Blinded
Now, climbing Caradhras, the brilliant glare off the ice flares deep into your
head. It sears your thoughts, making your blood pound against your skull. Tears
scald your eyes. You never imagined there could be so much heat at the top of a
frozen mountain, to make you sweat beneath your cloak while your exposed skin
burns and cracks. There is so much brightness with the sun flashing golden
against the snow. You feel a sudden longing for dark places, even those that you
know you should never conjure—the chilling shadows of the Nazgûl, the
impenetrable blackness of Barad-dûr. It is almost as if these thoughts are not
yours but have been forced upon you by the agonizing gleam.
You hear a commotion behind you and turn to see that the Ringbearer has fallen.
He tumbles down the slope, but you scarcely notice, nor do you worry about his
safety. The chain has slipped from around his neck and lies half-buried in the
snow, its burden glittering up as if placed there for your eyes alone. The Ring
glows brighter than the snow around it, sharper than the sun on the icy peak.
You cannot resist; you pick it up and hold it before your eyes in the
crystalline air.
No marks, no blemishes, no scratches mar the Ring. It appears to be the perfect
size to fit your finger. So small a thing, yet it is more vibrant than the
mountaintop, more intense than the sunrise. Your eyes burn as you study it,
hunting for hidden letters that you know only fire will reveal.
Reflected in its maddening gold band, the Ring shows you the armies of Gondor
turning back the enemy. You see your father unbowed, clear-eyed, with pride
shining on his features. Your beloved brother turns a glowing smile upon you.
The Tower of Ecthelion gleams like a spike of silver as you stand on the
parapets, gazing at the power and triumph spreading like wildfire over your
freed lands.
"Boromir!" The voice falls over you, a shadow that clouds your foresight.
Startled, you glance up at the Ranger—a dark, dirty shape against the clean,
pale mountains. Yet his eyes are as blue as the sky, and his teeth are as white
as the snow when he bares them. "Give the Ring to Frodo," he orders you, and for
an instant you see something that the Ring did not show you: Aragorn, crowned
with a circlet of gold, sitting on the throne in Minas Tirith.
In that moment, your vision clears once more, and you are free of the Ring's
spell. Though you can still hear it singing your name, it is only a Ring once
more—a gold band reflecting the brightness of snow. Frodo snatches it from
you, curling it in his fist, his wide blue eyes darkened with sorrow. But
Aragorn's eyes still glimmer fiercely when you meet them, and beneath his anger
you see his fear and concern for you.
To show him that you do not care, you ruffle the Ringbearer's tangled curls and
watch flakes of snow flutter to the ground. Aragorn has not broken his stare,
and for the first time you notice his knuckles gripping his sword. Then you turn
back toward the icy slant of the mountaintop, white as the blank, unwritten
pages of the future. You lift your eyes to a radiance so dazzling that you
cannot tell which dark patches are real, and which a trick of your mortal
vision.
by Your Cruise Director
ou have seen the darkness with your own eyes, the treacherous crags of Emyn
Muil and the Black Gates of Mordor, but nothing can prepare you for the pain of
seeing too much light. The first time you looked upon the Ring in Rivendell, it
seared your eyes; you thought you saw flames dancing on its surface, bolts of
lightning shooting through its glimmering band. Then Gandalf spoke in the
forbidden tongue, and the sky turned black, and the Ring absorbed the darkness.
