Fire and Ice
Nov. 23rd, 2003 07:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
filegI have had this small scene trying to get out of my head since I re-read the climbing of Caradhras and wondered how, in all the years I have been reading this book, I had failed to see this quote of Boromir's... An exorcism, so I can sleep. A first draft. Opinions welcomed.
Fire and Ice
Pippin’s heart still raced, though he walked with measured pace beside the Guardsman in black and the Wizard in white, and the bier upon which they carried the flushed and fevered body of Gondor’s new Steward. The tang of oil clung to his skin; the cloying smell of burning, and the grit of ash was everywhere, inescapable, drowning his senses.
In his mind, Pippin was still seeing the old Steward, eyes agleam with flame. He sprang forward, reckless in his madness, brandishing a knife in his right hand and a torch in his left as he stretched out his arms toward his fallen son.
The fine hair on Pip’s arms and neck rose in a chill that tried to make a lie of all the burning. He felt his heart blaze now with cold, as his hands and face had on Caradhras, long ago, in the swirling, blinding, snow.
The steward’s other son stood suddenly beside him, sheltering him and Merry with his body and his cloak from the winds that blew across the Redhorn. Wraping his arms about them, he begged for their comfort, knowing it would come at a cost.
"What do you say to fire?” he heard Boromir ask Gandalf. “The choice seems now between fire and death.”
Looking down at Faramir’s smudged and sweaty face, Pippin could not understand how a father could make such a choice.
Fire and Ice
Pippin’s heart still raced, though he walked with measured pace beside the Guardsman in black and the Wizard in white, and the bier upon which they carried the flushed and fevered body of Gondor’s new Steward. The tang of oil clung to his skin; the cloying smell of burning, and the grit of ash was everywhere, inescapable, drowning his senses.
In his mind, Pippin was still seeing the old Steward, eyes agleam with flame. He sprang forward, reckless in his madness, brandishing a knife in his right hand and a torch in his left as he stretched out his arms toward his fallen son.
The fine hair on Pip’s arms and neck rose in a chill that tried to make a lie of all the burning. He felt his heart blaze now with cold, as his hands and face had on Caradhras, long ago, in the swirling, blinding, snow.
The steward’s other son stood suddenly beside him, sheltering him and Merry with his body and his cloak from the winds that blew across the Redhorn. Wraping his arms about them, he begged for their comfort, knowing it would come at a cost.
"What do you say to fire?” he heard Boromir ask Gandalf. “The choice seems now between fire and death.”
Looking down at Faramir’s smudged and sweaty face, Pippin could not understand how a father could make such a choice.
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Date: 2003-11-24 08:51 am (UTC)And your title made me think of Robert Frost's poem, "Fire and Ice": Some say the world will end in fire/ Some say in ice..." One of my favorites of his, and rather appropriate to this, I think.
But I'd love to see more of this!
~Kris