Hey there, reader — how's it going?
I'm doing quite well myself; everything is in order. Well… everything except the sunny days and those occasionally half-clouded skies. I need more gray skies, heavy clouds, storms, and a bit of howling wind. Hopefully, the next knock on my door will come from nature bringing exactly those elements.
Alright then — before diving into the subject of the new story, I want to say a few things, just like always. Dear reader, you can safely add this collectible book to your library, because the chance of encountering a story here that directly interests you is far higher than the chance of finding an alien drifting somewhere in space.
Interconnected tales, stand-alone pieces, boundary-breaking stories—there's plenty of everything.
Okay, okay… let me tell you a little about what awaits you in this new story. This time, I'm taking you—quite unexpectedly—into Middle-earth. You may have visited that world hundreds, maybe thousands of times. After all, what began with master Tolkien's invitation continued with many others.
You surely remember the scene where Boromir dies… and Gandalf… and all the rest.
So I thought: What if this man didn't die? What if things had gone differently?
I played with the flow, added new variables and elements, and started imagining how the course of events might change.
I can almost hear some of you asking, "What is a story like this doing in a book with such a title?" But you know that feeling you can't quite explain to anyone — when something suddenly nudges you and inspiration hits out of nowhere? That moment touched me too, and I wanted to include this piece in the book, so you can get even a small glimpse of how chaotic the imagination of this mad author can be.
Our scene begins where Gandalf and the Balrog fall into the abyss during the Mines of Moria sequence, and from there it transforms into an entirely different journey.
I wish you an enjoyable read..And… my apologies, master Tolkien.
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Where the words ended, the rock began. And when the rock ended in blinding daylight, only eight pale silhouettes remained.
Through the East-gate of Moria, they were cast out like a corpse into the cold, sharp air of the Misty Mountains. One by one, stumbling, crawling, dragging one another... they spilled out from the suffocating, sulfurous darkness of the Mines, beneath the wide, cruel sky under White-horn and Cloudy-head.
The first out was Aragorn. His sword was still in his hand, but his shoulders were slumped, as if the weight of the entire world had suddenly descended upon them. Behind him came Legolas, pale as a phantom, his elven eyes narrowed as if unsure of anything for the first time. Then Gimli; the Dwarf sank to his knees on the stones and pressed his face to the earth. Boromir almost carried the staggering Merry and Pippin over his shoulders; the hobbits' sobs were thin, high-pitched cries mixed with the sound of the wind.
Last of all, Sam dragged Frodo after him. Frodo was not walking; his feet snagged on the stone, his body moving forward like a sack.
And then, they all stopped at once.
They halted in the merciless silence of the Dimrill Dale (Nanduhirion). They stopped and looked at the gate behind them.
They waited for the ninth member who would not come. Gandalf.
The silence was absolute and heavy. The noise from inside Moria—those crackling flames, that sound like thunder, that final scream—had burst against their eardrums, and now, the world outside felt like a deafening emptiness. As if someone had silenced the universe.
Gimli was the first to speak.
It was not a cry. It was a murmur; a fractured groan from deep within the earth. His face, lost in the mud and tears, was buried against the rocks. His fist pounded the grassy soil of the Dale. "Balin..." he whispered, his voice muffled and hoarse. "First Balin... then him... That bridge... Why did I not stop? Why did I not leap?" A Man could not understand the grief of a Dwarf. It was like mourning the mountains. A sorrow carved into stone. Gimli's body shook. He had not just lost a friend; he had lost the last hope of his people, the dream of reclaiming those ancient halls, and now, their guiding sage, Mithrandir. All in the same, accursed place. Moria had become their tomb.
Legolas reached out to place his hand on Gimli's shoulder, but then hesitated. His fingers hung suspended in the air. He, too, was trembling. Elves did not weep easily; their grief was like the fading of light. The bright, starlight-like gleam in Legolas's eyes had dimmed. He saw the world as greyer, older now. "It was a Balrog," he said, his voice no more than a whisper of the wind. "Durin's Bane. The shadow of an elder world." His eyes were fixed on the gate, as if expecting something else to emerge from that darkness. "They called it the 'Dark Fire.' Now... the Grey Flame is gone with it."
Pippin was buried in Merry's shoulder, sobbing and trembling. "I did it," he whispered, his voice choked with guilt. "I did it, didn't I, Merry? That stone in the well... I woke them. It's my fault!" Merry held him tighter but could not answer. He had no answer to give. He, too, was crying. Neither of them had ever imagined that the great adventure they had dreamed of in the safety of their homes in the Shire could be this bloody, this cold, and this final. This was not an adventure. This was the end of the world.
Boromir stood beside the hobbits; solid as a tower, but cracked within. His eyes were not on the gate, but on Aragorn. He was watching him, weighing who would assume the leadership in this fragile moment. Gandalf's fall had sparked a deep anger in him. The loss of the wizard was more than a tragedy; it was a strategic disaster. The defense of Gondor depended on that grey man's wisdom. The Ring, a voice whispered in the depths of his mind. He was weak. He did not use its power. Boromir shook his head sharply, trying to dismiss the thought. But his eyes drifted to Frodo, who was now slumped in Sam's arms. That small, pale face. And the bulge beneath it, suspended by the chain around his neck. He cannot bear it, the voice said again. Do you see this burden? This burden dragged down even our wisest. What can that little hobbit do? Gondor needs it. I... I do... Pain and ambition fought like poison inside Boromir. This moment was as much one of doubt for him as it was one of loss.
Aragorn stood motionless. Strider. Ranger. Now the burden of a king rested on his shoulders, and that burden was heavier than the Misty Mountains. His face was expressionless, like a mask carved from stone. But the storm within him was louder than the silence outside. Take up the leadership, Gandalf had said. Lead them. This was not a blessing, but a curse. The final gift Gandalf had given him was a mission where failure was impossible. And at the very first step, they had lost their greatest ally.
Aragorn shook off his dreams and fears. He took his eyes from the gate and looked at the remnants of the Fellowship. They were broken. Grieving. And in danger. To stand at the Gate of Moria was to invite death. Slowly, as if every movement pained him, he walked toward Sam and Frodo, who were huddled nearby. "Samwise," he said, his voice cracked and hoarse. As if he hadn't used it for years. "Water. He must drink." Sam looked up. His cheeks were covered in tears and mine dust. There was pure terror in his eyes. "Mister Frodo," he stammered. "Mister Frodo... He... He's not well, Mr. Aragorn. He's... frozen." Aragorn knelt. Sam was right. Frodo's eyes were open, but they were not seeing. His pupils were locked onto a distant horror. His body was trembling, but not from the cold. He was in shock. Aragorn placed his hand on Frodo's forehead. It was ice cold. "Frodo," Aragorn said, his voice sterner this time, like that of a commander. "Do you hear me? Frodo!" Frodo's lips moved. "The light..." he whispered. "...his last light... slipped from his hand." Aragorn shook Frodo's shoulder hard. "Frodo! Wake up! We must go. Now."
Aragorn's voice tore through the suffocating curtain of fog in Frodo's mind. Frodo blinked and took a breath. But the breath caught in his throat like a scream. Because when his consciousness returned, he felt not only Aragorn, but the other one too. The Ring. Frodo's hand suddenly went to his chest, to the chain beneath his clothes. His fingers gripped the metal band. And at that moment, everything changed. The Ring was not merely heavy. The Ring was alive. With Gandalf's fall, the breaking of the Fellowship's hope, and Frodo's surge of guilt, the Ring too had awakened. The voice, which until that moment had been only a distant whisper in Frodo's mind, now became a roar. The Eye he had felt before—that fiery, malevolent gaze from the hills—was no longer just a searchlight looking for him. Now, he felt he was inside the Eye. The Eye had seen him. The Eye knew him. Frodo realized that the Balrog had not merely killed Gandalf. The awakening of that ancient evil, that tremendous display of power, had sent a signal to Sauron. I am here. And the Ring was answering that signal. It was as if a second, dark heart, beating toward its master in Mordor, was lodged in Frodo's chest.
The voice of the Ring was no longer a whisper, but a promise. I could have protected you, it said in the cold void of Frodo's mind. I could have given you power. You could have saved Him. If you had accepted my power, it would have been you standing on that bridge. That fire would have bowed to you. "No..." The word that escaped Frodo's lips was as desperate as a prayer. But the Ring continued: They are weak. They are broken. They cannot lead you. But you... you can. You can take Gandalf's place. You can carry this burden. You only need to wish it. Frodo's fingers, clutching the Ring, turned white. Guilt was an ice-knife plunged into his heart. Pippin dropped the stone, he thought, but I brought them here. This was my quest. And I... I froze. He remembered Gandalf's last look on the bridge. That white light. And then the fall. Because of me, Frodo thought. Because of my burden.
Aragorn saw the change in Frodo's face. It was not just shock, but something else. Something darker, harder. Frodo's eyes were not those of a hobbit, but of an old man carrying the weight of the world. "Get up," Aragorn said, pulling Frodo to his feet. His voice was commanding. Then he turned to the others. Gimli was still moaning on the ground. Boromir was looking at Aragorn with suspicion. Legolas had taken his eyes from the gate and was now looking eastward, in the direction where Lothlórien lay. "Get up!" Aragorn's voice cracked like a whip. The grief in his voice had been replaced by a will of steel. "We have no time for mourning. We have lost Gandalf. But we will fulfill his last wish. We will survive." Gimli raised his head, his eyes burning with hatred. "Survive? He sacrificed himself to save us! I... I want revenge! I will go back through that gate and tear the heart out of that fiery demon!" "Not now, son of Glóin the Dwarf," Aragorn said, going to Gimli and pulling him to his feet by the arm. He was twice Gimli's height, and at that moment, he stood with the full power of a Númenórean King. "If you go back now, you will have wasted his sacrifice. They came out of Moria. They will follow us. Do you not hear the horns of the Orcs?" In the silence, they all heard that faint, deep sound beneath the howl of the wind. Ta-tock, ta-tock, dom! The ominous drumming from underground had started again. Terror pierced through the grief.
"Lothlórien," Legolas said, his voice sharp. "We must reach the sanctuary of the Lady of the Wood. Only there can we be safe." Boromir scoffed scornfully. "The Elven realm. A land of enchantments and traps. We must go to Gondor. To the fortress of Men. There, with my father's armies, we can stand against this shadow." "Gondor is too far," Aragorn said firmly. "And we cannot cross that road with an army at our heels. Lórien first. We will tend our wounds there. We will make our decision there." Boromir's eyes met Aragorn's. There was a challenge. You are the leader now, Ranger? Let's see where you will take us. But Aragorn did not drop his gaze. "Andúril is with me," he said quietly, but his voice was clear enough for all to hear. "And as the Heir of Elendil, I will lead you to the Golden Wood. Now!"
This final command left no room for argument. Aragorn gathered the shattered members of the Fellowship. Gimli, still muttering but obedient, stood up. Boromir adjusted his shield to guard the hobbits. Sam held Frodo's arm, gripping him like a vise that would never let go. Aragorn began to run toward the rocky slope of the Dimrill Dale. "Towards the lake! To Mirrormere! From there, to the border of the wood!" The Fellowship, no longer nine but eight, started running again.
But as he ran, Frodo paused for a moment and looked back. The Gate of Moria stood like a dark wound on the mountainside. A thin smoke still curled from it. The Echo of Moria was not just the sound of the drums or Gimli's grief. Frodo put his hand to his chest again. The Ring was cold and heavy against his skin. In that moment, Frodo Baggins understood that the innocent hobbit who had brought him here was dead. He, too, had fallen into the abyss with Gandalf. The Echo of Moria was the void that had opened in Frodo's soul. And that void was already beginning to fill with the dark whispers of the Ring. He turned and stumbled to follow his leader. But his gaze was no longer the same. He was running not toward the light of Lothlórien, but toward the shadow growing deep within himself.
Moved by Aragorn's command, the group slid and stumbled down the slope of the Dale toward the shore of Kheled-zâram, or the "Mirror-lake" (Mirrormere) in Dwarf-tongue. The cold wind dried the tears and sweat on their faces, replacing them with an icy reality. When they reached the edge of the lake, Aragorn raised his hand for them to stop. All he could say was, "A moment," his breath misting. It was less a command than the plea of an undecided man. Leadership had been thrust upon him, but he did not know where to lead the group. Lórien? Gondor? "How long will we stop here, Ranger?" Boromir's voice was sharp enough to crack the ice on the lake's surface. "Will we bring back our dead by staring into the water? Orcs are following us. Gondor is south. But we linger here, at the threshold of the Elven realm." At this point of the Dimrill Dale, the air was still and heavy. The surface of the lake was like a mirror of polished obsidian. The sky was reflected so clearly that the world seemed turned upside down. The lake perfectly copied the crowns of the three peaks around it (Caradhras/Redhorn, Celebdil/Silvertine, and Fanuidhol/Cloudy-head). "Behold," said Gimli, his voice still choked with grief, but now tinged with awe. "The place my father told me about. Where Durin first looked. There, in the water, he saw the stars like a crown." Everyone paused and looked for a moment. Although it was daytime, just as Gimli had said, stars seemed to glitter in the depths of the lake, at the tips of the reflected peaks. Durin's Crown.
But when Frodo looked, he did not see the stars. He looked at the dark, bottomless surface of the lake and saw something else looking back at him from the depths of the water. For a moment, the surface of the water rippled; the reflected mountains bent and twisted. And in that dark water, he thought he saw the reflection of the being he had seen on the bridge, that colossal silhouette of fire and shadow. He is dead, he whispered to himself. Gandalf took him with him. They are gone. But the Ring, around his neck, was reacting to this ancient place. This was a place filled with power; old and neutral power. The Ring sensed this power. It did not crave it, but merely recognized it. Frodo's gaze had grown heavy. This was no longer just a quest. It was a curse. He could not take his hand from his chest. The Ring had become a tangible symbol of his weakness, his failure, and now, his only power.
Legolas ignored Boromir's words. His eyes were on Aragorn; those ice-cold elven eyes pierced through Aragorn's indecision. "Make your choice, Dúnedain," Legolas said, his voice no different from the whisper of the wind. "The Shadow will not wait for us. Lead. Or step aside." Aragorn turned his head. The Ranger's mask dropped for a moment. There was a tiredness of a thousand years on his face. "He was my friend, Legolas. Not just a wizard."
Boromir perceived this statement not as an insult, but as an opportunity. "Legolas is right," he said, his voice filled with false understanding. "This burden is too heavy for you, Aragorn. If he said to take up the leadership, perhaps he meant for you to pass it to the strongest. This burden can no longer be left to one person." His eyes drifted to Frodo again. Frodo felt that look. He saw the fire in Boromir's eyes, that secret hunger. And he was afraid. He took his hand to his chest. The Ring felt that fear and answered instantly. A terrifying vision flashed in Frodo's mind like lightning: Boromir's face, contorted with rage; hands squeezing Frodo's throat; and immediately behind him, Samwise, lying lifeless with a black sword in his chest. No. This was not an emotion that belonged to Frodo. This was the Ring's pure, possessive rage against the one who would steal its most valuable possession—both its power and its friend. And Frodo allowed that rage to blossom within him, because in that moment, it gave him strength. I will not give it to you, he thought, but he wasn't sure if he was speaking to Boromir or to the phantom that killed Sam.
Aragorn was the only one who noticed this silent struggle. He saw the invisible wall rising between Boromir and Frodo. Gandalf's absence had been the mortar of the Fellowship, and now that mortar was gone. What remained were cracked, ill-fitting stones. "Get up," Aragorn said, his voice weariear this time, but just as certain. "The lake will not answer us. And by standing here, we only draw the Orcs upon us." They started climbing the slope. The lake was left behind. They abandoned the mournful beauty of the Dimrill Dale and entered the shallow valley that led north, toward the border of the Golden Wood. They did not run. They could not run. This was not a flight, but a funeral procession.
Gimli, with every step, muttered a lament in Dwarf-tongue; Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu! (Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!). It was not a mourning, but a vow of vengeance. But his voice was so broken that it sounded more like a child's plea than a threat. Legolas moved silently at the front, like a leaf. His eyes scanned the border of the forest, his ears catching even the slightest rolling stone behind them. His grief had turned into a vigil. He was the eyes of the Fellowship, and he vowed that they would never again be caught unprepared. Aragorn walked in the middle of the Fellowship, where he could see everyone. His sword was sheathed, but his hand was on the hilt. His mind was a map: How many days to Lórien? Will their food suffice? How close are the Orcs? But beneath all these tactical considerations lay a single question: What will I do? He was a Ranger, a man who lived in the shadows. Now, he walked beneath the sun, bearing the responsibility for eight lives.
And at the very back were Sam and Frodo. Sam was watching his Master. For him, the Balrog, Gandalf, or Moria held no meaning. There was only Frodo. And he saw that Frodo was suffering. "Have some water, Mister Frodo," he said again, offering the canteen. "And some lembas. You need to get your strength back." Frodo shook his head, but did not take the canteen. His hand was still on his chest. "It happened because of me, Sam," he whispered. His voice was so cracked that Sam had to lean in to hear. "Don't talk nonsense, Mister Frodo," Sam said, his voice trembling. "It wasn't your fault. That... that was a terrible thing. Worse than a dragon." "No, Sam," Frodo said, pausing and looking into Sam's eyes. And Sam saw that those eyes held no trace of the Shire. In that moment, Samwise Gamgee, the gardener, realized that for the first time in his life, he was afraid of his Master Frodo. This was not his master; this was something else that had awakened in that dark mine, now using his master's voice. "You don't understand," that cold voice continued. "I... I felt it. The Ring... it felt it too. Could the Balrog have come for the Ring?" "I don't know, Mister Frodo. I don't understand these things." "I didn't either," Frodo said, his voice icy. "But I understand now, Sam. I understand now." The Ring, beneath his fingers, warmed slightly, as if it had heard this affirmation. It was not the warmth of comfort. It was the dry, promising heat you feel when the door of a furnace is opened. "This is a dark beginning," Frodo said, as if talking to himself. His eyes were fixed on the dark line of the forest ahead. "And I fear the end will be even darker."
The group left the valley and reached the first line of trees, the border of the Golden Wood. The trees of Lothlórien were unlike any other forest. Their trunks were smooth and silvery, and their leaves were an unfading gold. But even this beauty stood like a threat in the eyes of the Fellowship. Aragorn stopped and turned around. The Gate of Moria was no longer visible. The Misty Mountains rose behind them like a gigantic, grey tombstone. "We will rest here," he said. "But with one eye open." No one lit a fire. No one spoke. They simply sat down, leaned their backs against those ancient trees, and sank into their own nightmares. Gimli was sharpening his axe; the sound of metal against metal was his only solace. Boromir was cleaning his sword, but his eyes were always on Frodo. Merry and Pippin were huddled together, falling into an uneasy sleep. Legolas perched on a tree root, scanning the forest like an owl that could see even in the dark. Sam sat next to Frodo, keeping watch for his Master, even though Frodo was not sleeping. And Frodo. Frodo was not sleeping. His eyes were open. He had taken his hand from beneath his clothes; in his palm, he was clutching that simple, golden band. The echo of Moria had not faded. It had only changed form. The clamor of the mountains had now become that silent, powerful whisper flowing through Frodo's veins. Not everything has to turn to light, he thought, a thought whose origin he did not know. Some things... grow better in the shadow. That night, at the borders of Lothlórien, the Ringbearer began, for the first time, to think of the darkness not as an enemy, but as a refuge.
And thousands of leagues away, in the deepest pits of Moria, a whip cracked for the final time.