The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Thirty-four: Into the Abyss
Boromir
held the torch and ran ahead of the others, fleeing blindly through the
long echoing halls and high arched passageways of Moria. Gandalf’s
words still rang in his ears;
‘Run, all of you, run for your lives….’
The dusty, cracked stones beneath his feet seemed hot through the soles
of his boots and through the very earth too there seemed to run a deep,
steady tremor, like the shock of an earthquake, only regular, a giant’s
heartbeat, growing stronger, pursuing them inexorably….
Only once did Boromir look back over his shoulder; he saw the others
straggling after him, dim in the flaring, flickering light from the
quartz crystal on top of Gandalf’s staff. The wizard himself brought up
the rear of their group, and as he watched Boromir saw him turn and
raise his sword and lift his staff. In the brief flash of light that
followed a vast shape was revealed. Boromir swallowed on a dry throat;
never, even in nightmare, had he seen such a vision. It seemed as if
the darkness of Moria had taken shape and advanced upon them, bearing
an outline of smoke and flames. Two great red eyes, blurring in a haze
of heat from its whip of fire, fastened on the wizard standing alone
against it….
Then Gandalf turned and fled.
‘On, on!’ he shouted at the Fellowship, standing as if stunned.
‘Don’t just stand there, run!’
Boromir too turned and ran. The hall ended in a great stone door, its
archway receding into darkness high above. Beyond was a staircase down
which Boromir ran headlong. At the end was a platform and two more
flights of stairs, one to the left and one leading straight on. Heat
rose from below, and Boromir felt sweat start from every pore and run
down under his tunic. He reached the last step of the stairs…and put a
foot out into empty air…
The stone staircase led to nothing; an abyss, of infinite depth, yawned
below. This was the chasm of Khazad-dum, the fissure which, it was
said, reached to the very core of the earth, and up which the veins of
true silver, mithril silver, had seeped when the world was made.
Boromir threw his weight backwards, frantically flailing his arms, but
the impetus of his forward charge was too great and he teetered and
began to topple forward into the chasm….
Just then a long slender arm was flung round his chest and pulled him
sharply back, with such force he was yanked off his feet and fell
backwards on top of Legolas, who had at this last moment stopped him
from falling into the abyss….
Boromir was tall and powerfully built and he bore his great round
shield with its silver boss on his back. He fell heavily on the Elf,
the shield driving the breath out of him. From behind came the steady
thump thump thump of the pursuing Balrog, and Boromir rolled to one
side and leaped to his feet and reached down to help the Elf up.
Legolas had a smile on his face; there was dust on his tunic, a long
grey smear on dark green and his face was also smudged with it. But he
still held his bow firmly in his hand, and Boromir noticed the arrows
in his quiver were unbroken. Although Legolas could have risen to his
feet unaided he took Boromir’s hand and let himself be pulled up.
‘My thanks, Legolas!’ said Boromir ‘You saved my life!’
But the Elf only smiled and said something in Elvish; perhaps the
urgency of the flight made him forget Boromir did not know the Fair
Speech. And Boromir had no time to wonder what the words meant. But he
caught the word ‘mellon’, and understood, from overhearing Legolas
speaking to Aragorn, that it meant ‘friend’.
Only much later, in Lothlórien, when the Fellowship were
surrounded and guarded by the Galadhrim, tall, stern Elves, suspicious
and distant, did Boromir realise what it meant for an Elf to call any
man ‘friend’…
Boromir shook his head angrily; from where had that memory suddenly
sprung, unexpected and unwanted? Above him, in the dome of the House of
the Stewards, the trapped birds fluttered helplessly, ever weaker now,
doomed even as Legolas was doomed. For he, Boromir his old comrade, had
to kill the Elf, or die himself…
Boromir shook his head again, trying to rid himself of the memory of a
time he had been friends with Legolas. He shrugged off the black velvet
robe of the Steward and kicked it away; no sense in tripping over my
own gown, he thought grimly. Without the long, heavy robe Boromir
looked even taller, lean from his long arduous journey in the wilds and
strong and hardy from years of fighting. He wore a deep red velvet
surcoat over a hauberk of fine chain mail, made by the best craftsmen
in Gondor for his father and passed down when he came of age to the
heir of the Stewards, Boromir.
As proud as his father but less subtle, more impetuous but also more
generous, Boromir shook back his long fair hair and looked long and
searchingly at the Elf, balancing the ancient sword in his hand….
‘What an irony…’, Boromir thought, ‘….that having fought beside you,
Legolas, I know just what moves you will make in battle. It will be so
much easier for me to kill you….’
Mellon!
And a sudden qualm smote Boromir. He looked at Legolas, standing still
but watching Boromir warily, his grey eyes dark as a winter sea, the
watery sunlight falling from the apex of the Dome to shine on his long
golden hair. And Boromir was suddenly appalled at what he was about to
do. He felt remorse; he had no desire to kill Legolas.
But then other thoughts assailed him; he must defend himself against
the Elf, or he would take the Ring and plunge all the world into chaos,
and destroy Gondor. Boromir hardened his heart; this was no time for
pity. The Elf himself had wrought this doom; he must be defeated, and
slain….
Boromir circled slowly, like a leopard sizing up its prey. Legolas
still stood in the same place, holding the long mithril sword, his back
to Ecthelion’s tomb. Boromir said;
‘Come, Elf. You swore an oath to kill me and hastened all this way to do it; what is keeping you?’
Legolas did not answer, but his heart was heavy; he no longer wanted to
kill Boromir. All his anger had seeped away when he saw his old friend.
He understood now what had happened; the Ring had been stronger than
Boromir. Stronger even than he was himself, for it had called to him
from all this distance, bringing him thirsting for his old friend’s
blood. He understood now more than ever they had to destroy the Ring,
for Sauron would soon come to claim his own…..he had no choice; he had
to kill Boromir and take the Ring back…
‘Never think!’ shot Boromir suddenly. ‘Just act!’
Taking it as an order, Legolas darted forward swiftly and lunged with the blade straight at Boromir’s heart.
The man was expecting some attack, that was why he had taunted the Elf.
But the speed of the strike almost caught him off guard. An Elf could
move faster than a man could think, and Boromir barely had time to
parry the blade, with a long raking
of steel and a bright flash of sparks, vivid blue in the dim light of
the tomb. As the Elf checked his onslaught and retreated deftly,
Boromir swung his own blade and aimed its edge at Legolas’s neck.
The Elf ducked and the blade sang over his head. With Boromir’s arm
following his attack Legolas stabbed under his guard, seeking the man’s
heart with the tip of the black steel sword….
The point caught the rings of Boromir’s chainmail and sent several
spinning across the polished marble floor, ringing and rolling like
spilled coins. Boromir felt a flash of pain as his skin was scored, but
he arched his back and the rest of the stroke passed harmlessly under
his arm. Legolas sidestepped swiftly away from the man but Boromir saw
his chance and unable to bring his sword up in time for another stroke
he brought the pommel down instead and struck the elf on the side of
the head.
Legolas staggered away from the blow, stunned. Boromir pursued him,
furiously raining sword strokes down on the Elf before he could
recover. Legolas was forced backwards, fending off the attack as best
he could, shaking his head to clear his clouded senses….
Boromir could see where Legolas was going; he had driven him across the
floor to the tomb of Finduilas, Denethor’s wife and Boromir’s mother.
Boromir hung back; he did not want to kill Legolas at his mother’s
tomb. The pale winter light fell on her marble effigy lying cold and
stately in death. The Elf, sensing some hesitation in Boromir’s attack,
recovered his balance and sidestepped his opponent…
Trying to prevent his escape, Boromir threw himself against the Elf,
shoulder to shoulder, and forced his blade down. The sword tips scraped
the stone floor and the two grappled for each other’s weapon.
Elves care little for wrestling, but Boromir underestimated the
strength that resided in Legolas’s slender frame. He found himself
pushed back and then an arm, slender but strong as steel, was flung
round his neck and tightened, throttling him. The world began to go
dark, and stars swam in front of Boromir’e eyes.
Still Legolas tightened his grip, and Boromir knew his neck would soon
snap; desperately he twisted in the Elf’s deadly embrace and bringing
up his sword he struck his foe in the ribs with the rounded steel
pommel.
The blow made Legolas loosen his hold for only a second, but it was
enough; Boromir ducked, moving sideways as the Elf raised his sword. He
reached out and caught it with his own. The blades again clashed;
Boromir’s was forced to the side. The tip caught against the carved
ledge of the tomb. Legolas had all his strength behind his sword and
the black and silver blade bent, shivered, and exploded into a thousand
shards of steel, sharp as glass, that flew outward in a shower of
silver light.
Boromir staggered back, too surprised to renew his attack, and Legolas
also seemed unable for a moment to move. Boromir looked down; in his
hand he still held the hilt, but all that was left of the blade was a
long, viciously sharp sliver of steel. Legolas stood but a foot or two
away from him, his sword lowered, his guard down. Boromir without
thinking, or perhaps it was the Ring he bore that did the thinking at
that moment, plunged the sharp steel shard into Legolas’s side.
At once he regretted it; he pulled the blade out and saw that in the
pommel was a great emerald, set there by the skilled Elven smiths who
made the sword. And the stone that moment grew bright and flashed with
green fire, as if in wrath. But Boromir had no time to study it more,
for Legolas fell forward onto the polished marble floor, first
supporting himself on his hands, then he fell onto his side, holding
his tunic which was stained dark with blood.
Boromir threw away the broken sword and knelt down and took Legolas in
his arms. He went to call his name, but his voice failed him. Legolas
was breathing hard and coughing a thin stream of blood. There was dark
blood too on his fine silver-embroidered blue silk shirt. His head fell
back against Boromir’s shoulder and his eyes were closed but then the
man noticed his lips were moving, as if he was silently speaking to
himself.
‘Legolas!’ Boromir cried. ‘Friend…!’
At that word Legolas opened his eyes and looked up at Boromir.
‘Mellon!’ he said in a hoarse whisper, and smiled.
‘I am sorry, Legolas. I don’t know what made me do this….I am sorry..’
Legolas looked long at the man, his eyes dark now as obsidian. His smile faded. He coughed more blood, then whispered;
‘Take off the Ring, Boromir….’
Boromir’s hand flew to his breast and he pulled out the chain. The
Elf’s blood was on his hand, and a smear of it was left on the Ring. It
felt alive and warm to the touch. Boromir remembered Frodo. He looked
up at his mother’s tomb, and he wept as if his heart would break. Then
the Elf spoke again.
‘I am dying, Boromir. Do this for me; take off the Ring and get rid of it…’
‘I can’t leave you…’ wept Boromir.
‘Listen…’ whispered Legolas. ‘You can’t help me. Take off the Ring,
Boromir. Take it off, and get rid of it…do it for me..do it now.’
Boromir could only weep, holding the Elf’s cold hand.
‘Mellon..’ said the Elf, and said no more.
The day was fading in the West, but the sea still held the luminescence
of evening, rose and grey, and the sky was covered with purple and
black clouds. The waves ran high and the wind was keen, but the Elven
boat hardly rolled, gliding quickly away from the land. At the bow
Legolas sat leaning on a rail made of wood bleached to the colour of
bone. Around him was thrown a black cloak sewn with diamonds, like a
winter sky scattered with stars. But despite its warmth he was cold to
his very marrow.
He looked up; from the swan’s head at the prow, gleaming white in the
dusk, hung a silver lamp, its light barely illuminating the dark sea.
Overhead sails of grey silk rustled and the wind sang in the rigging.
Great sea-birds, their wings like ghosts in the faint light of the
lamp, cried and wheeled high above the mast.
Legolas had no music in his heart, such as the Elves should feel on
returning to their eternal home beyond the sunset. He looked to the
stern of the ship, and beyond, to where a great dark mass of land was
slowly sinking into the night. All that Legolas loved, his trees and
his people, and even more his friends of mortal race, were being left
behind, and in his heart there was only the blackness of grief.
Legolas bent his head and wept.
