Old story, LoTRs
I wrote this story 6 years ago, long before discovering Supernatural, back when my passion was writing Lord of the Rings' stories. This one was one of the shortest ones I wrote, an experiment for me, trying my hand at first person POVs. When I realized that I had never posted it in LJ, I decided to dust if off and post it. At the time, it was one of my personal favorites.
For those of you who are LoTRs fans, this is a short tag on Frodo's thoughts right after the Fellowship escapes from the mines of Moria to Lothlorien, grieving for Gandalf.
Sacrifices
'It is a very dangerous thing, going out your door'
So many times had I heard those words from my uncle's mouth that it is impossible now to think them in any other voice other then his.
Their meaning, however, will never be quite the same to me now. Nor will I ever be quite the same, after all that has come to pass.
As I look back, the last few days seem covered in a dream-like haze, too unbearable to be seen as real and yet, too painful to be anything else but the harsh reality.
We have lost Gandalf.
The sun has set twice since it has happen and only now do I find the strength to put the sentence together. And as I do so, the weight of its meaning almost drives me to the ground.
We have lost Gandalf.
Though the air I breathe now is sweet and clean, and even though the grace of the Lothlorien elves surrounds me here, in the woods that they call home, it is the foul air inside the Moria mines that still fills my chest.
That putrid, moldy air; that foul stench that had covered every wall like a second skin for more years than I have lived. It heightened the smell of sulphur coming from the deep pits of the mines, turning it in to an acrid fume with a life of its own that entered ones' lungs and made them unfit to breathe ever again.
My cousins and Sam had stood so close to me then that I could feel their trembling hips pressed against my own, collective shivers that seemed to pass through us like the northern wind, even though heat beat upon us like a sickly whip.
The big folks had surrounded us, like they always did when danger was coming. A bittersweet feeling of safety that was, for all it implied. If they felt the need to act thus, then we could no longer deny that our safety was lost and death was coming.
A vengeful hound, seeking to take us.
Protect as we had been in our beloved Shire, the throng of Orcs that attacked us in Moria was the worst kind of danger us Hobbits could imagine.
Yes, their terrible snarls and the vicious ways in which they had fought were frightening beyond our bravest attempts to fend them off, but had we known then what was instored for us latter, we would have welcomed the vile beasts with our blades and a smile upon our lips.
A Balrog, such was what Gandalf had called it. A creature of fire and shadow, the owner of the sulphur stench and blasting heat that we could feel closing in on us.
Even now I can hear his whispered word as clear has if he had just uttered them in to my ear.
He knew.
He had known all along.
My hand cleans away the phantom sweat that I feel trickling down my forehead, for in here it is pleasantly cold and far from the pressing heat that I had felt there.
I push my feet deep in to the leaves-covered ground, trying to root myself in to this peaceful place.
Even though I have walked some distance, I can still hear voices, carried far by the wind. Melodious voices as gentle and smoothing as a hot tea in the chilliest of nights. Clear voices singing unclear words whose meaning could never be misunderstood.
I fill my lungs with the cleansing air of these enchanted woods and for a moment I can see the light again, shinning shyly through the golden foliage.
Without asking for my consent, as it has come to happen more and more often of late, my right hand finds its way to my heart. Only it is not my heart it seeks, but the one thing that is eating it up.
Its round shape surrounds me from within, tightening its hold like an iron vice, preventing me from drawing breath. It blames me for not using it to prevent Gandalf's demise. It lures me in to thinking that there was something it could have done about it.
It expects me to believe that it would have done something.
As I ran over the dizzying bridge that stood between us and freedom, I had heard its calling, making the same offers that it now blames me for not having taken.
It had not been sense or good judgment that had prevented me from giving in then. No, as much as I would like to claim them as my guides, they had little to do with my choices.
Fear.
Fear commanded me as I ran without looking back, fear made me thankful for Boromir's arms around my chest, preventing me from going back and doing the right thing. Fear of what would be asked of me if I had turned back.
Fear because I was not ready to make that sacrifice.
Gandalf made that sacrifice for me this once but now my fear is that a time will come when the whole Fellowship will be faced with the same crossroad. Will I allow them whole to fall before I find my way?
My heart feels like a dried, old rock, no longer able to bleed. My hand grasps the round shape hanging from my neck and I can sense the pleasure of the Ring at being fondled, a sickening lust that both disgusts and calls to me. It is a comfort that consumes me, a lover that leaves me bleeding, and yet I cannot avoid it.
The wind stops flowing around me and even the trees seem to shy away from my presence. They too can feel it, its evilness and dark power.
The elves that had greeted us here had known it as well; I could see it in their bright eyes, their frowning faces and sour words.
We are not welcome. The Ring and me.
Reluctant had they been for sharing their beloved grounds with such an ugly thing, none feeling the need to see it to know what it was that I carried into their home. It had reached for their hearts and they had recoiled from its touch.
I know their singing voices are still flowing freely through the leaves, but no longer do their smoothing tones reach my ears. The world is muffled around me and I feel myself falling, falling with Gandalf…
A hand clasps my shoulder from behind and my only reaction, sadly, is to tighten my grasp on the Ring. It has become of such importance to me that I fear its loss more than I fear my own well being.
I turn around too fast, loosing my balance in the process, and I feel that hand holding me tighter, keeping me grounded. For a moment I see nothing but one of those horrible beasts from Moria in front of me, clammy skin, yellow eyed and claw-like nails, ready to end my misery with a bite from its growling teeth.
For a moment I entertain the idea of using the Ring and escape.
Shame fills me to the core and I feel the pointy tip of my ears turn red as I finally have a look at my 'attacker' and meet not an Orc but the concerned face of a dwarf.
Gimli, son of Gloin.
A good friend as he has become, he mistakes my embarrassment for being caught grieving, rather than having just been mistaken for an enemy. Was he any other but a dwarf, Gimli would know that there is no embarrassment to be had when grieving for those lost.
He taps my shoulder, a rough gesture that soaks me with the gentlest of emotions, a warm touch that is meant to convince me that it is good to let grief out. I can see by the red rims around his dark eyes that he has given free reins to his in some private corner of Lothlorien.
I never thought that rocks could cry, and yet I have seen one do so with my very own eyes. I remember little of what happened after we escaped the mines, but through the veil of sorrow that had covered my mind then, Gimli's wails of sorrow managed to pierce through and find my heart.
Such despair I had never heard before, such raw wroth I witnessed then and, a rock as he most certainly is, water fell from Gimli's eyes without shame. Just naked pain, his heart bare for all to see. A hot spring of grief.
He does not say much now, and all for the best it is so, for I doubt there are any such thing as the right words to say in times as this we suffer through. I know he is here to guard over me, most certainly send out by Aragorn, concerned that I might lose my way. My way, however, is very much lost for me right now.
'It is a very dangerous thing, going out your door'
I believe it was mostly my concept of 'dangerous' that as changed since then.
When I listened to my uncle's tales by the fireplace, safely tucked in beneath a warm blanket and with a piece of cake in my hand, my idea of danger was a very childish one, a romantic one.
I knew that no matter how dark things seemed in his stories, nothing too serious would befall him. After, there stood my uncle, in front of me, alive and well, telling me the tales of his adventures with Gandalf and the dwarves. He had endured and overcome, and all was well in the Shire.
Now, however, I suspect that he kept the really bad parts out. The parts about feeling exhausted after a long day's walk and having no better place to sleep other than the hard ground; the parts about being so cold and bare to the elements that you feel like the slightest movement of your arms might shatter them like ice; the parts about blistering feet at the end of a day's journey and the knowledge that no other choice remains but to resume walking in the morning; the parts about opening your heart to your traveling companions and befriending them, not knowing if they would still be alive to make the journey back home…
Those things he left out; those parts I discovered for myself. In my tale, I have no reassurance that nothing too serious will befall me. In my tale, one of my traveling companions has already lost his place in our journey home.
Oh, Gandalf…
Now I know… danger is not romantic at all.
It is dirty, and it tastes of salt and blood and it makes your heart beat so strong and fast that you can feel it behind your eyes. It clouds your mind faster than ale; it makes you doubt your certainties and beliefs. It turns you in to a murder, in to a thief, in to a coward, in to anything that keeps you alive and your foe dead. It makes you despise yourself for having survived.
Because, after all the danger has passed, its lingering effects still haunt you in your sleep, still haunt you in your waking hours, never allowing you to forget. Like a rotten tooth inside your mouth, it eats you from within, too painful to be touched, too present to be ignored.
Heroes are tempered in danger, like iron is tempered in fire to be made stronger. Only I am no hero… I am a Hobbit, and the only effect that fire has on me is burning.
Heroes to me are folk like Aragorn, and Boromir, and Legolas and Gimli… and Gandalf. Even my cousins and Sam have it in them to be heroes, for who else would have volunteered to be by my side at this hour, other than heroes?
But I... I am no hero.
I had no choice but to be here, to take this path, to be the Ring-bearer. The moment a different choice, a reasonable choice, a safer choice were to be presented to me, I have no doubt that I would have taken it.
But that is wishful thinking that will get me nowhere, even if nowhere is where I wish to be right now.
Gimli clears his throat. I know we should return, for the hour is growing late and the light will soon begin to fade.
Only the dark understands me now. Only shrouded in its veil do I feel welcomed, do I feel at home. It is only fitting that the grey tone of my grieving heart matches the colors outside.
I sighed and force my hand away from my chest. I cannot lose my way, for my way is very clear. It has been since the day I left Elrond's walls.
It is the choices forced upon me to make it there that frighten me; it is my lack of courage to welcome those choices that keeps me awake when I should be sleeping.
It was very clear in my mind, even before I gazed upon the Lady's mirror, that on the path that I had chosen, the next sacrifice to be made could not be bargain with or be placed on another' shoulders. Scary as the thought may be, I shall not shy away from it again, for the shame it leaves me feeling can not be worse than my own demise.
The next sacrifice will not be met with childish believes of escaping danger without feeling its bite.
The next sacrifice to be made shall not add to my grieving heart or weight upon my guilty soul.
This was the path I chose, and if sacrifice is to be demanded of any, it will be of me. And I shall accept it.
The end
For those of you who are LoTRs fans, this is a short tag on Frodo's thoughts right after the Fellowship escapes from the mines of Moria to Lothlorien, grieving for Gandalf.
Sacrifices
'It is a very dangerous thing, going out your door'
So many times had I heard those words from my uncle's mouth that it is impossible now to think them in any other voice other then his.
Their meaning, however, will never be quite the same to me now. Nor will I ever be quite the same, after all that has come to pass.
As I look back, the last few days seem covered in a dream-like haze, too unbearable to be seen as real and yet, too painful to be anything else but the harsh reality.
We have lost Gandalf.
The sun has set twice since it has happen and only now do I find the strength to put the sentence together. And as I do so, the weight of its meaning almost drives me to the ground.
We have lost Gandalf.
Though the air I breathe now is sweet and clean, and even though the grace of the Lothlorien elves surrounds me here, in the woods that they call home, it is the foul air inside the Moria mines that still fills my chest.
That putrid, moldy air; that foul stench that had covered every wall like a second skin for more years than I have lived. It heightened the smell of sulphur coming from the deep pits of the mines, turning it in to an acrid fume with a life of its own that entered ones' lungs and made them unfit to breathe ever again.
My cousins and Sam had stood so close to me then that I could feel their trembling hips pressed against my own, collective shivers that seemed to pass through us like the northern wind, even though heat beat upon us like a sickly whip.
The big folks had surrounded us, like they always did when danger was coming. A bittersweet feeling of safety that was, for all it implied. If they felt the need to act thus, then we could no longer deny that our safety was lost and death was coming.
A vengeful hound, seeking to take us.
Protect as we had been in our beloved Shire, the throng of Orcs that attacked us in Moria was the worst kind of danger us Hobbits could imagine.
Yes, their terrible snarls and the vicious ways in which they had fought were frightening beyond our bravest attempts to fend them off, but had we known then what was instored for us latter, we would have welcomed the vile beasts with our blades and a smile upon our lips.
A Balrog, such was what Gandalf had called it. A creature of fire and shadow, the owner of the sulphur stench and blasting heat that we could feel closing in on us.
Even now I can hear his whispered word as clear has if he had just uttered them in to my ear.
He knew.
He had known all along.
My hand cleans away the phantom sweat that I feel trickling down my forehead, for in here it is pleasantly cold and far from the pressing heat that I had felt there.
I push my feet deep in to the leaves-covered ground, trying to root myself in to this peaceful place.
Even though I have walked some distance, I can still hear voices, carried far by the wind. Melodious voices as gentle and smoothing as a hot tea in the chilliest of nights. Clear voices singing unclear words whose meaning could never be misunderstood.
I fill my lungs with the cleansing air of these enchanted woods and for a moment I can see the light again, shinning shyly through the golden foliage.
Without asking for my consent, as it has come to happen more and more often of late, my right hand finds its way to my heart. Only it is not my heart it seeks, but the one thing that is eating it up.
Its round shape surrounds me from within, tightening its hold like an iron vice, preventing me from drawing breath. It blames me for not using it to prevent Gandalf's demise. It lures me in to thinking that there was something it could have done about it.
It expects me to believe that it would have done something.
As I ran over the dizzying bridge that stood between us and freedom, I had heard its calling, making the same offers that it now blames me for not having taken.
It had not been sense or good judgment that had prevented me from giving in then. No, as much as I would like to claim them as my guides, they had little to do with my choices.
Fear.
Fear commanded me as I ran without looking back, fear made me thankful for Boromir's arms around my chest, preventing me from going back and doing the right thing. Fear of what would be asked of me if I had turned back.
Fear because I was not ready to make that sacrifice.
Gandalf made that sacrifice for me this once but now my fear is that a time will come when the whole Fellowship will be faced with the same crossroad. Will I allow them whole to fall before I find my way?
My heart feels like a dried, old rock, no longer able to bleed. My hand grasps the round shape hanging from my neck and I can sense the pleasure of the Ring at being fondled, a sickening lust that both disgusts and calls to me. It is a comfort that consumes me, a lover that leaves me bleeding, and yet I cannot avoid it.
The wind stops flowing around me and even the trees seem to shy away from my presence. They too can feel it, its evilness and dark power.
The elves that had greeted us here had known it as well; I could see it in their bright eyes, their frowning faces and sour words.
We are not welcome. The Ring and me.
Reluctant had they been for sharing their beloved grounds with such an ugly thing, none feeling the need to see it to know what it was that I carried into their home. It had reached for their hearts and they had recoiled from its touch.
I know their singing voices are still flowing freely through the leaves, but no longer do their smoothing tones reach my ears. The world is muffled around me and I feel myself falling, falling with Gandalf…
A hand clasps my shoulder from behind and my only reaction, sadly, is to tighten my grasp on the Ring. It has become of such importance to me that I fear its loss more than I fear my own well being.
I turn around too fast, loosing my balance in the process, and I feel that hand holding me tighter, keeping me grounded. For a moment I see nothing but one of those horrible beasts from Moria in front of me, clammy skin, yellow eyed and claw-like nails, ready to end my misery with a bite from its growling teeth.
For a moment I entertain the idea of using the Ring and escape.
Shame fills me to the core and I feel the pointy tip of my ears turn red as I finally have a look at my 'attacker' and meet not an Orc but the concerned face of a dwarf.
Gimli, son of Gloin.
A good friend as he has become, he mistakes my embarrassment for being caught grieving, rather than having just been mistaken for an enemy. Was he any other but a dwarf, Gimli would know that there is no embarrassment to be had when grieving for those lost.
He taps my shoulder, a rough gesture that soaks me with the gentlest of emotions, a warm touch that is meant to convince me that it is good to let grief out. I can see by the red rims around his dark eyes that he has given free reins to his in some private corner of Lothlorien.
I never thought that rocks could cry, and yet I have seen one do so with my very own eyes. I remember little of what happened after we escaped the mines, but through the veil of sorrow that had covered my mind then, Gimli's wails of sorrow managed to pierce through and find my heart.
Such despair I had never heard before, such raw wroth I witnessed then and, a rock as he most certainly is, water fell from Gimli's eyes without shame. Just naked pain, his heart bare for all to see. A hot spring of grief.
He does not say much now, and all for the best it is so, for I doubt there are any such thing as the right words to say in times as this we suffer through. I know he is here to guard over me, most certainly send out by Aragorn, concerned that I might lose my way. My way, however, is very much lost for me right now.
'It is a very dangerous thing, going out your door'
I believe it was mostly my concept of 'dangerous' that as changed since then.
When I listened to my uncle's tales by the fireplace, safely tucked in beneath a warm blanket and with a piece of cake in my hand, my idea of danger was a very childish one, a romantic one.
I knew that no matter how dark things seemed in his stories, nothing too serious would befall him. After, there stood my uncle, in front of me, alive and well, telling me the tales of his adventures with Gandalf and the dwarves. He had endured and overcome, and all was well in the Shire.
Now, however, I suspect that he kept the really bad parts out. The parts about feeling exhausted after a long day's walk and having no better place to sleep other than the hard ground; the parts about being so cold and bare to the elements that you feel like the slightest movement of your arms might shatter them like ice; the parts about blistering feet at the end of a day's journey and the knowledge that no other choice remains but to resume walking in the morning; the parts about opening your heart to your traveling companions and befriending them, not knowing if they would still be alive to make the journey back home…
Those things he left out; those parts I discovered for myself. In my tale, I have no reassurance that nothing too serious will befall me. In my tale, one of my traveling companions has already lost his place in our journey home.
Oh, Gandalf…
Now I know… danger is not romantic at all.
It is dirty, and it tastes of salt and blood and it makes your heart beat so strong and fast that you can feel it behind your eyes. It clouds your mind faster than ale; it makes you doubt your certainties and beliefs. It turns you in to a murder, in to a thief, in to a coward, in to anything that keeps you alive and your foe dead. It makes you despise yourself for having survived.
Because, after all the danger has passed, its lingering effects still haunt you in your sleep, still haunt you in your waking hours, never allowing you to forget. Like a rotten tooth inside your mouth, it eats you from within, too painful to be touched, too present to be ignored.
Heroes are tempered in danger, like iron is tempered in fire to be made stronger. Only I am no hero… I am a Hobbit, and the only effect that fire has on me is burning.
Heroes to me are folk like Aragorn, and Boromir, and Legolas and Gimli… and Gandalf. Even my cousins and Sam have it in them to be heroes, for who else would have volunteered to be by my side at this hour, other than heroes?
But I... I am no hero.
I had no choice but to be here, to take this path, to be the Ring-bearer. The moment a different choice, a reasonable choice, a safer choice were to be presented to me, I have no doubt that I would have taken it.
But that is wishful thinking that will get me nowhere, even if nowhere is where I wish to be right now.
Gimli clears his throat. I know we should return, for the hour is growing late and the light will soon begin to fade.
Only the dark understands me now. Only shrouded in its veil do I feel welcomed, do I feel at home. It is only fitting that the grey tone of my grieving heart matches the colors outside.
I sighed and force my hand away from my chest. I cannot lose my way, for my way is very clear. It has been since the day I left Elrond's walls.
It is the choices forced upon me to make it there that frighten me; it is my lack of courage to welcome those choices that keeps me awake when I should be sleeping.
It was very clear in my mind, even before I gazed upon the Lady's mirror, that on the path that I had chosen, the next sacrifice to be made could not be bargain with or be placed on another' shoulders. Scary as the thought may be, I shall not shy away from it again, for the shame it leaves me feeling can not be worse than my own demise.
The next sacrifice will not be met with childish believes of escaping danger without feeling its bite.
The next sacrifice to be made shall not add to my grieving heart or weight upon my guilty soul.
This was the path I chose, and if sacrifice is to be demanded of any, it will be of me. And I shall accept it.
The end