Bergil's story
Dec. 20th, 2004 09:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanjust a snippet tonight.
part one (There are links at the end of each section.)
Left on his own, Bergil decided to blow out the candle. He had the lantern after all, and that was plenty of light. He nibbled on his thumb, trying to decide whether to go back and wait in the corridor again, and a yawn surprised him. No. That wouldn’t do. It wasn’t that much longer to stay awake, but he didn‘t think he could manage if he were sitting down and bored. He remembered that Frodo had said something about washing the cup, and that gave him an idea. He could put all of the herbs and things away in the kitchen and clean up the mess, and by the time he’d finished both of the perians -- hobbits -- would be asleep, and he could come back and fetch the fever rags without waking them.
By propping open the bedroom door with a chair, and leaving the lantern on the seat of it, he was able to carry both baskets to the kitchen at once. He came back for the cup and spoon, and after a moment’s thought he decided to bring the pot of steeping herbs too. He could fish out the herbs and save the tea for later, and it wouldn’t get as bitter as if it were left by the fire. The lantern he brought last, but he left the door open so he could hear if Sam or the Ringbearer called.
Of course washing the cup meant fetching water from the fountain, and that meant leaving his post, but he’d done that already with Sam, and to go much farther. Still… No. The cup could wait until morning. Bergil concentrated on pouring the willow bark tea off into a smaller pot, holding back the herbs with another spoon. Then he arranged the packets of herbs into one of the cupboards and reminded himself to tell the next boy where they were.
The sky was beginning to change color when he looked out the window. He could make out the jagged shapes of the Ephel Duath against the background of stars. It still felt strange to see the eastern mountains this way, without a dark cloud hovering beyond and above them. Only a narrow smudge of smoke marked the distant fire of Mt. Doom. Bergil wondered why it still burned at all, but he supposed that a burning mountain took a long time to stop burning. The fires in the lower city had burned, some of them, for days, especially beneath the goldsmiths hall, where the hot metals had run together and pooled in the cellar, igniting their stock of coal for the smithies and the precious unguents and oils of the spice merchants guild next door.
It was the closest thing he could imagine to a burning mountain, though he’d only looked down into the glowing ruin from the wall above. Even that high he could feel the heat from it. How much hotter had it been where Sam had gone with his Mr. Frodo? Bergil rested his elbows on the balcony rail and tried to imagine what it must have been like climbing up to stand over a neverending fire. Step by step the minstrels said, with burning air about them, and the Shadow ever seeking. But that was just poetry.
part fourteen
part one (There are links at the end of each section.)
Left on his own, Bergil decided to blow out the candle. He had the lantern after all, and that was plenty of light. He nibbled on his thumb, trying to decide whether to go back and wait in the corridor again, and a yawn surprised him. No. That wouldn’t do. It wasn’t that much longer to stay awake, but he didn‘t think he could manage if he were sitting down and bored. He remembered that Frodo had said something about washing the cup, and that gave him an idea. He could put all of the herbs and things away in the kitchen and clean up the mess, and by the time he’d finished both of the perians -- hobbits -- would be asleep, and he could come back and fetch the fever rags without waking them.
By propping open the bedroom door with a chair, and leaving the lantern on the seat of it, he was able to carry both baskets to the kitchen at once. He came back for the cup and spoon, and after a moment’s thought he decided to bring the pot of steeping herbs too. He could fish out the herbs and save the tea for later, and it wouldn’t get as bitter as if it were left by the fire. The lantern he brought last, but he left the door open so he could hear if Sam or the Ringbearer called.
Of course washing the cup meant fetching water from the fountain, and that meant leaving his post, but he’d done that already with Sam, and to go much farther. Still… No. The cup could wait until morning. Bergil concentrated on pouring the willow bark tea off into a smaller pot, holding back the herbs with another spoon. Then he arranged the packets of herbs into one of the cupboards and reminded himself to tell the next boy where they were.
The sky was beginning to change color when he looked out the window. He could make out the jagged shapes of the Ephel Duath against the background of stars. It still felt strange to see the eastern mountains this way, without a dark cloud hovering beyond and above them. Only a narrow smudge of smoke marked the distant fire of Mt. Doom. Bergil wondered why it still burned at all, but he supposed that a burning mountain took a long time to stop burning. The fires in the lower city had burned, some of them, for days, especially beneath the goldsmiths hall, where the hot metals had run together and pooled in the cellar, igniting their stock of coal for the smithies and the precious unguents and oils of the spice merchants guild next door.
It was the closest thing he could imagine to a burning mountain, though he’d only looked down into the glowing ruin from the wall above. Even that high he could feel the heat from it. How much hotter had it been where Sam had gone with his Mr. Frodo? Bergil rested his elbows on the balcony rail and tried to imagine what it must have been like climbing up to stand over a neverending fire. Step by step the minstrels said, with burning air about them, and the Shadow ever seeking. But that was just poetry.
part fourteen
