CHAPTER 21: ELUSIVENESS

From the time Gimli first laid eyes on the Lord of the Golden Wood, the tall, stately elf had, despite his gravity, always appeared indomitable. But it seemed to the dwarf, as he watched Celeborn pore tirelessly over sheaves and sheaves of papers in the Tower of Orthanc, that a tinge of defeat colored his mood. Even the long silver tresses on the bent head, hanging as heavily as the heart of the venerable elf, could not hide the grim disappointment lining his face. 

“Still nothing?” Gimli whispered to Elladan, who shook his head at the pile of open books and yellowed documents before him. Lacing his long fingers behind his neck, he leaned against the back of the chair and gave a wry grin.

“Sometimes I feel as if Saruman lives on in them, mocking me, challenging me to find what we are searching for,” he said tiredly.

Gimli walked over to the table and stared at the documents curiously as if daring them to mock him now, though he unconsciously kept a distance between himself and the papers.

“I found nothing that reveals the meaning of the spell itself, but there is an abundance of other interesting material if you care to wade through it all,” Elladan continued. “Some are in the Common Tongue, including letters and reports that suggest Saruman may have created similar prisons elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere!” Gimli exclaimed. “Do you mean he condemned others to the same fate?”

“Yes, Master Dwarf, it seems so.”

“But why?”  

“Probably for similar reasons: to punish, or to bind,” Celeborn suggested, abruptly rising from his seat to join the conversation. “The true circumstances are veiled, for who can truly fathom Saruman’s reasons for all he did?”

“But… but who would bring about the release of those poor souls then?” asked Gimli. His eyes widened as a thought crossed his mind. “Surely they wouldn’t all be waiting for Aragorn?”

“Nay!” answered Elladan. “There does not seem to be any relation to him, or his bloodline. For all we know, there might have been different spells, albeit with the same outcome.”  

“You asked a good question nonetheless, Gimli,” Celeborn said thoughtfully. “Who would – or could – bring about their release? Saruman may have been demented, but he was cunning. It is conceivable that he would have made certain of a way out for them that he himself could execute –”

“But that is not our concern, is it, Daerada?” Elladan pointed out. “In the case of the Mountain people, we already know that the power to do so lies with Estel.”

Celeborn nodded wordlessly in agreement as he walked slowly around the chamber. He stopped when he reached a spot where a sunbeam had drawn a circle of light on the floor. The elf lord looked up at the ray of sunlight that announced itself through a narrow slit in the wall high above, and he studied the dust floating aimlessly in its path. For a few moments, nothing was heard in the shadowed chamber of the Tower save the faint twitter of birds from outside the stone walls. Then, like gentle ripples on a water surface, the silence broke as the deep, sonorant voice of the Lord of Lothlorien chanted slowly and in low tones the verses that had been heard from the mouth of the old man Mathuil:

"With this Gate I hold thee fast,

From this day forth until the Last.

No tool nor hand shall open Door

Save he to whom the oath we swore.

To let thee for betrayal atone

And set thee free before the Stone…”

The voice of the elf lord trailed off, and all was silent again. But the atmosphere had turned a little more somber and eerie even though the verses had been uttered in the Common Tongue. As one held spellbound, Gimli stared at the silver-haired figure with slackened jaw. Then Celeborn took a deep breath and turned to his companions, breaking the dwarf’s brief trance. Gimli shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

“Have no fear, Master Dwarf,” Celeborn assured him. “I do not believe the curse works in anything but the Black Speech, for thus was it carven into the rock.”

“Brrpthh…” the dwarf exhaled. “It was still mighty unpleasant to these mortal ears!” he grunted.

Celeborn nodded apologetically, turning back to the finger of sunlight. “I was merely reminding myself about what we know so far of the first six lines,” he said. “Elessar is the one who has to release the Dead once they fulfill their oath, and he has already promised them that before the Stone. But there are six more lines left unread.” The elf lord took a deep breath and exhaled. “I know now that there is another mention of darkness in the last line, and if my interpretation is not in error, there is mention of light before that… ”

“But what does it all mean?” asked Gimli. “Darkness... could the old villain have known that Aragorn would have to enter the black lair of Shelob? That Legolas would have to help him with the Lady’s Glass?”   

“Or, he could have been referring to the Darkness from which the Dead would be freed,” Elladan suggested. “And Estel is the one who brings them to light?”

No answer came from the ageless elf.

“What disturbs your ease, my lord?” Gimli asked him. “Are you afraid that Aragorn might be unaware of something he needs to complete the release?”

“Or that something might go awry should he choose to go about it the wrong way?” Elladan added.

“Either of those possibilities, or some other,” the elf lord replied, absently following the dance of the dust particles in the sunbeam.

“Perhaps… perhaps there is nothing more in those lines than a reinforcement of the spell, and we already know all we need to know,” Elladan said carefully. “It seems we have done all we can, searched all we can, short of reading every page in this library.”

A snort of exasperation escaped Gimli. “Didn’t he even hint at what the spell – the whole spell – means?” he asked.

“Well… there was something Saruman did write in his notes pertaining to it,” Elladan said, remembering. “I thought I could hear him laughing in his arrogance as he wrote it.”

“What? What did he write?” Gimli asked curiously, waiting for Elladan to recollect the words.

“ ‘Vainly do mortals seek to understand it,’ ” the elf replied slowly. “ ‘He who wishes to know must look above himself.’ That is what he wrote.”

“ ‘Look above himself?’ Oi, what was he talking about then?” Gimli groaned. “Was the old villain’s mind so bent that he couldn’t say anything straight?”

“I did wonder about it when I encountered it,” said Elladan. “My immediate guess was that he was referring to the answer lying somewhere in the volumes placed on the higher shelves of this library.”

Gimli took a moment to consider the elf’s guess. “Possibly,” the dwarf said. “Or he could have been talking about the runes etched in rock above the Door that you read, my lord,” he suggested to Celeborn. “Someone like me would certainly have to look up to see them!”

“Yet another thought I had is that Saruman obviously considered himself above Men,” Elladan remarked, “so he could have been claiming that the answer lay with him, and that they had to look to him to learn anything.”

Lord Celeborn did not make any comment on any of the guesses, his vision still fixed on the single ray of sunlight from the window above. Gimli’s eyes went round.

“Oohh, do you think the answer is up there?” he asked excitedly, pointing to the window. “Etched in those walls up there?” The dwarf narrowed his eyes, seeking any markings on the wall that could be discerned in the dusty brightness of the single ray.

The dwarf’s excitement caused Elladan to squint at the opening as well. “What does your heart tell you, Daerada?” he asked his grandsire softly.

Celeborn took a moment to answer, and when he did, it was with a slow shake of the head. “I perceive nothing, as far as I am able to perceive,” the elf lord replied. “And for some strange reason, it is not to the stone cold walls I look, but the light of the sun. It is the warmth in its beams which speaks to me.” 

The Lord of Lothlorien then moved so that the light of Anor fell upon his flawless features and brought alive the luminescence of a Firstborn’s countenance. His grandson studied him and thought how morbidly different this Tower was from the timeless mystery of the Lord’s realm.

“You miss the Sun, Daerada, for we have been too long out of it and away from the trees, looking for something that continues to elude us,” Elladan said. He paused to consider the question on the tip of his tongue before voicing it: “Should we perhaps be riding back to rejoin Estel?”  

“That doesn’t seem a bad idea!” Gimli said eagerly before checking himself. “But… umm… it’s your decision, of course, my lord. I’ll abide by it.”

Celeborn did not respond immediately, although he knew that his grandson and Gimli were waiting. When he did, it was with a sigh. “A little longer,” he said. “Let us search a little longer.”

Gimli pursed his lips, and nodded despite his disappointment. “Well, that’s that,” he muttered. “A pretty chase Saruman has led us on, even with him gone. And since I can’t find anything useful up here, I can at least see if I can bring you some food to ease your hunger. Even elves must eat.”

Leaving grandfather and grandson to continue their task, the dwarf descended the stairs in search of Dagor and Bragor, and any food they might have scrounged up. Even if it might be cold and bland, it was still sustenance, and he needed it if they were to stay on. But surely they could not stay for much longer, and he comforted himself with the thought that he might soon be rejoining Legolas and his other companions;. As his feet touched each stone step on his way to the lower floor of the Tower, he wondered where they were and how they were faring.

Little did he know that his friends were already struggling up some stone steps of their own: the Stairs to Torech Ungol, the dark, stinking home of Shelob.   

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The day before, Aragorn and his company had commenced their ascent an hour and a half before sunset, moving as quickly as they could, with Sam leading the way. Halfway up, when it had grown too dark to see and climb safely, they had found several ledges at different heights to spend the night.

Tobëas had expressed a fear of falling off, and Sam had, in jest, offered him Lady Galadriel’s gift of hithlain that he had brought along, so that the man could tie himself to some rock. Aragorn had considered removing his boots, but there was a chilly wind at night, and when they started off the next morning as soon as there was light enough to see, the stone steps were too cold for bare feet. So, after a hurried meal of dried meat and fruit and bread flattened beyond easy recognition, the company plodded upwards as cautiously as they could.

As hard as the climb up the dangerous Stairs was for Sam, it was even harder for Aragorn and the three remaining guards. Sam seemed more secure, either because his hobbit-sized feet – though not tiny by any means – were smaller, or because he had already been that way once. But Ranger or no Ranger, Aragorn did not have the lesser weight of a hobbit or the litheness of an elf. His feet were longer, and his heavy boots cumbersome.

Legolas and Elrohir alone felt little of the effort, even with the bows and arrows they had on their backs, but they followed the pace of the mortals, making sure they stayed close to Aragorn. The Dead were nowhere in sight of the elven eyes, which made Legolas assume that they were already waiting at the top. The elf prince was certain that they would not bring any harm to Aragorn, not when they were relying on his staying alive to release them, so he and Elrohir did not spare them much thought, focusing instead on the King, who stayed between Sam and Legolas during the climb. 

Although much of the rock surface was slimy, there were also rough, jagged edges not yet worn smooth by the wind, and the climbers found their hands bruised and chafed from having to hold on firmly to the steps as they hauled themselves up. Step by step they labored on, the wind growing more brisk the higher they went, sometimes blowing the climbers’ hair into their faces so that they had to sweep it aside with one hand, hanging on nervously with the other, before moving on.

After an exhausting hour, Sam halted the climbers for a breather.

“Not much further now… almost… at the top,” he said. His announcement raised their spirits, and when he resumed the climb, the rest of the company unconsciously quickened their pace.

A little later, Sam began going around a curved part of the mountain face.

“One more… short stretch!” he called down to the King behind him.

Drawing a breath of delight, Aragorn opened his mouth to respond.

But the words never came, for the unexpected happened, and it happened very quickly.

As soon as Aragorn rested his weight on a step with a fracture in the stone, a large piece of it broke off with a sharp crack and headed straight for Legolas below. Quick as lightning, the elf averted it, closing his eyes in response. When he opened them again a moment later, he heard a brief cry and saw Aragorn falling rapidly past him, sliding helplessly down the face of the mountain.

With a startled gasp, the elf reached out to grab his friend, but his hand snapped on empty air as Aragorn slid further down. Elrohir, on the steps below Legolas, flung his arm out as well, but the curve of the Stairs was such that Aragorn had gone just beyond reach.

Frantic cries erupted from the elves and the men as Aragorn tried desperately to grasp onto some handhold. But he found himself sliding down too fast to latch on to anything. His face and arms and body grazed roughly against the hard surface as he fell, leaving little bits of skin in the wake of his rapid descent.

With a jerk, Aragorn’s right hand managed to grab on to a small piece of rock that jutted out, his lungs expelling a whoosh of air as his chest slammed against stone. The other hand found only a finger hold, and his legs dangled wildly till his feet met with weak resistance on some uneven surface below that he could not see.

Stretched out painfully, the dazed King managed to remain in that position to maintain his precarious holds, but he soon became fearfully aware that he could fall at any moment, and his breathing grew rapid.

“Hold on, Aragorn!” he heard Legolas cry frantically from above.

Having fallen some distance beyond the last of the climbers, Aragorn clung on for dear life as he watched the elf shed himself of his weapons and climb onto the rock face away from the steps. The lithe figure began a swift descent to reach him, long arms and legs stretching and curling recklessly fast as he moved like the spider they had come to find. Blinking cold sweat out of his eyes, Aragorn tried to caution his friend, but he felt his tongue cleave to the roof his mouth, and his strength failed.

He could hear the frenzied voices of Elrohir and Sam and his men shouting out about rope, but all he saw was Legolas. He looked up at his friend pleadingly, breathing too heavily to utter anything. Sweat snaked down from his hairline, its wet saltiness stinging his face in several places where the rock had scraped off skin and exposed a bloody rawness. His body was aching from the strain of maintaining his slim hold on the rock.

“Hold on!” Legolas repeated, praying that the others would fashion some help quickly. Far below, the elf noted, gurgled a little offshoot of the dirty stream with sharp rocks awaiting a victim.

One false move… the prince thought, his distress escalating when he saw the blood on his friend’s face and flashes of a nightmare came to him. He pushed aside the horrible images and continued to descend as quickly as he could. 

Below him, Aragorn was weakening.

“Arms… tired,” the man grunted, fearing that his aching limbs would yield. His fresh cuts continued to smart, and his sides – torturously stretched – were screaming with agony.

Have to find a closer foothold… he thought. Not daring to lift his face from the rock which his cuts were staining with his blood, he shifted his weight to his right hand and foot, and slowly lifted a trembling left leg from its present hold, seeking some security closer to his shin that would be easier to maintain. Panting against the stone, he slid his booted foot up to feel for clefts in the stone, listening to the grate of the tough leather sole against the hard surface.

“What are you doing, Estel?” Legolas cried in alarm when he noticed the man’s movements from above. “Do not move!” he warned, inching his way closer to his friend.

But Aragorn had already begun and he could not stop. Moving upwards, the front of his left boot encountered a little depression in the hard surface, and he exhaled gratefully. He began to jam his boot in while easing his weight off the other aching leg.

Sudden dismay flooded the man when he realized with a start that this new chink was too small, that his boot would not fit. In terror, he quickly abandoned his attempt and lowered his leg to find the previous hold – but it now eluded him. Panic seized him and he felt about wildly with his leg, unable to look down.

The movement cost him.

In his frantic search, he stretched his leg too far, finding nothing. The effort caused his left hand to slip free of its finger-hold, and the sweaty palm of his right hand lost even its modest grasp. He began to slide again.

“Estel, no, nooo!” Legolas cried, bending down to reach for him. Other urgent voices joined his as the other climbers saw the King’s peril. 

A slight protrusion in the crags brought Aragorn to another jerky halt after several feet down, allowing him a few moments of belabored breathing through parched, bleeding lips. Looking up, Aragorn was strangely comforted by a vision of golden silk billowing about a fair face, and further up, he glimpsed the figure of Elrohir descending rapidly.

But he did not miss the pallor of the face above or the bright dread in the blue eyes – and he knew that the elf realized what he did as well: his torn and aching fingers would not maintain their hold for long, for his feet rested on nothing.

“I can’t – I can’t…” the man groaned as his fingers released their grasp and he began to slither downwards once more.

“Noooo, Estel! Hold on, please!” Legolas pleaded and started to lower himself further.

Sweat blinded Aragorn as his fingers clawed desperately at the harsh rock face that would yield no aid. With an agonized hiss and cry, he tried with every remaining ounce of strength to propel his aching body upward, to clutch at salvation by an elven hand.

But the tips of his bloody fingers met Legolas’ only for a pitiful instant – and the chance was gone. His hands and feet lost all purchase they had had on the rock surface, and an icy stream of fear surged through him.

For a heart-stopping instant, the King seemed to hover in mid-air, his arm still outstretched. He looked up, the sharp terror in his wide grey eyes tearing the heart out of the elf above.

“No, noooooo!” He heard Legolas’ strangled scream.

Then he fell. 

Note: Bye for now.

I wish I could have worked on this a little more, but I will be away in the States for a couple of weeks and wanted to leave you with this before I left.

Hugs and thanks to all those who sent in the latest reviews.