Gold, Iron, Bronze, Tin, Brass, Silver

Gold, Iron, Bronze, Tin, Brass, Silver

Posted: September 2004
Title: The Metal Series: Gold, Iron, Bronze, Tin, Brass, Silver
Author: Liz (Elisabeth)
Type: FCGen
Characters: Fellowship Members
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Tolkien's world, I just play in it
Series/Sequels: Metal
Timeline: Right before Boromir tries to take the ring.

Summary: Each metal represents each of the fellowship's personality. A wip.

*****

Gold

Gold; it seems to be a never ending quest for me. Always there beside me, flickering against the little one's chest. Hovering above his small fragile heart. Shining in the elf's hair; glowing in the firelight. Gold follows me everywhere on this quest and haunts me in the fellowship.

I am not as blind as the ranger believes me to be, for I know that no good can come of this fascination; this obsession. Nor am I blind to the wary looks my companions cast upon me. During the day, when I am alone and far from Gondor with no one but the little ones to befriend me I know this. When Aragorn reached for his sword on Caradhras the knowledge pierced my heart deeper than his blade could possibly have gone. I am alone, even in this fellowship of nine.

But during the night, when the gold of the ring flickers brightly I am far from the never ending forests. I am home in Minas Tirith, with my father and brother beside me praising my brave and worthy deeds. Where I am safe under my father's arm as he proclaims loudly across the court that a feast shall be held for the Heir of Gondor, and the nobles give a cheer that resounds throughout the city. Where my brother is by my side, his face filled with joy and love at his protector's return. Faramir is happy in the dreams I have when the dark night falls. He no longer holds shadows in his eyes from killing men he has no quarrel with. He no longer keeps black secrets in his heart, trying to protect me from the truth of our father's hatred.

With every dawn that comes, these golden dreams leave me and I am faced with the truth; that my visions are nothing but fleeting glimpses into a future that will never come. My brother will never know the peace that I could bring him nor my father the pride that I could give him. For I am a man of Gondor, and I have promised to protect the ring bearer. Even when it means that I must sacrifice the happiness of my people, the peace of my brother, and the pride of my father.

We continue on, every step taking us closer to the oblivion of my people. We have lost Gandalf, and now the ranger has stepped forth as I had always known he would. To lead us to our deaths, just like his ancestor did before him. We see each other with open eyes, he and I; and it is a tacit understanding that he shall be my country's salvation. Does he know what that salvation shall do to my father? That the knowledge that a ranger could save my country when the steward could not will shame Lord Denethor? Humiliate him, strip him of dignity; I have no doubt that he does not. Aragorn does not think of the consequences of actions he has yet to take.

Faramir will no doubt welcome his new king with open arms, forgetting that the ranger had abandoned us until the last moment. He will bow in loyalty and love his new master, wishing to serve him in every way. My brother, the ever loyal servant of Gondor. Will he remember his protector when his saviour stands above him, speaking gilded words hope and promise to Faramir? Filling his head full of pretty words and empty gestures, while omitting the fall from power that would be to come? Faramir will never be strong and powerful if Aragorn takes the throne of Gondor away from my family.

Gold; it seems to be a never ending quest for me. Enough to give my brother the life he deserves, enough to make my people safe and no longer fear the growing shadow. It flickers forbidden here in the fellowship. A band of promise dangling before me on a slim chain. Hanging over a delicate, fragile neck. The fellowship nears its doom by the hour, and as I walk alone in this fellowship of nine I wonder if my honour is worth the destruction of my home.

Iron

Dwarves do not care for trees and flowers, the deep earth holds far more beauty than could grow above. Gems, mithril, gold and silver flow like rivers and shine brighter than the sunlight. We long ago have learned to leave the elves to their trees and singing, living in the rich dark earth where all things spring.

My people are used to secrets, as we hold many ourselves. Locked away behind iron gates, and strong stonewalls. Embedded in marble pillars and softly hidden in our rolling forthright speech. Not even the wizard knew our speech, and now that he has fallen I mourn not keeping him in my confidence.

Moria, home of my kin; tomb of my fallen cousin and all of his men. The grief that knifed through me, seeing them fallen and their weapons rusting in the dark. The stench of death, instead of the roast meat and malt beer that would waft through the halls. Silence had robbed Balin's halls of the merriment and song that had awaited the fellowship, and now the elf will never know the grandeur and pride that my people hold. I shall wet my axe with orc blood for that injury.

We have traveled from Moria, where our hearts were heavy with the loss of the wizard. My own was rusted and tarnished, my cousin's death leaving me empty and dull. Ah, the lady though. The golden Galadriel of the wood. I shall forgive the prideful elves that ambushed me, for I should be over proud as well if I had such a lady for my queen. We left her, my wits and axe sharpened anew for battle and now we travel down the river towards adventure. Hardened, each of us in the forges of trial and loss.

Yet I am not blind to the flaws of this fellowship. We are not all dwarves and made of iron; the men are fighting once again and this time I fear that one of them shall leave the nine. The elf has been looking at Boromir, and for once I do agree with him. The iron in the man of Gondor has seen too many rainfalls, been left abandoned for too long. He, and the fellowship, is breaking.

Bronze

Weariness is overtaking me once more, and for a moment as I walk I close my eyes and hope that Arwen will dream of me as I do her. Far from Imladris, where my heart resides; where my home became as I lost my father and gained another. Where my home was lost and foster father were lost to me when it became clear the Evenstar had taken my heart. Loss, it has ever overtaken me, despite my walking over hill and dale.

Losing my home in the Dunedain's village when Arathorn was killed. Losing my home in Imladris when Elrond spurned me for love of his daughter. Losing my heart to Arwen, yet that loss I am glad for, as I would rather die than be without her. As she would; becoming mortal to remain with me throughout my days. I have become my betrothed's murderer, and the knowledge of it drives me to madness at times when I dwell on it overmuch.

We continue now, this fellowship of nine. Already my companions have changed from that as they once were in Arwen's home. No longer the laughing, refreshed men that I had met, they remind me now of bronze statues of the kind that I saw once in Minas Tirith. When I was Thorongil, and Denethor and I vied for his father's love. When I look back, I can see now why it was that he hated me for what young man can stand to see a stranger take a son's place in his father's heart?

To this day, it is why I believe Boromir when he speaks of the contention in his household. The Steward making up for that lost love by showering it upon his eldest, forgetting perhaps what it was like to be left in the cold shadow of second best. I pity Faramir; for he has these two metal statues as kinsmen. One who is dull and cold with sharp edges, and the other whose brilliance causes all others to become blind to his flaws. Ah Boromir, and you do have flaws have you not?

Legolas and I watch you now, though we take no joy in doing so. We see how you cast your gaze upon the ring, how you keep your eyes there overlong. I know what it is to be desperate, to be torn between honour and the love you hold for someone close. Do you not think I do? Perhaps you have never heard of the doomed love of Luthien and Beren, and how it has come again. How this Evenstar of unchallenged beauty fell in love with a bronze soldier, and fell into darkness for him.

I am so weary now, and yet I cannot sleep. For you are not like the others Boromir; you consume my thoughts with your dedication to your people and shame me that I had to leave your father's realm. We cannot all become brilliant golden stars as you have become. Doomed to shine briefly before falling to shadow. I am a bronze soldier, hard and dull but still sufficient to the task. I will go on where you will fail Boromir. I will protect Gondor for you when you fall.

It will happen soon, the elf and I agree. Perhaps you are even aware of it yourself and that is the reason for your withdrawal from the nine. Or is it eight now? The number dwindles and soon the number will lessen even more; for I do not know how it will be that you could live with yourself when you honour has forsaken you. I close my eyes, and think of Arwen, of the evenstar and golden soldiers falling into shadow. Of Undomiel, and bronze soldiers that will cause her beauty to fade away into nothingness. Even in sleep, I cannot find rest. Weariness is overtaking me once again.

Tin

In the shire children play upon tin whistles, before growing up and out of their little toys. When they become tweenagers and start paying attention to hobbit lasses and lads, they throw away their tin whistles or put them in boxes to collect dust. My cousin and I, we each had a whistle that our parents bought for us. I lost mine many years ago, and where it resides now is a mystery to me. Pippin perhaps still has his, left in his bedroom perhaps deep in the hills of the Tookborough. Does he worry, I wonder, whether or not his parents have given him up for dead? Does he realise that we have been missing from the shire for almost a year?

Hobbits were not meant to travel the world, despite old Bilbo's many adventures. All four of us are tired, and more than a little afraid. In the shire, there are no shadows that creep across the forest floor to rest above your heart; cooling your skin and blocking the sun from soaking into your bones. In Brandybuck hall I did not have to think on whether my next meal would be my last, only on when the next meal would be coming. There are times like now, when the orcs are following our boats upon the river, that the cold wet air raises the hair upon my arms and feet and I wish I were home.

Our adventures have taken us far from our home, and despite everything I sometimes feel like a tin whistle compared to the great warriors that walk with us. Boromir is a large, strong presence that Pippin and I are grateful for. He is like us, of the strong solid earth and reminds me strangely of home. The big man always speaks of his Minas Tirith, and the brother he has left behind. He speaks so eloquently that I have begun to think of this Gondor as a place of great beauty; yet also of great sorrow. There is a look in the Man's eyes that speaks of what he does not; Boromir is afraid to go home, afraid of what he might find there.

But all is not lost, and at least Pippin has stopped complaining incessently about second breakfasts. Strider had to compromise much to the amusement of the others in allowing a 'mid afternoon tea' despite the fact that none of our fellowship has had tea since we left Rivendell. I suppose that there must be a bright side to our travels, yet all the fellowship has become dimmer without the guiding light of Gandalf leading us to Mordor. Everything seems darker now that we have passed through the mines of Moria, and not even the forest of Lorien could lighten our spirits.

I long for home, despite all that I have seen and experienced. Where the days were long and peaceful as Pippin and I would sit on the banks of the Brandywine and blow our tin whistles all day. The cheap light metal that would never rust. I feel like tin now, small and fragile compared to Aragorn and Boromir. I feel tarnished and dull when I look at Legolas, and it is only when I am with my cousins and Sam that I truly feel at home.

Perhaps the world has a place for tin whistles, yet I am beginning to feel that the shire is the only place that is right for us.

Brass

He's lost another button off of his vest, and the it takes more effort than is proper for me not to tell him that no good hobbit gentlemen of the shire goes without good brass buttons. Mr. Frodo cannot help losing his buttons, and it isn't a Gamgee's place to correct him, no sir. Besides which, if all that we have to worry about is losing more of his brass vest buttons than I would call it a lucky thing indeed. We have already lost to much as it is.

Bill was a sore blow to me, losing him when we travelled through the mines. Despite all those cruel tricks that mean Bill Ferny played on Bill, he was a good hearted beast and carried his burdens without a fuss. He listened to my yammerings about the quest to this Mordor place, and my worries about poor Mr. Frodo. He may have been just a pony, but he was a listener when everyone else was deaf to all but their own worries and concerns. He understood me, pony or no. Losing him to a pack of hungry wolves was like leaving a friend to die so we could save ourselves. I meant it when I told Mr. Strider that it was a sore blow. I do hope that good old Bill got out of there all right.

We are far from the shire, and the good clean earth where the Gamgees are most welcome. Moria was not like the fresh sweet smelling soil that grows the vegetables and flowers of Bagend. It was cold and hard, silent and dusty. It was like the caked hard mud of the road in the summer when the sun shone onto the earth for months; when no clouds of rain came to hide the bright rays or dampen the thirsty earth. Moria was like that mud; neglected and hardened against the harsh outside forces. It was there in the mines that I wept, not for Bill as I had done so before, but for the poor forgotten flowers that are even now being choked with weeds back in the Shire.

Gandalf was the sorest blow of all, and indeed Mr. Frodo was quite dismayed with his loss. Good old Gandalf with his fireworks and bags of tricks; even if he did threaten to turn me into something unnatural he and Mr. Frodo were good close friends that they were. I wonder to myself now if losing Gandalf were the same for Mr. Frodo as it was for me to lose Bill? My master seems to be smaller now, and the dark circles under his eyes grow with each passing day.

But it is of no matter, for he has his Sam with him. Even if he has lost his good stout brass buttons, I will be with him wherever he goes even if it is to this Pit of Doom in Mordor. A good servent does not leave his master and I promised Gandalf. I won't lose my Mr. Frodo, and I don't mean to.

Silver

Elves do not know death, unless it be from fading from grief or being slain by an enemy. We do not age, nor die from illness. We are immortal and as such I have watched the centuries pass by like the wind that flows through my father's forest. Elves do not know the passage of time as mortals do; we do not reckon it as a limited thing. For us, we truly do have all the time in the world.

The ring must be destroyed and for that I shall commit myself completely, even unto my death. For I know that I shall pass unto the Halls of Mandos to be with my fallen kin and meet Oropher, my king's sire. Death holds no fear for me, and yet now as I travel from the Golden Woods of the fair Galadriel I tremble. Not for myself, but with the knowledge that my companions will die. Perhaps in the war and like Mithrandir; battling foes to gain safety for the others. Perhaps in the following darkness if we should fail. But they will die even if we prevail, and the injustice of that wells anger from deep within my heart.

I did not know death, did not comprehend the fullness of it until I saw my friend and teacher fall into a dark abyss battling a demon that cannot be killed. I have known Mithrandir for millennia, have grown up with his prescence in my father's court and now I shall never know him again. There will be no more dances in his honour, no more stories of Aman, no more strong silvery wisdom for this fellowship. Our guiding star has fallen into shadow, and I wonder if this is what Lord Elrond felt as he watched his king fall at the battle of Mordor. Suddenly alone, without a companion who truly understands the burden of immortality. Yet Elrond had others with him while I am alone among seven.

With the death of Mithrandir I now feel the doom of the second born in a new way. Each time I look upon my comrads, my friends, I see their deaths through a thin veil of their living flesh; Boromir's will come soon now and I can see his clearest of all. The ring calls to the Gondorian and both Estel and I agree that we may have to act quickly very soon. Despite my friendship with Boromir, the fate of all our people's rests on Frodo's success. It will destroy a part of me but if forced to, I shall slay the Gondorian to save my people; and his as well.

The nights are dark in the woods, with only the silver moon and stars to guide me. I long to sing as I did in the forest of Lorien, yet silence must be kept if we are to travel in secret across the banks of the river. So now I stand in silence and listen to the soft and feathery breathing of my seven companions, hearing more than the sounds of their breaths the lack that has been their since moria. The absence of an old man's light snoring as he rests for a few moments from his long and heavy burdens.

The trees are whispering again, and I close my eyes and think of them. They whisper of the silver moon and stars, of an elf that walks beneath their boughs and the mortals that follow him. The leaves above me shake and shiver with the knowledge that we bear evil with us, and I touch the roughened bark of an oak to reassure it that we will not linger here. The silver shadows conceal death here, and I have no wish to tarry. There has been enough death here for one forest to deal with.

*****

THE END

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