.|. Radical Dreamers .|.

Chapter 22

~

* * * * *

It was past midnight already, the campfire had begun to lessen and dancing shadows leaped across the cave like restless ghosts. Yet Gollum still stood on the farthest corner of the camp, his knees bent, his hands dangling between his legs. His face was hidden by the growing darkness as if he wore a mask, and only his pale yellow eyes could be seen as they gleamed quietly.

Everything was quiet, and Gollum realized suddenly he could hear the hearts of his companions beat steadily in sleep. It was a comforting sound, even as it was faint. He liked it. And he liked the feelings it evoked in him, in places he thought dead long ago.

A startled look swept across Gollum’s face when Pippin unconsciously broke the spell.

The Hobbit, who was holding Lascaran in his joined hands, stirred and began munching on the top of the Squirrel’s head (which in his dreams was a lembas cake, anyway), causing the little one to squirm groggily. Gollum watched them for a moment more, and the shadows dancing above his mouth made it look like he was smiling.

I like them, he thought. I like them all. And they like me.

Then, turning, he leaped soundlessly into a secret tunnel. When the darkness had completely swallowed him, and even the faint sound of his feet had been drowned out in the silence, sorrowful, bright grey eyes shot open in the middle of the camp, and Arwen let out a sigh.

It’s time, she thought, and her hand tightened unconsciously around her knives.

* * * * *

Ooooooooooookay… he was not lost.

No, no, not at all.

How could he get lost inside a place he’s lived in for *years*? It’s just that he wasn’t very familiar with these corridors, and it was getting him a tad more than he had predicted to get back to Shelob. Add to it that he usually carried a torch whenever he explored that underground maze –something he did not have with him at that time- and you’ll understand why he’d been walking in circles for hours.

He was *so* not lost.

And to the records, if he was soaked to the bone it was because he’d *wanted* to trip on that stupid rock, roll down that stupid hill and fall into the stupid stream that came from the stupid lake he’d half-drowned in the day before. Thinking about it, he hadn’t tripped at all. He’d just… uhm… played the part of someone who tripped.

Yeah, that’s it.

Gollum is undoubtedly a master in finding excuses. ;-)

To be honest, if it was taking Gollum that long, it was partially because he didn’t want to see Sehlob. At least not before he’d had the chance to clear his mind.

He’d been quick to realize that he wanted, no *needed* to save Legolas from Shelob.

But now he knew he couldn’t let her hurt Strider, either.

The Man was cool. Well, duh. You know. I mean, he was, kind. And strong. And brave. And, well, handsome.

I mean, he seemed to care, didn’t he?

But then, so did that child-like creature with the big blue eyes, the one that looked at him always so kindly.

Not to mention his other two friends, then one with the giant book and the one with the squirrel! They’d asked him to play together shortly after they’d me (the game was a strange version of volley and the ball was Lascaran… but that’s details), and had made him feel wanted like never before.

And what could he say of that she-elf, the one with the hair as dark as the night sky? She’d been so sweet with him… true, Strider had cleaned and bound his wounded hand, but it was *her* that changed the bandage, murmuring shooting words to him as she did. It was her that patted his head, called him ‘good boy’ and kissed him goodnight once done.

And then there was that human, the one that seemed to be glued to her: he’d looked jealous when she’d lulled Gollum to sleep, true; but then he had given Gollum *his own* blanket to stay warm during the night.

The wizard had produced with his pipe some small wonders of smoke -like pictures of the surface, valleys, woods, rivers and shiny lakes- more than once, and only for his delight.

And even the twins and the woman with the yellow hair had been kind and understanding with him.

Could they really like him?

Like him as he liked… liked… all… all of them?

Ooh, poor Precious! But Shelob wanted them! Wanted them to eat them! He didn’t know how, but he must convince her to spare his… friends… (it sounded odd to him, the thought to have finally found some friends)

He had to.

But that, my dear readers, is one *hard* task!

To convince Shelob not to eat someone was almost as hard as getting Boromir to realize that he and Arwen were in love and perfect for each other, mortality or not.

Well, since that was a problem he could not find a solution for until he met her, Gollum thought he’d better focus on finding the way back to Shelob.

Let’s try this one tunnel here.

…

…closed.

This one?

…

…leads into a chasm.

This one?

UGH! Shelob’s second toilet. Better leave.

…

Oh, good! He knew that one grott—wait a minute. Hadn’t he been in that place something like, a couple of hours ago? He’d been walking in circles AGAIN!

That did not mean he was lost… did it…?

…

… …

… … …it definitely did.

Uuh… you think it’d be unbecoming to start bawling and ask for help…?

Striii~iiider!!!

Leeeee~eeeeeeegolas?!?!

ANYONE?!?!?!?!?!?!

* * * * *

He did it.

It took him most part of the night, but he still made it back to Shelob.

And the she-spider was exactly where he thought she would be. The same exact spot where he’d left her, actually: in front of the chessboard.

What Gollum had not expected to see was a whole pack of Orcs (one of which still waved a map of sorts with his right hand), hanging head-down from the roof, so wrapped up in her web that they couldn’t even talk, least of all move.

Gollum blinked when Shelob pushed absentmindedly the closer Orc, and watched the poor thing swing back and forth and whine softly. Then she pushed it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Okay, she must have been doing this for a while, concluded Gollum somewhere around the twentieth push.

If truth be told, Gollum was scared to get near the she-spider at the moment. Not that he didn’t sympathize with the swaying Orc, but he knew better than come too close to Shelob when she was in a foul mood.

We must do it Precious, we must. For them. Breath. In. Out. Good. Now walk. Right foot goes up, then down. Okay, now the other one.

Hearing the scratch of Gollum’s feet on the rocky floor, Shelob looked up from the chessboard, paralysing him with a single glance.

“Oh, there you are! At last! Where have you been, and where *is* my dinner?” Note that she said ‘mine’, not ‘ours’. It never was ‘ours’ – everything was always hers, and hers alone. Poor Gollum could die for what she cared.

Gollum pondered for a moment what could he do to help his friends, wrote it off with a "Valar help me" and began to bat his eyelashes outrageously at her. It was rather disturbing to see actually, but Gollum hoped he looked as cute as Legolas had when he’d used the same trick on Aragorn - the Man had actually melted into a pool of goo and done everything Legolas had asked of him.

“Precious did find something… but it’s something that Shelob surely would not like… something too foul… too skinny… too poor for your majesty!” he said in a voice all honey and sugar. “Yes, yes, too poor for great, magnificent Shelob! Gollum! She deserves better, yes, the best! The best! Not what poor Gollum found, not at all! So poor Gollum came to ask Shelob if he could let the little insignificant preys he found go… so they might bring the mighty Lady Shelob the food she deserves! Kingly food! Queenly food!”

He knew he was babbling, not to mention talking with such a speed that half of the words came together in one single, incredibly long sound, but the she-spider must have understood the sense of it anyway, because she puffed out her chest pompously and said:

“Of course I deserve the *best*. Let them go, let them go, whatever they are. And be sure to bring back something worth of me, this time.”

Vanity, your name is Shelob, thought Gollum as he looked skywards and murmured a low “thank you – thank you” chant.

Not wanting to test his good luck further he turned, and skipping through the darkness at top-speed he made his way towards the camp, the place where his friends, his real, only, friends, awaited him. He even turned cartwheels every now and then, shouting out with glee once he was too far gone for Shelob to hear.

What he did not know is that one of the Orcs had managed to free his mouth from Shelob’s web, and was now screaming at top of his lungs:

“It may be the Company Master Sauron is looking for! Don’t let them go!” Shelob growled irritably at the Orc-chieftain, and poked him hard and quickly, so that he swayed to and fro in front of her eyes.

“Why should I help you?” She pouted (yes, she actually *pouted*, though you didn’t hear it from me), still poking her victim, and in a girly, whiny voice she said: “You interrupted my game of chess! I was winning, let me tell you… *winning*! And you*brutes*”—poke—“came, and distracted me with your idly chatter!”—poke—“Master Sauron wants, Master Sauron seeks, Master Sauron here, Master Sauron there”—poke—“… and it’s all your fault if I lost!!”

“But… who were you playing against? There was no one here!” Boy, she looked ready to kill the Orc when he said that. Luckily for him she kept her temper in check, and all that happened was that her eyes narrowed, and that she poked him so hard the web string that bound him to the ceiling snapped. The poor thing fell like a ripe fruit on the floor, screeching.

It might be enlightening for the reader to know that Shelob, due to the boredom of living alone for centuries, had developed this strange habit of playing chess against herself.

Up to this date, she’s never won a single game.

“It’s important!” Assured the Orc-chieftain in a shriek, while bumping, thumping, rolling and sliding on the rutted grounds. “Master Sauron”-bump-“is”-bump-“looking”-bump-“for the most beautiful creature”-bump-“of this World”-slide-“The Morning Star of Mirkwood, who is hiding somewhere in the depths of your caverns!”

Following the previously mentioned Murphy’s Law, the Orc-chieftain had just said the *only* thing that could rouse the vain Shelob into action.

He’d dared to insinuate that existed someone more beautiful than her!

And this someone was wandering across *her* realm?

Are we crazy or what??

Shelob, angry enough to have steam puffing out from her ears, raised herself on her hind legs. With one single swoop of her clawed fore-arm freed all the Orcs, which fell in heap of a tangled limbs on the floor.

“Explain. Now,” she hissed. The Orcs all cowered, as though they were many bodies for one single mind. Then the Orc-with-the-map was pushed forward, stumbled, and under the gaze of a fuming Shelob, he began stuttering about the beauty of the Morning Star, her magnificence, how a star seemed to shine bright on her brow, how the brilliance of the summer sky seemed to  be trapped forever in her luminescent eyes, how her hair had a luminous golden sheen.

Shelob began pacing, and the anger seemed to radiate from her like physical waves. The Orcs, most of them still bound, huddled together in a corner, looking like they were trying to melt into the wall. Shelob didn’t spare them a single glance, but still her anger rose and rose and rose still, so that she kicked and punched things as she went, pulverizing boulders as tall as she was and even knocking over the chessboard.

You must understand – Shelob’s lived in the darkness all her life, and so she has never seen herself in a mirror. Somehow, this has lead her to think she was beautiful, or better, the most beautiful creature imaginable. She had even managed to convince herself that if she’d ever see herself in a mirror she’d fall in love with her own, striking reflection. (Narcissus, anyone?)

After a good dose of pacing, muttering, fuming from the ears and flailing her fore-arms wildly, Shelob decided the inevitable course of action: she’d find the Morning Star, find her now, and see if she really was that beautiful.

What would happen if she was, you ask?

Well, it’s simple: in that case, Shelob would kill her with her own hands.

* * * * *

Gollum re-entered the camp well past the time for breakfast; he was tired, famished, once again soaked to the bone, and hurt in places he didn’t really knew he had before falling on them.

He stepped into the warm circle of light with a grateful sigh, eyeing one empty bedpost greedily, when a resounding yell reached his ears. Before he could even blink he found his head trapped into an eager elven grip.

“Would you look at yourself?! Covered in dirt and grime, dripping wet… And I don’t EVEN want to THINK what causes you to smell so!” Elrohir bellowed, his voice hitting a squeaking note at the end. “By the Valar, you’re looking terrible! What’s happened? Oh, don’t bother, don’t bother: lucky you I’m here to help!” He was on the verge of trembling, so horrified he was. He grabbed a handful –uhm, well, he has so few… let’s say a fingerful?- of Gollum’s hair and began to fuss over it. The poor Gollum could just watch with eyes as wide and round as teacups as the dark haired elf played him about. He did wonder distantly if he ever stopped to take a breath, though.

“AGH! This is abominable!! Splits ends everywhere! Oh, you’re in serious need of an hairstyler! Once we get to Gondor you *are* seeing one, period! ARGH! By the Valar what’s this dead animal hanging from you hips?? Uh? It’s not alive? Never was? Then what--a loincloth? A *loincloth*?? What, are we joking?? This is so passé! Absolutely unfashionable, who *ever* chooses your clothes? Lucky you I always carry some of my old clothes along in case of emergencies! And if *THIS*isn’t an emergency, then I don’t know what--!! Elladan, hand me my soap! Down to the lake we go!” Gollum blinked, then something of the high-speed speech registered with his mind and he screeched.

“Not the lake *again*! Gollum!!!”

“Oh, yes, the lake *again*!” Elrohir swooped, tucked the flaying Gollum under one armpit and –catching with the other hand the soap Elladan had thrown at him- strolled towards the lake, humming softly to himself.

* * * * *

After the bath had solved Gollum’s problems with dirt, the duo hurried back to the camp, Elrohir still humming happily and Gollum still tucked safely under the Elf’s armpit - though this time he wore a resigned expression on his face and had his chin in his hands, with his armpits swaying in mid-air with each step Elrohir took.

Boromir sat next to Arwen as they dubiously watched Elrohir trying to cut and style the spare strands on Gollum’s head into a resemblance of hair. The Elf’s attempts at cutting the split ends resulted in regular heart-attacks, near-bites and scary experiences that both he and Gollum would gladly forget.

That task (more or less) done, they went to find something Gollum could wear.

Fishing something suitable from Elrohir’s bag was less difficult that you may be inclined to think. But once presented with a pair of leggings and a loose tunic Gollum just sniffled at them, before his pale, beaten-puppy eyes blinked up at Elrohir with a ‘what do I do with these?’ kind of look. It was as thought he had never seen any clothes before.

Elladan was the one to realize that he probably hadn’t. 

So, by virtue of example, he showed Gollum how easily he slipped his tunic off and then back on. Off, on. Off, on. Off, on.

Gollum hesitantly tried to copy him.

Really.

Tried.

But he wasn’t very successful. 

The fifth time Elladan slipped his shirt off, Gollum managed to remain tangled into his own for the twentieth, and glared at the stubborn piece of clothing with a very cross and vaguely hurt look on his face.

Éowyn was the first to double up, holding onto (a still shirtless) El-hon in order not to fall over. Elladan himself followed soon, and though the others valiantly held out for a handful of seconds, in no time they were all rolling on the floor – even Gollum, though he was not laughing but rather wrestling with the shirt, trying to bite it and at the same not to be chocked by the evil thing in the process.

When they had all (relatively) calmed down, Éowyn walked up to Gollum and helped him out of the shirt-trap. That done, seeing the dubious look Gollum shot her, Éowyn refrained from saying anything, and just handed him a pair of Hobbit-trousers of Pippin’s. After getting sure the trousers weren’t something to eat (or to be eaten by…) Gollum slipped them on, rewarding his companions with a toothy grin.

They were just his size AND weren’t trying to throttle him, like the Elf’s shirt had.

He thought he could live with them.

* * * * *

After that, Gollum began restless: he asked nothing better than to lead the Fellowship out of that terrible place of darkness and death, and he could not stand still as the others get dressed and collected their belonging. You could see him turn cartwheels and somersault (hitting his head on the low ceiling more than not), dancing in circles with his hands over his head and laughing hard.

The rest of the Fellowship was greatly affected by his bounciness, and they all laughed at his antics. They realized they were going to see the surface again very soon, and the thought brought them such intense happiness, it was almost a physical sensation.

The sun, the fresh air, the smelling green grass, the white clouds and the brilliant sky! They could think of nothing else!

At one point, Elrohir began humming softly a joyful tune, and Elladan was quick to conceive lyrics to go with it: he began to sing about the golden leaves of Lórien cloaking the ground in Autumn; about the fresh, sparkling water of the Nimrodel rushing through them; about the sunlight, warm and golden as honey, seeping through the limbs of the trees, outstretched towards the sky as thought wanting to brush it gently. He sang all of it softly, in a voice that was shiny magic as only the voice of the elves can be.

Even the Hobbits, famished and tired as they were, began chorusing in their lovely, little voices as they walked to and fro.

Arwen stood watching all this with tears in her eyes, and even when they were finally all ready and started to march she stayed behind, surveying them all like a mother would her cubs.

She did not join them in their singing, nor did she talk any as they marched up and up in the low tunnel, toward a small bright light that had suddenly appeared at the end of it. When they stopped to watch in awe that first real sparkle of sunlight, she went to Legolas, and lovingly adjusted his cape around his shoulders and covered his hair with the hood. He looked questioningly at her, but she just smiled, kissing his brow softly, before going back to the end of the line.

Legolas did not question her, but he did not wear off the hood either.

The break was short; gleefully they speeded towards the little light, which seemed to call to them with a siren’s voice, sweetly. Yet, even as they walked, Éowyn left Elladan’s side and waited for Arwen, falling in step with her.

“Is there anything wrong?” she asked gently, but her eyes positively sparkled at the thought of seeing Edoras. “Legolas told Aragorn who told Elladan that he was worried about you, and El asked me to keep an eye on you.” She giggled. “They sound like children, don’t they? But really, I’m a bit worried about you, too. You look troubled.” Arwen just shook her head, glancing wistfully ahead of them. Following her gaze, Éowyn asked softly:

“It’s Boromir, isn’t it?” And watched with delight as Arwen blushed beetroot red.

“No,” croaked Arwen, shaking her head madly. Her hair rose from her neck, whipping around her pale cheeks, and Éowyn noticed for the first time that her hair was intertwined with strand of golden silk that made it shine and sparkle.

Éowyn could not help but frown. Not only her hair, but her skin was shining, too – as thought Arwen was letting her inner light burn bright as a star on purpose. And what to say about her garments? She looked like a Mirkwood Amazon, and not a Rivendell’s Lady.

This all puzzled Éowyn, but she had no time to dwell on that, seeing as Arwen was talking to her again.

“Given the chance,” she was asking quietly, “What would you choose between your happiness, and that of the one you love?”

“What?” shrieked Éowyn. “What a silly question!”

“Is it?”

“Of course I’d want the happiness for both of us!” Éowyn said lowly, leaning close to Arwen’s hear as if she was revealing her one of the most secret truths of life. The Elf laughed.

“You’re a wise woman, Éowyn,” murmured Arwen; and then, taking her face in her hands, she leaned down to kiss her brow as she’d done Legolas – it was an unmistakable gesture. It meant: ‘I love you, beloved sister mine’.

Éowyn rubbed the spot where Arwen’s lips had touched her skin, and watched her with eyes wide with wonder.

“Take care of Elladan,” murmured Arwen as she gently pushed the woman back toward her brother (who kept looking back over his shoulder at the two of them, worried, and obviously missing Éowyn).

It was when Éowyn was against at his side that Shelob attacked.

Just like Arwen knew she would have.

* * * * *

It hall happened in a matter of seconds.

“The exit!” Cried Pippin, and at once the Hobbits dashed forwards, and found that a veil of dusty cobwebs separated them from the fresh air. Boromir unseated his sword to cut through that final barrier, and Elladan and Elrohir were beside him.

It was in that moment, when no one was paying attention, that Shelob slithered out of the shadows, quick as a snake. An outraged roar scratched out from deep within her throat, as her eyes fell on who she thought was the Morning Star.

The she-spider did not see Éowyn –whom even as she was beautiful, was mortal, and did not shine- nor did she see Legolas, concealed as he was by the charm Arwen had put on his cape.

Instead she saw Arwen: she shone as though she was a star herself, and the ethereal light she gave off seemed to feed Shelob’s fury.

How dares she! How dares that Elf to be more beautiful than Shelob, the spider thought. But she was well beyond speech: fury had robbed her of her wits, and it was pure instinct that moved her towards her rival.

But Arwen was ready, having seen this all in her visions: even as Shelob bore her venomous fang down on her, the Elf brought a bright Phial from her cape. Arwen uncapped it and splashed the burning liquid inside onto the spider. Shelob roared with fury, clawing madly at the air before her. The liquid light from Galadriel’s Phial burned her, seemed to consume her skin, to destroy it as acid would, and Shelob hated that pain, and she who had caused it.

“The pass!” Shouted Arwen. “Cut the cobwebs! Quick!” Unable to do anything else, Boromir and the twins complied, turned their back on Arwen. Soon the way was free, but none moved.

“Fly, you fools!” Arwen whispered, and her voice bounced off from the low ceiling, the dark walls, and resounded like a hollowed call in their ears.

Shelob shrieked, for the liquid light had made her blind, and snapped her mouth, once, twice, flaying her limbs as Arwen forced her backwards and away from her Companions with her knives.

The Hobbits were pushed outside first, no matter how loud they cried that she needed help. Éowyn too wanted to help her, but she was hauled up in Elladan’s arms and carried away as well. Strider, he too acting on instinct, clasped Legolas to him –the Elf was shouting, crying, struggling madly as he stretched his arm towards Arwen, but Strider managed to leap outside, somehow, shouting at the other to follow them and be quick, for the Valar’s sake, be quick!

But Boromir, deaf, dashed towards Arwen, grasping his sword. Elrohir quickly caught him, curling one arm around his shoulders. The Man struggled, his sword fell, clinging ominously against the floor, and he howled, fearful and distressed without knowing why. He was crying, twisting and kicking madly within Elrohir’s hold to try and break free, but he froze, his body went limp and tears fell from his eyes when he met Arwen’s gaze.

She was smiling, and her smile was soft and sweet and felt like a goodbye.

It was.

“Amin mella lle, Boromir,” she whispered.

“Arwen!”

Shelob, with smoke raising from her burning skin, her limbs crackling and contorted, her spiky hairs in flames, rose behind Arwen like an hellish dream. Her forelimbs were raised, and on each end stood a sharp red claw.

A poisoned claw.

And as the spider let out its last, shrieking cry, she attacked, and one of her claws found its mark inside Arwen’s shoulder, past the velvety skin, deep into the soft flesh, meeting bone and blood and then air again.

“ARWEN! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!”

Arwen gasped, her eyes widening as her body jolted. Time screeched to a grinding halt, her knives slid from her hands -her little, white, lovely hands- and clattered against the floor, rolling away and into the dark, to never again be found.

She lowered her head, too slowly to be reality, too slowly not to be just a nightmare, and stared wonderingly at the claw protruding from her chest. She looked up then, and she still smiled. A crystal teardrop fell form her eyes. Another one, crimson, fat and horrible, slid down from the side of her mouth to her chin. They splashed silently on the floor and mingled.

Boromir felt his heartbeat pound in his hears. His energy dry.

Still she smiled.

Even as she fell on her knees, she smiled.

Her back collided with the ground and still, she smiled.

Because she had seen this.

Shelob, mad with jealousy, would have died killing the Morning Star of Mirkwood.

That’s why Arwen had made her believe that *she* was the Morning Star.

She’d wanted to save Legolas.

To save Éowyn.

And her own life seemed such a little price to her...

- TBC

See you in the next and LAST chapter!