Chapter 378: On the Road and Reputation
Elsewhere, in the prison of the South Vale, a thin, hunched figure was sneaking glances left and right.
Then he looked again at the guard stationed by the cell door.
"He's asleep, Gollum…"
Gollum made a few deliberate little noises. After confirming the guard truly slept like a stone, he clawed at the iron bars and, with effort, dug a small pebble in from outside.
He checked the guard again. Still no movement.
Gollum immediately took aim at the wall opposite the cell door, squinted for a moment, then flicked the pebble out through the bars.
The stone struck, bounced back off the wall, and snapped neatly into the button beside the iron door.
Click.
The button triggered.
Creak.
The cell door swung open.
Free!
Gollum bolted out at once, nerves stretched tight as wire. He memorised the turns as he ran, dodging patrols and slipping through shadows, and in that way managed to leave the prison without much trouble.
Not long after he vanished, the guard at the entrance opened his eyes, yawned, and stretched.
Then he replaced the button beside the iron door with a lever.
A lever could not be triggered so easily by a thrown stone.
No one cared that Gollum had escaped.
Because… it was part of the plan.
"If he grows restless, if he becomes desperate to leave, let him go."
"Perhaps he can be of use to certain moves."
The guards did not know what move their lord had meant months ago, but they obeyed the order all the same.
And so, a few days later—
Drawn by the hunger in his heart and the call of the Ring, Gollum found the two hobbits.
After a struggle and a tense standoff, he joined their journey. Under Sam's blade, he swore to guide Frodo.
Pressed by oath and circumstance, Gollum truly did a great deal. He led them around harsh hills, helped them avoid Orcs on the roads, and guided them carefully through the Dead Marshes.
He even warned Frodo and Sam not to be lured by the pale faces in the water, or they would be pulled in themselves.
That display earned him a sliver of trust from the two hobbits, and for a time their little group of three was, strangely enough, almost harmonious.
Of course, habits run deep. On the road, in the small, ordinary moments, disagreements still sprang up.
Like now.
"Hopeless."
On the green fields of Ithilien, not far from the Black Gate, Sam was tending a pot of rich rabbit stew, sprinkling in seasoning with stubborn pride.
"Rabbit is meant to be eaten like this, to bring out the best of it. Pity we have no potatoes. If we did, you would know what it is to have your tongue and your belly happy at the same time."
"Pah!"
Across from him, Gollum stuck out his tongue twice in disgust.
"You're ruining good meat, Gollum…"
"You do not understand," Sam said, shaking his head.
"Golden fried chips and a proper bit of pan-fried fish. That sort of food. Even the likes of you could not resist it."
He sniffed, then added, half grumbling and half triumphant, "When this is all over, maybe I will make you a real meal one day. Then you will learn what a hard life you have been living."
"You are the one living hard," Gollum hissed. "Spoiling food, stupid fat hobbit. We eats it raw, Gollum…"
As they bickered, Frodo's brow tightened. He turned his head toward the thicket beyond their hiding place.
"Quiet, Sam."
"What is it, Mr. Frodo?"
"There's an army."
"An army of what?"
"Sauron's."
Gollum narrowed his eyes. "The dark Men… yes... yes. From the south—Harad. Called in, called on… to Mordor. Marching to invade these lands. It won't be long. Soon. Very, very soon…"
"What will be soon?" Sam whispered.
"The day Gondor and Rohan are dragged into darkness and ruin."
For once, Gollum was so intent on painting the scene that he forgot even to punctuate it with his usual sound.
"We should go," Frodo said at once, rising to his feet. "We cannot linger here."
The next moment, everything changed.
A forest of longbows sprang up from the grass. Countless arrows cut the air and crashed into the Haradrim ranks.
The attackers moved with cold precision. In moments they had cleared the soldiers from the field, leaving only two mûmakil standing amid the dead.
Even those great beasts did not live long. The men atop them were picked off one by one, shot down before they ever saw where the Rangers hid, until the mûmakil themselves collapsed, dying without understanding where death had come from.
Thump.
A corpse fell near Sam, and his breath caught in his throat.
He stared at the Haradrim man, eyes still open, life only just gone, and a strange thought flickered through his mind.
What was his name? Where had he come from? Was his heart truly evil? What lie, or what threat, had driven him from home to walk so far? Had he never wanted a quiet life?
The questions flashed and were gone in an instant. Danger was all around them.
Sam got up at once and ran, fleeing with Frodo and Gollum.
But their hopes were dashed.
The Rangers of Ithilien had already spotted the three furtive figures. Before long they were caught, blindfolded, and marched to a nearby hidden stronghold for interrogation.
To prevent trouble, their weapons were taken from them as well.
Yet when Sam's short sword was found, the Ranger collecting arms froze.
He delivered it at once to the commander of the raiding company.
That commander was Faramir, brother of Boromir.
Faramir drew the blade and read the small line engraved upon it.
Forged by Levi, gifted to those who set out upon an expedition.
That name—and the word "expedition"—gave him pause. Perhaps the two hobbits had been right after all.
"They carry a grave, secret errand."
"They are allies. Untie them, return everything, and bring them to me. There are questions that must be asked."
While his men went to fetch them, Faramir's thoughts turned inward.
"A secret errand..."
He remembered the dream that had come alike to him and his brother. He remembered Boromir's parting words before riding north. A shape of understanding began to form.
A moment later, Frodo and Sam were brought before him.
They exchanged only a few words, but in those few words Frodo and Sam learned exactly who stood before them.
He was Boromir's own brother.
As if following an instinct, Faramir asked, "Tell me, hobbits. Does your errand have anything to do with Isildur's Bane?"
"How do you—"
"Sam!" Frodo caught Sam's sleeve at once, signalling him to hold his tongue.
Too late.
Sam's reaction had already betrayed them.
A weary helplessness settled in Frodo's chest.
"My brother, Boromir," Faramir said, "went north for the sake of that very thing."
"And you," Frodo asked carefully, "do you also want it?"
"No," Faramir said, and shook his head.
"Even if it lay by the roadside, I would not stoop to pick it up."
"Though Minas Tirith should fall to ruin, and I alone had the power to save it, I would not use the weapon of the Dark Lord for that purpose."
"Frodo, I do not desire victory bought in that way."
He continued, voice calm and earnest. "I know there are things in this world that mortal hands should never touch. The Grey Pilgrim spoke with me, and the Lord of the North as well. They warned me of many truths. I have enough sense—"
Click.
As he spoke, by cruel chance, the Ring slipped free on its chain, swinging out and glinting against Frodo's chest.
Faramir's gaze snapped to it at once.
His test had arrived.
"So it is here," he murmured. "On you…"
Frodo and Sam both held their breath, tense as drawn strings.
There was nowhere to run. If Faramir turned like Boromir had turned, then everything would come crashing down—
Ruin could be decided in a single heartbeat.
"Keep it well, Frodo," Faramir said suddenly.
Frodo and Sam felt their hearts lurch back into their chests.
Faramir's eyes were clear, bright with reason.
"Do not display the Ring lightly, neither to me nor to any other."
He crouched and gently took Frodo's hand, guiding Frodo's fingers to close around the Ring and hide it from sight.
"Master Faramir," Sam said earnestly, "you've proved your quality. The noblest sort."
Faramir smiled, neither denying it nor accepting the praise aloud.
For a brief moment, the air softened.
Then the peace broke, for another creature had arrived.
Gollum.
He had been caught at the poolside while fishing.
"I have heard tell of this wretched creature," Faramir said coldly. "Since he has trespassed into Gondor's lands of his own accord, I am bound to deal with him properly."
As for what "properly" meant—
Faramir drew his sword.
"Wait!" Frodo hurried forward.
"He once bore the Ring. Now he is my guide, and he is leading me into Mordor, to destroy it."
Faramir sheathed the blade.
Gollum, by that narrow mercy, had kept his life. Even so, Faramir forced him to swear an oath that he would be loyal to the errand.
He gave orders that Gollum might travel through Ithilien, but if any Ranger saw Gollum break away from Frodo and Sam, abandoning his oath, then Gollum would be executed at once.
It was a safeguard for the two hobbits.
"Go now, Frodo," Faramir said at last. "May fortune go with you."
With a final blessing, he sent the three of them on their way and provided them with fresh rations besides.
It was easy to imagine that the rest of the journey through Ithilien would go smoothly—
Was it?
A scout arrived with urgent news.
"Osgiliath is under attack. They urgently need reinforcements. The enemy numbers in the tens of thousands, and a Nazgûl directs them."
"Prepare to march," Faramir said at once. "We ride to their aid."
With that decision made, he parted from Frodo's trio.
And so the affair that began with an argument over cooked food and raw ended, for the moment, in haste and steel.
Yet elsewhere, there were others troubled by food as well.
Because that food sat on the border between cooked and uncooked, and it was hard to describe.
"I boiled some soup. Would you like a little?" Éowyn asked, carrying a pot as they marched to reinforce the Hornburg.
"No, thank you," Gimli said, hurrying ahead and missing the offer entirely.
It did not matter. The soup had not been meant for him.
Éowyn went straight to Aragorn.
"Would you like some soup? There isn't much, but it will warm you."
Aragorn glanced at it.
He had wandered for many long years and had cooked for himself more times than he cared to count. One look told him something about the method was not quite right.
"This recipe was passed down from my grandfather, King Fengel," Éowyn said with pride. "It is said he learned it from Levi, the leader of the northern folk."
"Is that so?" Aragorn's interest rose at once.
He had eaten Levi's cooking. Nothing made by that man's hand had ever been unpleasant.
If this soup truly came from Levi's teaching, then it was worth tasting.
So Aragorn took up a spoon and filled himself a generous bowl.
Éowyn watched him, delighted.
It was the first time anyone had been so eager.
At last, someone understood her.
"Go on," she said. "Drink."
"All right," Aragorn said, smiling. He lifted the spoon, raised the bowl, and swallowed a large mouthful.
Wait.
No.
His smile faded, very slowly.
"Well?" Éowyn asked, concern in her voice. "How is it?"
Aragorn nodded slightly. "It is… rather hot."
As he spoke, the soup ran from the corner of his mouth.
While Aragorn scrambled for a way to handle the princess's earnest warmth, Gimli wandered over, having finished some task, and boomed loudly, "Ha! A great man who's cut down hundreds of Orcs, and now he thinks a bowl of soup is too hot!"
"Aragorn, how did I never notice you were so delicate?"
Aragorn drew a deep breath, fists tightening. He very much wanted to strike Gimli once, just to shut that loud mouth.
Then he found a better answer.
"I have heard that Dwarves do not fear the heat of the forge. That even if they touch an iron pot over fire with bare hands, they will not make a sound."
"Why not try this soup as well?"
"I am not hungry," Gimli said at once.
"Hungry or not, you should still taste it," Aragorn replied smoothly. "It is a recipe King Fengel learned from Levi, and Éowyn has brought it out for us. It is a rare chance."
"Oh? Truly?" Gimli's eyes lit up.
"Then it is worth a try."
He took another bowl from Éowyn and filled it to the brim.
Aragorn only smiled to himself, watching Gimli lift the bowl and gulp it down in one go, determined to prove he was not bothered by the heat.
"Pfft!"
"Cough, cough—!"
Gimli choked and sprayed the soup out, soaking his beard.
"What is it?" Éowyn asked, startled.
"Aragorn, you—this soup—"
Aragorn blinked at him.
Gimli, at last, understood.
He had lived more than a hundred years. He could manage a little courtesy.
He cleared his throat and said solemnly, "The soup is indeed hot. But I must prove that Dwarves truly endure high heat. It is only that the throat and belly are not the same as the skin. They are somewhat more delicate."
As Gimli searched for excuses, Legolas appeared behind him without a sound and said calmly, "Dwarves are always like this. Impatient. When they drink, they empty the cup. When they eat, they would like to sweep the plate in one bite, chewing in great mouthfuls like cattle."
"And Elves are very elegant, are they?" Gimli shot back.
Legolas lifted his chin a fraction, wearing the smallest, proudest look.
Gimli huffed. "Elegant. Slow. Dainty. Like a little white rabbit that has not yet grown up."
He thrust the bowl toward him. "Here. Drink. This is Levi's teaching. Do you not want to try?"
"Oh?" Legolas's eyes sharpened with interest. "Truly?"
"Then it is worth a taste."
He accepted the bowl with perfect steadiness, lifting it without spilling a single drop. He took the spoon, every motion poised and controlled.
Even the act of tasting was graceful.
He brought a small mouthful to his lips and began to consider the flavour—
Gulp.
Legolas drew a careful breath. Then, under the expectant stares of Gimli, Aragorn, and Éowyn, he swallowed that single spoonful with visible effort.
A sudden sadness touched him.
He missed home.
"Why does our prince of Mirkwood look so gloomy?" Boromir called as he approached, amused.
From a distance, he had seen the three of them whispering with the young princess of Rohan, and curiosity had pulled him closer.
"Nothing," Legolas said. "We are eating."
He raised the bowl of soup as proof.
Boromir laughed. "Has a bowl of hot soup reminded you of the warmth of home?"
"Perhaps," Legolas said.
"Pour me a bowl as well," Boromir said. "I am hungry, and I could use the warmth. We have marched in haste, and I have not eaten a thing."
"Take it all," Legolas said at once, handing the pot over.
"Thank you."
Legolas nodded as Boromir lifted the pot. "It is a craft passed down from Levi. It must be tasted."
…
"Achoo!"
In the wilds of Enedwaith, Levi, leading his army south, sneezed so sharply that even his horse sidestepped.
"Are you well?" someone asked beside him.
"It is nothing," Levi said.
"It is only that some part of my reputation feels as though it has suffered damage that cannot be undone."