Chapter 370: A Possible Final Note
Gandalf's shock can wait.
During the time he fell into the deep places of the earth and pursued the Balrog from an underground lake, fighting all the way up to the mountain peak, the Fellowship was driven onward by events as well. Forced to run from grief before they could even swallow it, they turned east and sought aid from nearby Lothlórien.
They had not gone far before a band of border guards barred their way.
Haldir led them, a captain among the Marchwardens and an acquaintance of Levi's. He brought the company to a watch platform along the border, settled them there to rest for a time, and spoke with them about the details of their journey.
A messenger from Rivendell had already reached the Golden Wood before the Fellowship set out, bringing word of their mission. Lothlórien's attitude towards them was friendly, and they were willing to help.
Yet Haldir, who was directly responsible for the safety of Lothlórien's borders, refused to reveal the route into the heart of the Golden Wood, especially not to a Dwarf.
Not everyone could arrive somewhere with the kind of renown Levi carried and have people lower their guard to receive him.
And when Haldir demanded that Gimli alone be blindfolded, the open favouritism infuriated the Dwarf. He argued repeatedly with the Elves, the dispute growing sharper by the minute.
In the end, at Aragorn's suggestion, everyone agreed to go forward blindfolded. Only then did the matter settle.
Lothlórien clearly treated the Fellowship as a matter of great importance. The Lord and Lady came out together to receive them.
Seeing the company arrive safely, the two Elven rulers both seemed to breathe easier.
If Gandalf had been here, he might have noticed that Lady Galadriel looked a little drawn, as if she had spent too much of her strength.
But he was not.
"The Enemy already knows you have entered this land," Celeborn said. "If you still hoped to move in secrecy, I fear that hope is ended."
"Dol Guldur, Mordor, and a rebel host forged by Saruman's own hand are laying siege to the city-states nearby. Were it not for the Men of the North and South Vales holding fast, even this place might not know peace."
"And beyond that, the hidden host the Enemy kept within Moria has joined with Dol Guldur and attacked Dale, led by the descendants of Beorn the skin-changer. The road ahead is perilous, and you…"
"By my count, you should have set out as nine. Yet only eight stand here."
"Tell me where Gandalf is. I would speak with him."
No one answered.
At Celeborn's side, Galadriel looked from face to face. In their silence, she read the truth they could not bring themselves to speak.
"Gandalf has fallen into the abyss."
As the eight remained silent, Galadriel drew upon her power and passed something of what she perceived through their own fears and half-formed premonitions. Each of them either saw a future they cared for most, or received a few words that felt like a warning, or a blessing, or both.
The Fellowship needed rest. The Lord and Lady understood it and did not trouble them further, instead ordering lodgings prepared.
Only then did the company finally breathe, with space enough to think back on what had happened in the last few days.
"I still cannot accept it," Sam said.
Unexpectedly, he was the first to speak. He ran his fingers along the short sword Levi had given him, the blade engraved with Levi's name and words of blessing, and he looked dazed.
Frodo stared at the name on the blade too, his mind gone distant.
"That fair and noble lady said she could no longer sense Gandalf," Sam whispered. "He fell into the deep pits below, and may have died."
"Then Lord Levi too…"
"Our journey has only just begun, and already it has come to this."
"Be strong, Sam," Frodo said softly.
It was comfort, and nothing more. Even Frodo did not know what else to say. In truth, his sorrow and confusion ran deeper than anyone's. He simply did not show it.
Late at night, when all was quiet, Frodo lay staring up at the sky, thinking.
A thought took root in him and would not leave.
The road had barely begun, and already Levi and Gandalf were gone in turn. If this continued, there would only be more partings, more grief.
If none of this had happened, or if all of it could have been his burden alone without dragging others into it, how good that would be.
"Frodo."
Boromir came quietly to his side. Remembering Boromir's earlier behaviour, especially his hunger for the Ring, Frodo tensed instinctively, but quickly realised the fear was needless.
Boromir sat down nearby, his voice gentle.
"Whether Gandalf or Levi, their efforts were not wasted."
"You are carrying more than enough, Frodo."
"Do not let the dead weigh on your heart as well."
After that, Boromir met Frodo's eyes for a brief moment and then left.
In that glance, Frodo saw something steady. It stirred him, and with it, some of his prejudice against Boromir loosened.
Deep night.
An ethereal song rose through the woods.
Legolas lifted his head towards the sound and said, "They are singing a lament for Gandalf, and praising Levi's deeds."
The song was sorrowful and clear, tugging at the heart. Even Merry and Pippin, usually so noisy, fell silent and listened closely, though they did not understand a word.
"I wager their song does not mention Gandalf's fireworks," Sam muttered, "or Lord Levi's cooking."
He stood up, determined to make up for what Elves would likely never think to include, and recited a short poem he invented on the spot. Aragorn stopped polishing his sword so he could listen.
There was, however, interference.
Gimli was the only one asleep, sleeping soundly, and his snoring nearly drowned out Sam's verse.
Aragorn, who had been trying so hard to listen, finally had enough. He turned and slapped Gimli across his broad, rock-solid face, and the blow was anything but light.
Smack.
Gimli woke at once, outraged.
"Oy! What is this, then? Elves may sing, but Dwarves may not snore?"
"Outrageous. Favouritism again."
He complained for another moment, then rolled over in a sulk and went straight back to sleep, turning his back to Aragorn.
Like a child weighing half a ton.
When Sam's not-particularly-exquisite poem ended, and Aragorn had finished polishing his sword, he stood and looked around. Boromir seemed unusually low in spirit, so Aragorn spoke with him.
"In Lady Galadriel's vision," Boromir said at last, "I saw ruin, but I saw hope as well. Our people need hope."
"Can you hear the clear silver horn calling you home?"
In that moment, Boromir offered his recognition in the only way he knew.
"I hope that one day I will hear the guards upon the Tower cry, 'The Lord of Gondor has returned.'"
Aragorn did not answer.
Boromir's burden was heavy. When he laid that burden on Aragorn as well, it became something else entirely: expectation. Aragorn felt its weight settle on his shoulders, so heavy that he could not trust himself to speak.
While the two spoke, Galadriel sought out Frodo and led him to her Mirror, wishing to grant him clearer sight.
With Galadriel's guidance, Frodo saw fragments of what might yet come.
Disaster. Ruin. War. Fire rolling across the lands. Orcs so near he could feel their breath. The mighty Free Cities were thrown into turmoil, unable to shield the regions around them. The Shire was attacked, and friends he had known were reduced to slaves, shackles on their wrists.
At last, a vast, fiery Eye covered everything.
The Mirror showed Frodo one possible road into the future, and with it came fear. And the one who made fear, the one who fed upon it, was drawn to what the Mirror revealed.
Sauron's gaze fell upon that place.
Just as Frodo was about to faint, swaying as though he would topple into the basin, a familiar greatsword swept into view. Its blade was black, traced with dark red patterns, and with one brutal swing, it drove the Eye away.
In its place stood a figure that made the heart steady.
And behind him was an army, baring steel against all evil and darkness.
In an instant, the visions vanished. Frodo lurched back, clutching at the Ring as if afraid it would be torn from him, breath coming hard, cold sweat on his face. In looking upon the future, he had also endured a trial of will.
"I know what you saw," Galadriel said, watching him with surprise.
"If your road fails, then that is what awaits. Fire will spread across all of Middle-earth."
"But it will not be so simple," she went on, her voice soft. "Even absolute strength may not be enough to turn aside every end…"
She stirred the Mirror again, and a new image formed.
Shadow, empowered immensely by the One Ring's return, swallowed the world. Only in the north did one land of light remain unbroken.
Yet the lord of that shining realm, the North's legend, sat upon a heap of enemies' corpses in silence, saying nothing for a long time.
Perhaps it would forge a new age where light and dark stood in the starkest, most direct, most extreme opposition. Only one could endure to the end, a final note that closed another age of the world.
But as that possibility drew nearer, change stirred again.
Far away, beyond the mountains, at Roadside Keep, Beherdan opened his eyes.
He had noticed it days ago. The folk of Roadside Keep were keeping something from him.
But silence could not truly cover Roadside Keep's unrest. Several legion commanders, community representatives, and administrators gathered to discuss something, then summoned the people for a vote. After that, Roadside Keep entered a war footing and began massing troops.
Leaving only the necessary garrisons behind, everyone else climbed onto the Sky-road and headed east.
The city became much quieter.
Beherdan could not sleep. In those days, an emptiness sat inside him that would not go away.
The truth could not be hidden forever.
That day, upon a golden mallorn tree, Beherdan spread his enormous wings and, for the first time in his life, revealed something fierce.
Beherdan, the Guardian. He took that name for the sake of guarding this land—the land he had lived in since he was small, the land he loved.
His nature was unlike any dragon of old. If he had to be likened to anything, it was an ageing yellow hound: steady, loyal, and sure.
And he lived as such a creature would. For years, he had lain quietly in this place, keeping watch over the land and the family who dwelt upon it.
So quietly that many had forgotten him altogether. Not out of malice, but because his presence had not seemed necessary.
Because for all those years, one man had stood at the very front and borne everything, and so the great dragon, a force no one could truly ignore, had looked almost leisurely. All he did was eat, sleep, and, now and then, read a little, or listen to a story.
Even he had been overlooked.
But now, the one who had raised him, who had stood in front and carried all burdens, was gone, lost without a word.
This land needed him.
Beherdan opened his eyes fully.
He roared, and the sound rolled over the hills like thunder. Orange-red flame followed, lancing up through the cloud-bank and turning the sky to fire.
Then the great shape lifted, clearing the mountains in a few mighty beats of its wings, and drove east towards the war.