The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Thirty-nine: The Sea Elves
Boromir
walked slowly and stiffly down the echoing chamber of the House of the
Stewards, past the rows of still marble effigies of rulers long
departed, his heart as cold and dead as the stone statues on the tombs.
On the hard floor his footsteps were almost deafening, and he felt
Gimli’s eyes burning into him. At the great door he paused, his hand on
the iron ring, and looked back, but the Dwarf was gazing at him with
such hatred and wrath that he dropped his eyes with a sigh, and walked
on out.
The cold spring day was darkening into dusk. Before Boromir the
Causeway leading back to the Citadel lay empty and silent. The guards
were gone and so were the militia. Boromir was glad; he wished to speak
to no-one. As he started forward, the Ring on its chain slipped out of
his open shirt collar and drummed lightly against his chest. He put a
hand on it; always warm to the touch, after seeming cold at first.
Boromir waited for that familiar feeling of desire, but it did not
come. Like the ashes of a fire, all was spent and dead.
‘Would that it had died before I brought shame on myself, and death on my friends!’ he thought bitterly….
He hurried forward, for he was wary; the Ring was full of tricks, and
might convince him he was free of its power only to claim him again
without warning. He broke into a run as he reached the stairs to the
guard house, then halted abruptly; standing on the top step was a
woman, clad in the long dark blue cloak of the Sisters of the Houses of
Healing. Their symbol, and that of Gondor, a seven-pointed star, was
embroidered in silver on the dark blue wool. The girl’s face was pale,
and there was a smudge of blood on her cheek. One arm was bandaged up…..
Boromir looked into her face, and recognition stirred. She was a woman
of the city….although he did not know her by name. But she knew him, as
all the people of Minas Tirith knew the Steward’s sons. She stared at
him, not speaking or moving. Boromir ascended the steps, suddenly
tired. He thought he saw a look of hostility in the girl’s eyes, and
his heart grew cold. So this was all he had to look forward to; the
contempt of his own people! He reached the top of the steps out of
breath, and looked again at her, only to see in her eyes not contempt
but pity. He bowed, and Airdeall raised her head slightly. It might
have been a salute, it might have been a look of defiance. Once Boromir
would have been greeted with deference. But if he wanted respect from
the people of Minas Tirith, he would have to earn it all over again…he
averted his eyes from hers and hastened on….
As soon as the door slammed behind Boromir Gimli threw down his axe
with a clatter and ran to where Legolas lay, at the base of the tomb of
Finduilas.
‘Legolas! Legolas!’ he cried, taking the Elf in his arms and cradling him like a hurt child.
‘You cannot be slain! Ye’re only asleep, only fooling your old friend Gimli! Come, bothersome Elf, wake up! The game is over!’
He held Legolas tightly, as if to bring back life with the warmth of
his own body. He freed one of his hands and rolling up the
Lórien cloak he pressed it to the wound in the Elf’s side, that
still seeped blood onto the white flags. But Legolas was still and cold
as the stones. His face was like the marble faces of the dead. His
cheeks were hollow, and under his eyes there spread a blue-grey shadow.
Gimli pulled off a mailed gauntlet and laid a rough, calloused hand
against the Elf’s cheek. It was icy.
‘Gone! Thou art gone indeed! This is a black hour, when we twain must part forever. The game is truly over..... ’
And the Dwarf, sure he was alone except for the dead, began to weep,
tears trickling down his face onto his beard. He gave way to his grief,
rocking backwards and forwards, holding his slain friend.
At last, when he felt he had no tears left, he began to speak to the Elf in a matter-of-fact way, as if he were still alive
‘I will build for thee a tomb, Legolas. Finer and fairer than any here,
of marble of many hues, green and grey and red, veined with black like
snow on the Lonely Mountain in spring. Every frieze and pillar and
pediment known to my people’s art will be employed in its making. For
all the ages to come, people will point and say;
‘There is the finest tomb of all, built by a Dwarf for an Elf, monument to the power of friendship….’
But then Gimli stopped.
‘What ages to come?’ he thought bleakly. ‘Only a few miles away the
armies of the Enemy prepare to assault the city and drown all this in
chaos. I will have no time to build a tomb, and my friend’s bones will
be despoiled by orcs and this resting place of princes torn open and
ruined….’
Then Gimli suddenly remembered Aragorn, and his task to find Pippin.
‘I should go and continue my duties….’he thought vaguely. But he was
unable to leave Legolas. He stayed, lost in reverie, still holding the
Elf’s cold hand….
‘Master Dwarf!’ Gimli started and looked up. There before him stood a
maiden clad in a long dark blue cloak. She approached swiftly and
kneeling down beside him she laid a hand on Legolas’s brow. Her face
turned pale. But she shook her head and said to Gimli;
‘This is no place for an Elf, among the dead of mortal race….’
‘But Legolas is dead!’ said Gimli in anguish. Airdeall shook her head again and placed a finger on her lips.
‘Do not say so! Build no tomb for this Elf yet, Master Dwarf. Come, let us bear him to where he can rest….’
Gimli was tempted to hope despite himself. He nodded and went to stand up, still holding Legolas in his arms.
‘Can I help you?’ asked Airdeall. A gleam came into the Dwarf’s eyes.
‘Nay, lass. This is one burden I will carry without any help….’
And bearing the body of his friend, followed closely by the lady, Gimli
passed from the House of the Stewards and the darkening street of Rath
Dínen, back into the citadel of Minas Tirith….
The ship set its course Northward from the white harbour, gliding along
the line of silver beacons till they, and the Elven city above the
waves, were but a glimmer on the grey horizon, lost to Legolas’s sight
as he sat in the prow of the ship
He gazed long at the sea rolling past, and thought about the words of
the Magus. He looked at the mariner Elves who plied the steering oar
and hauled on the silken cables. He realised they were not the Elves
who had sailed with him from the lands of Men; these were both dark and
fair Elves, some young, some old; some were of good cheer, but others
were marked with a grim cast of face and a stern bearing. They sang no
songs as the other Elves had, nor spoke more than was needed to each
other. But as dusk grew and one pale star appeared in the cold sky they
turned as one and gazed into the West, and one bent his head and
murmured a snatch of a song, or perhaps it was a poem, or a prayer.
Legolas stared at them, and did not understand….
As the voyage progressed the weather became colder and the seas rougher
and more dangerous. The sun sank astern earlier every night, and at
dusk great columns of birds filled the sky calling harshly, as if
warning all creation to leave these waters….
The sea itself grew darker and the waves rose to a height greater than
the ship’s mast. The Elven sailors showed no fear, but Legolas, in his
place by the ship’s rail near the bow, felt the ship shudder and yaw
and wondered what would become of the boat, the crew and himself. His
apprehension was noticed by the mariners, and at length one approached
and saluted him, and sat beside him at the ship’s rail.
‘Who are you?’ asked Legolas, gesturing to include all the crew. The
Elf smiled and pushed back the hood of his thick black cloak. He had a
calm and thoughtful expression but his face was lined as if by many
trials and his black hair was threaded with silver. He replied;
‘My name is Mol Thuaidh, or in the speech of mortals, The Navigator.
All Elves are born of the stars, but we on this ship are guided by the
North Star…’
Then he indicated the other Elves with a sweep of his hand.
‘We are the Tuatha Na Mara, the Sea Elves. We have no chieftains or
princes among us, but I have been given the honour to guide our ship,
and so I am named leader….’
Legolas stared, even more baffled.
‘But what are you and your companions, why are you out here on the Seas, and where are we going?’
The Navigator looked up at the sails, then across the ocean, sighed and began to speak.
‘It is the fate of the Elves eventually to be called into the West, to
Valinor, and to leave the lands and seas of Middle Earth. But some are
barred from there, because of crimes, misfortunes, or because of their
love for Middle Earth. They must wander the seas…..’
Legolas sat listening intently. The Navigator went on;
‘Other Elves have travelled the Sea from the first days of Earth,
because the Sea is the birthplace of the Elves and some have never left
it, holding Ulmo sacred above all and desiring to dwell ever in his
kingdom. These Elves Morgoth long hunted in the time of Beleriand and
since, and many were taken or slain by him in the stormy Seas of the
West. Some were twisted to serve the Dark Lord but others escaped to
lead a perilous life on the ocean. We are outcasts from the Elven
kingdoms and all gates are shut to us but the gates of the Sea. Ulmo,
Lord of Dreams, is our protector…’.
One of the Elven mariners lit the silver lamp at the ship’s prow, and the pearly light fell on The Navigator’s face as he spoke.
‘Other Elves there are too….’ he said slowly ‘who have done great
wrong, but have not fallen into death. They do not await rebirth in
some dark hall but are cast out here, on the very rim of the sea, to
live outside the law of their people and of the Valar themselves…’
‘No-one is outside the law of the Valar!’ said Legolas quickly. The Sea Elf smiled.
‘You yourself are beyond the law of the Valar, for you refuse to accept death and go into the Halls of Shadow….’
Legolas was silent, his face downcast. The Navigator gazed at him with pity, and resting a hand on his shoulder he said;
‘We have placed ourselves under the protection of Ulmo, Lord of the
Seas. All things are possible with his help….come, be of good cheer!
Soon you will know what fate has in store for you….’
More the sea-Elf would not say, nor did Legolas have the heart to question him further.
The air grew colder still and now there were no birds to be seen in the
sky. One morning, more than thirty days out from the Elven harbour, the
look-out gave a cry of warning. On their port side, approaching quickly
through a stinging flurry of snow was a line of rocks, high as castles,
black and jagged and crowned with ice, their bases hidden in boiling
sea foam. There was no dry land, just frozen, sea-drenched rocks.
To Legolas’s consternation, the Elves drove the ship straight towards
the pinnacles of stone. As the yellow sun winked under a canopy of
cloud, Legolas saw an opening between the black and broken teeth of the
rocks, and deftly the Elven steersman guided them through it and into a
calm but sullen sea scattered with floes of ice in the lee of the reef.
The water here was partly frozen and Legolas looked over the side and
to his horror he saw, immobile in the ice just under the surface,
wrecked ships, their spars and beams like bleached ribs on the black
stones. There were dead too, men and Elves, still clad in torn rags,
frozen and lifeless in their tombs of ice, like a warning to seafarers
and to all living creatures to avoid this place.
Legolas was staring in fascinated revulsion at this horrible sight when
behind him there came a roar and a grinding crash. He looked round
quickly, just in time to see the black fingers of rock suddenly lean,
rear and crash together. Their way back to open sea was forever blocked.
‘What is this place?’ cried Legolas to the Navigator.
He turned to Legolas and said;
‘Have you ever heard of the Helcaraxë?’
‘Yes..’ said Legolas. ‘A strait of ice known in the First Age. But it is gone, with the lands and seas that it divided….’
The Navigator nodded and said;
‘Gone it may be, but here is its descendant, the Gates of the North.
Few mariners have ever ventured here; fewer still have ever returned.’
‘Why have we come here?’ asked Legolas.
‘It is said that those seeking guidance, or prophecy, may find it here,
if they be not drowned or driven out of their minds, for Ulmo is the
giver of dreams…...
I brought you here to find your way, Legolas Greenleaf. Go to the
ship’s prow, and listen there for what the Sea will tell you….’
