The Silver Flame (LOTR)

A Fell Voice in the Air

As the Fellowship struggled through the snow-covered pass, the wind howled violently, whipping at their cloaks and stinging their faces with icy gusts. The mountain seemed alive, testing their every step with a treacherous mix of rocks and snow. Visenya walked beside Frodo, her sharp eyes scanning their surroundings, ever-watchful for signs of danger. She could feel the weight of Saruman's dark presence in the air, his power pressing down on them like a heavy shroud.

Suddenly, Frodo slipped on a patch of shale, his foot giving way beneath him. Visenya's hand darted out, but she wasn't fast enough to catch him before he tumbled forward. As Frodo scrambled to his feet, his eyes widened in horror—the Ring had slipped from his grasp and now lay gleaming in the snow. A strange silence fell over the group as all eyes fixed on the small, shining object.

Boromir moved first. His hand reached down, lifting the Ring by its chain, and for a moment, he stood still, his eyes fixed on it as if transfixed by its dark allure. The wind seemed to die down, the world narrowing to the single point where Boromir held the Ring, his fingers trembling slightly. Visenya, standing just behind Frodo, watched the scene unfold with a grim understanding of what power could do to a man.

Boromir's face shifted, a beatific smile crossing his lips as if the Ring was whispering something only he could hear. His shoulders squared, and he seemed to grow in stature, his whole presence magnified by the object's pull. Visenya tensed, her hand instinctively hovering over her sword hilt. She had seen men fall to the lure of power before—men like Aegon and Maegor, and she knew how easily Boromir could be lost to its seduction.

"Boromir?" Aragorn's voice cut through the stillness, quiet but firm.

"It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing," Boromir murmured, his voice almost distant, his eyes still locked on the Ring. "Such a little thing..."

Visenya took a step closer, her eyes narrowing as she gauged Boromir's intent. Aragorn, too, had moved closer, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword, prepared for whatever might happen next.

"Boromir," Aragorn repeated, his tone low, a warning in it now. "Give the Ring to Frodo."

For a moment, Boromir didn't move, his face caught in a trance. The air around them seemed to vibrate with tension, the strange hum of the Ring's power growing louder in Visenya's ears. She could almost feel it, pulsing with malevolent energy, tugging at the very edges of her own will.

Then, as if snapping out of a deep dream, Boromir blinked and looked down at the Ring, his expression clearing. "As you wish," he said lightly, though his voice was strained. He smiled at Frodo, almost sheepishly, and handed the Ring back. "I care not."

Aragorn's hand relaxed on his sword hilt, though his eyes remained watchful. Boromir ruffled Frodo's hair, trying to mask the tension that had just passed, but Visenya caught the fleeting look of guilt in his eyes.

As the Fellowship continued their march, the storm intensified. Snow fell thick and fast, piling up around their boots, making each step a grueling effort. Visenya stayed close to the hobbits, helping them push through the drifts as the wind howled through the pass. Her instincts, honed through years of battle and hardship, warned her that the worst was yet to come.

Suddenly, Legolas stopped ahead, his elven eyes scanning the horizon with alarm. "There is a fell voice in the air," he called out, his voice carrying over the wind.

Visenya's hand immediately went to her sword, her sharp gaze following Legolas's line of sight. The wind carried more than just snow—it carried malice.

"It's Saruman," Gandalf muttered darkly, his voice barely audible above the roaring wind.

As if on cue, the mountain above them groaned. Rocks and shale began to fall, crashing down in a cacophony of thunder. Aragorn reacted immediately, shouting orders. "He's trying to bring down the mountain! Gandalf! We must turn back!"

"No!" Gandalf's eyes flashed with determination. He raised his staff high above his head, his voice booming into the storm. "Losto Caradhras, sedho, hodo, nuitho i ruith!" The words echoed, ancient and powerful, but Saruman's voice rolled past them like thunder, his dark magic entwining with the wind.

A sudden crack of lightning split the sky, followed by a deafening roar as an avalanche of snow came crashing down toward them. Visenya's heart raced. "To the cliff!" she shouted, grabbing Pippin and pulling him toward the rock face as the others followed suit.

The avalanche came fast, burying them in moments. Snow piled around Visenya as she held Pippin tightly, her body shielding him from the brunt of the icy deluge. She could hear Boromir and Aragorn frantically digging for the hobbits, and after a tense few moments, Merry and Sam were pulled free, shivering and terrified.

"We must get off the mountain!" Boromir said urgently, brushing snow from his face. "Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the West road to my city."

Aragorn shook his head, still pulling snow off Frodo. "The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard."

Gimli, his stout form covered in snow, grunted. "We cannot pass over the mountain. Let us go under it! Let us go through the Mines of Moria!"

Visenya's eyes flicked to Gandalf, her brow furrowed. She had heard of Moria in passing but knew little of the mines. Gandalf's face, however, told her enough. There was deep worry etched into his features. His hesitation was palpable.

At last, Gandalf turned to Frodo, his voice soft yet filled with weight. "Frodo?"

The Ring-bearer looked up, meeting Gandalf's eyes. He, too, carried the weight of the decision in his heart. He glanced around at the others—the exhausted hobbits, the determined men, and Visenya, who stood tall despite the cold, her presence a steadying force.

"We will go through the mines," Frodo said, his voice trembling slightly but resolute.

Gandalf nodded slowly. "So be it."

As the decision settled over the group, Visenya couldn't help but feel a chill unrelated to the snow. Something about this path, about the mines, felt wrong. But there was no turning back now. The only way was forward.