, grilling their dinner and looking for all the world like a party of huntsmen with a successful catch, while a group of Dead spirits hovered not thirty feet away, watching the Men like hungry predators, yet dependent on one of them to be freed. The two elves in a tree observed both groups, worried about what the second might – in a fit of rage and forgotten reason – do to harm the leader of the huntsmen.

The gloom felt by Legolas was deepened by the sight of the shadows that the flames dappled over Aragorn’s face, changing his features in their light each moment. The fear of a horrible dream vision clutched at the heart of the elf prince, and his eyes could not hide its pain. 

Hamille’s brows knitted in a frown. “Will you not let him know, Legolas?” he asked, disturbed at the anguish before him. “Would it not unburden your own heart in the telling?”

Legolas grimaced at the question, but did not answer immediately. “If this were some other matter, Hamille, he would have learnt of it the same day you did,” he said at last, his eyes fixed on Aragorn.

“You have no secrets between you, that much I know,” Hamille reminded him.

“Save this,” Legolas said tersely. “For now.”

“Why do you keep this from him?”

Legolas turned to him then, and Hamille instantly regretted his question when he saw the hurt beneath the blue ice of the prince’s eyes.

“Think you that I desire to, Hamille?” Legolas asked. “Even you recoiled from the horror of it when I told you. How then shall I tell Aragorn?”

The elf lapsed into silence again, and Hamille waited patiently till he chose to continue. “What would I even tell him?” Legolas said eventually. “He had no face… he was leaving… he denied me… it was as if he was departing from all that he knows.” Legolas’ voice grew a little unsteady. “It bespoke of some impending doom so terrible as to rob him of his essence – all that is at the heart of Aragorn… all that is Aragorn.”

Hamille cleared his throat uneasily. “Legolas…”

“How do I speak openly to one whom I love… of… of… oh Valar…” Legolas faltered, “how do I speak of what may be his end?” His breath hitched in his chest and he bit on his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

Hamille’s eyes widened, and his lay a hand on the arm of his distressed prince. “Ai, Legolas, do you think that is what it portends?” he asked quietly.

Legolas shook his head. “I know not, Hamille… I… cannot rightly tell,” he replied painfully. “He denied me, and the Estel I know, the Estel of this world would never do so.” So keen was the sorrow in the voice of the prince that it seemed to reach out and touch Hamille, whose mouth went dry. “I feel the coldness of some horrible fate, Hamille, though I would gladly surrender breath and life to ensure it will not come to pass! Alas that I should be the one to have seen it… whatever it is that will befall him, I fear we cannot get him back!”

“Daro, Legolas, cease this,” Hamille said in alarm, gripping the prince’s arm. “You cannot know if things will unfold as you fear. This whole situation is so strange; so much is happening beyond our anticipation. It may be your own deep concern that has fabricated some scene – ”

“May it be so, Hamille. That is what I pray every waking moment since that night,” the prince said earnestly, though the tremor in his voice belied the hopefulness of his words.

“There is only the matter of Shelob left to settle, before his task is ended,” Hamille added with conviction.

Legolas drew a deep breath and exhaled, weighing Hamille’s words. “Again, you speak truly,” he conceded. “And Shelob cannot be that formidable a foe, such that she would overwhelm Aragorn; many will be with him.”

“Aye, then your reading of the dream cannot be certain,” Hamille insisted.

“I desire it to be in error.”

 “And you should not worry yourself sick – ”

“Then that is reason enough to keep this matter from Aragorn,” Legolas pointed out. “I see no cause to burden him with a dream to which I cannot assign a meaning. He has a great enough load to bear – I desire to lighten the weight of his cares, not add to it.” A burst of laughter from Aragorn and his men reached the elven ears just then, punctuating Legolas’ statement. “I would listen to more of his mirth, but were he to learn of that accursed vision, the grimness of fearful thought shall seal his lips. I will not add the useless weight of an uncertain fate to his misery, Hamille – I cannot!”

Hamille studied the soft glitter in Legolas’ eyes, and moved closer to him. He placed an arm around the slighter elf, and for the next few minutes, he looked upon Legolas not as the stoic elf who had fought against all odds in the War of the Ring and survived, and the prince whom he had vowed to serve, but he saw him once more as the younger elfling who had quaked with him and shared his fear as they eavesdropped on the telling of dark tales among the elders on stormy nights.

“I understand, gwador,I do,” Hamille said comfortingly. “Rest assured that he shall not learn of it from me – though I must tell you that he did try.”

Legolas could not help a small smile upon hearing that. “I know,” he said.

“I only ask that you do not bear it alone,” said Hamille. “If it threatens to overwhelm you, remember I am here.”

Legolas nodded gratefully. “I have never forgotten it,” he replied, his heart already lightened.

Lightened, too, were the hearts of Aragorn and his men when they arrived at the southern foothills of the Lossarnach the day after, for they knew they were close to the Crossings of Erui, and beyond lay the road going north-east to the City. Then one evening, the towers of Minas Tirith – colored in the blazing golds and crimsons of the setting sun – loomed into view against a backdrop of lavender clouds in the distance.

Glad were the hearts of the King’s company, and the King no less. He yearned to rush like the wind across the plains of the Pelennor and ride through the Great Gates of the City into the arms of his Queen and his son, whom he missed sorely.

But he knew with a heavy heart that the time had not yet come. In misery did he look longingly at the towers from far beyond the City walls, as they reluctantly headed across the plains to the road that would lead them to the devastation of the Black Land. 

Crossing the Pelennor, they were pleased to see waiting for them at the fringes of the Fields a small group of Gondorian guards, and the fair face of Elrohir among them. And in their midst too was the small figure of the brave Hobbit who had once battled Shelob, but he was not alone of the little folk.

“Hail, my lord Aragorn! Hello, Legolas!” cried Pippin as the King and elf prince came within earshot. Beside the hobbit was Merry, grinning from ear to ear, and Samwise, looking decidedly less bubbly but pleased to see his friends again nonetheless. 

“Strider, it’s good to see you whole, even if you’re scruffier than before!”  Merry proclaimed, and Aragorn had to chuckle as he swept his hair back from his face.

“Well met again, my friends!” Aragorn called out tiredly in reply as he and Legolas rode up to them. “I am weary, but it lightens my heart to see you again – and the City, even if it’s from a distance.” He looked wistfully at the White Towers of his home. His voice softened as he turned to Elrohir, and asked the question closest to his heart: “Mae govannen, Elrohir. How fare Arwen and Eldarion?”

“They are well, gwador, and they pray you are, too,” answered his foster brother gently, firmly clasping Aragorn’s and Legolas’ extended hands in turn, and sending his brother a look of consolation. He inclined his head briefly towards the guard who had ridden ahead of Aragorn’s company to fetch Sam from the City and said: “Tobëas has told us everything, and we await the completion of that last task – and your return home. You will see them again soon.”

Hearing his name mentioned, Tobëas acknowledged his King with a respectful nod before he set about making arrangements for the journey-weary guards to be replaced with a fresh squad from the Citadel. 

“Faramir and Arwen would have ridden here with us, Estel, but I persuaded them to abide by your instructions,” Elrohir said. “If they had come, Eldarion would have been in tow; you know he would been hard to leave behind. He misses you,” he added, regretting it when he saw the grimace of pain that crossed Aragorn’s face.

Sam nodded in sympathy. “We did not know what to expect, Strider, with the – er – the Shadow Host behind you,” he explained, looking around nervously before he voiced the question that he knew was on everyone’s lips. “Where are they – the Dead?” he asked in a low tone. “Can they be seen? And where are Elladan and Lord Celeborn? And Gimli is missing as well. Have they gotten lost?”

“Nay, Master Hobbit,” answered Legolas quickly. “In answer to the first question: the Host is gathered over there – not visible to you in the light of day, and only vaguely under the moon,” he said, indicating the direction in which the unseen ghosts lingered. “As for your second question: our two friends are in the company of Lord Celeborn, who has found it necessary to head for Isengard on another errand – a rather urgent one. But… perhaps that is a tale best left for the road, for we should not linger too long here. What think you, Aragorn?”

The King sighed and turned fatigued eyes towards the towers of his City. “Hither does my heart lie,” he said softly, “but you speak truly, my friend: we should be on our way again, for this burden grows heavy with each passing day, and I would shed it as soon as may be possible.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, Strider, Pip and I thought we could tag along as well, if only to keep Sam company,” Merry suggested. “Besides, this will make up for my not being with all of you at the final stand before the Black Gates all those years ago. But we’ll keep out of your way, of course, and if we lag behind, don’t worry, we’ll catch up.”

Aragorn smiled. “Your company would be most welcome, my friends.”

“But we won’t be climbing up those steps or stairs with you, though, Strider!” Pippin pointed out quickly. “Sam’s told us how horrible they are, and slippery, and we’d only slow you down. So you go ahead to the tunnel and we’ll wait for you at the foot of the hill.”

“That seems a fine arrangement,” Aragorn replied.

“But – er – the Dead… they will follow you, won’t they?” Pippin asked, swallowing. “I mean… they wouldn’t hang around with the likes of us… would they?”

Aragorn smiled again. “No, Pippin,” he replied. “I’m sure they would not.” Turning to Sam, the King spoke quietly. “Sam, I regret that I have to ask this of you: to enter the Black Land once more and confront the foe that once brought about the near demise of you and Frodo. I would not ask this of you – ”

“Strider, think nothing of it, of course I would come!” the brave Hobbit interrupted. “Let’s put an end to this problem. And after all – the Phial is with us, isn’t it? It scared the ugly monster once; it ought to do so again. No wonder the Lady told me to bring it here to you.” 

“It sits safely here with me,” Legolas assured Sam, feeling the Phial against his body. “and I hope to return it to you soon.”

“Well, let us be on our way then!” said the hobbit, sitting straighter in his saddle and trying to sound jaunty. “Like my gaffer always says: it’s the job that needs doing that’s the hardest.”

So the company started off with a fresh escort for Aragorn. Along with a supply of food, Arwen had also sent – much to the amusement and gratitude of the King – a change of clothes for him. She had even managed to retrieve a clean set for Legolas from his room at the Citadel.

“Ever my queen,” Aragorn remarked fondly when he had been informed about the bundle tied to the saddle of Tobëas’ horse. “They will be welcome when we camp tonight, and I daresay I need mine a great deal more than you do yours, mellon nin.”

“I shall not argue with that,” Legolas replied honestly. 

Aragorn chuckled, then signaled for Tobëas to approach. “You spoke with the Lord Steward, Tobëas? How does he fare?” he asked.

“He is… quite well, Sire,” Tobëas answered carefully, “as could be concluded from his – er – animated speech.”

“Oh?” Aragorn asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did he have a message for me?”

Tobëas cleared his throat. “It was hard to tell, Sire, for he said a great many things,” he answered in an obvious effort to keep his face straight, “particularly when I gave him your explicit orders to remain in the City with the Queen and Prince.”

Aragorn exchanged a quick smile with Legolas before addressing Tobëas again. “I know he would be a good guide to Cirith Ungol, even with Master Gamgee in our company, but I would leave the Queen and Prince in no other hands,” he explained. “What exactly did he say when told of the latest situation?”

The guard looked straight ahead, keeping his expression as emotionless as possible. “He threatened to have my hide if I repeated his words to you, my lord,” the man replied. “And – if I’m allowed to be honest – decency would not allow me to do it.”

Aragorn and Legolas smiled at the reply and asked no more, for they could well imagine the wrath and frustration of the long-suffering Steward. Instead, they turned their attention back to the road before them. It would be dark before long, and Aragorn wished to cross the bridge at Osgiliath before they settled for the night. He desired the Host to be as far away from Minas Tirith as possible, and somehow, bringing Them across the river would give him a sense of safe separation from Gondor.

It would also feel like taking a major stride towards a dreary destination they did not think they would be visiting after a decade: the lair of Shelob in the Black Land of Mordor.   

Note: Once again, my thanks to the readers who have stayed with me despite the weeks in between postings, especially to those who have sent in the most recent reviews.