Chapter Text
Gandalf’s staff cast a faint light ahead upon the rocky walls—a labyrinth of tunnels branching off to the sides, leading no one knew where, filled with dead ends and forks in the path. The air was warm, stifling, and heavy in Boromir’s lungs, which had not yet fully recovered. Every now and then, a thin draft of air seeping through the cracks in the ancient walls would tickle his skin, sending a shiver down his spine that usually ended in a muffled cough. Time and again, he would glance at Glamdring or at Sting—which hung at Frodo’s hip—to reassure himself that he had not inadvertently drawn any enemies to them.
“We’ve been sitting here for quite a while now,” Pippin murmured, as the group had been halted at a fork in the path for several minutes. Gandalf and Gimli were conferring on which route to take—a decision they had to make at every turn, though usually, it was settled within a minute.
“Have hope; Gandalf will not lead us astray,” said Aragorn. “Behold—thus far, through all these dark passages, he has always found the right way. And in Rivendell, I heard tales of his greater deeds; guiding us through the Mines counts among his more modest accomplishments.”
“I am glad we have him as our guide,” agreed Frodo, who seemed to have recovered since the attack at the lake.
Indeed, Gandalf appeared to have found the right path once again; yet the floor was broken, and fissures opened up before their feet like greedy mouths. They were wide enough to require a jump—and while this posed no problem for the taller companions, it was a considerable distance for the Hobbits. Pippin, in particular, took a long time to summon the courage to make the leap.
“Wait,” he squeaked in a high voice. “Do you hear that, too? There’s water down there.”
Indeed, a distant rushing of water could be heard from deep below.
“There’s water everywhere here, Pip,” Merry retorted. “Come on now; you’ve always claimed to be the taller of the two of us. If that’s the case, you ought to be able to clear the gap, seeing as I managed it.”
“I am a thumb width taller than you,” Pippin muttered, before resolutely taking a long run-up and leaping.
“A rope would have saved us all this trouble,” Sam remarked, shaking his head as they reached the next fissure in the stony path.
Most of these gaps could be stepped over with a single long stride by Aragorn or Boromir—a feat that amounted to a small hop for the Hobbits. The Companions continued their descent into the depths; the darkness had robbed them of their talkativeness, and so they followed Gandalf in silence for hours. Boromir was growing weary and secretly hoped that the Hobbits would soon ask for a rest — a thought he banished from his mind with a shake of his head — for his pride would not allow it. Yet the little ones seemed intent on leaving the mines as quickly as possible, and so they pressed onward undeterred, their small steps hurrying them along.
The stillness of the deep was broken only by the dry rasp of Boromir’s cough, a sound that seemed to hang in the air long after it had faded. When at last the rhythm of their footsteps died away, a heavy silence rushed in to fill the void. The light from Gandalf’s staff cast flickering shadows upon the walls as, beneath an archway, three distinct paths diverged before them — all leading eastward. The path on the left descended; the one on the right climbed upward; and the middle path remained level.
“I have no memory of this place,” Gandalf announced, having closely inspected the area in the meager light. “And before I decide which way we shall go, we ought to take a rest. High above us, the moon must surely be shining—even if we cannot see it beneath this roof of stone—for I feel the weariness deep in my bones, and you, perhaps, even more keenly than I.”
He turned and pushed open a door to their left, which yielded with a swing under his gentle pressure. Merry and Pippin hurried ahead, glad at last to enter a proper room rather than wandering aimlessly through the corridors. Aragorn stopped them, holding them back by the shoulder.
“Steady. You do not know what else might be lurking within this room.”
He pointed toward the center of the chamber, where a gaping hole lay.
“Look—you nearly tumbled right in there; you would have been left wondering when you might ever find solid ground beneath your feet again.”
Gimli nodded, surveying their new surroundings.
“That must have been an old well, its cover broken,” he said, pointing to the shards of shattered stone. “And this room must surely be a guard chamber—one that once controlled the three paths.”
The companions pressed themselves against the wall, away from the chasm, and unpacked their bare essentials for a sleep as comfortable as possible on the hard stone. Boromir neatly laid his double-folded blanket on the ground, hoping that the double layer would keep his back warm enough to prevent him from constantly breaking into fits of coughing. His utterly exhausted body pleaded for sleep, yet he did not wish to be the first to lie down. For a long while, he watched Aragorn to his right as he arranged his gear and conversed softly with Legolas in Elvish. He noticed that the Elf had spoken barely a word since they had entered the Mines; indeed, the darkness—so far removed from the sun and the natural world he held so dear—did not seem to agree with him at all. Aragorn, for his part, had remained as vigilant as ever throughout their journey—always walking at the very rear with long, steady strides—and even now, Boromir could see that his jaw was held slightly tense. Boromir's own eyes grew heavy, repeatedly threatening to close; and when he finally caught sight of Frodo out of the corner of his eye, lying down in exhaustion, he followed suit almost instantly.
He drew his cloak tightly around himself and closed his eyes, too weary to remain awake or keep watch for much longer. Nevertheless, he turned onto his side, unsure whether he ought truly to surrender to deep sleep; yet he realized that even the mere thought of it was slowly becoming too much to bear, and he sighed in resignation. Just then, he heard a distant plop , and the quiet chatter of the companions who were still awake died away immediately. Boromir sat up swiftly and looked around at the circle of the companions' frozen faces.
"What was that?" asked Gandalf, his voice sharp and echoing unnaturally loud in the absolute silence, even though he kept his voice low.
“It was me,” Pippin admitted sheepishly. “My curiosity got the better of me and I threw a stone down the well.”
Gandalf sighed in exasperation.
“Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time, and save us from your stupidity!”
The little Hobbit looked thoroughly abashed; and just as the companions—rolling their eyes—turned back to their preparations for sleep, they heard a series of dull thuds that vibrated deep into their very bones and froze in mid-motion. Boromir held his breath in tense anticipation, straining to catch any further sounds. Aragorn cautiously pushed his blanket aside, sending up a cloud of dust, reaching for his sword. The echo faded, yet danger still lurked in the air like a wolf waiting for its prey. Boromir could no longer hold his breath and inhaled cautiously, the dust tickling his dry throat like grains of sand. He tried to fight the urge to cough, pressing his lips together into a white line and attempting in vain to moisten his throat by swallowing repeatedly until he finally broke into a muffled cough. In the dead quiet, it echoed unnaturally loud against the stone walls. Boromir felt a burning heat rush to his cheeks, mortified under the sudden gaze of his companions. More blows could be heard from the depths of the hole, as if in response to the first. Boromir closed his eyes in shame and to try not to cough again, and felt Aragorn's hand resting on his back. The warmth penetrated several layers of clothing and made it easier for him to remain quiet. Several minutes of silence passed until Gimli finally stirred.
“Every Dwarf knows that those were hammer-blows,” he murmured.
“Yes,” confirmed Gandalf. “Something that should not have been disturbed has been awakened or alarmed. We can only hope that we still find sleep now. Pippin takes the first watch; he should be of some use to us, at least in some way.”
The Hobbit trotted with lowered head to the corner near the door and pressed himself tight against the wall. Boromir turned onto his side, his face toward the stone wall and his eyes closed, yet his senses sharper than ever. Weariness still lurked in his bones, but his survival instinct—awakened by the sudden fright and the certainty that someone or something knew of their presence—would not let him rest. He loathed the helplessness of it—the torment of an unseen threat and the powerlessness to strike back. It was a dread he knew all too intimately from the borders of Gondor, where the Shadow in the East loomed larger with every passing year, threatening to consume the White City whole. It was the suffocating certainty of an encroaching evil, a creeping plague against which a blade was useless, leaving a man with nothing to do but wait and wonder if he would be the next to fall.
Boromir opened his eyes again and sat up; the attempt to sleep was hopeless. All his companions, save for Pippin, were laying huddled tight against the wall; the Hobbit looked up at him in alarm as he stirred. Boromir offered him a small smile—one the Hobbit, in the absolute darkness save for the light of Gandalf’s staff, likely did not see—and reached for his flask, though he took no drink. Pippin rested his head once more upon his drawn-up knees, and Boromir wondered if he should go over to join him, to keep watch together. Although he could not sleep now, he did not blame the young Hobbit in the slightest for having thrown the stone; it had not been wise, perhaps, but he could not truly be angry with him. Rather, Boromir sought some distraction—perhaps some light conversation about Longbottom Leaf, or simply the company of another companion. Perhaps he lingered like that a little too long, for Aragorn to his right—who, it seemed, had not been sleeping after all—spoke to him softly. “Can you find no rest?”
Boromir turned quickly to the side, and although he saw nothing in the darkness—here, where the pale beam from Gandalf’s staff did not reach—he knew that Aragorn was still lying beside him, staring at him with his grey eyes.
"No," he replied just as softly, "It seems as though sleep wishes to avoid me today."
Boromir heard a soft, almost inaudible snort and felt a hand on his shoulder, gently pressing him down onto the ground.
"At least close your eyes," Aragorn murmured close beside him. Boromir could hear his soft breathing; their faces were no more than an arm's length apart.
"You are still ill, in case you’ve forgotten that again."
"I haven't forgotten, Master Healer," Boromir whispered back, knowing that Aragorn, lying beside him, must have been smiling faintly. "I am merely watchful. My long-honed instincts tell me that I should not sleep unprotected in a place like this," he added, his tone turning serious once more.
"You are not unprotected. It is not only Pippin keeping watch; Gandalf is, too. He is merely pretending to sleep—or perhaps he simply cannot sleep because he is pondering the path ahead."
"You know him well," Boromir murmured.
"No, I know Gandalf better than you do, but one cannot truly know him well. At least not in a mere few decades. However, I do know one thing for certain," Aragorn whispered mysteriously, pausing for dramatic effect. Boromir had to smile; he knew that something trivial—something nonsensical—was about to follow.
"What?" he asked breathlessly, playing along. He felt Aragorn lean in closer to him.
"That wizards require less sleep than sick men."
Boromir gave a soft groan. “I am already asleep.”
He could still faintly hear Aragorn chuckling beside him.
After six hours of sleep, which seemed far too short to Boromir, Gandalf woke them all. He appeared to have taken over the entire watch. "In these hours I made my decision," he explained, "I do not like the middle path—it looks unwelcoming; the left one smells foul. I will lead you along the right path.”
“Then we shall climb again,” Gimli observed. The path wound through many turns and ascended steeply. Aragorn walked at the very rear, Boromir just ahead of him; the Hobbits and Legolas were in the middle, with Gimli and Gandalf leading the way. Boromir’s gaze often wandered to the sides, as if he were merely examining the massive stone walls; yet, out of the corner of his eye, he kept glancing back. He told himself that Aragorn would surely notice if they were being followed—and that was undoubtedly true—but he felt the constant need to verify it for himself, simply to ease his mind. A brief cough escaped his lips—drier than usual, and less severe.
“You are doing better,” Aragorn noted softly, walking just a single step behind him.
Boromir merely nodded and his hand drifted back to the hilt—a habit he had developed over the years whenever he found himself in treacherous territory. The Companions pressed on relentlessly, taking a few short breaks; and the higher they climbed, the wider the passages became, until two people could easily walk abreast.
A faint splashing sound caused Boromir’s gaze to snap forward again; his grip tightened on his sword hilt, and he winced almost imperceptibly—he had forgotten that his hand was still slightly tender from his injury. The sound, however, came only from Sam, who had accidentally stepped into a puddle—which happened rarely now as the path improved. There were no longer any cracks in the floor, only occasional uneven patches that grew fewer and farther between as they proceeded. Nor were there any side tunnels or passages carved into the walls.
“This must once have been an important thoroughfare,” Legolas surmised.
Their strides grew shorter, weary from hours of marching. Then, the stone walls abruptly fell away into a vast void. Boromir narrowed his eyes, straining his vision against the immense darkness. A sudden breath of cold air brushed his face, a stark contrast to the stagnant warmth of the tunnels behind him.
“Ah, it seems I took the right path,” Gandalf remarked with satisfaction. “We are not far now from the Dimrill Gate—though we stand at a greater height. I surmise we have emerged into a hall. A little light would do us no harm.”
The wizard raised his staff, and a brilliant flash of light bloomed, illuminating massive black pillars that soared up to support a vaulted ceiling. A grand hall stretched out before them, flanked by three other mighty arched entrances, before the light vanished as quickly as it had come, plunging them back into shadow.
“That will suffice for now,” said Gandalf. “We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow to reach the eastern exit, and we should seek our rest. If I am not mistaken, the sun should wake us tomorrow, for great windows have been hewn into the mountain walls on these upper levels.”
The companions huddled in a corner of the vast hall, where not a breath of air drifted in from the eastern archway. A sense of loneliness crept over them beneath the towering ceiling and through the cavernous halls, which were filled with nothing but pillars.
“There must have been hundreds of Dwarves at work to build and carve something this huge. I wonder why they did it. I mean, surely they didn't actually live here in the darkness?” asked Sam, seeking to break the oppressive silence.
“It was not always so dark here. It was filled with light and splendor—the great realm and the city of Dwarrowdelf—just as it is still recounted in our songs,” said Gimli, rising to his feet to sing.
His deep voice vibrated through the cavernous space, echoing to the very bone and brimming with a heavy nostalgia. Though none of them had lived to see that golden age, Boromir felt the profound weight of the sorrow. He knew this grief all too intimately from his own homeland—the laments for ancient splendor, the faded glory of Númenor, and the long-lost Age of Kings. Even though he had never witnessed that past magnificence himself, a sharp sense of personal loss always pierced him whenever those old tales were sung. He leaned against the wall and listened as the singing slowly drew to a close, until the final echo faded away.
“That was beautiful,” remarked Sam. “I wonder if there is still gold and jewels to be found here?”
“Gold?” asked Gandalf, raising his eyebrows. “No, all the gold, jewels, and iron were plundered by Orcs— but that is not the true wealth of Moria. No, the treasure of Moria—and the reason the Dwarves wished to return here—is Mithril. As hard as dragon-scales, as light as a feather, and it shines forever with a silvery luster—which is why it is also called ‘true silver.’ All peoples covet it; its price is beyond measure. No Orc dares to dig so deep; yet they took everything the Dwarves had brought to light and delivered it to Sauron. But that which was the source of their wealth also proved to be their undoing; for the Dwarves dug too deep—blinded by their greed—until they stumbled upon Durin’s Bane and fled. Ah, Mithril! Bilbo once received a corslet of Mithril as a gift from Thorin. I wonder where it might be now.”
“What?” cried Gimli. “A corslet of Mithril? That is a... truly kingly gift!”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Gandalf. “It is worth more than the Shire and everything within it.”
Boromir watched from the side as Frodo’s already large eyes widened even further in astonishment.
“Well, it is time we lay down; tomorrow, as I said, will be another strenuous day,” said Gandalf. Boromir lay down between Legolas and Aragorn. He was glad that tonight they were sleeping close together, rather than scattered across this vast hall where there was no shelter. Perhaps he was tired because he had found little sleep the day before; in any case, he fell asleep instantly.
When he opened his eyes again, a pale light fell upon his face. It came from a small opening in the eastern archway high above—near the ceiling—shining down upon them like a faint beam of light, yet it was not bright enough to force Boromir to shield his eyes. On the other side of the hall, to the north, another light glimmered in the distance. Most of the companions were already awake and eating their breakfast.
“We should reach the Dimrill Gate today and find the waters of Mirrormere in Dimrill Dale lying outside,” said Gandalf. “To do so, we must hurry and set off immediately after breakfast; though I suppose you would prefer to rest out in the open anyway.”
“Certainly,” agreed Pippin. “One can hardly relax here in the darkness.”
“I now doubt that any of my kin—or Balin—ever came this way,” remarked Gimli.
The companions finished their breakfast quickly and prepared themselves for another long march.
“Which way do we go?” asked Boromir. “Through the eastern archway, perhaps?”
“That might indeed be the right path, but we should look around a little more before taking any route. I believe we are situated to the north of and above the Great Gate, though I cannot be certain. It would be a great help if we could find a window; and although I fear the light in the northern archway is merely a beam shining down from a shaft, I shall go there to have a look around,” answered Gandalf, and the companions followed him across the great hall.
As they passed through the archway, a wide corridor stretched out before them. From a room to their right came the beam of light they had glimpsed from afar. The door stood open, and beyond it lay a square chamber—dimly lit, yet appearing very bright in the eyes of the companions, for they had long been wandering in the darkness. Dust swirled up beneath their feet as they entered the room. High up on the eastern wall, a small patch of blue sky could be seen—the source of the beam of light that shone down upon a white stone block in the center of the room. Deeply incised runes scarred its weathered surface. Gandalf stepped closer, his fingers tracing the ancient stone.
“It reads, in Daeron’s runes: Balin, Son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.”
“A tomb,” Frodo murmured into the heavy silence. “Then he is dead.”