Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

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~ Chapter 2:  THIS is the Fate of Middle-earth? 

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"You were correct, Lord Elrond.  Frodo has indeed chosen to carry the Ring."

Unsurprised, Elrond drew is attention away from the land below and turned to acknowledge the speaker.  “Ah, Mithrandir.  I was wondering when you would seek me out.”  The Elf lord spoke quietly as he leaned against the balcony railing.  “I am sorry to see the young hobbit so burdened, yet there is nothing we may do to ease this, save offer him the aid and protection of the Fellowship.  You know this as well as I do.”

Gandalf walked up to the balcony ledge and placed one hand on the railing.  Closing his eyes, he gripped his staff tightly and inhaled deeply.  Elrond turned outward towards the land as well, and the two stood for a time, shoulder-to-shoulder in contemplative silence.

The wizard’s light chuckle caused Elrond to cock his head and regard his companion curiously.  “We speak of the fall of Middle-earth,” he stated with raised eyebrows, “and yet the wise Mithrandir laughs as though the journey he is about to partake upon is a mere frolic through the trees?  Forgive me, but I seemed to have missed the apparent humor of the situation.”

Gandalf opened his eyes and continued to chuckle.  “No, no, my old friend.  It is I who must be forgiven.  I was just imagining the look that crossed Glóin’s face when young Legolas was introduced to Council.”

The usually stoic face of the elf lord threatened to break.  “Indeed. . .  I had not realized that Dwarves were capable of. . .  squeaking.”

Looming danger momentarily forgotten, the wizard and Elf lord broke out into hearty laughter.  “Still, I must speak with Glóin,” said Elrond when they had regained composure.  “I would not have him placing any more prejudices in the head of his son than he already has.  Elves and Dwarves do not see eye to eye as it is, and the history between Glóin and Thranduil will only serve to make things more difficult for Legolas and Gimli.  I fear any advice imparted to Gimli from his father may only reinforce this.”

“Have you yet to inform Thranduil of his son’s errand?” asked Gandalf as the two exited the balcony and entered the library of the Homely House.

“The rest of the Mirkwood party will depart this morning.  I expect it will take several weeks before they reach the kingdom.”

“Mmmm,” murmured Gandalf thoughtfully as the two departed from the library.  “Or perhaps I should have asked: have you informed Thranduil of his son’s traveling companions?”

Elrond grimaced as he gracefully closed the library doors behind him.  “You know very well of his thoughts on Legolas’ friendship with Aragorn.  While Thranduil recognizes Aragorn’s legitimacy, he is still rather displeased by his son’s loyalty to a mortal—particularly one from the line of Isildur.  And I dare say he views you as a rather poor influence as well.  It goes against my better judgment to inform him that Legolas is not only traveling with the two of you, but Gimli son of Glóin of the Lonely Mountain, among others.”

Gandalf stopped abruptly.  “I, a poor influence?”  The wizard snorted indignantly.  “Why, that is the most utterly ridiculous—”

“Mithrandir,” interrupted Elrond dryly, for he had not missed the twinkle in the wizard’s eye, “You are notorious for your dalliances in others’ affairs.  Need I remind you of one Bilbo Baggins?  After your instigation of that incident, it is no wonder Thranduil is so wary of you.”

“Notorious, indeed!”  The wizard sniffed in mock righteousness.  “And as for instigating, my ancient friend, wizards do not instigate.  We simply offer priceless guidance to those who have lost their way.”

Had the two still been in the library, Elrond would have found great difficulty in restraining his desire to throw a large book at the irrepressible wizard’s head.  Luckily for Gandalf, the library was some distance behind them now, and there were no other heavy (and possibly quite painful) objects within the Elf lord’s reach.

“Come,” Elrond sighed in exasperation, “let us depart.  You have a frightened hobbit to console and I must speak with an irate Dwarf.”

*     *     *

The youngest son of Thranduil hummed softly to himself as he nocked another arrow to his bow.  Unlike those of Mirkwood, the training grounds of Imladris were brighter and more spacious.  Legolas’ woodland heritage had given him a natural affinity for the densely-packed forests of Mirkwood, yet even he had to admit that Imladris was immensely appealing.

THWACK!  The arrow hit the target with deadly accuracy obtained from countless years of training.  Legolas quickly drew another and continued peppering the target with well-practiced ease.  As his body mechanically nocked, drew, aimed, and fired, he allowed his mind to wander.

 ‘Ah, Mirkwood,’ he sighed.  ‘Far too long have you been wrapped in a cloak of darkness and evil, and my heart aches at the very thought of it!’

His quiver now empty, the young Elf went to retrieve his arrows.  As he tugged at a particularly stubborn arrow, his thoughts suddenly drifted to his father.  He frowned.

He had been so caught up in the previous days’ events that he had given no thought to what his father’s reactions might be.  The young prince had been shocked and flattered when Lord Elrond himself had requested that he join the Fellowship.  Thinking back, Legolas was still unsure of the Elf lord’s reasoning.  Though not lacking in battle experience (for he had the many dark creatures of Mirkwood to thank for that), he was certainly not as experienced as those who had faced Sauron in the Last Alliance.  Rather, he had expected one of the great Noldor lords still remaining in Middle-earth, such as Glorfindel, to be chosen.  And yet, here he was, requested to represent the entire race of Elves in a quest which would quite possibly take him to the fiery pits of Mt. Doom itself.

An image of the Fellowship flashed before his eyes.  There was Aragorn and Gandalf, both of whom Legolas knew well and trusted completely.  Then there was Boromir, the all-too-human man of Gondor. . .   Wide-eyed Frodo, loyal Sam, naively brave Merry and Pippin. . . that Dwarf. . .   This was the fate of Middle-earth. 

Feeling suddenly ill as the full realization of what he was about to embark upon set in, Legolas sat down abruptly. 

“O may Elbereth help us!” he murmured.  “What have I gotten myself into?”

*          *            *

Gandalf smiled to himself as he followed the sound of happily chattering hobbit voices.  Stepping around a rather portly bush, he was rewarded with the sight of Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, and Bilbo all seated around a picnic consisting entirely of mushrooms.

“This, my friends,” said Merry as he carefully selected a particularly large mushroom and held it up to the autumn sunlight, “is no mere mushroom.  Nay, it is a work of art!  Behold, a masterpiece in all its glory that—”

“—would be admired much better were it in my stomach,” finished Pippin.

Merry glared at him.  “Get your own mushroom, you uncultured monster.”

“Hullo, Gandalf!” Frodo called out cheerfully as the wizard approached. 

“Would you care to join us, my dear friend?  Here, have a mushroom.”  Bilbo dug through the overflowing basket and offered a wrinkled grey mushroom cap.

Gandalf smiled and shook his head.  “No thank you, Bilbo.  I leave the mushrooms to you.  I will, however, join you.”  The wizard carefully leaned his staff against a slim young birch tree and sat down next to Bilbo.

“So, Samwise Gamgee,” started Bilbo with a knowing grin.  “Do be so kind as to tell me of this beautiful Rosie Cotton whom has supposedly stolen your heart.”

“I-I-I don’t know what you mean!” stammered the embarrassed hobbit.  His eyes darted about furtively as he desperately tried to ignore the large grins on the faces of his companions.

“Ooooh, you mean Rosie COTTON?” teased Merry.  “Well, I shall tell you of the lovely maiden who has our Sam so smitten.”

“I am not. . .” Sam mumbled weakly.

Much to Sam’s chagrin, Merry proceeded to stand up and very animatedly discuss the agreeable qualities of the maiden in question.

 “Rosie Cotton,” sighed Merry, clasping his hands together and fluttering his eyelids.  “She has hair that shines as if it were rays of sunlight.  And her lips, why, they are as red as the autumn leaves of Rivendell. . .”

Sam sighed.  In truth, he missed Rosie quite a bit.  And, as far as his very humble opinion was concerned, Merry’s exaggerated narrative of her was in actuality very truthful.

“. . .and her eyes! Oh, her eyes!” continued Merry.  “They are sparkling pools of brown.  As brown as—eh?  What was that, Sam?”

“Blue,” murmured Sam dreamily.  “They’re blue.  Not brown.  Blue like the morning glories that--”

He stopped abruptly.  “But. . . you already knew that, didn’t you?” he concluded with narrowed eyes.  Merry’s grin widened.  Pippin covered his mouth with his hands in a desperate attempt to stifle his snickering.

“I knew it!” laughed Frodo.  “Come on, dear Sam.  There’s no harm in admitting it.  Rosie’s wonderful!”

Sam blushed.

“He’s blushing!” shouted Pippin triumphantly.

“I am not!” exclaimed Sam, his blush only deepening.

“Then tell me, Master Gamgee,” said Merry, thoroughly enjoying the other’s discomfort, “do you always turn this shade of red in the autumn?”

“Perhaps he changes with the trees,” added Pippin.

It was all too much for the love-struck Sam to bear.

“Yes!  Yes I do!” he flustered.  “And if you’re not careful, I’ll hurt you like an autumn tree, too!”

Pippin rolled his eyes.  “Sam, you dolt, trees can’t—OUCH!”

“I’m an Elvish autumn tree!  So take that!” roared the hobbit.  “And that!  And THAT!”

Now, it is neither polite nor civilized to smack one’s own brethren with a large stick, but unfortunately for the beleaguered Merry and Pippin, Sam the Autumn Elvish Tree disregarded this courtesy and attacked in full-fledged wrath. 

After receiving several welts apiece, the two hobbits finally managed to tackle Sam and wrestle the stick away from his grasp.

Frodo sat comfortably on the grass and enjoyed the spectacle as it unfolded.  They were good companions, this Frodo knew.  They had demanded to follow him, no matter where the end may take them.  Frodo sighed inwardly and watched as the three hobbits tumbled amongst the fallen leaves.  He would have to watch over them.

A leaf lazily floated downward and landed softly in his hair.  He reached up and pulled it out, but instead of casting it aside, Frodo cupped the leaf in his hands and stared at it.  Perhaps it was the elven nature of the leaf—having fallen from a tree of Rivendell, or perhaps it was that he was weary from Council, but as he stared at the fragile thing, it seemed to Frodo that its color radiated onto his hands.  It was a deep crimson.  The color of blood.

“Frodo?”

Startled, Frodo blinked and looked up.  Gandalf and Bilbo regarded him with concern.

“Sorry,” he began lamely.  “I just. . . let’s go inside, shall we?”

“Very well,” answered Bilbo, giving him one last glance.  “Merry, Sam, Pippin!  Come along, my boys.  We’ve had enough of you rolling about in the dirt as though you were swine.”

The disheveled trio picked themselves up off the ground and cheerfully began collecting the remains of the picnic.  Laughing and joking, they made their way inside.  Bilbo and Gandalf followed.

Somewhat dazed, Frodo stood up and looked after his companions.

“Frodo,” spoke Gandalf gently, “Let it go.”  He placed a comforting hand upon the hobbit’s shoulder.  “Let it go.”

“Let what go?” asked the confused hobbit.

 Gandalf gave a slight nod towards the hobbit’s hands.  Frodo looked down.  He was still cupping the leaf.

“But,” he began.  It was silly, really.  He couldn’t explain it, yet he did not want to let go of the leaf.  It was so delicate.  He wished to protect it, to keep it perfect and unmarred by time or change.

“It fell of its own accord,” said the wizard.  “It was destined to do so.  You cannot stop fate, Frodo.  Let it go.”

Reluctantly, Frodo let the leaf fall.  He looked at his hands and shivered.  To him, they still bore the leaf’s crimson glow.

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Disclaimer:  All characters are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  I have taken some liberties here.  In the movies, Legolas was said to be 2,000-something years old.  Where did they come up with this number?  I had always assumed that he was no older than 1,000.  Then again, in the movie his character was a bit more reserved (I’m not complaining, it was Jackson’s interpretation of the book and therefore fully merited).  Ah, yet another great debate regarding everyone’s favorite Elf.  I didn’t even bother to touch the hair/eye color issue.

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~ Chapter 3: Laws of Motion ~

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In true Elvish fashion, Legolas quickly gathered himself together and stood up.  'Yes,' he mused, 'Imladris is quite stunning.'  A sense of energy radiated from every tree and blade of grass.  This, coupled with the vibrant yellows, oranges and reds of the changing season, was overwhelming.  The air hummed and throbbed with life.  Legolas almost had mind to reach up into the air and grab a piece, for he doubted not that he would be able to do so.

The Elf cast aside his weapons and walked to the center of the archery field.  A careful inspection of the area revealed that he was completely alone and unobserved.  Tilting his head upwards to face the sun, he began to sing.  Somewhat hesitantly at first, but gradually louder as his self-consciousness faded and he gave in to the surging joie de vivre around him.

Arms outstretched, Legolas began to gracefully dance and spin in circles.  His fair voice rang clear and melodious across the grounds.  He had not indulged in such childish behavior since his hundredth year, and to do so now with such utter abandon felt marvelous.

With one last spin, Legolas threw himself to the ground and laughed.  He closed his eyes and continued humming, bobbing his head and lightly drumming his fingers to the song’s rhythm.

“Pardon me, Prince of Mirkwood,” interrupted a very amused voice, “but would you mind repeating that dance?  I am afraid I seemed to have missed the last step.”

Legolas bolted upright, thoroughly humiliated.

*        *        *

Glóin grunted as he struggled to his feet.  Spending a majority of the day with his back against a tree trunk had not been wise.  His body protested violently as he staggered forward.  ‘Curse these elves and their trees,’ he thought vehemently.  Why couldn’t they simply build stone benches like any other sane being?

For a moment, Glóin allowed himself the pleasure of visualizing Rivendell undergoing a proper Dwarvish renovation.  He picked up a stone and tested its weight in his hand.  Yes, there was good stone to be found here.  If one were to uproot several of those troublesome trees. . .

He cast a glance over his shoulder at the young tree he had been resting against.  When he noticed Elrond absentmindedly stroking the tree’s leaves, he immediately dropped the stone and barely managed to swallow the oath that sprang to the tip of his tongue.

“Greetings, Glóin of the Lonely Mountain,” said the Elf lord as he smiled and gave the tree an affectionate pat.

“At your service, Lord Elrond,” muttered Glóin.  It was unnerving the way Elves suddenly appeared, and the Dwarf was certain they took much pleasure in startling those who lacked the ability.

Elrond, correctly guessing the Dwarf’s line of thought, held up a hand.  “Peace, Glóin,” he laughed, “I did not mean to startle you.  Forgive me.”

Glóin blinked, somewhat surprised by the Elf lord’s intuition.  “Nay,” he gruffly replied, “it is nothing.  Do not trouble yourself.”

Elrond smiled as he approached the Dwarf.  “I hope you have found the Last Homely House to your liking.”

“Excuse me, my Lord,” interrupted Glóin, “but I do not believe I would be mistaken in assuming you have a different reason for seeking me out, other than the discussion of Rivendell’s hospitality.”

The Elf cocked an eyebrow at the Dwarf who boldly met his gaze.  “Alas, you are correct,” confessed Elrond with a slight smile. “Indeed, I did not.  Trust a Dwarf to immediately strike the heart of the matter.”

Glóin stiffened slightly.  “I mean that only in the most complimentary manner,” Elrond quickly added.  He was rewarded with Glóin’s grunt of approval.

“Come,” motioned Elrond, “let us walk along the garden paths before the light has faded completely.  Have you yet to see Limulus Pond?” *

“No,” admitted Glóin, wondering how their conversation had again meandered off-topic, “I have not.”

*        *        *

“Calm down, Legolas.”  Elrohir laughed, greatly amused by the horrified look on the other’s face.  “I shall tell no one that the Prince of Mirkwood behaves like a child when he thinks no one is watching.”

In truth, Elrohir was quite glad to have witnessed Legolas acting as such.  Legolas had a tendency to be more quiet and reserved than most, and Elrohir often wondered if it was due to his nature, or the effects of growing up in Mirkwood.  Elrohir suspected the latter, for it was a belief (though not openly discussed) shared by many.

Legolas fluidly got to his feet and smiled somewhat sheepishly at the dark-haired elf.  “I was not aware you had engaged in spying, Elrohir.”

“Normally, I do not.  But I find you to be most entertaining,” retorted the son of Elrond.  “And,” he added, “I wished to know whether you had reached a decision yet.”

Legolas pursed his lips.  Lord Elrond had ordered several scouting missions ere the Fellowship set off.  The campaigns would each take at least a month to complete.

“Nay, I have not yet decided,” answered Legolas.  “Whither will you go?”

“Down the Silverlode and beyond,” replied Elrohir with a heavy sigh.  “Some will go north, past the springs of Hoarwell and into the Ettenmoors.  Aragorn will be departing west with the Rangers.  I believe they mean to go as far as Tharbad.” *

Legolas nodded.

“Of course,” continued Elrohir, “we need scouts to the east and south: into Mirkwood, or over the Dimrill Stair and eventually on to the Gladden Fields.”*  He paused to glance at Legolas.  “Your knowledge of Mirkwood is extensive.  I am sure it would be of great advantage to us if you were to join that mission.  And you would be able to inform your father of your journey.”

In true Elven stoicism, Legolas attempted to keep his face void of any betraying emotion.  Despite his valiant efforts, his minute flinch at the words “your father” did not escape Elrohir’s notice.  This struck the son of Elrond as odd, but he wisely decided not to pursue the matter.

“We shall hold council tomorrow morning and discuss the final details,” concluded Elrohir.  “You will be present, I assume?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”  The younger elf nodded and absently waved a hand.  “Lord Elrond informed me this afternoon.”

Elrohir shaded his eyes and surveyed the archery grounds.  The sun had begun to set, and elongated shadows began to dance among the grass.  The field itself was bathed in a brilliant orange glow.  At his side, Legolas had slipped into moody introspection.

“Gather your arrows, my moody little friend,” teased Elrohir.  “It grows dark—though I am not sure it is due primarily to the setting sun.”

With mock indignation, Legolas stalked over to retrieve his bow and quiver.  Turning, the prince grinned rather impishly at the dark-haired Elf lord.  “Better to be moody than a grinning fool,” he retorted.  “Does it not make you ill to walk around all day with that ridiculous look plastered upon your face?”

And with that, he dashed off into the forest, Elrohir hard on his heels.

*        *        *

Aragorn had been searching fruitlessly for Boromir all day, and had yet to find him.  He came to the edge of Limulus Pond and released a frustrated sigh.  ‘I thought only Elves possessed the ability to disappear,’ he thought wryly.

Boromir did not strike Aragorn as the type to hide.  If anything, the man of Gondor tended to be confrontational and bull-headed.  On the other hand, Boromir had seemed extremely uncomfortable around so many Elves.  Perhaps he decided to forgo this quest and had returned home.  Aragorn shook his head viciously to dispel the thought.  No, Boromir would not do such a thing.  He was not the type.  The situation was awkward enough, and wishful thinking would do nothing to help the matter.

His ears caught the sounds of voices gradually moving towards the pond.  Aragorn’s hopes faded as Glóin and Elrond came into view.  No, he would not find the son of Denethor tonight.

“I am not suggesting you forgive Thranduil for the grievances he has caused you,” Elrond was saying, “but do not let your anger take control.  Please do not make the situation any more difficult.”

“And how, Lord Elf, would you expect me to go about doing this?” snapped Glóin.

“Glóin of the Lonely Mountain, you will support your son and let it be known that any acts of… considerable vengeance… will NOT be tolerated.”  Elrond’s words were not a suggestion.

*        *        *

Legolas tore through the forest’s branches.  He cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder.  Elrohir was faster than he had anticipated. 

‘But not fast enough!’ he thought with a grin.

He raced onward and noticed a clearing up ahead.  More concerned about the Elf lord chasing him, Legolas thought little of how “improperly” he was behaving.  After all, one may only act so princely when being hunted by a son of Elrond.  Not to mention that Legolas, in his younger years, had been tormented enough by his elder siblings to have a pretty fair idea of what Elrohir might do to him if he were caught.

With a great leap, Legolas landed in the clearing.  He quickly straightened, and suddenly found himself face-to-face with an extremely astonished Elrond and Glóin.

“Lord Elrond!  I—AAAIIIIII!!!!!!!”  Elrohir, noticing only that his prey had ceased moving, lunged.

Legolas was catapulted forward as Elrohir hit him from behind.  Unfortunately, Glóin was standing directly in the path of motion.  Legolas slammed into the Dwarf, and a resounding splash! echoed throughout the clearing as all three landed in Limulus Pond.

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*  Limulus Pond:  Completely made it up.  Scientific names make very good Middle-earth names.  There are no Limulus living in the pond.

* The Fellowship of the Ring:  Book Two, Chapter Three ‘The Ring Goes South’

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Disclaimer:  All characters are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  I own nothing but my name.

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 ~Chapter 4: Just Add Water ~

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The history of Middle-earth is richly spun with yarns of love, sorrow, treachery and heroism.  But never, in all the Land’s ancient weavings, has an Elf been slain by the hand of a single Dwarf.

Legolas Greenleaf—Sindar Elf, Prince of Mirkwood, and youngest son of Thranduil of the House of Oropher—was dangerously close to becoming the first.

Limulus Pond was not very deep, yet it was nonetheless wet (as water tends to be).  The two Elves and Dwarf found themselves coughing and gagging in a desperate attempt to dislodge water from their lungs.  Pushing several strands of wet hair out of his face and tucking them behind his ear with a slender hand, Legolas guiltily regarded Glóin out of the corner of his eye.

The Dwarf had gone strangely silent.  Tiny rivulets of water were streaming down his face and beard, and he was covered in duckweed.  Yet he made no move to wipe himself off.  The setting sun did not help matters: her orange florescent rays reflected in Glóin’s eyes, making them glow in a most disturbing manner.

It was said that the Dwarves were molded from the earth.  And indeed, the sopping wet creature seething in the muck of Limulus Pond was reminiscent of such beginnings.  Aragorn, however, (from his safe distance on the bank) highly doubted that they had been borne into the world so enraged.

Lord Elrond recognized the danger of the situation immediately.  Elrohir made move to stand up, but was stopped when his father held up a hand and shot him a warning glance.  Legolas, for his part, had made no effort to rise as of yet, and continued to watch the stone-like Glóin warily.

“Master Dwarf,” began Elrond as he cautiously approached the pond’s edge, “allow me to assist you out of the water.”

Glóin slowly rotated his head and stared at the Elf lord’s out-stretched hand as though Elrond were offering him a snake.  After what seemed like an eternity, he finally acquiesced and grabbed hold.  A collective sigh of relief rippled through the trees, and Aragorn and Legolas both let out the breath of air they did not know they were holding.

“What goes on here?” demanded a gruff voice as short, heavy footsteps marched towards the pond. 

Legolas resisted the urge to drown himself.  Gimli, son of Gloin, could not have picked a worse time to make an appearance.

*          *            *

Contrary to Aragorn’s belief, Boromir was not hiding.  At least that’s what he told himself.  For two days now, the Man of Gondor had sought refuge in the vast library of Imladris.  Oh, he would have much rather been exploring the outdoor wonders of the Elven kingdom, but the feeling of being constantly watched by Elven eyes had eroded his nerves.  Three days ago, he noticed that he had developed a nervous twitch, and this discovery concerned him greatly.

All in all, it was a pleasant library.  Boromir supposed he would be enjoying it much more if he were a reader.  That, however, was Faramir’s department. ‘I wonder what he would think if he were to see me now,’ thought Boromir as he slowly paced down a shelved isle.  It took him exactly fifty-eight paces to reach the end of the isle—Boromir had counted in one of his many moments of overpowering boredom.

Turning sharply on his heel, he began to pace back down the isle when suddenly the library doors were flung open.  Not wanting to face an Elf, Boromir quickly dropped onto all fours.

‘Oh good grief,’ he berated himself furiously, ‘this is ridiculous.  I am the son of Denethor!  I am NOT some spineless child.  Get up, you fool!’

He had just resolved to stand up when he heard footsteps swiftly approaching.  He quickly dropped back down.  Muttering an oath, he punched himself in the left shoulder as it began to twitch violently.  He wondered if he was going mad.

“Aha!  There you are!” Gandalf’s head poked around the corner of a shelf.  There was an uncomfortable pause.  “Son of Denethor, what in the name of Arda are you doing on the floor?” 

Boromir glanced up.  The look on Gandalf’s face suggested that he was not the only one questioning his sanity.

Clearing his throat, the man stood.  “I was, ah, reading,” he offered, and seized the first book his hand landed on.  “Ah, ahem, yes.  Most fascinating.  Elvish literature that is.  Isn’t it?  I mean, to say, if you enjoy that sort of thing—which I do, most definitely.”  

Boromir cringed has he heard the babble flowing from his mouth.  He didn’t even know Elvish.  If his sword had been unsheathed, he would have seriously considered impaling himself upon it.  Inwardly, he groaned.

“Oh,” was the only reply Gandalf could bring forth.  There was another uncomfortable pause. 

Boromir thumbed through the book in his hands and attempted to regain some semblance of aristocracy.

“Oh,” repeated Gandalf, suddenly recalling why he had been searching for the man.  “Lord Elrond wishes to hear of your decision at the council meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Decision?” asked Boromir, still trying to regain his composure.

“Yes, my dear Man.  You do recall the scouting missions, do you not?”

“Ah, of course,” replied Boromir.  “It had momentarily slipped my mind.”

“Well, we shall have plenty of time to discuss the matter on the morrow,” said Gandalf.  “In the mean time, there is quite a decadent feast awaiting us in the dining area.”  The wizard smiled and patted his stomach as it growled.

“It would be most rude of me to keep you—or your stomach—waiting,” laughed Boromir, relieved that the awkward moment had passed.  Besides, the prospect of a good meal was enticing, even if it did mean being subject to the endless scrutiny of Elven gazes.

Before they departed, Boromir admired the book one last time and flipped through a few more pages.  “A marvelous book,” he stated lightly as he placed it upon a table.

Gandalf nodded in agreement, deciding not to tell Boromir that he had been “reading” the book upside down.

*          *            *

“I repeat, what goes on here?”

“Greetings, Son of Glóin,” said Elrond smoothly.  “We seemed to have had a slight…accident.  If you would be so kind as to escort your father back to his quarters, I’m sure you will find the servants more than willing to supply you with dry towels and such.”

Gimli placed both hands on his hips and challengingly glared at the Elf lord.  Elrond was reminded of a similar look Glóin had given him only a few hours earlier.

“Come, boy,” muttered Gloin vehemently, “I shall inform you of this…accident… on our way back to the room.”  And with that, the older Dwarf stomped over to his son, taking special care to glare at Legolas as he passed by.

Elrond sighed as the two departed.

“Congratulations, Legolas,” quipped Elrohir cheekily, “you certainly managed to make a mess of that one.  Throwing Dwarves into ponds and behaving as a two hundred year…”  He trailed off as Elrond turned to face him.

“And speaking of acting one’s age,” began the exasperated Elf lord.  Legolas was granted momentary satisfaction as he saw Elrohir cringe.  “I do not even want to know of your motives for this display of foolishness.  I am sure, my son, that you have much better things to do than to spend your time picking on those younger than yourself.”

Elrohir’s normally soundless footsteps squelched as he stepped onto the bank.  “But, my dear father,” he protested with a laugh, “if it were not for me, impudent youngsters such as Legolas and Aragorn would not have grown into the respectable warriors they are today.”

Elrond rolled his eyes as Aragorn and Legolas groaned.  “The feast is in an hour.  I trust you will be dried and presentable by then?”

Elrohir grinned has he wiped away the duckweed plastered on his face.  “I should like to think this duckweed brings out the color of my eyes…”

Aragorn snorted.  “GO,” commanded Elrond.

Legolas rung out his hair and grimaced as he stood on the bank.  Aragorn had never seen his friend act in such an irresponsible manner and did not intend to let the issue be forgotten any time soon.

“My friend, I did not know you were capable of—” Aragorn stopped short as Legolas looked him straight in the eye, pulled himself up to his full height, and attempted to straighten his soaked tunic with a forceful tug.

“Heir of Isildur,” began the Elf with an impressive amount of superiority considering how ridiculous he appeared, “I would like to remind you that in my present condition, it would not be below my severely-depleted dignity to shove you into this pond.”

Aragorn wisely changed the subject.

*          *            *

The two chatted merrily as they meandered back to the halls of Rivendell.  Had Aragorn been less amused by Legolas’ situation, and had Legolas not been so preoccupied with the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothes, both might have noticed one very angry Dwarf lying in wait among the deepening shadows of the evening.

*          *            *

Gimli’s anger boiled as the fair Elf approached.  It was a shame to bring Aragorn into this mess, yet the Elf must pay for the insult Gimli’s father had received.  Gimli had heard of the countless cruelties inflicted by Thranduil, and he was not about to let the king’s brat escape so easily.  As far as he was concerned, the Elf had it coming.

His fist closed around a good-sized rock.  He slowly crept out of the underbrush, and throwing the rock with all the strength he could muster, Gimli let out a terrific bellow of rage.

Just as he hoped, the Elf spun around to face his attacker.

*          *            *

A cry of attack from the rear startled Aragorn and Legolas from their light-hearted conversation.  Both whirled around to face their opponent.

Under normal circumstances, Legolas would have been able to avoid the missile, yet Gimli had foreseen this and purposely yelled after the rock was launched.

CRACK!  Legolas felt something hard and sharp slam into his forehead above the right brow.  The world suddenly exploded.  He vaguely remembered Aragorn’s look of astonishment and the intense pain that shot through his head.

Then everything went black as the Elf crumpled to the ground.

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized places and characters are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

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~ Chapter 5: Flight From Rivendell ~

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Dawn broke crisp and fair over the land of Imladris.  A cool wind, hinting of autumn showers, swept over the hills and swirled down playfully amongst the trees.  Gilded leaves responded, rustling and pattering in coy conversation with the passing breeze.  The gentle gusts laughed in reply and even the golden sun seemed pleased to join the day.

Aragorn walked swiftly down an open corridor towards Legolas’ quarters, feeling the chill morning air nibble at his fingertips and nose.  He reached for the guesthouse door just as Arwen pushed them open.

“Arw—” he started with a smile.  It never failed to amaze him how he could fearlessly face countless enemies, yet was rendered completely weak in the knees by one look from the lady.

The exquisite daughter of Elrond held a finger to her lips and promptly hushed the Ranger.

“Shhh, there are those who still slumber within these walls, Love,” she whispered.  “Let us not wake them.”

Aragorn allowed the lady to link her arm in his and direct him back down the peaceful corridor.  He had seen far too little of her these past few days, and relished any opportunity that would find her at his side.

“How is he?” asked Aragorn, sniffling in the morning air and drawing the Evenstar closer to him.  The previous night had been nothing short of a nightmare.  After Legolas was struck, Aragorn opted to stay with his friend and protect him rather than chase the attacker.  He had been unsure of the opponents’ number, or what the enemy’s intention was.  As a result, Legolas’ attacker (Aragorn was now positive there had been only one) had escaped.

He had half-dragged the semi-conscious Legolas back to the halls of Rivendell, where they had created quite a stir.  The house was in uproar—for it is not every day an Elf is attacked on elven soil, especially one of royal blood.  Search parties were sent to scour the area, but by then the attacker had long-since fled (and perhaps, wisely so).  Lord Elrond quickly ushered the two to the Healing House and personally administered a sleeping potion so that the injured Elf would not be hampered by a splitting headache as he recovered.

Arwen took one of Aragorn’s hands in her own and squeezed it, attempting to give the numbed man a bit of warmth.  It charmed her the way he was so strong in thought and action, yet so vulnerable to the simplest change in climate.

“He still sleeps,” she answered.

“Still?”  Aragorn furrowed his brow.  He had personally witnessed Elrond concoct the medicine.  Legolas should have been awake hours ago. 

“Yes,” said Arwen.  “Father was concerned as well—he wondered at first if he had perhaps over-drugged the Prince.”  Her grey eyes twinkled and the corners of her mouth tugged upwards in a slight smile.  “But then Rindrol mentioned how she had seen Mithrandir ‘slinking about the room’—I believe those were her exact words—an hour after the two of you left Legolas to his rest.”

Aragorn sighed and shook his head.  “I wonder what the sly fellow is up to now.  And,” he added in afterthought, “I wonder what and how much he gave Legolas.”

Resting her head lightly upon Aragorn’s shoulder, Arwen let out a silvery peal of laughter.  “You know, Love, the phrase ‘never meddle in the affairs of a wizard’ is as old as Mithrandir himself.  Yet I cannot help but wonder if his tinkering oversteps its boundaries and forces others to interfere…”

*          *            *

Those selected for the scouting missions had begun to gather in the council chambers.  Elrond was just about to take his seat when he realized he had left several important maps in his chambers.  “Ai,” he sighed in frustration.  “Glorfindel,” he called out to the Elf lord before running his errand, “I have forgotten the maps.  Council will begin in ten minutes, and I have not enough time to retrieve the maps and deliver a message to young Frodo Baggins.  Will you please inform him that I wish to go over some precautions concerning the Ring and would like to see him as soon as possible?”

The golden-haired Elf smiled amiably and waived Elrond off.  “Certainly, my Lord.”

“You have my sincere gratitude,” returned Elrond, and quickly departed.

Glorfindel soon found himself engaged in a most fascinating conversation with Gildor of the Havens concerning the different viscosities of wood.  “Elladan,” he called, “would you be so kind as to deliver a message to Frodo Baggins?”

“It would be my pleasure,” answered the older twin.

“Inform Master Baggins that Elrond wishes to warn him about the Ring and would like to teach him a few things about its history.”

And with that, Glorfindel turned back to Gildor.

“Elrohir.”

“Hm?”  Elrond’s second son turned to face his older brother.

“Tell Frodo Baggins that Father wishes to teach him about the Ring.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Elrohir sighed as Elladan moved away and struck up a conversation with Halbarad of the Rangers.  Sometimes he really hated being the younger twin.

Luckily, Niphrindel chose to walk by at that exact moment.

“Captain,” commanded Elrohir. 

Niphrindel paused and then bowed slightly when he recognized who had called his name.  “My Lord?”

“Warn Frodo Baggins that Lord Elrond wishes to. . . to. . .” Elrohir recalled what Elladan had told him to the best of his knowledge, “. . .teach him lessons about wearing the Ring.”

“Yes, my Lord.”  Niphrindel bowed again.

*          *            *

After a splendid breakfast of mushroom and cheese omelets, the hobbits had retreated to their favorite spot in the garden.

“Oooooh,” groaned Bilbo, “I do believe I have made a glutton of myself this time!”

Ignoring the morning dampness that still clung to the grass, all five hobbits sat down on the ground and let their breakfasts settle.  Pippin and Merry, lying on their backs, found amusement by pretending to ride the puffy white clouds floating overhead.

“Whoa!  Look out, Merry!” shouted Pippin, entwining his fingers in the grass and weaving back and forth with the movements of “his” cloud.

Merry stuck out his tongue in concentration and rolled slightly to the left as the cloud maneuvered out of harm’s way.  “Whew,” he gasped.  “Wait!  No!  Turn, Pippin, TURN!”

The overstuffed columns, oblivious to the hobbits’ game from their lofty position in the sky, met each other in an excruciatingly slow head-on collision.

Both hobbits looked on in dismay as the clouds meshed and fused.  After a moment, Pippin released the blades of grass he had wretched from the earth when attempting to turn his cloud and sat up.  “I guess that takes care of that,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Merry absentmindedly chewed on the root of a grass blade.  “You should have turned sooner,” he replied.

A very frazzled Elf darted into the serene garden.  “Frodo?  Frodo Baggins?” he asked breathlessly.

“No sir, I’m not Frodo,” answered Sam.  “I’m Samwise Gamgee, I am.  This over here is Mister Frodo.”

The Elf threw himself to his knees and gripped Frodo by the shoulders.  Drawing the hobbit in close, he desperately relayed the message he had been ordered to give. 

“I am supposed to. . .warn you,” gasped the Elf.

“Warn me?” asked Frodo, becoming quite alarmed.  “Warn me of what?”

“The Ring!”  The Elf’s fair face contorted in anguish.  “Lord Elrond plans to take the Ring and has threatened to teach you a lesson!”

Elves cannot have heart attacks, but Lord Elrond would certainly have fallen victim to such an instance had he heard the newest version of his message.  Niphrindel, discovering that he, too, had duties that suddenly needed his attention, had ordered Fanlin to deliver the message.  Fanlin, in turn, told Turthal, who ordered Celdrin, who informed Nenial, who passed it on to Lildrial. . . 

Needless to say, by the time poor Elenthil delivered the message to Frodo, it had become quite altered.

Frodo was horrified.  “No!” he cried.  This could not be—not Elrond!  How had the wise and powerful Elf lord fallen under the spell of the Ring?  If Elrond had truly been defeated, what hope was there for him?  Or, for that matter, Middle-earth?  Frodo felt as though he had been placed at the center of a whirlwind.  His mind was spinning.  He felt sick, and knew it had nothing to do with the large breakfast he had eaten.  ‘Impossible!’ he told himself.  ‘No, not Lord Elrond!  Oh Valar, please, not Lord Elrond!’

The panicked Elf—Elenthil—shook Frodo.  “Master Baggins?  Sir?  Frodo?”

“Stop that!” yelled Sam, his desire to protect Frodo allowing him to overcome the shock of Elenthil’s news.  At his side, Merry, Pippin, and Bilbo stood in stricken silence as the information sank in.

Elenthil blinked in surprise and released Frodo.  “Now see here,” began Sam, “panicking won’t help anything.  It’s like the Gaffer always says: ‘energy’s better spent trying to fix the problem instead of crying and moaning about it.’”

Of course, the Gaffer had been referring to a broken wheelbarrow when he imparted this priceless bit of wisdom, but Sam decided the advice was still merited.

Frodo seemed to gain strength from Sam’s level of calmness, and found his mind becoming sharper.

“Sam’s right,” he stated, “Though I have no idea what we are to do.  I admit, we are in quite a predicament.”

“Flee,” whispered Elenthil.  “You must flee.”

“You mean to tell us we should just pick up and leave?” interjected Merry, finally discovering his voice.  “How are we to do that?  We are conveniently trapped in Lord Elrond’s land!”

Not to be left out, Pippin added his two cents.  “Isn’t there a council meeting today?”

Elenthil perked up and nodded.  “Yes, yes,” he muttered.  “The council meeting.  It has already begun.  If you leave now. . .”

“They will not realize we are missing until tonight, at the earliest,” finished Pippin triumphantly.

“We?” asked Frodo, raising his eyebrows.

“We,” Pippin stated forcefully.  Sam and Merry bobbed their heads furiously in agreement. 

“Mister Frodo,” said Sam, “You’ll not get rid of us that easily.  We mean to stay with you, whether you like it or not.”

Despite all the troubles that weighed heavily upon him, Frodo could not resist a smile.  “Right then,” he conceded, “We must make haste.  The further away we are before they realize we’re missing, the greater chance we have of escaping.”  He turned to Bilbo. 

“Don’t fret, my dear boy,” the elder hobbit said fondly.  He ruffled Frodo’s hair and gave the Ringbearer a sad smile.  “Let’s face it—I am of no use to you when it comes to mad dashes through the forest.  But I will aid you in other ways.  When Elrond questions your whereabouts, I shall inform him that you are merely resting in your rooms and do not wish to be disturbed.  That should give you enough time to reach the Ford and cross the river.”

Frodo threw himself into Bilbo’s arms.  “I cannot bear to think what will happen to you once Lord Elrond uncovers your deception,” he cried.

Bilbo gave him several hearty pats on the back.  “Do not worry about me, dear boy.  Now hurry, you must make use of what little time you have!”

Frodo took a deep breath and gathered himself together.  Elenthil swiftly pointed them in the direction of the Ford (“Head south,” he instructed), and with a final look back, Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry began the flight from Rivendell.

*          *            *

The council room was bustling with activity when Elrond returned.  The Elf Lord strode into the room, clearing his throat rather loudly as he noticed Aragorn on the receiving end of what he deemed a rather inappropriate farewell kiss from Arwen.  The two pulled away sheepishly, and Elrond made a mental note to consider the possibility of locking Arwen in her room until Aragorn left the kingdom.  He tossed the idea out when he concluded how many locks it would take to do so, as well as the fact that Aragorn was most likely an expert lock-picker.  There really was no telling what else his foster son learned from his association with the Rangers. . .

Elrond took his place at the top of the circle, and others quickly took his lead.  And with that, the Second Council began.

*          *            *

Several hours later, Council had ended, and Boromir was dumbfounded.  He was positive he had made up his mind to go south.  Why, then, was he headed west?  The Rangers were heading west—ARAGORN was heading west.  And somehow, that sneaky Lord Elrond had tricked him into going west as well.

He wracked his brains, trying to recall exactly how it all came about.

“I shall be going south,” he had stated.

Lord Elrond regarded him solemnly.  “I would ask a favor of you, son of Denethor.”

Despite his mistrust of Elves, Boromir found himself flattered.  The Elf lord had personally asked a favor of him, of all people. . .

“Anything, my Lord.”

“It would please me greatly should you choose to ride west with Aragorn and the Rangers.  I feel it will be most beneficial to our cause.”

Disclaimer:  All known characters are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  I own nothing but my name.

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~ Chapter 6: The Lion and the Gnat ~

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By midday, the telltale morning wind had brought its promised showers.  Thankfully, the rain was without force or fury and provided only minor annoyance to the hobbits.

“I think it’s misting.”

Sam heaved the sigh of one who has heard the same circular conversation far too many times and looked back over his shoulder.  Pippin and Merry had been arguing over the weather patterns for a better part of two hours now.  Pippin claimed it to be “misting,” while Merry argued for a light drizzle.  Sam concluded it really didn’t matter what it was, because everything was still wet and not getting any drier.

“Pippin, there’s no such thing as ‘misting.’”  Merry pulled back a thin branch and waited until Pippin had ducked under it before letting the stick swing back into place.

“Then what do you call this?” asked Pippin, gesturing his arms in a wide, upward arch.  “If it were drizzling, we would be able to see drops of rain.  As it is, I see no rain, yet I am growing wetter by the second.  So you see,” he gave his head a sharp tilt for emphasis, “it is misting.  OUCH!” 

Merry did not wait until Pippin was in the clear before releasing a second branch.

“Mister Frodo,” called Sam as he trundled around a mossy tree stump, “I don’t suppose we’ll be resting anytime soon?”

Frodo inhaled deeply and attempted to calm his jumbled emotions.  He was greeted by the bitter, nutty smell of wet autumn leaves.

“I’m sorry Sam,” he said apologetically, “but you know we have to reach the Ford by tonight.  Then we can cross it tomorrow morning.  If Lord Elrond captures us…”  He shuddered at the thought.  If Elrond were to gain power, nothing could stop him and it would be futile to try.  The Elf lord did not posses Sauron’s physical strength, but his knowledge of all things was just as potent and deadly.  ‘He would know everything we intended to do in order to stop him—perhaps even before we knew it ourselves,’ thought Frodo.

“Do you think it was he who killed the Elf?”  Pippin regarded Frodo with wide-eyed expectancy.

“What are you talking about?” cried Frodo.

“Didn’t you hear?” asked Merry.  “An Elf was attacked last night.  I heard a rumor that his head was chopped off.”

Frodo gasped.  He had retired early last night, for he was still feeling the effects of the Nazgûl blade.

“Elrond wouldn’t… he couldn’t… could he?”  Sam blanched.  To him, Elves were still mystical and to be revered.  The thought of one Elf killing another seemed impossible.

“That’s not all,” whispered Pippin.  “I heard it was the Elf that was supposed to join us in the Fellowship.”

Sam gasped and gripped Frodo by the tunic.  “Wh-why would Elrond kill another Elf?” asked the horrified gardener.

“Don’t you see?” said Merry.  “He can’t go after Gandalf.  Gandalf’s too powerful.  So he eliminates the second biggest threat: the Elf.  It makes perfect sense!”

Sam, despite his terror, looked doubtful.  “Wouldn’t Strider be the next biggest threat?”

“He raised Strider,” Merry pointed out.  “He wouldn’t kill his own son.  I think.” 

A sickening realization dawned on Pippin.  “What if… oh no!” he exclaimed.

Three pairs of impatient eyes were turned his way.  “What if Strider’s already on his side?  I mean, Strider did bring us here.”

The hobbits found themselves drowning in a wave of utter hopelessness and despair.  Had the whole of Middle-earth been turned against them? 

Snapping branches suddenly echoed throughout the forest. 

“Listen!” gasped Pippin.  “What is that?”

“Run!” cried Frodo, “They’re after us!  RUN!”

 Four startled and frightened hobbits dashed madly through the trees, seeking desperately to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers.

*          *          *

The crebain gave his wings a satisfactory flap and watched the hobbits fleeing below him.  Orcs and Wargs could not penetrate the Elven boundaries of Rivendell, but the rules differed for those of the air.  ‘Foolish creatures,’ thought the bird smugly.  His scare tactics had worked perfectly.  Now all he needed to do was fly back to the others and wait.  The hobbits would deliver themselves. 

*          *          *

Legolas (whose head, despite rampant rumors, was still intact) lifted heavy lids and was greeting by blinding light.  He moaned and quickly shut them.  He felt unnaturally disoriented and ill.  ‘Did I drink too much wine last night?’ he wondered. ‘I have overslept!  Father will have my head.’  The Elf tried in vain to recall what he had drank the previous evening and then stopped himself—thinking was far too painful.     

Gritting his teeth, Legolas forced open his eyes.  ‘Strange,’ he thought, ‘my head does not throb.  It aches.’

He gingerly reached up to rub his forehead and was surprised when his fingers touched not skin, but a bandage.  ‘What in the name of—’ Fragments of last night’s events flooded through his mind in befuddling waves.    

He was not in Mirkwood, he had traveled to Rivendell… for Council.  Then there was the Ring…  The dwarf and the pond…   Legolas winced as he recalled that particular incident.  He had been walking with Aragorn and someone attacked them.

‘Aragorn!’ the Elf sat up quickly.  Had Aragorn fared any better than he had? 

He vaguely recalled the Ranger dragging him to Elrond.  And then Elrond had given him something…and then…  

“MITHRANDIR!” the Elf yelled out loud.

The door to his quarters was immediately opened and Glorfindel peered through the frame.  “Legolas?” called the golden-haired Elf lord.  “Is everything well?”

“As well as is to be expected,” he replied grumpily, “when one is drugged by a wizard.”

Glorfindel laughed and stepped into the room.  “I hoped you would awaken soon.”

“Has the council meeting already ended?”

Glorfindel nodded.  “My friend, you have slept for the better part of the day.  The evening meal draws near.”

Legolas groaned and made move to draw himself up from the bed.

“Nay Thranduilion,” smiled the older Elf, “I would speak to you of our scouting mission to Mirkwood first, then you may rise.”

“Scouting mission to Mirkwood?” 

Glorfindel could not help but notice the unnaturally strained tone in the Elf prince’s voice.  “Yes,” he regarded the younger Elf curiously.  “We assumed you wished to inform your father of your upcoming departure.”

“Assumed?”

Glorfindel raised a golden brow.  “Legolas,” he said sternly, “I am quite aware of what I say and do not need you to repeat it for me.  Do you not wish to return to Mirkwood?”

He was greeted with silence.  “Legolas?”

Legolas unconsciously twisted a bed sheet in his hands and suddenly found the wall fascinating to stare at.

Glorfindel furrowed his brow in frustration.  ‘Confounded prince,’ he thought.  He had the sneaking suspicion that the Elf had somehow ended up on Thranduil’s bad side—again.  Legolas had a knack for doing so.  His mother had been Thranduil’s exact opposite, yet was blessed with infinite patience and a sweet, even temper.  Legolas had managed to inherit all of her traits except the last few.  Instead, he had been gifted with Thranduil’s stubborn pride and temper.  As a result, the two rarely saw eye-to-eye and neither was willing to budge from his position.  

Glorfindel decided the issue was a lost cause.  “You are to join the eastern scouting party and I am to lead the group, which will consist primarily of Rivendell Elves.  I technically have no commanding power over you due to your Mirkwood connexions, but it was decided that your knowledge of the area would be of the greatest asset.”

The Elf lord rattled on, but Legolas hardly listened.  ‘Now I know I shall have to face the wrath of Father.  Once again, his punishment has backfired.’  In attempt to preserve the timelessness of Elven life, Thranduil had forbid the Wood-Elves to make contact with any outside members of the forest.  Several months ago he had been most displeased to discover his youngest son frequented the human settlement of Laketown*.  Legolas did not wish to disobey the king, but his curiosity for news of outer lands had finally outweighed Thranduil’s orders.  It had been more out of exasperation than anger that had caused Thranduil to send his youngest child to Imladris (“It is adventure you seek, my son?” he had sarcastically declared.  “Then I shall give you one: ride to Imladris and inform Lord Elrond that the creature Gollum has escaped.”).  Nonetheless, a punishment was a punishment, and Thranduil would not be happy to find that Legolas had somehow managed to use it to his benefit.

 Legolas watched Glorfindel’s face as the captain spoke.  ‘I wonder if he realizes he tends to blink quite a bit when speaking…’

*          *          *

“Father, may I inquire as to what you are doing?”

Elrond jumped and turned to face his lovely daughter.  “Oh, I… I was just on my way to visit the hobbits,” he stammered.

Arwen was suspicious: Elf lords do not stammer.  “You know perfectly well that this is my room.  What is it you are hiding behind your back?”  She craned her neck and attempted to peer over her father’s shoulder.  “Is that a lock I see in your hands?”

The fair maiden put both hands on her hips and looked at her father questioningly.  “One would think you were attempting to lock me in my room!” she laughed.

Elrond looked embarrassed. 

Arwen’s eyes widened in shock as she realized that was indeed Elrond’s intention.  “FATHER!”

The Lord of Imladris quickly kissed his daughter on the cheek, exclaiming, “You look stunning today, Daughter, and I have business to attend to so I reluctantly bid you farewell.”  With that, he turned and swiftly walked (one might say ‘fled’ but Elf lords do not flee) down the hallway.

*          *          *

Bilbo stopped his pacing as a light hand rapped at the door.  He took a deep breath and sent a silent plea to the Valar.  ‘And so it begins,’ he thought grimly as he opened the door.

“My lord Elrond, what a pleasant surprise.”  Bilbo did not miss the lock the Elf carried in his hands.  ‘He knows!’ the hobbit thought in anguish.  ‘He has come to lock me up!’

“Ah, Bilbo.  I must say I am relieved to find you here.”  Elrond smiled down at the hobbit.  “I cannot seem to find the rest of your kindred.  Do you know of their whereabouts?”

Bilbo felt the icy grip of despair close around him.  ‘You may have me, O Elf Lord,’ he thought furiously, ‘but I shall not go without a fight!’

“Do your best, Lord Elf!” he cried, “But I will never tell you where they are!  You will never find them!  Never!”

Elrond was stunned.  “Bilbo Baggins, what is the meaning of this?” asked the perplexed Elf.  “Where are the other hobbits?  I have no time for games!  Frodo must be warned of the Ring’s dangers before he unwittingly harms himself and those around him.”

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to be shocked.  “You don’t want the Ring?” he asked, feeling his previous adrenaline rush fade away.  “But I thought—we were told—don’t you want to take the Ring and use it for yourself?”

“I would never do such a thing,” exclaimed Elrond, looking somewhat horrified.  “Bilbo, what gave you such an idea?  Where is Frodo?  Bilbo?”

The hobbit looked into the Elf’s wise, piercing eyes and knew Elrond to be truthful.  Elrond regarded Bilbo with concern as the elder hobbit became ashen-faced and shaky.  “Oh no, oh no,” Bilbo moaned.  Elrond reached out a steadying arm to catch the hobbit as his knees gave away and he slowly sank to the floor.

“We thought you were going to take the Ring and use it,” Bilbo wailed.  “So they fled from your halls.  They have left the safety of Rivendell—they are gone!”

*          *          *

The four hobbits did not stop running until the full harvest moon hung heavily in the night sky and the rushing waters of the Ford could be heard directly in front of them.  Exhausted beyond all measure, they collapsed onto the ground and allowed their aching limbs to rest.

Sam stifled a groan as he rolled over onto his stomach.  “Do you think they’re still following us, Mister Frodo?” he whispered.

“Shhhh!” hissed Merry.

Sounds seemed to intensify in the darkened Elven forest, and trees cast distorted shadows in the pale moonlight.  On any other night it would have been considered strangely beautiful, but given the hobbits’ current situation, the night was terrifying and eerie.

They strained their ears and glanced furtively about the deep shadows. 

“Elves can walk silently,” whispered Pippin.  “We wouldn’t be able to hear them.  What if we’re surrounded right now?”

Frodo didn’t even want to consider that.  “Shhh!” Merry hissed again.

The hobbits lay in wait for several minutes.  All was silent. 

Frodo sighed in relief and slowly sat up.  “I think we’re in the clear,” he whispered. 

The moment the words escaped his mouth, the dreaded snapping of branches reverberated through the trees yet again.  In the silence of the night, the sound seemed thunderous.

The group was up and running before Frodo even had a chance to yell “Run!”

“To the Ford!” he shouted.  “We must cross now!”

They burst through the trees and skidded to a halt at the banks of the Ford.  The afternoon’s rain had caused the waters to rise, and the swollen river was frothing and foaming as it careened haphazardly through its bed.

“What do we do now?” cried Pippin in dismay.

The sound of their pursuers grew closer, and the hobbits whirled to face their foes. 

“They’re coming!” wailed Sam as a dark shadow fluttered out of the trees and landed onto the bank.

 Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin stared open-mouthed at their “foe.”

“Peep!”  The crebain rustled his wings and let out a cry. 

“A bird?” Pippin gurgled meekly.  “We were being chased by a bird?”

Sam let go of his tight grip on Frodo’s tunic and rubbed his hand over his face.  He was sure he was going to pass out or cry.  Maybe both.

“A bird,” repeated Pippin.  Merry began to chuckle.  Frodo felt a foolish grin break across his face. 

“We ran all day,” said Merry, desperately trying to smother the laughter building up inside his gut, “from a bird!”

That did it.  All four hobbits collapsed in laughter.  “You should have seen the look on your face!” howled Pippin as he pointed at Sam.

Sam was laughing so hard tears were streaking down his cheeks.  “Don’t worry, ha hah, Mister Frodo,” he gasped, “I’ll save you!”

The four finally managed to gather themselves together and settled down comfortably on the bank.  The laughter had released much pent-up tension, and all were feeling much more optimistic.  Sam had managed to stuff a surprisingly large quantity of food into his side pouch during breakfast, and the hobbits ate the swiped bounty with gusto.

“Here you go, Little Terror,” said Pippin as he tossed the bird a few crumbs.  “Not that you deserve this.”

Sam smacked Pippin’s hand as he threw the bird a few more crumbs.  “Stop that,” the gardener ordered.  “That’s food for us—not the birds.  The Gaffer always said, ‘don’t give away what you can’t afford to.’”

Pippin grumbled as he rubbed his hand.  Merry tossed a few crumbs to the bird when he thought Sam wasn’t looking. 

“Look, he has a friend.”  Pippin pointed to the second black bird that fluttered down from the trees.

“See, now look what you started,” said Sam as a third, fourth, and fifth bird joined the group.  “They think you’ll feed them all.”

Much to his annoyance, Merry and Pippin began feeding all five birds.  “Maybe they’ll warn us when the Elves come,” Pippin said hopefully.

Merry brushed the final crumbs away from his hands.  “All gone, my friends,” he said cheerfully.  By this time, the crowd of birds numbered no less than twenty.

Frodo yawned.  “I suppose we should get some sleep,” he said.  “We’ll have just as difficult a journey tomorrow.”  He picked himself up and began walking over to a fallen tree stump.

“Shoo, shoo,” he muttered, waving his hands at the chirping birds.  They seemed to be growing in numbers, but perhaps his tired mind was playing tricks on him.

“OW!”  One of the birds nipped at his finger.  “Which one of you little monsters…”

Frodo trailed off and noticed that there was indeed a large number of crebain in the area.  “OW!” He was nipped again and retreated back to his three companions.  They were faring no better.

“Stop that!” roared Sam, swatting furiously at air.  His ear stung where the bird had pecked him.

“AAAHH!  This is the thanks I get for feeding you?” Merry tried to kick the bird nipping at his feet.

The four hobbits found themselves standing in a circular formation with their backs to one another.  Frodo gasped.

The trees had become alive with chirruping birds.  The rush of many flapping wings and shrieking black shadows filled the night air, and the gigantic flock took to the sky.  The great host blocked out the moon as they circled and dove in unison.

“Frodo,” Sam murmured uneasily.  “I don’t like this.”

As if on cue, the massive cloud of crebain encircled the hobbits.  Round and round they flew, trapping the four in an impenetrable wall of talons, beaks and feathers.

Then they attacked.

Frodo buried his head in his arms as the birds ripped and tore at him.  The creatures were merciless.  He heard Sam cry out in pain and turned to see the beasts pecking furiously at his friend’s hands, which he had thrown up to protect his eyes.  With beaks akin to small daggers, the crebain savagely stabbed the defenseless hobbits.  Needle-sharp talons raked across Frodo’s cheek and he felt the stinging wetness of blood slide down his face. 

“Stop!” he screamed to no avail. “Please, stop!”

Pippin was weighed down as several birds perched upon him and began grabbing various parts of his clothing.  He cried out in pain as their wicked claws dug deep into his flesh and pierced the skin.  Panic overwhelmed him when he realized the crebain intended to fly off with them.

“Help!” shrieked Pippin as he was lifted off his feet.  “Someone!  Anyone!  Heeeeeeeelp!” 

Merry somehow managed to fight off his attackers and latched on to Pippin’s ankle.  “Don’t let go,” sobbed Pippin, caught in a deadly tug-of-war between his cousin and the crebain. 

Sam and Frodo grabbed hold of Merry’s waist, and the three frantically tried to pull Pippin down to earth.  Pippin struggled with all his might against the talons that held him fast.  Enraged, the crebain attacked with even greater ferocity, inflicting countless wounds upon the four.

The sheer number of the raven-feathered beasts finally overwhelmed the hobbits, and there was little they could do as the birds succeeded in overpowering them all.

Beaten and bloody, Frodo closed his eyes as the wind howled around him and the ground grew increasingly smaller beneath his feet.  The crebain screeched in delight, and the four hobbits were borne swiftly through the night sky.  Where they were headed was anyone’s guess.   

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How’s THAT for some action, eh?  ;)  Okay, so attack of the birds is probably not that original or exciting, but you’ll never see an Orc or Warg fly off with the characters (I guarantee it).

*Laketown:  The human settlement near Mirkwood.  The Wood Elves trade with them for various goods.  (Special thanks to Aralome Finarfin for helping me out with this one). 

I am assuming “crebain” is singular and plural, similar to “deer.”

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Disclaimer:  (Almost) all characters are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  Regarding Shadowfax:  Originally I wasn’t sure if Gandalf had met the horse yet.  My research shows that Gandalf “borrowed” him from Theoden on September 20^th of 3018.  Council took place October 25^th, and the Fellowship left Rivendell on December 25^th.  It’s all good…    

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~ Chapter 7: November Rain ~

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“You found no sign of them?”

Elrond banged his fist on the table in frustration and looked up from the map he had been studying.  “Nay, Mithrandir.  Our only clue is this.”  The Elf lord held up three crebain feathers.  “The rain washed away all else, and made it impossible to track their flight.”

Gandalf slowly twirled his beard with one finger and began examining the map.  “They could be headed anywhere,” sighed the wizard.  “Dol Guldur… Isengard… Mordor.”

“The question,” stated Elrond wearily, “is whether or not they are first headed to Saruman and then Sauron, or straight to Sauron.  We simply have no way of knowing.”

He pounded the map again and began pacing back and forth along the Study floor.  ‘It would be much easier,’ concluded the Elf lord, ‘if I could place the blame for this incident on a single soul.  As it is, there are far too many at fault—myself included—and I have no one to direct my anger at.’

“I knew of the crebain,” he growled.  “We were uncertain of their number, but I was informed of their gathering on our borders and occasional flights into our lands.  Had I but known—”

“You did not,” interrupted Gandalf.  “There are too many ‘what if’s’ to dwell on.  Let us instead focus on solving the problem.”

Elrond nodded briskly.  “Yes, you are right.  Unfortunately,” he sighed, “our attempts to solve the problem have only created more of them.  The scouts have already left—who are we to send?”

Gandalf sniffed and pulled himself up importantly.  When the lord of Rivendell ignored him, he cleared his throat loudly. 

“No,” Elrond stated emphatically. 

“I believe, my friend, you have little choice,” the wizard pointed out. 

“You barely escaped your last encounter with Saruman,” argued Elrond.

“I was unaware of his intentions.  I assure you,” countered Gandalf, “he will not ensnare me so easily a second time.”

“You do not know which direction they are headed.”  Elrond folded his arms across his chest and glared at the wizard.

“Stop being so thick-headed, you old bat!” Gandalf cried.  “I am not some wet-behind-the-ears child.  I know perfectly well what we are up against.  Shadowfax will bear me, and other creatures of the forest have surely seen which direction the crebain flew off in.”

“Old bat,” muttered Elrond as Gandalf hurried off to the pastures.  “Old bat, indeed!”

*          *          *

The Rangers were a grim and silent bunch, noted Boromir as they headed through the Trollshaws*.  It was the type of attitude he could appreciate, for the silence spoke of hard-fought battles and difficultly trodden paths.  Perhaps Aragorn wasn’t as strange as he had originally thought, now that the man was not surrounded by Elves.

Boromir’s gaze fell upon the weathered “king.”  He had seen Aragorn kissing a particularly beautiful Elf maiden farewell, and wondered exactly what the man had done to capture the lovely creature.  ‘It certainly wasn’t on looks,’ he thought.  ‘If that were true, then she would have fallen for someone such as the Elf in our Fellowship.  Or any Elf, for that matter.’

Boromir allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to have an Elven maiden swooning over him.  It was quite a pleasant picture, until he remembered how his shoulder twitched every time an Elf came within ten feet of him.  He was reminded of a dog his father had when he and Faramir were children.  When rubbed in the right spot, the dog’s leg would begin thumping up and down involuntarily.  The faster the dog was petted, the faster his leg thumped.  Boromir supposed his shoulder would react similarly if an Elf maiden were to hold his hand or kiss him on the cheek.   

*          *          *

At the exact moment Boromir was considering the downsides of an Elven lover, Glorfindel was trying to figure out who was more unhappy: Gimli or Legolas.

The Dwarf’s displeasure was written plainly across his face, and could be heard in his footsteps as he stomped over the ground.  Coupled with the constant mutterings under his breath (which, of course, the Elves could hear quite clearly), Gimli was almost comical.

“Confounded forest, stupid mission, doltish Elves,” he fumed.  The Dwarf suddenly found himself on the receiving end of a rain shower as a tree decided to shake its leaves the moment he passed underneath.  Gimli glared at the tree and fingered his axe. 

“Witless tree.”

Glorfindel felt the corners of his mouth threaten to tug upward.  To his left, he heard Orimhedil choke back a snicker.

Legolas, to his credit, did not display his emotions so openly.  The only telltale signs of his dark mood were the unusual stiffness at which he held himself, and the smoldering glint that occasionally shone in his eyes.  ‘As though something were simmering,’ Glorfindel decided.  The archer had barely given the Dwarves a second glance, though Glorfindel knew this would not be the case if Legolas were to discover one of the Dwarves had been his attacker.  Elrond had assured the young Elf the culprit had been “apprehended and punished for his actions,” but gave no further information regarding the matter.  ‘It was probably for the best,’ thought Glorfindel.  ‘I do suppose having to face the anger of Glóin was punishment enough.’

The Elf lord watched Glóin toil through the trees and smiled.  He really did like the grumpy old Dwarf, in spite of himself.  Glóin struck him as one who remained fiercely loyal to his cause and approached life with steadfast commitment.  ‘And that,’ decided the Elf, ‘is not an easy task, especially in trying times such as these.’

The Eastern scouting mission progressed much slower than their counterparts to the west, north and south.  The Dwarves, never ones to trust horses, had opted to go on foot.  The Elves knew the futility of arguing, and the Dwarves were allowed to travel by foot whilst the Elves slowly walked their mounts.  

Thunder rumbled overhead and thick raindrops splattered down from the heavens.  “Let us make haste,” called Glorfindel as he squinted up at the cloudy sky.  “If we are lucky, we may reach the largest bank of the Bruinen* by nightfall.”  

*          *          *

Cold.  It was so very cold. 

Sam lay shivering on a frigid slab of rock.  He had no idea where the horrible winged beasts had taken them.  They were in a large, airy cavern of sorts, this he knew.  He also knew that rain was sheeting down in heavy torrents outside.  The crebain seemed none-too-pleased by this recent development.  

‘Good,’ thought the gardener shakily, ‘It will slow them down.’

He debated on whether or not he should sit up and check the welfare of his companions.  His body felt as though it were one giant, throbbing bruise.  ‘If I move,’ he wondered, ‘will those nasty monsters start attacking me all over again?’

Sam chanced a look at the birds.  They were perched on various ledges and outcroppings that lined the cavern walls.  Several of the crebain were flitting back and forth along the ceiling, crying out in calls Sam deemed as ‘angry.’  One of the raven-feathered beasts took note of his quiet observation and flew down to the hobbit’s eye-level.  The creature hopped back and forth, spread his wings in a confrontational manner, and hissed.

Sam, despite having never been hissed at by a bird, clearly understood the message.  He shut his eyes tightly, feeling the cold stone numb his cheek and the hardness of the floor as it lay unyielding beneath him.

‘Cold.  So very cold.’

*          *          *

__________________________________

¥ Appendix A:  The Punishment of Gimli

Gimli watched as the Elf sagged and collapsed as though he were nothing more than a sack of flour.  Aragorn cried out in alarm and quickly sank to his knees, cradling the Elf’s head with one arm and gripping his weapon tightly in the other as he scanned the darkened forest. 

Gimli held his breath and waited until the Ranger turned his full attention to the Elf.  It seemed an eternity passed, but at last Aragorn bent his sole concentration on Legolas.  Gimli slowly made his way through the trees, taking extra care not to step on any errant twigs or leaves.  Luckily, a second path ran but a short distance from his attack point, and the Dwarf reached it with little difficulty.

He turned and began to walk back to his quarters in a calm and measured pace.  He would leave no panicked tracks for those who might look for the Elf’s attacker.  He, Barin and Glóin had already traversed the walk several times within the last few days.  His footsteps would not appear unusual or out of place.

Though Gimli would fain admit it, he found himself growing more high-strung as he walked along.  The trees rustled accusingly, and the moon illuminated him as though it were purposely seeking him out.  It was with a great sigh of relief that the Dwarf finally reached his room.  Elvish forests made his skin crawl. 

*          *          *

Glóin glanced up from the ancient book he had been reading and watched the doorknob turn.  ‘Ah,’ thought the old Dwarf as he gave his beard a stroke, ‘At last my tardy son arrives.’  He sat the book down and rose to meet Gimli as he entered.

“Gimli, my boy,” he rumbled affectionately, “I began to worry you had forgotten about the evening meal.  Barin grew impatient and left some time ago.”  The old Dwarf paused when he noticed Gimli’s muddy hands.  “Great Smiths, what have you been up to?  You cannot go to dinner with hands like that.”

Gimli hastily brushed his hands together and mumbled a reply.  “Eh?” grunted Glóin, his heavy brows knitting together in curiosity.  He stumped over to his son and shot him a questioning look.  It did not take a fool to discern Gimli had been up to something.  And judging by his son’s reaction, Glóin guessed it had been something of a questionable nature.  The last time he received such a response, Gimli had accidentally cracked a wooden support beam, causing an entire mine shaft to collapse.  Two months of work had been reduced to rubble in a matter of seconds.  As best Glóin knew, there were no mines in Rivendell, but he was concerned nonetheless.

“There is a leaf in your beard.”  Glóin’s deep baritone grew in suspicion.  “You have been tramping about those forsaken trees?”

Gimli cleared his throat and threw back his shoulders.  “I had some business to attend to.”  Glóin crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at his son.  Gimli suddenly felt as though he were a naughty child, caught with one hand on the precious rock pile.  He lifted his bearded chin; he was NOT a child.  Glóin continued to look straight through him.  Gimli could literally feel the years melting away as he was reduced to a Dwarven youngster under his father’s gaze.

“I dealt with the Elf,” he said gruffly.  Curse that look!

Glóin narrowed his eyes.  “You did what?  How?”

Gimli shrugged nonchalantly and a slight gleam came to his eyes.  It did not go unnoticed by his father.  “I let him know the consequences of angering a Dwarf,” Gimli chuckled at the fond memory of the Elf’s ungraceful fall.  “It was just a little rock, though I suppose it will certainly leave a mark.  I wish you could have witnessed it, he fell harder tha—AHH OOH OW!”

Gimli was not exactly sure what occurred after that, for he suddenly found himself being yanked along the hallway by his beard.  “You foolish boy!” roared Glóin, marching down the corridor with a yelping Gimli in tow.  “No son of mine is a rock-thrower!  I cannot believe what my ears have heard!  Such shame!  What in the name of Mahal went through your head?  Did you even bother to think at all?”  The ranting Dwarf stressed each word with an even harder tug.

“Argh!  No!  I—OUCH—where are we—OOH—going?”  Gimli winced and his eyes began to water.   

Glóin promptly turned to his son and boxed his ear.  “To Lord Elrond,” he bellowed.  “You shall be lucky if he does not throw a rock—nay, a tree—at you!”

*          *          *

Elrond propped his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together.  He rested his chin upon them and sighed.  What a dreadful night had unfolded.  Imladris was considered by many to be among the safest of Elven realms, save perhaps Lothlórien and Mithlond.  And yet, on this very night an attack had occurred, and the perpetrator all but vanished into the night. 

He had spent the last hour or so attending Legolas, who had received a rather painful head wound, and found himself strangely wearied.  He sighed again.  If the safety of Imladris was no longer within his abilities, then perhaps…

‘Then perhaps I too must bow to the inevitable.  Perhaps this signals the end of my reign as well.’  A vision of Celebrían, as she had been before her capture and ruin, floated before him.  He shook his head to dispel it.  ‘Nay, my dearest wife, I cannot join you yet, for there is still much to do.  Soon, though.  Soon.’

He lifted his head as he heard footsteps approaching the study.  While he had been aiding Legolas, a servant informed him that Glóin wished to speak with him.  Elrond had been unable to see the Dwarf at the exact moment, and therefore suggested they meet in the Elven lord’s study.  Glóin agreed, and Elrond had been patiently awaiting his arrival.  

The wide oaken door swung open as Glóin strode in.  An extremely guilty-looking Gimli was not far behind him.  Elrond felt his curiosity piqued.  “Glóin, Gimli.”  He nodded to each and gestured for the two to sit in one of the many cushioned chairs about the room.  He watched as Gimli made for an old over-stuffed green one, which sat neglected in the corner, and then as Glóin grabbed the younger Dwarf by his sleeve and yanked him to the center of the room. 

“Tell him, boy.”  Elrond raised a brow at the tone of Glóin’s voice.  The older Dwarf sounded… threatening. 

Gimli grunted a reply, which even Elrond’s keen ears could not translate, and was promptly whacked in the back of the head by the heavy hand of his father.  “It was I,” grumbled the sullen Dwarf.

“Pardon?”  Elrond furrowed his brow and leaned forward.  “You whom what?”

Gimli shot a guilty look at Glóin and sighed.  “It was I who attacked the Elf.”  He cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “I threw a rock at him.”

Elrond remained motionless for several moments.  Gimli tried to stand a little taller as he waited for the Elf lord to speak.  “I see,” Elrond began slowly as he digested the confession.  “Gimli, you are aware what the consequences of your actions may be?”

Glóin grunted as Gimli nodded miserably.  “Not only did you attack an Elf, and on the soil of my realm no less, but you also attacked an Elf of royal blood.”  He sent Gimli a piercing gaze.  “You could be tried for assault, Master Dwarf.”

“I am well aware of this,” Gimli stated gruffly.  He wished he had not thrown the rock.  Nay, he wished he had not told his father he had thrown the rock.

Elrond sighed.  Gimli and Legolas already faced the standard prejudices regarding each other, not to mention the rather touchy history between their fathers.  The son of Glóin had managed to throw another log on the fire, and a large one at that.  “Do what you will with him, Lord Elrond,” said Glóin.  “He is certainly deserving of it.”

Elrond rose gracefully from his seat and came to stand next to Gimli.  He looked down at the Dwarf with a severe eye.  Gimli valiantly attempted to meet the looming Elf’s gaze, but found himself unable to do so.  He had never before realized how tall and… frightening… Elves could be.  He had always viewed them as a flighty, childish bunch—good for singing or coddling trees, and little else. 

Elrond stared down the Dwarf a few moments more, until Gimli began to show signs of extreme discomfort.  “Due to difficult complications, which may arise from a public avowing of your guilt Gimli son of Glóin, I shall pass the duty of judgment over to your father.”

*          *          *

“And when you are done sharpening our blades, do be so kind as to fetch me a cup of tea.  The Elves make a wonderful brew, would you not agree, Barin?”

Gimli, muttering furiously under his breath, took to whetting the axe blades with greater fervor as flashes of rage shot through his body.  Glóin and Barin were seated comfortably within their overstuffed chairs, while he was forced to run at their every call and beckon.  Glóin had even taken the liberty of shooing off Lord Elrond’s servants, claiming Gimli was “more than willing” to perform the cleaning duties.

Still muttering, he roughly dropped the axes to the ground and wiped his hands on a grimy towel (which of course, he must wash).  “Eh?  What was that, boy?”  Glóin peered at his son from over the large book his was reading.

“Nothing!” snapped Gimli.  He threw the dirty towel into a large linen bag, swearing as he noticed the other Dwarves’ dirty tunics lying in a messy heap in the corner.  ‘Would it be asking too much if they would just place their rags into the bag as I requested?’ fumed the Dwarf, storming over to shove the pile into the linen sack.  ‘One would think an army of orcs inhabits this room!’

“Gimliii,” drawled Barin, a little too sweetly.

“What now?” he spat, throwing the linen bag against the wall in a huff.  “I have already lit your pipe, fluffed your pillow, rotated your chair so it faces the sunlight, AND TURNED THE PAGE OF YOUR BOOK THRICE!”   

Barin sighed deeply.  “Yes, but I have an itch.”

Gimli narrowed his eyes.  “I must go fetch a cup of tea.”

Glóin and Barin watched in whole-hearted amusement as Gimli stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.  “Well, strike the hot iron,” exclaimed Barin as they listened to the fuming Dwarf walk down the hallway, “do these boots look a bit scuffed to you?”

Glóin pulled the pipe from his lips and leaned over to examine the other’s boots.  “I believe they do,” he replied, and brought the pipe back to his mouth.

Barin chuckled.  “Perhaps Gimli would be so kind as to polish them for me. . .”

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*The Trollshaws: A little forest on the left of the East-West Road.  It’s past the Ford and to the west of Rivendell.

**Bruinen (Loudwater) River.  Borders Rivendell and runs slightly northeast.  Heads towards the High Pass.

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

CHARACTER LIST

~Western Scouting Party~

Malbeorn- a veteran Ranger

Rowgond- a young Ranger from Hollin

Halbarad- the Ranger closest to Aragorn (give credit to Tolkien for this one, I didn’t create him)

Boromir

Aragorn

~Eastern Scouting Party~

Rithol- female Elf from Rivendell

Orimhedil- male Elf from Rivendell 

Barin- token Dwarf.  From the Lonely Mountain

Glóin- Father of Gimli

Glorfindel-  Father of Legolas (whoa, what was that!?!  I certainly hope you did a double take.  No relation to Legolas whatsoever.  Making sure you’re on top of things…  Good?  Okay then, let’s move on.)

Legolas

Gimli

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~ Chapter 13:  Arda Hath No Fury Like an Angry Glorfindel ~

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Hardly an hour after their departure from the remains of the Last Bridge, the western scouting party found themselves caught amidst a driving storm of sleet.  Icy rain fell from the slate-colored sky in thick pellets, and the wind swept it forward at an almost horizontal angle.  The group quickly discovered their hooded cloaks provided little protection from the weather as they were mercilessly pounded.

The East-West Road soon became a myriad of ankle-deep puddles and slush.  The horses sloshed through the mess, heads bowed and lowered in the driving sleet.  Aragorn shivered and felt his numbed hands fumble with Roheryn’s reins.  He had been wet to begin with due to his plunge into the river, and the icy rain was not helping matters.

“I fear my mace is rusting.”  Boromir glanced gratefully at Rowgond.  The young man’s comment was the closest any of them would come to admitting they needed to stop. 

Malbeorn, who had the sharpest vision and therefore rode at the head of the party, turned to face his companions.  Shielding his eyes with his hand, he sought out Aragorn.  “If my memory serves me correctly, a small village lies ahead.  Shall we find shelter until this storm abates, or press onward?”

Aragorn did not need long to consider the options.  Shelter of any kind sounded wonderful, for he was beginning to feel like a giant block of ice.  “I fear my sword begins to rust as well,” he began. 

“Aye,” chimed both Halbarad and Boromir, nodding in agreement.  “Our weapons shall be ruined.”

Aragorn almost smiled to himself as he was suddenly reminded of the time he had been in a similar situation while journeying with Legolas.  Legolas would have a fit if he were presently here to witness the way each refused to admit his need for rest.  It was a form of mortal pride that utterly confounded the Elven archer and never failed to drive him to exasperation.  “Let us stop at the village,” said Aragorn.  “It will provide us with a chance to dry our weapons.  Besides, I do not think we shall miss much in this weather, for it is difficult to see—much less scout—as it is.”

Halbarad, Boromir and Rowgond all murmured in agreement.  “Very well,” said Malbeorn, the only member of the group who seemed unaffected by the weather, “we stop at Fenadoch.”*

Leaning over to Aragorn, Boromir whispered quietly.  “I almost believe he prefers this weather.  Are you sure he is but a Dúnadan?”

Aragorn smiled in reply, frozen rain beading and dripping from his dark hood.  “I often wondered the same when I was younger.  I still have no explanation for his ridiculous tolerance, though I am fairly sure he is as mortal as the rest of us.”

Over Aragorn’s right shoulder, Halbarad snorted.  “I am still not convinced that grizzled fox is one of us.”  He turned to Boromir.  “Be thankful you never had to serve in any of his campaigns.  He nearly drove us to exhaustion in our younger years.  Even the Elves were amazed.”

*          *            *

The chilled party rode into Fenadoch and quickly made for the nearest tavern, which was named ‘The Singing Mûmak.’  “How odd,” commented Rowgond as he caught sight of the tavern’s battered wooden sign.  A golden Oliphaunt had been crudely painted upon it, along with the establishment’s name.  “I have yet to see one that is either golden or singing.”

Halbarad paused to glance at the short, light-haired Ranger before dismounting.  “You also have yet to travel as widely as the rest of us.  But do not worry, young Rowgond.  I am sure we shall stumble across a singing Mûmak before our return to Rivendell.”

The others chuckled as they led their steeds into the warm straw-scented stables.  Rowgond rolled his eyes.  “When cows fly, Master Halbarad,” he retorted.

Halbarad nodded in deadpan seriousness.  “Yes, that too.”

After removing their horses’ tack and giving the animals a well-deserved rubdown, Boromir and the Rangers left the stables and headed for their respective rooms.  They quickly changed to drier, more comfortable clothing and made plans to rejoin in the tavern’s common room. 

*          *            *

The main room of The Singing Mûmak was boisterous and smoky.  Light flickered pleasantly from a glowing fireplace and numerous torches fastened along the walls.  Weary travelers, rejuvenated by food and drink, mingled and jested amongst the locals.  Boromir drummed his fingers on the oaken table as Aragorn sat down next to him.  The group had purposely chosen an indiscreet table in the corner of the room.

Aragorn slowly reclined until his back was leaning against the wall and brought forth his pipe.  It crackled as he lit it.  The Ranger brought the pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply, his eyes darting alertly around the room as he took everything in.  “I should say we have chosen one of the more popular establishments of this town.” 

Boromir nodded in agreement.  He raised his hand in recognition as he caught sight of Halbarad and Rowgond weaving their way through the crowd.  The savory smell of food wafted through the air, making him realize just how hungry he was.

“By my sword, I’m starving,” Halbarad announced when he was within earshot of Aragorn and Boromir.  “I could eat a whole flying cow.”

The four laughed as Rowgond and Halbarad sat at the table’s heavy wooden bench.  They had not long to wait for the fifth member of their party; soon the wiry frame of Malbeorn could be seen slipping through the masses.  When at last the veteran ranger joined his companions, the group beckoned a serving maid to place their orders.

A pretty maid with rosy cheeks and a thick braid of honeyed hair hurried over to the men.  “What may I order for you, good sirs?” the girl asked shyly, unable to keep the glint of curiosity from her green eyes, yet unwilling to look directly into their faces.

Her eyes fell upon Boromir, and a deep blush flushed her rosy cheeks as he smiled kindly at her.  Malbeorn chuckled and even Aragorn had a difficult time restraining a snicker.  The young girl was clearly smitten with the man of Gondor.  “What would you recommend, my good lady?” asked Halbarad.

 “Well sir, our ale is known as some of the finest in these parts,” she stated proudly before smiling shyly and ducking her head.  “And on a cold and blustery day as today, I would suggest a bit of stew.”

Malbeorn grunted in approval.  “Then ale and stew it shall be,” he called.

The pretty maid gave a polite nod, and with a final glance in Boromir’s direction, turned and headed towards the kitchens.

Rowgond leaned over to Boromir, a huge grin plastered upon his face.  “What may I order for you, siiiiirs,” he drawled, raising his voice to a feminine pitch.  Boromir gave him a good-natured punch in the shoulder as Rowgond began fluttering his lashes.  He was just about to respond to the jest when snatches of a conversation from a few tables down caught their attention.

A burly peasant farmer pointed his soupspoon at his neighbor as he emphasized the gossip.  “…a group of them, all clad in dark clothing.  They caused the Last Bridge to collapse—I hear they just rode over it and the thing crumbled.  Sounds like the work of some dark force to me.”   

His neighbor, a scrawny-looking man missing several teeth, shook his head in disapproval.  “These are dark times, my friend,” he whistled.  “I hear strange things are abroad…  I wonder if it was those black riders they saw over in Bree.”

The peasant farmer took another bite of hot stew and swallowed.  “Aye, I would say it was.  And I heard the ones on the bridge were headed in this direction.  We’d best be on the lookout for them.”

A sickening feeling of dread sank into the western scouting party.  Boromir and Halbarad grimaced.  Rowgond slid a bit lower under the table, and Malbeorn pulled his hood over his head.  “Oh no,” moaned Aragorn. 

*          *            *

The wrath of Glorfindel radiated through the forest in scorching blasts.  Legolas felt them before the enraged captain moved into earshot, which was an impressive feat considering Orkish armies have tread quieter paths.  Birds shot into the sky in full-fledged terror as he stormed by, and even the trees and ferns drew back their leaves in fright.  Glorfindel—Captain of Imladris, famed warrior of Gondolin, and slayer of Balrogs—was on the rampage. 

And if he had his way, Mirkwood would be short one prince by nightfall.

*

Legolas sat amidst the branches of a slender ash tree.  He had learned, through personal experience, that one does not run away from punishment.  Doing so only increased the severity.  ‘Besides,’ he reasoned, ‘I have faced the wrath of Father many a time.  I am sure Glorfindel can do no worse.’

He began to seriously question this once he felt the first wave of anger hit him.  Glorfindel was going to kill him.

*

The golden-haired Elf lord stormed through the forest.  Where was Legolas?  “Son of Thranduil,” he roared, “Show yourself at once!”  His voice shook the land like thunder and the silence that followed was deafening.

Legolas took a deep breath and jumped down from the branches of the ash tree as Glorfindel stomped by.  He landed lightly upon the ground and quickly straightened.  “Lord Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel spun around, his face livid.  He stiffly walked towards the young prince until the two were literally standing toe to toe.  Legolas lifted his chin and bravely met Glorfindel’s dagger-like gaze.  He had committed no crime, and would not let Glorfindel intimidate him. 

Upon observing the slender Elf’s defiant stance, Glorfindel thought it small wonder Thranduil was often pushed to the limit by the antics of his youngest son.

The captain of Rivendell inhaled deeply and crossed his arms over his chest.  “What, in the name of Eru, were you thinking?” he hissed.  Legolas took note of the strained tone to the Elf lord’s voice.  His father’s would become more tightened and strained the angrier he was.  If Glorfindel’s tone was any indication of his anger level…  Legolas realized he was, to use the old Wood-Elven term, “in quite the nest of brambles.”

 “I merely wanted to punish the Dwarf.”

“Punish the Dwarf?”  Glorfindel’s voice arose several notches.  “First and foremost, ‘the Dwarf’ has a name—Gimli.  You shall refer to him as such from now on.  Secondly,” he bellowed, “I informed you he had already been punished for his actions!  You had no right, Legolas Greenleaf, to take action of your own.”

“I had every right to do so!” protested Legolas.  “Whatever punishment he received obviously failed to make an impression.  He certainly did not seem sorry for his actions last evening!  Did you not hear what he said to me?  He threatened to do it again.”

“He did no such thing, Legolas.  And I assure you; Glóin dealt severe punishment unto Gimli for his actions.  Gimli would not dare repeat them.”

Legolas opened his mouth in disbelief.  That had been Gimli’s punishment?  A father-son chat?  “You let his father deliver the punishment?” he cried, “What justice is there to be found in that?  His father probably patted him on the back and congratulated him on a fine effort!” 

“As I am congratulating you?” Glorfindel snapped.  He desperately fought the urge to throttle the young prince.  Legolas could be amazingly wooden-headed.

“Elves are different,” replied the young Elf flatly.  “Dwarves, on the other hand, are prideful, stubborn and argumentative.” 

“If that is not grass calling the leaf green!” exclaimed Glorfindel in exasperation.  “Based upon your reasoning, I would name YOU amongst their kin.”

Legolas felt himself flush in indignation.  He was most definitely not prideful, stubborn… and argumentative…

Elbereth, what if Glorfindel was right. 

“I didn’t hurt him,” he replied half-heartedly, more to himself than to the Elf lord. 

“Didn’t hurt him?  DIDN’T HURT HIM?” Glorfindel exploded.  “Legolas, you could have killed him!  I have never, in all my years, seen an Elf behave so irresponsibly, with so little respect for life.  It boggles the mind!”

Legolas lowered his eyes and sighed.  As much as he was loath admit it, Glorfindel WAS right.   He focused on Glorfindel’s hands—which were balled into fists.  Valar, Glorfindel was furious.  Legolas suddenly felt a wave of shame rush over him.  What had he been thinking?  Why had he allowed himself to fall victim to such foolish behavior?  He could have seriously injured the Dwarf. 

Legolas raised his eyes to meet Glorfindel’s.  “I am…sorry.”  He swallowed.  Pride was difficult not to choke on.  “You are right:  I was rash and acted without considering the consequences.  I ought to know better than to use my weapons so carelessly,” he lowered his gaze and spoke softer.  “I willingly accept whatever punishment you wish to give, for I know I am deserving of it.”

Glorfindel nodded, thankful he would not have to beat reason into the younger Elf.  “Very well, then.”  Legolas was going to hate him for this.  “I order you to personally apologize to both Gimli and Glóin.”

Legolas grimaced.  Oh yes, his pride would be hurting for weeks. 

“And—”  Legolas stiffened.  “—when we reach Mirkwood, you are to inform your father of your actions.”  Glorfindel watched as the young Elf’s eyes grew wider.  “I am sure Thranduil will deal with you accordingly.”

Glorfindel raised a golden brow as Legolas opened his mouth in protest.  “Do you accept these terms, Prince of Mirkwood?  Or perhaps I should turn you over to the Dwarven members of our party.  I am sure they will think of a far more suitable punishment.”

Legolas sighed miserably.  Drawing himself up, he gave a submissive nod.  “Yes, Lord Glorfindel.  I accept your terms.” 

“Good, it is settled.”  Glorfindel unfolded his arms.  ‘That went surprisingly well,’ he thought.  ‘Mayhap Legolas is not as thickheaded as I believed.  At least now he will be too preoccupied with what to tell his father and less focused on quarreling with Gimli.’

He gave Legolas a hearty pat on the shoulder as the two Elves made their way back through the forest.  Before joining the rest of the company, Glorfindel turned to his companion and imparted a final piece of advice:  “Remember Legolas: ‘fight fire with fire and all that remains are the ashes.’”

Legolas mutely nodded and forced back the smile that threatened to break across his face:  visions of a screaming and burned Gimli ran through his mind.  It was quite a satisfying picture.

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*Fenadoch: A small village about an hour west of the Last Bridge.  The East-West Road (or Great East Road, depending on your book) serves as the town’s main route of travel.

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

 Happy Reading!

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~ Chapter 14: A Slip of Tongue ~

*********************************

Gimli regained consciousness with a shout of alarm.  Where was he?  What had happened?  Why did he feel so shaky and ill?  “Easy, my son.”  Glóin gave him several rough pats on the shoulder.  “We’ve carried you back to the banks of the river.”

Gimli groaned and struggled into a sitting position, only to discover Barin and Glóin watching him as though he might fall over any second.  He washed his hand over his face and beard in confusion. 

“Master Dwarf, have a sip of this water.  It will help clear your head—you fainted quite a few times.”  Gimli looked up in the direction of the melodious voice.  The Elf maiden, Rithol, stood before him and offered her water skin.  Fainted?  Who fainted?    

Gimli snorted indignantly.  “I most certainly did not faint!” he rumbled.  “Dwarves do not faint!” 

Barin and Glóin exchanged an uncomfortable glance.  “Usually, that is the case,” began Barin cautiously.

Rithol’s eyes widened in astonishment.  “But, Master Dwarf, you fainted no less than thrice!  And it is believed you twice screamed as well.”

Two crimson spots bloomed upon Gimli’s cheeks.  “I did not scream,” he hastily grumbled.  “As I recall, an eagle flew overhead and let forth a cry.”

“But the second time, I was there—“

“AN EAGLE!”

Rithol stepped back in alarm at the Dwarf’s booming tone.  She gave a slight bow.  “As you say, Master Dwarf, it was an eagle.”  A faint smile of amusement played upon her lips.  The poor Dwarf, how embarrassed he must be!

Gimli hoisted himself to his feet, waiving off the assistance of Glóin and Barin.  “Where is the Elf?” he spat.  He had never been subjected to such humiliation in his life.  He began scouring the trees, looking for any signs of his detested foe.

Glóin cleared his throat.  “I believe you now owe Legolas an apology.”

Gimli spun his stout body around.  “Apologize?” he roared,  “After what he did to me?  Never!”

Glóin crossed his arms and widened his stance.  “He did you no bodily harm, my son.  I seem to remember you gave him a rather frightful wound to the head.”

“He deserved it,” growled Gimli.

“As you deserved this?”

Gimli rumbled in fury.  His father was taking the side of the Elf—and not just any Elf, but the son of the Elder who had sent Glóin to rot in the dungeons of Mirkwood.  Still, he knew better than to argue with his father.  Glóin had already threatened to tell his mother Dila of Gimli’s behavior, and Gimli knew it was a threat he would not fail to carry out.  “If the Elf apologizes first, then so shall I.”

*          *          *

Legolas drew himself to his full height and, drawing forth as much dignity as he could possibly muster, came to stand before the two Dwarves.  The duo regarded the tall and silent figure with suspicion.  Barin, who had been whetting the blade of his axe, stopped abruptly and moved to the side of his comrades. 

Glorfindel caught the eye of Glóin and sent him a quick nod of assurance.  Glóin returned it, but his mistrust was evident as he addressed Legolas.  “What is your business with us, Master Elf?”

Legolas drew a deep breath.  Apologizing was going to be more difficult than he originally thought.  ‘That I would lower myself to apologize to a Dwarf…   I am thankful Father is not here to witness my humiliation.’  He could feel Glorfindel glaring at his back.

“Legolas has something he wishes to say,” offered the Elf lord.

Gimli raised a brow.  The Elf prince looked as though he had swallowed his bow.  ‘This might be interesting,’ he thought.  Any thoughts of an apology from himself quickly vanished.

“I-I,” Legolas faltered.  Had that been his imagination, or did the Dwarf just smirk at him?  “I am sorry.”  Yes, that was definitely a smirk.

Glóin grunted and would have spoken, but Gimli beat him to it.  “Sorry for what, Elf?”

A dark look flashed over the face of Legolas. “I apologize for my… rash and irresponsible behavior towards you.  It was foolish on my behalf and I know better than to act in such a manner.” 

Gimli leaned against his axe and lifted his chin.  Thanks to the particularly strong dye of the Eniamil berries, his beard would be stained red for weeks.  He was not going to let the haughty, self-centered prince of Mirkwood off so easily.  “And?”

Legolas blinked.  “And?” he asked, confused. 

“And what else do you apologize for?”

“Gimli—” began Glóin.

“No, he owes us far more than a single apology.”  He turned to his father.  “I bet he has never apologized to anyone or anything his entire life!”

“I owe you nothing more, Dwarf,” hissed Legolas.

“Legolas,” warned Glorfindel. 

Legolas closed his eyes and balled his fists.  “What more would you have me apologize for, Dwar—Gimli,” he said through clenched teeth.  The name “Gimli” felt harsh and grating on his tongue.

“First,” stated Gimli imperiously, “I would have you apologize for throwing my father into a lake.”  He regarded Legolas expectantly.  The Elf looked as though he wanted to personally rip him apart, limb-by-limb.

“I did not ‘throw’ him, and it was not a lake,” Legolas snapped.  The hand of Glorfindel suddenly clamped tightly around his bicep.  Legolas pursed his lips in fury.  “I apologize for being pushed into your father.”

Glóin lifted one hand in the air.  “It is long forgotten, Master Elf.  Think nothing of it.” 

Gimli, however, was far from finished.  “And—“  Legolas started forward, but the hand of Glorfindel gripped him tighter.  The Dwarf’s pride had been severely affronted, and Legolas would have to learn he could not escape the situation completely unscathed.  “—you are to apologize for suggesting an alliance betwixt the Dwarves and Sauron.”

“Gimli,” cried Glóin, “That is enough!”

Ignoring the commands of Glóin and Glorfindel to immediately cease his tirade, Gimli continued on.  The words rumbled from his mouth with more power than thunder.  “You will also apologize for locking my father in your dungeons, for your own father’s stupidity and greediness, for your pompous and conceited mannerisms, for the sheer idiocy of the mother who so foolishly borne you into this world—“

Unbeknownst to Gimli, the beloved Queen of Mirkwood had passed away under the most tragic of circumstances.  Though the fateful day had occurred many a year ago, her loss was still grieved by the Wood-Elves and the royal family in particular.

Legolas cried out in rage, and had it not been for the iron grip of Glorfindel, Gimli would have been slain on the spot.  Glorfindel desperately held onto the writhing, twisting fury that was Legolas and attempted to drag the Elf away from the Dwarves.  Things were turning out far worse than the captain of Imladris would have ever expected.

Gimli stood rooted to the ground in shock.  If the cold, calculating Legolas who had shot him was terrifying, this unhinged version of the Elf was a nightmare.  Perhaps he should have apologized instead of baiting the son of Thranduil. 

The Elf had slipped back into his native Sindarin, and was spewing words that sounded terrible even without translation.  Glorfindel had wrapped both arms around the Mirkwood Elf and was vainly attempting to talk some sense into him. 

“Strike the foundation and call me stone,” murmured Glóin in disbelief at Gimli’s side.  “I have never seen the likes of that in all my days.  I think Smaug was friendlier than he.” 

Gimli nodded dumbly.  He was not exactly sure what had set the Elf off, but he had the distinct feeling he had just made things a lot worse for himself.       

*          *          *

Aragorn found himself battling paranoia as he, Rowgond, Malbeorn, Boromir, and Halbarad cast furtive glances about the tavern room.  The group half expected the entire place to suddenly jump forth and raise weapons against them, and several tense moments were spent awaiting the attack.  Luckily, their fears proved unfounded.  Not a single soul within The Singing Mûmak appeared to have noticed them.

 “I think,” whispered Rowgond, “we should leave.”

Malbeorn leaned back and lit his pipe.  “Yes, that will not call attention to us,” he replied somewhat sarcastically as he shook out the match.  “We have already paid for the rooms and ordered our meal.”

Aragorn blew out a puff of smoke and forced himself to relax.  “I think we shall be fine as long as we do nothing to stand out.”  He tapped the pipe stem against his lip.  “Do not forget, we are Rangers—we are well-trained in areas of stealth and observance.”

The others murmured in agreement.  They spent the next several minutes awaiting the arrival of their food in contemplative silence.  Boromir watched as each Ranger quietly smoked his pipe.  ‘I wonder,’ he thought, ‘if that is tradition amongst these Rangers of the North.  Faramir and his men do not engage in such activities.’  He wrinkled his nose at the smell as the billowing clouds floated upward and dissipated before they hit the ceiling.  At the rate the Rangers were puffing, no one would be able to identify them through the encompassing wall of smoke.

At last, the honey-haired maid returned with a platter of hot stews and several mugs of ale.  The meal looked and smelled delicious, and Boromir felt his mouth watering in anticipation.  “Here you are, good sirs,” the pretty girl announced sweetly.  She began passing around the fare, giving Boromir a shy rosy-cheeked smile as she handed him a bowl of steaming stew.

Boromir thanked her as he accepted the bowl, causing the maiden to blush almost scarlet.  Rowgond nearly choked on a piece of potato at the girl’s stammered reply.  “You-you’re welcome.”  She began fidgeting with her thick braid and, much to the surprise of the group, suddenly blurted out, “My name is Mysian.”

Boromir blinked.  The poor girl was turning scarlet all over again.  Aragorn’s shoulders shook suspiciously as he bowed his head and placed one hand over his mouth.  Even the grizzled face of Malbeorn threatened to crack.

  “Oh, that is… nice,” Boromir lamely replied, caught off-guard by the maid’s frankness.  Rowgond snickered.  “I mean, that is a nice name.  My name is Boro—“ No!  Wait!  He couldn’t tell her his name!  “—Fara—”  No, Faramir’s would not do either.  Oh no, what did he just say? 

The pretty serving maid’s green eyes lit up.  “Borofara?”

“What?  Er, yes,” Boromir grimaced.  “Boro… Borofara is my name.”  Oh sweet Valar, of all the names he could have chosen…  At least his shoulder wasn’t twitching.

“You may call me, ah, Elrond,” Halbarad announced gleefully.  Aragorn glared at him.

Not to be outdone, Rowgond chimed in.  “And I,” he stated imperiously, “am known as Gil-galad.”

The young maid paused and shot him a skeptical glance.  She had obviously heard the name before, and was fairly certain it did not belong to a mortal.  Halbarad began to quietly hum “Gil-galad was an Elven-king*” under his breath.

“I am most pleased to make your acquaintances, sirs… Borofara.”  She curtseyed gracefully, gave Boromir one last smile, and returned to her duties.  It was all the Rangers could do to keep from howling in laugher.

*          *          *

Mysian watched as the group—Borofara in particular—finished their meals and gradually worked their way through the crowed tavern.  She sighed as they departed into the corridor and went to clear the group’s table.  Her heart leapt when she noticed one of the men had forgotten his pipe.  If she hurried, she could catch Borofara before he retired to his chambers!

The maid quickly snatched up the pipe and went running out of the main room.  Her heart fluttered madly—she was going to see Borofara!

*          *          *

It was with full stomachs and sleepy yawns that the western scouting party made way to their rooms.  Rowgond groaned and patted his stomach.  “I have not eaten such a wonderful meal since I left Hollin.”

Aragorn stretched his arms above his head and yawned.  “It almost feels strange to have a full stomach, does it not?”  The others laughed in agreement.  “We shall depart early in the morn.  I hope everyone rests fitfully tonight.”

Boromir shook his head in wonder.  “I still cannot believe they thought we were the Black Riders.”

Mysian turned the corner just in time to hear “—we were the Black Riders.”

The pipe dropped from her nerveless hands and clattered loudly upon the floor.  The five men whirled around and were greeted by the sight of the terrified serving maid backing up against the wall and opening her mouth in horror.  “You’re the, you’re the—“ she stammered, eyes growing huge and wild.

“NO!  No!  We are not the Black Riders,” Aragorn said urgently, throwing up his hands in as non-threatening a gesture as possible.

The girl continued stammering and tripped as she attempted to back up.  She scrambled backwards on all fours.  “She’s going to scream,” warned Rowgond.

“Shh,” begged Boromir.  “We will not hurt you.  Please do not—“

Halbarad lunged as the pretty maid opened her mouth and let out a shriek of utter terror.  He quickly clamped a hand over her mouth and hauled the girl to her feet.  “Stop biting me!” he yelped.  The maid began to struggle and kick, her eyes wide and crazed.  It took Halbarad all the strength he could muster to keep her within his grasp. 

Boromir gently placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders and spoke kindly.  “Look at me,” he said.  “We are not the Black Riders.  I promise you this.  If we let you go, will you promise not to scream?”

The maid’s breathing came out in muffling gasps as she nodded.  Halbarad cautiously removed his hand. 

The girl once again let out a shriek of terror, and once again Halbarad swiftly clamped a hand over her mouth.  “Strider,” he said, looking at Aragorn, “we cannot go on like this all night.”

All four were at a loss.  The serving maid was obviously not going to cooperate, and they had no desire to face the angry mob of townspeople her cries would bring.  Luckily, Malbeorn, the veteran and wisest of them all, came up with a simple solution.  Drawing the hood of his cloak over his head, he approached the quaking girl in the dragging limp of a Rider.  He slowly brought his face closer to hers.  The terrified maid began to whimper and writhe in fear.

His hooded face directly in front of hers, Malbeorn looked at her for several moments, then uttered a single word: 

“BOO.” 

The poor maid fainted dead away.   

*          *          *

It was decided that the girl be bound with soft cloth and gagged should she awake and begin screaming again.  They placed her gently upon a bed in the room of Aragorn and Boromir, and the two men opted to sleep in a chair and on the floor.

Boromir stared up at the ceiling from his position on the floor.  Slightly rolling over, he watched Aragorn shift in the chair.  “Aragorn,” he called quietly.

“Mmm?” answered the Ranger.

“We have just kidnapped a bar maid.”

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his temples.  He had many names, some he was fonder of than others.  “Aragorn the Kidnapper” was definitely not amongst his favorites.  “Boromir?”

“Yes?”

“If by some miracle we manage to escape, let us vow to never speak of this again.  Agreed?”

Boromir nodded in the darkness. He had no desire to be known as “Borofara the Kidnapper” either.  “Agreed.”

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* “Gil-galad was an Elven-king” – The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I; The Return of the King, Poems and Songs, II. Index to First Lines.

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates Ltd. and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

*sigh*  This chapter is dedicated to the dearly departed Nigel.  May he swim long and free in Beta Fish Heaven. 

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~ Chapter 15: The Hobbit Wizard  ~

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The midday sun shone brightly as the three hobbits were shuttled across the sky.  Clouds were few and far between, causing the pure blue sky to appear as though it were a canvas stretched out flatly above the earth.  Unfortunately, as is the case with many a crisp autumn day, the pleasant vision of Middle-earth was annoyingly deceptive:  the wind was blustery and the sunlight cold.  Sam could not help feeling as though they had been somehow cheated by the weather.

 Much to the Sam’s surprise, the crebain flock opted to rest yet again, despite their roost several hours before.  His captors dropped him to the ground, which, he could not help but notice, was still quite out of reach when they released him, and promptly flew into the trees.  Frodo and Pippin landed in a heap beside him.  He sat rubbing his sore arms and was about to ask Frodo why they had stopped, when Pippin suddenly began scrambling the short distance to the mountain’s rocky outcrop.  

“Water,” Pippin croaked.  “There’s water!”  Sure enough, the little hobbit was correct.  A tiny spring gurgled forth from some deep well within the earth and streamed downward in gentle waterfalls.  Frodo was quick to crawl towards the spring.  How long had it been since they had drank?  Two days?  Three days?  Sam felt his stomach rumble.  They were in desperate need of food as well.

The crebain made no attempt to bar their efforts, and several of the winged monsters fluttered down to the spring and began drinking themselves.

Pippin drank and drank until his throat was no longer parched and his stomach felt as though it would explode.  The water was cool and soothing; he could not recall a time when it had ever tasted so delicious.  Taking one last loud sip, he wiped water from his mouth with the back of his hand.  Maybe things weren’t so bad, after all.  They were returned to solid ground, had water to drink, and he had his Elvish coin…  His coin!

Pippin turned sharply to Frodo and Sam and patted his breast pocket.  The gesture was lost on the crebain, but understood by the two hobbits.  Frodo took his fill of water and stumbled (with a great bit of exaggeration, noted Sam) back to the spot the crebain had placed them.  His companions followed his lead as he threw himself onto the ground in apparent defeat and curled up in a defensive posture.

“Why are we stopped?” whispered Pippin.  The three lay in a circle with their heads facing inward.  Hopefully, the wretched birds would not grow too suspicious.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” replied Sam.  “We already rested a few hours before dawn.  Well, we didn’t—but they did.”  He cautiously glanced about him.  No, the crebain did not suspect anything as of yet.  “Strange,” he murmured.  “They’re very quiet.”

Frodo kept his eyes closed in the pretense of one in exhausted sleep.  “I think Hollin is just over this mountain.”

“Hollin?”  asked Pippin.

“Yes.  It’s a sort of flat plain—a break in the mountain chain.  I know there are several villages, but I can’t really remember what else.”  Frodo furrowed his brow and wished he had studied Bilbo’s maps with greater care.  He’d meant to, of course, but had never quite gotten around to doing so.  “If we flew over during the day, someone would surely spot us.  My guess is the birds are waiting until nightfall.”

Pippin sighed.  “Hollin,” he repeated.  “I bet they have a lot of food there.”  He began poking at a large puffball mushroom with his finger and watched as a dingy cloud of spores was released into the air.  There were a large number of the golden-brown fungi in the area, all filled with sacs of dusty, yellow spores.  It was too bad they were poisonous. 

“I suppose now is as good a time as ever to escape, though I don’t have a clue how we’re going to do it.”  Sam had been wracking his thoughts all day and still had not been able to come up with a way to use Pippin’s coin, short of shoving the thing down one of the crebain’s throats.

“Well,” began Pippin thoughtfully, “we could…we could…  we could make those terrible birds look at my lucky coin and then escape while they weren’t looking.”  He grimaced.  The plan had sounded much better in his head. 

Sam gave his head an almost imperceptible shake.  “And how are we going to get the whole flock of them to look at the coin while we just sneak away?”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Pippin in defeat.  “I suppose we could always sprout wings, or turn ourselves invisible.”

Invisible!  Frodo’s eyes snapped open.  ‘The Ring!’ he thought in excitement.  ‘Why, I could just slip it on and disappear!  The birds would never find me.’  It was so perfect, why hadn’t he thought of it earlier?  His hand reached of its own accord for the trinket around his neck.  All he had to do was slip it on and he would be free…

“Frodo?  Frodo!”  Someone was calling his name.  Frodo blinked and identified the voice as that of Sam.  Sam!  He had forgotten all about Sam.  And Pippin.  How had that happened?  He felt appalled with himself.  They were his friends, and it was by his own fault they were captured.  And he, Frodo Baggins, had actually thought to abandon them—no, he had not even considered them.  Who was he to deserve such companions?  Merry had already sacrificed himself, whom would be the next to fall?  Guilt and despair washed over him, leaving him with an ill and hollow feeling.  He was a selfish traitor, and they were all doomed.

“Frodo!”  Pippin gave him a small slap on the arm.  “What’s wrong with you?  Are you all right?”

“What?”  Frodo mumbled.  They were doomed, of course he was not all right.  

Pippin gave an exasperated sigh and, grabbing Frodo by the tunic, sat up.  “I think,” he stated, “we have a plan.  Watch.” 

*

The crebain grew menacingly silent as Sam stood up resolutely and placed both hands upon his hips.  “Release us!”  he commanded.  “Release us at once!”

Frodo groaned.  This was the plan?  The birds cackled and cawed amongst themselves at the battered hobbit standing before them.  What could the beaten creature possibly do?

“I am warning you,” thundered Sam, drawing upon his memories of an angry Gandalf.  “Release us now, or we will disappear to a place you can’t get us!”  Maybe it wasn’t Gandalf, but it was a start.

Black feathers fluttered down from the tree branches as the birds began hopping back and forth gleefully.  The hobbit’s antics were hilarious.  Disappear, indeed.  How preposterous.

“Very well.”  Sam grew severe and grave.  “I have no other choice than to use my great powers of wizardry—“ at this, several of the birds actually fell from the branches, overcome by fits of shrieking, “—So long, you dreadful beasts!”

 “Now!” hissed Pippin, giving Frodo a good yank on the arm.  Frodo watched as Pippin and Sam began stomping frantically on the vast clusters of puffball mushrooms.  A giant cloud of spores was snatched up by the wind, denser than the thickest fog.  Suddenly Frodo understood.  He joined his companions, and soon all was lost in the dingy haze.

*

Crebain are not the smartest of creatures, and thus the fact that the hobbits’ trick was merely a smoke and mirrors act was utterly lost upon them.  They knew only that the strange hobbit had commanded he and his friends be released or they would otherwise disappear to a place the crebain could not get them, and then great billows of smoke had poured up from the ground at the hobbit’s command. 

When the wind finally cleared the last remnants of smoke, the crebain were shocked to discover a most shiny token lying where the hobbit wizard had stood.  They pecked and snapped at the mysteriously tantalizing thing for several minutes, but could not break it.  Was this where the hobbits had vanished to?  Admittedly, the shiny object was too small and thin for even a single hobbit to fit in, but wizards were powerful beings.  If Saruman could create an army of Orkish crossbreeds, it was entirely possible that the hobbits had shrunken themselves and fled into the safety of The Shiny.

For lack of better options, the birds surrounded The Shiny and waited.  The hobbits could not stay in there forever, and if they tried…  Well, Saruman would certainly know how to get them out.

*

Three hobbits, coated in a fine layer of yellow dust, fled down the mountainside.  Their legs, unused in the past few days, wobbled precariously and threatened to give out at any moment.  Frodo’s were the first to buckle, and he found himself lying face-first in a pile of brittle leaves.  Sam and Pippin collapsed at his side, and the trio sat gasping and shaking as their adrenaline wore off.

“We did it,” gasped Sam.  “Thank goodness for that lucky coin of yours, Pip.  I always said Elves was a good folk.  Excepting that Lord Elrond fellow, though.”

Pippin nodded and flopped onto his backside.  “Do you think the birds will be looking for us?”

Sam shook his head.  “No,” he puffed, absentmindedly giving his fat lip an experimental pat to make sure it hadn’t re-split.  “I think we fooled them pretty well.  The Gaffer always said birds aren’t the brightest animals.  Smarter than turtles, but that’s about it.”

Frodo grimaced.  “I still think we should hide, though.  Just to be certain.  Then perhaps we can travel down to Hollin.”

Pippin’s countenance brightened considerably.  He still associated ‘Hollin’ with ‘food.’  “Right, well what are we waiting for?”  He stood up and brushed himself off, setting his face into a resolute frown.  “We can’t risk getting caught again.”  A momentary flicker of sadness shone in his eyes.  “I think Merry would have been proud of our escape,” the young hobbit said softly.  He quickly turned his face away from Frodo and Sam, and dashed away the tears that threatened to fall.  He would be strong—for Merry’s sake.  He had to be.

Frodo gave Pippin’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and tried to swallow his rising guilt.   The younger hobbit’s shoulder quivered the slightest bit beneath his hand.  “I know he would have, Pippin.” 

*          *          *

Gandalf allowed himself a sigh of relief as he caught sight of the graceful Elvish structures of Rivendell nestled within the trees in the valley below.  He pulled his cloak tighter around the still form of Merry.  The hobbit no longer felt cold and clammy, but his skin still held a most unhealthy grey pallor. 

Shadowfax snorted and increased the speed of his gallop.  Was there ever any doubt he would deliver the hobbit to Rivendell? 

“Halt.”  The silvery stallion abruptly sat back on his haunches and skidded to a stop, so startled was he by the sudden command.  Gandalf was thrown forward and luckily for him (though most unfortunate for Merry) was pillowed by the hobbit he carried in front of him.  The wizard quickly checked to make sure Merry had not received any further injuries, and was again thankful for the unconscious state of the young Brandybuck.

Several Elves materialized from the forest; they recognized Gandalf immediately.  “You have returned, Mithrandir!” one of the fair folk exclaimed.  “Yet you have only one hobbit.  Were there not four gone missing?”  The tall Elf reached out and began stroking Shadowfax gently upon the horse’s velvety nose.  The steed snorted and nickered in pleasure. 

“Yes,” replied Gandalf in great haste, “But it is a long tale, and as you can see, I am in need of Lord Elrond’s aid.”  He watched as Shadowfax tossed his head and neighed.  The Elf’s eyebrows shot up and he turned to glare at Gandalf.

“Your horse informs me he rescued this hobbit from a tree, though you attempted to convince him otherwise.  I did not take you as one who left those in need at the mercy of Fate, Grey Pilgrim.”  Several pairs of Elven glares were lanced his way. 

“Horse—rescued—otherwise—“ sputtered Gandalf indignantly.  “Why, you deceitful, ungrateful, big-headed lout!”  He gave Shadowfax’s mane a solid yank.  The horse squealed in fury and twisted his head around in order to grab a hold of the wizard’s beard.  Two could play this game.

The Elves exchanged glances between themselves ranging from amusement to confusion.  It is not every day one is audience to a hair-pulling contest betwixt horse and Istari. 

One of the Elves, carefully dodging the nipping Shadowfax and mane-pulling Gandalf, scooped Merry from the wizard’s arm and gently lay the hobbit upon the ground.  Gandalf was extremely grateful; now he could yank the mane of that lying braggart of a horse with both hands.

“Ai, what painful wounds have been afflicted upon this gentle hobbit!”  The fair group clustered around the still form of Merry and began examining his hurts.  The Elf whom Shadowfax had conversed with delicately traced the line of Merry’s collarbone, feeling the broken bone beneath his sensitive fingers.  “He must be taken to Lord Elrond immediately.  My heart aches to see this poor child in such a state.”  He turned to one of his companions and spoke quickly.  Merry was promptly swept up by Elvish arms and whisked away to Elrond’s house of healing.

*          *          *

“There, there young Merry.  All’s safe and well now.”

Merry shifted and groaned.  He was dreaming of Bilbo.

“I told you he would awaken soon.”  An Elvish voice.  It reminded him of Elrond.  How wonderful: there was a soft bed beneath him, Bilbo at his side, and the protection of Lord Elrond and the Elves of Rivendell.  

Merry stiffened.  Elves?  He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, afraid of what he might find were he to open them.  A wrinkled hand patted his own, and the voice of Bilbo spoke again.  “Merry, it’s all right, I promise.”

Merry slowly opened one eye, then the other.  ‘Please let this be a dream.  Please let this be a dream,’ he silently repeated to himself.  Unfortunately, he was not dreaming.  His heart sank.  He was now a captive of Rivendell.  Bilbo and Gandalf and yes, Elrond too, stood peering down at him from his bedside.  “Please Lord Elrond, don’t hurt me!” he blurted out.  Suddenly all the emotions he had bottled up during the past few horrific days spilled forth.  “I don’t want the Ring!  You can have it!  I would give it to you but I don’t have it!  Oh please oh please don’t kill Frodo!  Please!”  The young hobbit’s shoulders heaved as he began sobbing uncontrollably.  He pulled the bedcovers over his head with his good arm.  “Don’t hurt me!  Please don’t hurt me!”

Elrond was not sure of his exact feelings as he watched Bilbo attempt to calm down the injured hobbit.  What did Merry think he was going to do to him?  He clasped his hands behind his back and waited for the hobbit to collect himself.  When at last the sniffling hobbit had settled down, the Lord of Rivendell began to speak.

 “There has been a most unfortunate misunderstanding, Meriadoc Brandybuck.  I do not want the Ring, nor have I ever desired to take it from Frodo.”

Merry sniffled and hastily wiped the tears from his cheeks.  “What?”  He found himself extremely muddled.  “But the Elf told us—“

“The message became… distorted,” Elrond interrupted.  “My apologies for not delivering it in person.  I fear I must take some of the blame for what has befallen.”    

Merry looked to Bilbo and then Gandalf for conformation of Elrond’s words.  The two nodded solemnly.  He was dumbfounded.  He and his kindred had actually run from the safety of Elrond straight into the welcoming arms of the enemy.  ‘What were we thinking?’ Merry thought with a groan.  ‘All it took was one twisted message, and we scampered away faster than scared rabbits!’  The more he thought of it, the more foolhardy he realized their plight had been. 

“I did not realize what had occurred until it was too late.  By then, you had already fled my lands.”  The Elf sighed heavily and unclasped his hands.  “You are extremely lucky Gandalf found you when he did, young hobbit.”

Merry glanced at Gandalf again and the wizard smiled kindly back at him.  “Thank you, Gandalf,” he said gratefully.  It was amazing how the wizard managed to show up just when he was needed most.

The wizard chuckled.  “Think nothing of it, my dear hobbit.  It is as I told Shadowfax,” a dark look of annoyance flashed across his face at mention of the horse, “you have an important role to play, and I would have hated to see you leave us before it has been fulfilled.”

‘Strange,’ thought Merry.  ‘I do not remember his beard looking so frayed.’  He shook aside those thoughts.  “Gandalf,” he asked hopefully, “You have rescued me, were you able to reach Frodo, Pippin and Sam as well?”

Gandalf only offered him a sad smile, and Bilbo gave his hand another pat.  “Nay, Merry, I was not.”  Merry’s face fell.  The others were still at the hands of the crebain!

“They will be rescued as soon as they are located,” stated Elrond.  “I dispatched the Eagles immediately following Mithrandir’s departure.”  The Elf lord tactfully avoided Gandalf’s accusing stare.  Of course he had thought the wizard capable of rescuing the hobbits, but a little extra help never hurt anyone.

“You what?” squeaked Merry.

Elrond raised an eyebrow.  “I sent for the Eagles to locate your kin.  Do not worry, Meriadoc.”

“Birds,” Merry gurgled.  “You sent MORE BIRDS?”

Elrond blinked.  “Nay, Master Hobbit—they are Eagles, not crebain.”

“BIGGER BIRDS?” yelped Merry.

“Merry, calm yourself,” Gandalf ordered.  “It is well-known that the Eagles are not aligned with the dark forces of Mordor.”

“Do Frodo, Sam and Pippin know this?” cried Merry.

An uncomfortable silence followed. 

Elrond bit his lip in embarrassment.  “I’ll go find Shadowfax,” mumbled Gandalf, and bolted, with an impressive amount of speed for an ancient wizard, out of the room.

************************************************************************

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates Ltd. and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  THIS CHAPTER IS RATED PG-13 DUE TO VIOLENT CONTENT. 

*******************************************************************

~ Chapter 16:  Battle Lines ~

*****************************

“Cruel are the tongues of Dwarves, and bitter are the wounds they reopen!”  The three Dwarves turned to meet the stormy faces of Fanlin, Rithol and Orimhedil.

“What mean you by this?” demanded Glóin, his deep voice reverberating among the trees.  Gimli’s tirade had been uncalled for, but what was this Fanlin spoke of “wounds reopened?”

Rithol balled her fists and glared at him.  “It is known to all that the Queen of Taur e-Ndaedelos* met a most tragic death, yet your wicked son insulted her nonetheless.”  Her steely gaze rested upon Gimli.  “Have you no grace?  Have you no pity?” 

Gimli’s mouth went dry and he felt physically ill.  He had no idea the Elf’s mother was dead, nor the circumstances surrounding the incident.  To say he felt terrible was an understatement.

“We didn’t know.  Gimli didn’t know,” Barin protested weakly, lowering his eyes and shuffling his feet in embarrassment. 

“Vile, vile monsters,” snapped Fanlin.  “It is said the Dwarves are greedy and selfish, but I add ‘heartless’ to your numerous faults as well.”

Glóin felt his hackles rising.  “Now look here,” he grunted, “had Gimli known of Legolas’ mother, he would not have spoken such!”  He would not support the actions of his son, but neither would he allow the Elves to call his kin ‘wicked’ and ‘heartless.’  “He will apologize for his mistake immediately.”

Gimli nodded dumbly and stared in disbelief at the tip of his berry-stained beard.  He had sought only to infuriate the Elf, but ended up doing so much worse.  He could not be blamed for his ignorance regarding the departed Queen, but his show of disrespect towards the dead repulsed and shamed him nonetheless.  ‘It is small wonder he reacted in such a manner,’ the Dwarf berated himself.  ‘I would have done nothing less were I in his place.’      

“A most monstrous folk I name you.  You and your bladed tongues are not welcome among the likes of the fair folk!”  Gimli blinked as he realized the Elves were still throwing unkind words at the Dwarves. 

“I said I will apologize!” he proclaimed gruffly.  “I am truly sorry.”

If Gimli thought his admission of guilt would smooth things over, he was greatly mistaken.  The three Elves glowered at him in rage.  “Apologize?” spat Fanlin.  “Were I Legolas I would fain accept an apology from the likes of you!” 

“Yes,” cried Orimhedil.  “Your words cannot be forgiven or undone, most uncouth son of Glóin.”

Rithol’s eyes flashed menacingly.  “Return to your dark earthen holes and burrow with the rest of your beastly kin!” 

“Gimli didn’t know!” roared Barin.  “And if any here have bladed tongues, it is the Elves and not the Dwarves!  You are the heartless and unforgiving ones as I see it.  Gimli—didn’t—know.”  He stomped his foot at each word for emphasis.

The situation had become more delicate than the frost-coated edges of the autumn leaves.  The battle lines were firmly drawn, and a standoff ensued.  Barin, Gimli and Glóin stood with feet planted firmly upon the ground and arms crossed over chest.  Orimhedil, Rithol and Fanlin stood opposite the Dwarves in the same fashion.  Where Glorfindel had managed to drag the raging Legolas off to was anyone’s guess, but it was safe to assume the eastern scouting party was no more. 

*     *     *

Glorfindel could not keep Legolas separated from the rest of the company indefinitely, and their mission called that they resume their journey.  It was with great trepidation that the Elf lord allowed the young prince to return to camp.  The sight that greeted them upon their arrival did not help matters.

The camp was clearly divided:  Dwarves on one side and Elves on the other.  Even the horses appeared offended.  Glorfindel muttered under his breath in exasperation.  He had hoped the feud would go no further than Legolas and Gimli.  Obviously, he was mistaken.

The Elf lord’s concern grew as Gimli slowly turned and approached them.  He sensed Legolas stiffen at his side, and wondered if he should restrain the Elf again, for Gimli’s sake.  Gimli set his jaw firmly and took a deep breath.  “Elf—Legolas,” he boomed, “I believe it is now I who owe the apology.  I was not aware of the circumstances surrounding your mother.”

Legolas flinched and Glorfindel found himself wishing Gimli had not brought the matter to light yet again.  A heavy silence fell over the forest.  Gimli continued when he realized Legolas had no intention of answering him.  “Will you accept my apology?”

Legolas narrowed his eyes and sent the Dwarf the sharpest gaze he could muster.  “No,” he hissed, and mounted his steed without giving the Dwarf a second glance.

Gimli’s jaw grew tight and his nostrils flared as he watched the Elf ride off.  What an ungrateful, despicable, childish—  “I think perhaps you should have waited until his anger had sufficiently cooled, son of Glóin.”  The softly spoken words of Glorfindel interrupted his mental tirade. 

“Hmph,” Gimli grunted, and went to retrieve his axe.  The Elf would get no more apologies from him.

*     *     *

The company had reached the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and the land grew steeper as they pressed onward.  Legolas seethed as he rode up the rocky mountain path.  He knew, as did Rithol, Fanlin and Orimhedil, that the shortened strides of the Dwarves were incapable of keeping up with those of Elvish mounts.  The four Elves could have cared less.  Legolas pushed his steed to a faster clip and willed the distance between himself and the loathsome Dwarves even greater. 

‘To think,’ he thought furiously, ‘the Dwarf had the audacity to attempt an apology.  As though I would merely forget his words without a second thought.’  Focusing his anger on Gimli gave temporary relief from the gut-wrenching memories of his mother’s passing.  The pain lingered, though Time had rendered it somewhat dulled around the edges.  He gritted his teeth and began to plot the ways he would go about destroying the Dwarf.

‘First I shall tie him to a tree, riddle him with arrows, then drag him behind Mithlaf.*  Nay—I shall trample over him several times and then drag him behind Mithlaf.  At a pace no less than a gallop.  Following that, he will be placed under a loose boulder. . .’

Orimhedil paused to glance over his shoulder.  Glorfindel, who had been conversing with Glóin, and the three Dwarves were so far behind that they could no longer be seen.  The group rode around a bend in the path, and was sundered completely from the lagging members of their party.

*     *     *

Glorfindel pursed his lips as the Elven members of the group drew further and further away.  He had begun to think the mission a most terrible idea.  Perhaps the Dwarves should have traveled separately.  ‘And then,’ he thought with a sigh, ‘there is the matter of the return trip.  Gimli shall be the only Dwarf among the company.  I fear I shall be forced to carry him in my saddle bag for his own safety.’

There was also the issue of informing Thranduil what had occurred during their journey.  The Elf lord was beginning to sorely regret his ordering of Legolas to speak with his father about the matter.  He had no doubt Legolas would repeat Gimli’s words to Thranduil, and he did not think he would be able to restrain an enraged King of Mirkwood as he had done Legolas.  The golden-haired Elf washed a hand over his face in pure frustration.  ‘Why is it, when I believe things cannot possibly become any worse, they do?’  

*      *      *

The low, guttural snarl of an Orkish command cracked through the chilly air like a whip.  The four Elves immediately snapped to attention and drew their weapons.  Their mounts pawed at the earth in unease and the land became deathly still and silent.  Then the storm broke.

Dark figures poured down from behind every tree and rock faster than a driving rain.  In reality, their foes numbered perhaps twenty or thirty, but to the Elves they seemed as hundreds.   Legolas nocked four arrows in succession, his bowstring singing, yet still the fell beasts came at him.  To him they were more numerous than the leaves of the forest, and when one was slain there seemed to be twenty in his place.  He reached for the knife at his waist and sprang from the back of his steed.  Since when had orcs crossed the High Pass to the Imladris side of the Hithaeglir*?

‘Now is no time to ponder such questions,’ he thought grimly.  The Elf neatly dispatched the screaming foe to his left with a swift jab followed by an upward thrust.  He dislodged the blade as another came at him and managed to catch the creature by the wrist as it brought down its rapier.  The orc yowled in pain and fury when Legolas gave the wrist a sharp twist and spun outward, throwing the orc off-balance.  The dark beast met the earth with an ungraceful thud, and rolled over just in time to see the sharp glint of an Elvish blade swipe across his throat.     

“Legolas!”  The Elf whirled at the sound of his name, barely ducking the blow of an Orkish sword.  His eyes sought out and found those of Orimhedil.  The Imladris Elf frantically gestured down the rocky trail amidst parrying an Orkish blade.  Legolas felt his stomach sink.  ‘They attack from the middle,’ he realized.  ‘And we are driven further from Glorfindel and the rest of our party!’ 

“Do not let them divide us,” he cried.  “We must not be pushed back!”  The four Elves began attacking their foes with greater fury, and the orcs responded in similar fashion—sensing they had their prey in a potentially vulnerable position.

Legolas gritted his teeth as an errant blade nicked his forearm.  He gripped the haft of his silver knife even tighter and plunged the weapon into the nearest orc.  They may be outnumbered, but they were by no means finished.  He winced when he saw an Orkish sword score the back of Fanlin, and then again when his own shoulder received a blow.  

“Elbereth Gilthoniel!”  No, they were not finished yet. 

*     *     *

Glorfindel immediately bolted upright when the sound of battle reached his ears.  The unmistakable snarl of orcs coupled with the metallic shiver of blades was a song he knew all too well.  And to make matters worse, the din originated directly in front of them.

“Elbereth Gilthoniel!”  The Elven battle cry rang out clear and proud. 

‘O Valar,’ the Elf lord thought in alarm.  ‘What have we thrown ourselves into now?’  He had not long to await an answer, for soon the path was overrun with charging, snarling orcs.

The eastern scouting party’s previous differences and insults were immediately forgotten.  The three Dwarves reached for their axes, and Glorfindel drew forth his sword with a metallic ring.  They met the orcs head-on, weapons clashing in deadly fervor.

 “Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!*”  Glóin swung his blade in a wide arc and roared as one of the foul creatures fell before him.  Gimli and Barin were just as proficient, skillfully hacking an orc as it tried to flatten Glorfindel with its shield.  The Elf lord, being the most skilled and seasoned of all the eastern scouting party, was a force in his own right.  He thrust, parried and feinted with the grace of a dancer and the deadly accuracy of an archer.  The orcs, who had foolishly concentrated themselves in the space between the divided company, soon found they were caught between the hammer of four Elves and the anvil of three Dwarves and Glorfindel.

Gimli felt the rocky stone trail beneath him and dug his feet into the earth for better grip.  He brought his axe down upon the shield of an orc and cried out in triumph as the shield splintered.  The Dwarf swiftly rolled his shoulders and swung his blade in the opposite direction.  The orc beneath him caught its blow under the chin and moved no more.   “Khazâd aimênu!”

“Glorfindel!”  The Dwarf glanced towards the sound of the voice, and caught sight of the tall figure of Legolas.  The Mirkwood Elf paused to help Rithol dispatch of a particularly troublesome orc before calling out again.  Gimli could not help but feel slightly impressed as he noted the agility and speed at which the Elf did so.  ‘He is an Elf,’ he told himself, ‘they all fight the same.’ 

“Glorfindel!”  Glorfindel heard his name called a second time before finally locating its owner. 

“Legolas!” he called over the fray, “How fare you and the others?”  He snapped out his arms and sent an orc reeling backwards.  The dark beasts’ numbers were severely depleted, and they now held no advantage over their foes.

“Fanlin has taken hurt to the back,” Legolas shouted in reply after a few moments, taking time to dodge the swipe of a heavy metal shield, “but I do not think the wound grievous.  Aside from minor scrapes and bruises, we are as well as is to be expected.”

Glorfindel gave the orc a solid kick as the beast attempted to pick itself up.  “Let us end this before one of us does come to serious harm,” he called, bringing his bright sword down in a resolute stroke.   

*   *   *

Within a matter of minutes, the final minion of Sauron had been slain, and the eastern scouting party found themselves standing amidst a blackened sea of twenty-odd orc bodies.  Glorfindel wiped his sword blade on an untarnished spot of grass and grimly shook his head.  “They lack any sort of provisions on their bodies.  I suspect we rode too close to their camp and shall find its remains nearby.”

Glóin wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned against the hilt of his axe handle.  “What was their business here, I wonder?”  The old Dwarf panted in exertion.  “I knew orcs inhabited the wilds of Mirkwood, but I did not know they had pushed so far west—and so close to Rivendell at that.”

Legolas tore an arrow from the body of a fallen beast, baring his teeth in disgust when he discovered the shaft ruined.  He discarded the arrow by lightly tossing it over his shoulder.  “When we journeyed from my father’s realm, there were signs of the Enemy along the eastern side of the Hithaeglir.  We found the High Pass to be the most perilous stage of our trek, but even then it was only Wargs we faced.”  He delicately prodded an orc with the toe of his boot to make certain the thing was slain.

“Wargs are a common spy of Sauron,” said Glorfindel, his face clouding over.  “Orcs are not.  And they are too many to suggest a scouting party.”  He glanced over to see how Fanlin, who was being attended to by Rithol, fared.  “They are far too close to Imladris for my liking.”

“I am more concerned about the safety of the High Pass,” said Gimli.  He spat indignantly at the body lying near his feet when he noticed his axe blade had been notched.  “How are we to cross the mountains if we are waylaid by Orkish armies?  For all we know they have seized the Pass by now.”

“Perhaps we ought to turn back,” suggested Orimhedil.  “We were to only scout the Enemy, not engage him in battle.  We have not the numbers to do so.”  He gestured towards Fanlin.  “Already we have taken hurt, and Imladris must be informed of the growing presence of fell beasts.”

“But how are we to return home?” argued Barin.  He missed the Lonely Mountain and had no desire to backtrack to Rivendell. 

Orimhedil shrugged somewhat apologetically at the Dwarf’s inquiry.  “Perhaps you do not.”

“Mirkwood shall not be sundered from Imladris!” cried Legolas in alarm.  “We must continue onward, and when we reach the forest perhaps my father’s forces will help to drive back the Enemy.”  Elbereth, he had just agreed with a Dwarf.  It was a most unnatural sensation.  Apparently Orimhedil found the situation as odd as he did: the Imladris Elf started and shook his head.

“Those of us still able shall not turn back to Imladris,” Glorfindel stated firmly.  “Fanlin and Rithol may depart.”  He turned to the injured Elven warrior.  “I am sorry my friend, but you would only serve to jeopardize our mission in your present condition.  I send Rithol as your escort—it would be unwise for you to travel alone.”

The warrior heaved a sigh of resignation.  “Were it that I had not been injured,” the crestfallen Elf replied.  “Alas, my heart wishes to continue onward.”  He stood and straightened his tunic.  “But that cannot be helped.  We shall warn Lord Elrond of all we have seen.”  He bowed stiffly, taking care not to upset the wound’s dressing.  “Come, Rithol.”  He gave Legolas an amiable pat on the shoulder as he walked to his horse.  “Keep your weapons close, young prince,” he whispered in Legolas’ ear as he passed by.  “For I fear you shall need them.”

The two Elves gracefully mounted their steeds and turned to wish the remaining company a safe journey.  “Farewell!” they called, their clear voices ringing pleasantly in the crisp air.  Then, in a whirlwind of flying pebbles and dust, they turned their steeds and flew back down the rocky trail.  Soon all that could be heard was the softly fading cadence of flinty hooves and the wary chirrups of battle-frightened birds.

*     *     *

“We too must go forth,” said Glorfindel after a time.  He eyes swept over the slain orc bodies littering the mountain path.  Orimhedil was right—they had not the numbers to constantly battle their foe.  “Let us try to call as little attention to ourselves as possible.”  His eyes slid to the face of Legolas.  ‘That means no more foolhardy stunts, young prince.’  Though he did not voice the words, he was certain the Mirkwood Elf understood his message.

He was about to turn and grasp the mane of his stallion when a slight movement behind Legolas caught his eye.  The Elf lord’s eyes widened in horror as he realized not all of the orcs had been slain.  The dying beast was reaching for the dagger at its side, intending to send at least one Elf to the Halls of Mandos while it still had the chance.  “Legolas!” he cried out in warning and leapt forward, knowing that even as he did it was too late.

Legolas spun around in time to see a crude dagger speeding straight at him.  His body only had time to tense before…

CHINK!  The most peculiar clash of metal upon metal sang in the air, and the dagger fell harmlessly to the ground.  Legolas stood motionless, mouth agape, as Glóin stumped over to retrieve his helm. 

“Hahah!” cried the Dwarf as he examined the metal working of the helm.  “Not a scratch or dent upon it.”  He chuckled and gave the very pale Elf a hearty thump upon the back.  “Now here is a good and proper piece of Dwarvish metal, Master Elf!”  He winked at Legolas and trundled back to his comrades, still chuckling. 

Legolas swallowed wanly and marveled that his knees had not yet given away.

Gimli hoisted his thick axe upon his shoulder and began to tread around the various orc bodies.  He looked at the Elf, who still appeared rather stunned, and grinned to himself.  He couldn’t stand the haughty prince any more than he had before, but at least the Elf would now think twice when it came to Dwarves.

Thunder rumbled overhead as the reunited company slowly picked its way over the mountainous terrain.  Soon a cold rain would fall, washing away any trace of battle and cleansing the tainted land.  Necessity called that an uneasy truce be reached, but how long would it last?

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*Hithaeglir-  The Misty Mountains

*Taur e-Ndaedelos: ‘the forest of the great fear.’  Translated into Westron as ‘Mirkwood.’  --The Return of the King; Appendix F, II On Translation. 

* “Baruk Khazâd!  Khazâd aimênu!”  --“Axes of the Dwarves!  The Dwarves are upon you!”

* Mithlaf—Legolas’ steed

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

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~ Chapter 17:  It All Goes Up in Smoke ~

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The female of any species is a most wondrous creation.  All outward appearances hint at a delicate and fragile being, yet beneath her soft exterior lies a devious and calculating beast, craftier than the sliest fox.  She is a master of perception, and when pushed to the edge the true steel of her character is revealed.  Thus, it was not in the nature of the serving girl Mysian, who deemed herself so cruelly bound and gagged by the “Black Riders,” to simply wait in helpless misery until a brawny hero came to her rescue.

Immediately following her return to consciousness, the girl had lain on the bed as quietly as she could and slowly worked at the knotted bonds around her wrists for the remainder of the night.  They had not been tightly bound, for the Rangers and Boromir were perhaps too kindly for their own good.  By the time the scent of morning began to fill the crisp air and starlight faded into the first streaks of dawn, she had loosened them completely.

*          *          *

Aragorn awoke with a start.  He rapidly blinked the sleep away from his heavy eyelids and stood up with a groan.  Spending the night in a hard wooden chair was not the most comfortable of makeshift beds, but the Ranger had encountered far worse.  His wrist cracked as he placed his hand in the crook of his back and arched his spine.  He heaved a sigh and gave his shoulders a languid roll, feeling them stretch and pop. 

‘I wonder when I became so rickety,’ he thought in wry amusement.  ‘One of these days I shall begin to inadvertently lose body parts.’  He pictured Arwen’s reaction should he roll out of bed and stretch, only to have an arm or leg fall off.  ‘I prefer it be an arm,’ he decided.  ‘I do not think a one-legged version of myself would pose very threatening.’ 

He was in the process of contemplating how the single-legged Aragorn would sword fight, ride a horse, dance with Arwen, and trek up a mountain when Boromir lazily sat up from the floor and yawned.  “Good morn, Arag—, er, Strider,” Boromir said softly as he attempted to stifle a second yawn.  The son of Denethor massaged the back of his painfully stiff neck.  “I admit the floor did nothing for me.  How fare you?”

“A lot of hopping,” muttered Aragorn.

Boromir cocked his head towards the man in confusion.  “Pardon?”

Aragorn blinked and rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin.  He needed a shave, and did he just say “a lot of hopping” out loud?  “Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere.  What were you asking?”  He never had been a morning person.

Boromir shook his head and wondered what the dark-haired man could possibly think about so early in the morning that involved hopping.  “Ah, never mind.  It was nothing of great importance.”  He shifted his body to look at the still form of the serving maid.  She appeared to be sleeping.  “What shall we do with her?”

Aragorn’s mouth drew into a thin line as he regarded the sleeping girl.  Her shoulders moved up and down in response to her slumbered breathing and the braid of her honeyed hair had loosened, allowing tangled strands to hide her face.  “Leave her here, I suspect.  Hopefully she will not wake until after our departure.”

Boromir reached for his boots and began lacing them up.  “Do you think anyone noticed her missing?”

Aragorn shrugged, his sharp gaze still resting upon the maid.  “I do not know.  Perhaps, perhaps not.”  Boromir found little comfort in his words.

The pretty maid clamped her eyelids shut and willed them not to flutter.  The Black Riders must not discover she was awake.  ‘I wonder if anyone did notice my absence,’ she pondered, forcing herself to breath as evenly as she could.  The weather had driven many to seek shelter the previous evening, sending the tavern into a chaotic whirl of weary travelers, bustling servers, and countless ale mugs and stew platters.  Her absence had most likely been lost amidst the hectic masses.

She slowly cracked open one eye as wide as she dared and watched the two men through her thick lashes.  Curse the day she had ever laid eyes upon that Borofara!  Her anger began to boil as she remembered how he had toyed with her emotions.  Of course, Boromir had done no such thing, but as Mysian perceived it, he had caused her great insult.  There was, she reasoned, only one explanation for her ridiculous infatuation with the man: he had cast a spell upon her, which rendered her completely enchanted and powerless.  ‘The way he looked straight into the depths of my eyes, my very soul,’ she silently ranted, gnashing her teeth in fury.  ‘He knew I would be helpless against his wicked Black Powers.’

Boromir finished lacing his boots and stood up.  He reached for his cloak and began to fasten it around his neck, but Aragorn stopped him.  “Let us first see if the others have risen.”  Aragorn glanced at the dark cloak and winced.  “In our current situation, it would be best to avoid wearing those.”

Boromir hastily threw the cloak aside.  “Of course, how foolish of me.”  The two men buckled their scabbards and headed towards the door.  The kidnapped girl listened to their heavy boots clomp across the wooden floorboards, followed by the rattle of a door handle as it was turned.  Aragorn and Boromir exited the room, and the door closed behind them with a sharp click.

Mysian the serving maid suddenly found herself alone.  She held her breath and waited several tense seconds before springing to action.

Rolling over onto her stomach, the girl shimmied out of the cloth that bound her wrists.  She then sat upright, swiftly untied her ankles, and tore off the gag around her mouth.  Before hopping to the floor, she froze, her body rigid, and strained her ears for any hint of the Black Riders’ return.  Her ears were greeted by only the muted murmur of conversation as it drifted up from the room below her.  Inhaling a shaky breath, the very rumpled Mysian pushed stray pieces of hair away from her face and cautiously stood up.  She cringed as the floorboards creaked ever so slightly beneath her. 

‘I must escape,’ she told herself resolutely.  ‘I must warn the town.’  What if the Black Riders were to capture her family?  What would they do to them?  She suppressed a shudder at the thought.  No, she would not let Borofara and the rest of his minions destroy her family or her village.  He and his dark friends had tried to subdue her, but they would not succeed!

With steps lighter than a feather, the girl stole across the room.  She was almost to the door.  ‘It is but a few steps more,’ she encouraged herself.  Her trembling hand reached for the knob.  What if Borofara knew she was trying to escape?  What if he and his companions were on the other side of the door, waiting for her to open it?  The pretty maid closed her green eyes, sent a quick prayer to the Valar, and thrust open the door.

The hallway was empty.  Mysian almost began to cry in relief, and bit her bottom lip as it quivered uncontrollably.  ‘You are not in the clear yet,’ she reminded herself.  She cautiously stuck her head out of the doorframe.  ‘They must be in the room of their fellow Riders.’  She envisioned Borofara and his men sitting around a bubbling cauldron, chanting in strange tongues and plotting the demise of she and the entire town.  Her fear melted away and was replaced by indignant anger.  How dare they!

Without further thought, the girl dashed into the hallway and let loose several blood-curdling screams loud enough to make even the deaf cover their ears.  “TO ARMS!  TO ARMS!” she cried.  “THEY ARE HERE!  THE BLACK RIDERS ARE HERE!” 

*          *          *

The eastern scouting party trekked forward at a brisk clip following their late noontide battle with the orcs.  Seeking to put as much distance between themselves and their slain foes—for they reasoned where there was one large camp, there was bound to be another, the company continued on through the night and into the next morning.  The day dawned pale and washed-out, sobering the group as they plodded forth.  Luckily, there was still an abundance of trees in the area, which served to break the howling wind as it tumbled down from the mountain heights.

 Glorfindel twisted around on the back of his mount in order to check on the well being of the three Dwarves.  Gimli, Glóin and Barin huffed and panted as they toiled up the mountain trail.  The Elf lord’s eyes did not miss the slight hitch in the step of Glóin, or the fact that he tended to veer slightly to the right when walking.  ‘An old battle injury, I presume,’ Glorfindel thought.  ‘I worry for Master Glóin’s welfare.’  His eyes scanned over the remaining members of the party.  Even Orimhedil and Legolas were beginning to show signs of weariness. 

They pressed ahead into the late afternoon before the captain of Rivendell opted to halt for the evening.  Though several hours of daylight still persisted, all were taxed too far to safely journey onward.  The forest had begun to thin as well, and Glorfindel decided to make use of its cover while the trees were still available.  The company built a makeshift camp within a rocky, weathered glen and then each attended to his needs.

Legolas sighed in relief when he found the object of his desire—a small, cold stream gushing through a shallow and rocky bed.  He had not attended to his cuts earlier, for he deemed them minor and unnecessary of immediate attention.  Though this was true, they nonetheless burned and stung incessantly.  Legolas found them incredibly irritating, and the soothing waters of the stream would feel marvelous on his sore and abused skin.

He unfastened his wrist guard and rolled up his sleeve, examining the cut along his forearm.  It was swollen and puckered an angry red, but would not hinder him to any great degree.  He closed his eyes and stiffened as the freezing water splashed over the wound.  Gradually relaxing as the water numbed his arm, Legolas slowly rotated it back and forth.  The rushing water cleansed the cut and the Elf was finally relieved a majority of the wound’s painful burning. 

‘And now to attend the shoulder.’  Legolas undid the nape of his cloak and the topmost fastens of his tunic.  He rolled his shoulder forward in attempt to better view the wound and gently prodded it with his fingers.  It had ceased bleeding, but was still immensely tender.  Legolas grimaced as he caught sight of the purplish-blue bruise beginning to form on the outer welted edges of the cut.  It would take at least a week to heal.

He cupped his hand, scooping up a small amount of water, and poured it onto his shoulder.  The cold water dribbled down his back and effectively soaked his tunic sleeve.  Perhaps his method did not yield the most advantageous result, but it was by far the most convenient. 

He had almost completely cleansed the wound when approaching footsteps reached his keen ears.  Short, heavy footfalls.  ‘Please let it not be a Dwarf.  Please let it not be a Dwarf,’ Legolas pleaded silently to any whom might be listening.  His mind was still jumbled with conflicting emotions concerning the most recent turn of events, and he had yet to sort them out.  Coming face to face with one of the three Dwarves was the last thing he wished for at the moment.  The footsteps grew louder.  There was no denying who they belonged to.

‘Turn away,’ willed Legolas with all his might.  ‘Return to camp.  Turn, turn, turn!’

Gimli bustled through the trees, water skin in hand.  Glorfindel had informed him a small stream ran up ahead.  The Dwarf sang softly to himself in his deep bass as he marched along.  

“Chisel the stone and whet the axe

for the Dwarves have gone a-marching!”

Legolas lifted his face to the heavens and rolled his eyes.  Some folk should NOT sing.

“The dragon trembles within his lair

and the Elven-king pulls out his hair!”

Legolas snapped his head around and narrowed his bright eyes in the direction of Gimli’s voice.  He had a sneaking suspicion of who the Elven-king in question might be.      

“For the Dwarves have come a-marching home!”  Gimli ended the ditty with a flourish of booming drum imitations, and would have struck up the Dwarvish jig that went along with it had he not reached the streambed first.

Still humming, he knelt down in front of the stream and began filling his flask.  A sudden tremor ran up and down his spine.  He was being watched.  The Dwarf suspiciously lifted his eyes.  He cried out in shock and started backwards when he noticed the half-dressed Elf sitting cross-legged on the stream’s bank, glaring at him.

“Elf.”  Gimli gave Legolas a somewhat courteous nod, but continued to watch him as though he expected the archer to attack at any second.

“Dwarf.”  Legolas answered in a similarly cold fashion.  The two continued to eye each other. 

When Gimli’s flask emitted several burps of air, signaling it had been filled, the Dwarf withdrew it from the icy water and replaced its cap.  He could still feel the sharp gaze of the Elf boring into him.  ‘What happens now?’ he wondered.  He looked back to the Elf, noticing the Elder’s slender hand was covering a decent sized gash on his shoulder and that a slight grimace sat upon the Elf’s lips. 

Gimli felt a twinge of concern, in spite of himself.  The scouting party would not have split had he not said those cruel words, and the Elf would not have been injured.  None of the Elves would have been.  Perhaps if he were to… No, he would not try to apologize.  His words would be wasted on the haughty son of Thranduil.  ‘If the Elf cannot defend himself, it is no fault of mine,’ Gimli decided.  He brushed aside the errant drops of water clinging to the flask and turned back to the forest.     

“What have we here?”  Gimli stooped down to investigate the mysterious plant that had caught his eye.  “Why, this looks like…  Nay, it cannot be!”  The excitement in his voice was evident.

Legolas unrolled his sleeve and slipped his wrist guard back on with a sigh.  Gimli had stumbled across some *Ionillis—a plant so similar in appearance to pipe-weed that only one with an expert eye could tell the difference.  Though the two looked the same, Ionillis was extremely flammable.  During Legolas’ first journey with Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur had made the same mistake.  Had Legolas not interfered, Middle-earth would have been left with one very headless future king of Gondor.  Legolas was familiar with the plant because Mirkwood Elves often used it in performances that required smoke or small explosions. 

“What luck is this!” cried Gimli in delight.  Legolas curled his lip in disdain.  Imbecile Dwarf.  The prince would have to stop the fool before he attempted to smoke the stuff and ended up instead with a face full of sparking ashes. 

Legolas paused.  That was, if he told Gimli what the plant really was.  ‘No,’ he warned himself.  ‘Tell the Dwarf it is not pipe-weed!  His father saved your life.’  True, Glóin had saved Legolas’s life.  Gimli, on the other hand, had not.  Gimli had thrown a rock at him.  Gimli had insulted his mother.  And Gimli had just sung a rather nasty tune concerning the events of the Battle of Five Armies—efficiently cutting down Thranduil in the process.  ‘Tell him,’ his mind hissed.

“I believe that is what you call pipe-weed in the Common Tongue.”  Apparently Legolas’ mouth had different ideas.  There was no going back now.  ‘He is deserving of a proper scare,’ the Elf reasoned, knowing all the while he had no business leading the Dwarf on.  ‘And I shall not be inflicting the damage.  He will inflict the damage upon himself.’ 

Gimli, forgetting his hatred of the Elf in his excitement, began to hastily gather some of the plants’ dried leaves.  ‘I shall at least be certain he does not gather too much,’ Legolas decided.  Ionillis was only dangerous if used in large amounts.  ‘As much as I detest the thing, I will not be held accountable for directing him straight to the grave.’  

“Dwa—Gimli,” he began.  Gimli’s name was still unpleasant to his palate.  “Take only a small amount of the plant.  It is vital to the forest.”  He hoped Gimli would not ask him what the plant’s importance was; it was a weed and choked out the more delicate fauna of the area.

Had Gimli been on his guard, he would have grown suspicious when the archer informed him what the plant was.  And if that had been overlooked, Legolas’s use of Gimli’s name should have set off a barrage of warnings within the Dwarf’s mind.  Yet it was not to be, for the son of Glóin was far too enraptured by his fortunate discovery of “pipe-weed.” 

“Yes, yes,” the Dwarf responded impatiently.  Elves and their plants, honestly!  He carefully plucked a final leaf.  ‘Mayhap the son of Thranduil is not quite as terrible as I made him out to be,’ he thought.  ‘I was almost sorry Father saved his wretched little life, but I begin to feel his efforts were not in vain.’  He stood up and shot a grateful, albeit somewhat reluctant, look in the direction of Legolas, whose face remained completely unreadable.  “Ahem,” he grunted, embarrassed.  “Thank you.”  With that, he turned abruptly on his heel and headed back to camp.

Legolas sat wordlessly upon the pebbly bank, his lithe form straight as an ash tree.  Was that guilt he felt gnawing at his insides?  He scowled.  ‘Cease this at once,’ he ordered.  ‘Should an orc express gratitude, would you show him mercy as well?’  Admittedly, the chances of an orc expressing gratitude of any kind, particularly towards an Elf, were slim to none.  Legolas chose to ignore this fact.  Instead, the archer pictured the look on the Dwarf’s face when he lit up his pipe, receiving a giant billow of smoke when expecting the breathy wisps of tobacco.  The Elf’s thoughts then turned to his mother.  Any lingering guilt quickly vanished. 

Legolas refastened his tunic and cloak, then fluidly rose to his feet.  For once, he would be looking forward to the Dwarves’ evening smoke.  It was as Glorfindel said: “Fight fire with fire.” 

*          *          *

Gimli stumped through the autumn-painted eaves of the forest as the light gradually waned.  Despite the fact that he was surrounded by trees and traveling in the company of Elves, the Dwarf was in wonderfully high spirits.  Two evenings ago, he had been most disturbed to discover his leather pouch of pipe-weed had begun to mould.  The constant rainfall had seeped in, destroying nearly all the pouch’s contents.  The stuff of Barin and Glóin had also fallen victim to the rain, leaving precious little for them to smoke.  But, as luck would have it, Gimli had managed to find more. 

The Dwarf caught sight of several pipe-weed plants growing in various spots within the forest carpet.  He might as well replenish his entire stock while he could. 

Gimli furtively scoured the trees, searching for any sign of the Elf.  He would not let the Eldar catch him picking more leaves when he had been specifically bidden not to.  The forest remained still, save the rustling of branches and leaves.  ‘He must have remained sitting by the stream.’ 

Gimli dumped out the entire contents of his leather pouch and swiftly plucked a few leaves.  And then a few more.  He paused to glance around him; there was still no sign of the Elf.  ‘This lot of trees looks to be doing well enough,’ he thought.  ‘The loss of a few plants here and there will not destroy it.’

The dried out leaves were brittle and crumbled in the Dwarf’s strong fist with little effort.  Gimli ground them all and deposited the fine shreds into his pouch.  Humming gruffly to himself, the Dwarf began to jauntily march back to camp, oblivious that he had just obtained enough Ionillis to lay an entire legion flat.

*          *          *

Dwarves do not usually partake in sharing, but Gimli was in such a merry mood that he felt downright generous.  The moment he returned to camp, he sought out Glóin and Barin and promptly split his tobacco between the three of them.  There was an abundance of the stuff, and he reasoned it was only fair he do so.  After all, if Glóin had not saved Legolas’ life, the Elf never would have spoken to Gimli, and Gimli would not have discovered the pipe-weed.

The entire company reconvened at dusk, settling for a cold meal.  Though warm food would have been preferred by all—especially as the night promised to be frightfully cold, they thought it unwise to risk lighting a fire.  The three Elves snacked upon dried fruit (for they did not require much), and the three Dwarves gnawed dried meat, cram and sugared nuts.  It was a scanty meal, but nourishing nonetheless.

Glorfindel watched in amusement as Legolas chose to seat himself next to Glóin.  The young Elf reacted in surprise as Glóin offered him a sugared nut and then shyly accepted the candy.    ‘I see you begin to hold a Dwarf to some esteem, young prince,’ Glorfindel thought with a chuckle.  ‘It is a start.’

What the Elf lord didn’t know was, while Legolas was grateful to Glóin for saving his life, he actually wanted to get a better view of Gimli. 

Legolas could barely conceal his mirth as Gimli reached for his pipe.  In a very few seconds, the Dwarf’s face would be covered in a cloud of Ionillis ash.  Glóin and Barin had also reached for theirs, but it was Gimli the Elf concentrated on. 

Glorfindel noticed the mischievous glint in Legolas’s bright eyes.  He knew that gleam—it was the same one the young Elf had prior to “shooting” Gimli.  Glorfindel was immediately alarmed.

Gimli lit his pipe, as did Glóin and Barin.  Legolas leaned forward, eyes twinkling in merriment.  Glorfindel narrowed his eyes.  “Leg—“ he began. 

He never had the chance to finish.

BOOM!  BOOM!  BOOM!

 Not one, not two, but three full-blown explosions complete with bright yellowish-orange fireballs shot up into the night sky and resounded throughout the mountains.

It had all gone horribly wrong.

Bits of flaming Dwarven beards and Elvish braids rained down from the sky as members of the eastern scouting party ran screaming towards the stream.

It had all gone so terribly wrong.

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*Ionillis-  “Nicotiana explosio.  Relative of the nightshade family.  Long, flat leaves contain small hairs and appear dark green in color.  Height ranges from approximately six inches to one foot.  Leaves dry out in autumn months, becoming highly reactive when exposed to flame.  Prefers cooler climates than the more common N. tabacum.  Found in areas containing abundant shade and leaf detritus.  Also see: ‘Smoke Leaf.’”

 -- Bryn’s Guide of Imaginary Middle-earth Species, Chapter 5 “Fun With Fire”, page 83.

:)

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

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~ Chapter 18: Strength of a Woman ~

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The first light of dawn lanced through windows at the east end of the hall as Boromir and Aragorn walked next door to the room of Halbarad and Rowgond.  A rooster crowed shrilly from the stables below, and the smells of breakfast began to waft down the hall.  The many tavern occupants still slumbered, unwilling to leave the blissful warmth of their beds.

The two men quietly entered the cozy room of Halbarad and Rowgond.  The grizzled Malbeorn was leaning lazily against the far wall near the window, one foot braced against it.  The Ranger squinted as a shaft of sunlight fell across his face, lighting his pale sea-colored eyes, and pulled back the dingy burlap curtain a little farther.  “Weather’s cleared,” he announced in the typical short mannerism of his speech.

Boromir washed a hand over his tired eyes and ran it through his hair.  Malbeorn looked as though he had been awake for hours.  ‘Does he not sleep?’ wondered the son of Denethor incredulously.

Halbarad was seated on the edge of his bed, attempting to fasten his tunic.  Boromir and Aragorn exchanged amused glances as Halbarad discovered he had mismatched the hooks and began to swear furiously.  The Ranger angrily fumbled with the fastenings, but only succeeded in rumpling his tunic.  “Argh!” he spat in disgust, throwing up his hands.  “I shall go about wearing this stupid tunic as it is.  I care not.”  With that, the Ranger folded his arms over his chest and glowered down at the troublesome hooks.  His resemblance to a pouting child was remarkable.

Aragorn chuckled as he knelt down to straighten his sour friend’s tunic.  “I take it you did not sleep well this past night?”

Halbarad wearily shut his red-rimmed eyes and sighed.  “Sleep is impossible when one must reside in the same quarters as THAT.”  He jerked his thumb towards a lump in the opposite bed, which Boromir supposed was Rowgond.  “A cavern of slumbering Dwarves would seem as a melodious lullaby compared to him.”

Aragorn re-fastened Halbarad’s final hook and gave him a clap on the shoulder.  “I think you exaggerate, my friend.”

Halbarad snorted.  “Then by all means, you attempt to sleep near him for one night.”  He reached to the head of his bed and grabbed a pillow, then threw it at the lump that was Rowgond.

The lump jerked as the pillow smacked it with a dull thud.  “What, eh?”  The tousled blonde head of Rowgond suddenly appeared from under the covers.  The young Ranger yawned and stretched, blinking in surprise when he noticed the small crowd in the room.  “Good morning all,” he said in a sleep-laden, albeit cheerful, voice.  He propped himself onto one elbow and turned his head to the dawning light at the window.  “I slept as though I were a rock!”

Halbarad growled and vehemently muttered something about stoning under his breath. 

Aragorn chuckled and opened his mouth to reply when piercing screams shattered the calmness of morning.  “TO ARMS!  TO ARMS!  THEY ARE HERE!  THE BLACK RIDERS ARE HERE!”

*          *          *

The sleepy village of Fenadoch suddenly sprang to live, save five men who stood frozen in one of the boarding rooms at the Singing Mûmak.  The call to arms was heeded by all, and soon the entire town was a seething mass of swords, spears, axes, pikes, and all manner of makeshift weaponry.

*          *          *

The sounds of a bellowing crowd approaching snapped the company from their initial shock.  Boromir swiftly made for the door, which was the most obvious (and preferable) way to exit the room.  He stuck his head out of the doorway then quickly drew it back in, shutting the door behind him.  “They are coming down the corridor, from both the right and left stairways,” he stated grimly.  “They bear torches and all manner of weaponry.”

Malbeorn again lifted the curtain from the window and surveyed the area surrounding the tavern with a sharp eye.  A large and murderous group of townsfolk was beginning to amass at the door, like a nest of angry hornets.  “How many in the hall?” he growled, leaning back into the shadow of the window frame as a peasant below caught sight of him and began to point and shout.

“I know naught,” replied Boromir.  ‘Ten, perhaps.  I can only guess.”  Rowgond hopped on one foot as he simultaneously attempted to shove a boot on and loop an arm through his tunic.

Aragorn rapidly walked to the window and leaned next to Malbeorn.  “We cannot exit through here.  It is a straight drop to the ground.”

“Only two stories,” murmured Malbeorn.

Halbarad braced himself against the door, shoulder-to-shoulder with Boromir, in preparation for the oncoming hoard of townsfolk.  “I shall not go jumping out of windows,” the Ranger stated emphatically.  “We will land directly at the feet of the mob below, and quite possibly break our legs in the process.”

Malbeorn said nothing, but continued to warily eye the growing crowd.

The dull thunder of pounding feet along wooden floorboards grew louder as the host of peasants drew near the company’s chambers.  Boromir grabbed the doorknob as Rowgond joined he and Halbarad in their effort to stay the door.

Malbeorn and Aragorn drew away from the window and stood tensely in the center of the room.  “Let them make the first move,” Aragorn commanded softly, his voice low and gravelly.  “Should they choose confrontation, do not hurt them.”

“His head appeared from here!  This room.  They are in here!”  A distinctly familiar feminine voice could be heard from the corridor.

Rowgond stifled a groan as he, Halbarad, and Boromir braced their full weight against the door.  “What joy, Boromir,” muttered Halbarad.  “’Tis the fair maiden you are so fond of.”

Boromir glared at the dark-haired Ranger.  “She is no fair maiden of mine,” he snapped. 

Angry murmurs and shuffling feet paused on the other side of the door.  Boromir tightened his grip on the doorknob and inhaled sharply as someone attempted to turn it. 

“Now listen here!” cried the serving maid’s voice, “We know you are in there!” 

Buoyed by Mysian’s fearlessness, the other men of the village began to chime in.  “That’s right!”  “Aye, we know you’re in there!”  “Get them!”  At the maid’s hushing, all fell silent.

She cleared her throat.  “Fenadoch does not shelter servants of the Dark Lord!  Your attempts to fool and enchant us with your vile charms have failed!”

Boromir furrowed his brow.  Enchantment?  Charms?

“We do not serve the Dark Lord,” called Aragorn.  “We serve the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.  We apologize for any troubles we may have brought upon you.  We wish to cause no harm, and seek only to leave your good village in a peaceful manner.”

*

Mysian watched as the armed village men exchanged glances amongst themselves and shuffled nervously.  They appeared to be in no great hurry to face the Black Riders, and were willing to believe every sugarcoated word Strider spewed forth.  The honey-haired girl could not believe her eyes.  “Cowards,” she hissed defiantly to the men, causing more than one to flush in embarrassment.  “They have already collapsed our bridge and kidnapped me!”  She turned to a hawk-nosed peasant.  “Astern, would you have these wicked men kidnap your own Linelle?”  She placed her hands upon her hips as the hawk-nosed man shook his head.  “Or you, Thorald?  How should you like to discover your home burned to the ground and your prized heifer slain?”

The toothless Thorald set his face into a hard grimace.  “Le’ss ged dem,” he slurred, raising his gardening hoe to striking position.

*          *          *

An animalistic roar broke forth from the angry mob of townsfolk as they charged the door.  Boromir and the two Rangers, their boots slipping on the worn floor, fought with all their might to keep the door shut.  Despite their best efforts, the three men found it nigh impossible to do so.  The door was slowly forced open as the peasants angrily lunged and pushed. 

“Aragorn!” cried Rowgond as he placed his back to the door and frantically tried to keep his feet from sliding out from under him, “Do something!”

“Stay the door but a moment longer,” ordered the Heir of Isildur.  He ran back to the window, where Malbeorn was already jerking open the cumbersome pane. 

“Hurry,” grunted Boromir, punching at an arm that snaked around the doorframe and clawed at him.

Aragorn and Malbeorn had managed to wretch the glass open halfway, when suddenly a flaming bottle of liquor and cloth smashed through the top portion of the pane.  The burlap curtains immediately caught fire and the two men jumped backwards with a cry of surprise.  A ragged cheer erupted from the crowd below.  Two more bottles were quick to follow; one shattering the moment it hit the floor while the other rolled under Rowgond’s bed.  The straw mattress kindled akin to a dry bonfire, and within a matter of seconds the entire room was filled with smoke and dancing tongues of fire.

“We must use the door,” coughed Aragorn, dropping to his knees and crawling towards the door.  Fire licked and nibbled at his boots.  He pressed his sleeve to his mouth and nose in desperate attempt to filter the smoke from his burning lungs.  The room had become a roaring furnace of flame and smoke.

Boromir watched in horror as the fire raced up the walls and rippled across the ceiling with a macabre beauty.  Everything it touched curled and melted; leaving only charred shells and ashes.  He knew his face was flushed from the heat and sweat began to bead and drip down his face.  The doorknob was becoming slippery within his grasp.

Halbarad coughed in the smoke and waved off pieces of flaming ash.  “On the count of three, release the door!”  The peasants on the other side redoubled their efforts, sensing their quarry was trapped.

“One. . .”  Aragorn and Malbeorn reached the door and staggered to their feet.  “Two. . .”  The muted threats of the townsfolk mingled with the roaring, cracking fire.  “THREE!”

Halbarad, Boromir, and Rowgond leapt backwards.  The door burst open and peasants cried out in surprise as they tumbled into the flaming room.  Wasting no time, Boromir and the Rangers shot through the doorway, plowing over the group of townsmen in the process.

“Split and meet outside the city,” roared Aragorn as he bolted left and charged down the corridor.  Boromir followed him, while the three remaining Rangers dashed to the right staircase. 

The peasants recovered themselves quickly and took up chase with shouts of vengeance.  “Wrull while ouuuu khan, summ ubp Sahrwonll!” screamed toothless Thorald, gardening hoe singing through the air and spit flying from his mouth as though he were a rabid beast.  Rowgond, utterly fascinated by the sight, paused to stare at the enraged farmer before Halbarad grabbed him by the arm and yanked him down the stairs.

*          *          *

Aragorn and Boromir sprinted to the left staircase and fled downwards, legs pumping furiously as they pounded the stairs.  Unfortunately, the angry hornets’ nest of townsfolk outside the tavern had by this time swarmed into The Singing Mûmak.  The two men suddenly found themselves trapped as angry mobs from both front and rear bore down upon them.

Aragorn promptly realized such a desperate situation called for desperate measures.  Praying to the Valar the bottom cartel of townsfolk was not armed with spear or pike, he threw caution to the wind and flung himself down the stairs with a fierce battle cry of “ELENDIL!”

The plummeting Ranger hit the ascending group like a sack of flour, and all tumbled to the bottom of the staircase in a mass of arms, legs, and makeshift weapons.

Boromir leapt over the pile of groaning bodies and hit the hallway at a dead run.  He paused momentarily to see how Aragorn fared.  The rugged man was fighting off several of the townsfolk, whose skills at weapon yielding were downright atrocious.  Satisfied Aragorn could take care of himself, Boromir continued his flight.

Past the astounded and sleepy faces of roused travelers poking their heads out of the doors he ran.  Past the kitchen area (causing several serving maids to scream in terror and three cooks wielding knives to give chase) he ran.  Past the main room, past the front counter he ran.  Boromir did not stop running until he reached the stables, and then he stopped only to grab the tack of his steed Gehtront.  He threw the saddle over the horse’s barreled back, fervently hoping the black steed would not swallow air to inflate his belly as he habitually did.

Gehtront whinnied in protest as Boromir shoved the bit between his teeth and fastened the bridle.  The normally even-tempered stallion did not appreciate being handled so roughly to say the least.  “I suggest you hush,” snapped Boromir as he hastily checked the saddle girth one last time, “lest you wish to be roasted on an open flame by these imbecile townsfolk.”

“Apparently, we are not as imbecile as you would think.”  Boromir froze.  He felt three prongs of a pitchfork digging uncomfortably into the flesh of his neck. 

He was caught.  And worse, he had been captured by a woman, no less.  But even worse, far, far worse, was who that woman was.

“Turn around slowly, Borofara,” commanded Mysian.  “Or I shall spear you.”

Boromir carefully rotated his body, keeping his hands outstretched in a gesture of submission.  The green eyes of Mysian glittered as the girl held up the pitchfork threateningly.  Boromir sighed.  “Let me go,” he began, “I have no wish to hurt you.”

The rosy-cheeked maiden clenched her teeth.  “Hah!”  A short, angry laugh escaped her clamped jaw.  “You are in no position to place demands, vile creature of Sauron!”

Boromir rolled his eyes.  This was becoming ridiculous.  “For the last time, we are no servants of the Dark Lord!”  He gingerly placed his hand upon the pitchfork and shoved it away from his face.  “Now put that tool down before someone is injured.”

Mysian growled and jabbed the fork back at him, causing the man of Gondor to jerk back his head.  Boromir promptly grabbed the tool and wretched it from her hands.  “Will you cease this?” he cried in exasperation.  He disdainfully tossed the pitchfork to the side, where it hit the stable wall and fell into the straw.

“You have been warned!”  Mysian cried, her voice shrill and quivering. 

Boromir rolled his eyes again.  “Of course,” he said in agitation, “I have been warned.  And I assure you I am absolutely terrified.  Now if you will just let me leave—“

Mysian let out a scream of rage.  Boromir lifted his eyes towards the heavens and shook his head.  Foolish girl.

It was the first—and last—time the son of Denethor ever underestimated the power of an infuriated woman. 

The serving maid’s fist met the bridge of his nose with a solid CRACK!  He staggered backwards into his horse, eyes watering as red and yellow stars danced sickeningly in front of him.  The pain was excruciating.  His hands slid over the smooth coat of Gehtront before he toppled gently into the straw.

*          *          *

The western scouting party met in a ring of oak, ash, and thorn* trees directly outside the boundaries of Fenadoch.  Aragorn was the last to arrive.  The Ranger breathlessly looked about him.  “Where is Boromir?” he inquired.

Halbarad knit his brows together.  “We thought he was with you.”

Aragorn shook his head, stomach sinking.  The four Rangers looked back to the town in dismay.  A dark billow of smoke poured from the burning tavern and rose slowly into the air like a black marker of warning.  “We are not riding back,” Halbarad stated flatly.  “It would be suicide.”

Roheryn shifted impatiently under Aragorn, causing the rings on his halter to jingle.  “We have no choice,” said Aragorn.  “He is one of the representatives of the Fellowship.”

“But we have already agreed to meet Láthain and the others at Amon Sûl.*  If we are delayed any longer, we shall miss them.”  Halbarad’s voice rose hopefully.  “Perhaps we could leave him here and rescue him on the return trip.  What is the worse that could befall him—a week or two within a cell?”

“An axe to the neck,” growled Malbeorn.  Halbarad grimaced.

Rowgond pulled at the neck of his cloak and sighed.  “He does have a brother…” the young Ranger muttered under his breath.

**********************************************************************

*A ring of oak, ash, and thorn:  Interesting tidbit of Celtic lore for you.  The Celts believed a grove of oak, ash, and thorn trees was a “fairy ring” and avoided such places.  I don’t know if the people of Middle-earth hold this superstition, but it’s plausible.

*Amon Sûl:  Weathertop, i.e- Where Frodo Was Stabbed.

**********************************************************************  

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

************************************************************************

~ Chapter 19: Highlands and Lows ~

******************************************

Shadowfax suspiciously regarded the grey wizard bounding over the hills as though the entire army of Mordor were on his heels.  The stallion thoughtfully chewed a mouthful of clover and flicked his tail, wondering if he ought to sidle into the birch grove or stand his ground.  The wizard was quite a sight to behold; that much was certain.  Shadowfax could not remember when he had last seen Gandalf dashing pell-mell over any distance.

The Istari’s robes flapped behind him in huge billows; he resembled a sheet of grey laundry gone awry if anything.  His tangled beard and hair flew in all directions and dandelion fluff and fallen leaves rose disturbed into the air as he dashed by.  His staff swung perilously, nearly striking the wizard in the head several times. 

Shadowfax ripped another mouthful of clover from the earth and alertly turned his head back to Gandalf.  Then he eyed the birch grove. 

Gandalf.

Birch grove.

Gandalf.

Birch grove.

The wizard reached the foot of one of the pasture’s loping hills and began to charge up it.  Shadowfax could hear him shouting wildly.  “EAGLES!  WE MUST FIND THE HOBBITS!  THEY DO NOT KNOW!”  Shadowfax quickly made his choice.  The Istari was a raving madman.

Panting in exertion, Gandalf came to the summit of the pasture.  He paused a moment, then whirled around several times.  He was positive he had seen Shadowfax grazing atop the hill.  Where had the horse disappeared?  “Shadowfax,” roared Gandalf, “Come!  I’ve no time for games!”

A low nicker from behind caught his ear, and the wizard turned to see an Elvish mare gesturing her delicate head towards a stand of birch.  The coppery horse regarded the wizard with her warm brown eyes as he glared at the trees. 

Gandalf had to give Shadowfax some credit—the stallion blended in perfectly with the silver birches.  The Elvish mare pricked her ears forward in a friendly manner while Gandalf tried to discern Shadowfax from the trees.  She lowered her head and approached him, giving him a gentle nudge with her head.  The wizard stroked her soft velvety nose and sighed in frustration.  He felt the mare’s warm breath on his hand as she snorted in appreciation.  The copper mare belonged to Elrond, and Gandalf knew the Elf lord was very particular when choosing his horses.

The wizard glanced at the birch grove out of the corner of his eye and caught Shadowfax’s head peering at him from behind a slender tree.  Gandalf pretended he had not seen the stallion and continued stroking the mare thoughtfully, taking in her comforting horsy smell. 

‘You have already “borrowed” Shadowfax from Théoden,’ the wizard mused, deciding the arrogant King of the Mearas a lost cause.  ‘There is no harm in “borrowing” this beauty from Elrond.’  Of course, Elrond had not offered Gandalf his pick of steeds as Théoden had done.  Gandalf stifled a very inappropriate laugh.  Théoden had been livid; he had not expected the wizard to demand his prized stallion.  Gandalf supposed Elrond would be furious too.  Perhaps even more so than Rohan’s Lord of the Mark. 

“It is for the sake of Middle-earth,” the wizard announced to the long-limbed mare.  She bobbed her head in agreement and lipped at Gandalf’s hair.  Gandalf gave a sharp nod to no one in particular, and, making sure Elrond was not in the vicinity to witness his rather questionable “borrowing,” the wizard swiftly mounted and rode off into the forest.

Shadowfax snorted in disbelief as the wizard rode off on an Elvish horse.  And a mare, no less!  His pride thoroughly insulted, the stallion stomped his forefoot and squealed in anger.  With a flick of his long tail, he wheeled and trotted off in direct pursuit of Gandalf and the mare. 

*        *        * 

Merry sat miserably in his bed, several down pillows propped comfortably behind his back.  ‘It’s not fair,’ he thought with a scowl.  ‘I feel so useless!’  He gave one of the pillows a punch and winced as the movement jarred his broken collarbone.  Everyone else was involved in the search for Frodo, Sam, and Pippin, except him.  Even Bilbo could be found pouring over maps in the hopes of finding some clues as to the others’ whereabouts.  Merry had begged them to let him help, but Elrond would not hear of it.  The Lord of Rivendell ordered the young hobbit to bed rest, claiming that it would help the Elvish medicine to work more efficiently.

Merry scowled again.  “You must rest, Meriadoc Brandybuck.”  He raised his eyebrows and stuck out his jaw, attempting to mimic Elrond’s cool seriousness.  The Elf lord’s aristocratic accent was more difficult to conjure.  Merry cleared his throat and tried again.  “You must—“ he lowered his voice and smoothed out the words, “—You must rest, Meriadoc Brandybuck.” 

Merry snickered to himself.  He set his face again and continued talking “in Elrond,” as he termed it.  “I am a great healer.  I order you to rot here in bed.  Now I shall mutter my Elvish words of healing: lasta berta nin hilo jigger thingy woooo.”

Poking fun at the Elf lord, however, soon grew tiresome.  Merry leaned his head back and began counting the number of leaves sculpted into the ceiling.  He reached fifty-eight, then a bird chirruped outside his window, startling him and causing him to forget which leaves he had been counting.

“That’s it!” he cried in frustration.  “I refuse to be worthless anymore!  Don’t worry Pippin, Frodo, and Sam—I’m coming!”  With a great sweep of his good arm, the hobbit threw back the covers and swung himself over the side of the bed. 

Unfortunately, the sheets became entangled around the cast on his leg.  Merry lost his balance and fell ungracefully to the floor with a loud THUMP.  Tears sprang to his eyes as both his leg and collarbone, not to mention his forehead (which met the ground with a painful crack), caused white-hot flashes of pain to sear through his body.

“I’m. . . coming,” he panted, grunting as he dragged himself across the floor.

It took him a good ten minutes to reach the door.  Merry looked up and was about to stretch to the door handle when he noticed that, to his surprise, the door was already open.  Lord Elrond stood leaning against the doorframe.

Merry groaned.  Why were Elves always so quiet in their movements?  The hobbit set his face into a determined scowl and looked up at the Elf lord.  The task required an even greater craning of the neck than usual, for Merry was still lying on the floor.  “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Elrond, but I need to go find my friends.”

Elrond’s face did not betray his thoughts, though Merry thought he saw a twinkle in the Elf’s eyes.  “Meriadoc Brandybuck,” he began sternly, “you were told not to leave your bed.  And how do you intend to search for your companions when you are barely capable of walking?”

“I can walk,” Merry sullenly replied.  “I’m just resting for a moment, that’s all.”

Elrond arched a brow and silently reprimanded the hobbit with his stern grey eyes.  Merry looked away and felt himself blush.  Then, to his horror, Elrond knelt and gently scooped him up as though he were nothing more than a small child.  Walking swiftly to the bed, Elrond deposited Merry back into it and tightly wrapped the covers around the hobbit.  Merry discovered he could barely move, so secure were his blankets. 

He could do naught but watch as Elrond, softly humming to himself, stepped out of the room momentarily and returned with a cup of steaming tea.  The Lord of Imladris brought the cup to Merry’s lips.  “Drink,” he said pleasantly.

Merry clamped his lips shut and averted his head.  “No thank you, I don’t really like—“

“Drink,” Elrond ordered.

Merry gulped and downed the hot tea in five seconds flat.  “There.”  Elrond smiled.  He gave Merry a fond pat on the head as he rose to leave.  Merry tried to dispatch his fiercest glare upon the Elf lord, but found it to be most difficult because the room was blurring and his eyelids had grown so heavy...

*        *        *

“ACHOO!”

Pippin’s sneeze, amplified threefold as it bounced to and fro between various boulders peppering the mountainside, was the first sound to greet the dawn.

Then came a loud sniffle, which preceded a whispered “I’m sorry,” to be followed by a muffled smack and an irritated “Ouch!”

Frodo, Sam, and Pippin had managed to stumble across the crumbled ruins of some long-forgotten folk, and spent the night sheltered underneath the weathered remains of a collapsed wall.  Sam had built a small fire, assuring the others the birds were long gone, and cooked a surprisingly sustaining meal of mushrooms (which grew plentiful in the mossy, decaying settlement) and lichen, wrapped in broadleaf and seasoned with wild garlic.  Pippin was at first wary of eating lichen, or as he termed it, “tree mould,” but the young hobbit’s stomach won him over in the end.

Thus, it was a well-rested trio, albeit somewhat torn and tattered, which began to descend the heights once the morning broke.  The forested mountains had gradually become more barren as they were shuttled southward by the crebain, and now the land had a decidedly highland texture to it.  Trees were few and far between, and the land became a mixture of short grasses, boulders, and rocky ravines.

“ACHOO!”

Sam turned and glared up at Pippin.  “Mister Frodo, I think he’s trying to call the birds back.”

Pippin sniffled again and hopped down from the boulder he had been climbing over.  “I am not.  I can’t help it.”

“At least cover your mouth,” grumbled Sam.

“Come on you two,” chided Frodo, who was in the lead, “Bickering won’t help us get to the bottom any faster.”

Pippin climbed atop another boulder.  “It’s too bad we can’t fly.”

Sam snorted incredulously.  “Did you hear that, Mister Frodo?  We’re stolen away by birds, and when we finally manage to escape, he—“ Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Pippin, “—wishes to go back up in the air!”

Frodo only shook his head and tried not to smile. 

Pippin paused from his position atop the rock.  “No, but it would be faster,” he insisted.  He began to flap his arms experimentally.  “Did you notice that they didn’t flap their wings straight up and down?”

Sam, again turning back up to Pippin, looked at the young hobbit as though he were daft.

“It was more a figure-eight pattern,” continued Pippin.  He slowed his arms and began moving them in carefully sculpted figure-eights.  “It only looked like they went up and down because they moved so fast.”  He increased the speed of his arms until Sam thought he looked as though waving frantically to the rocks on either side of him. 

‘Either that,’ decided Sam, ‘or his hands are burning.’  He shook his head in exasperation.  Trust Pippin to notice the crebain flight methods.

Pippin bent into a low crouch and sprang from the boulder, arms waving furiously in the air as he tried to keep the figure-eight pattern.  He landed on the ground with a grunt and put out his hands to prevent himself from tumbling over headfirst.  He sighed in disappointment as he stood up and brushed the dirt from his palms.  “I can’t move my arms fast enough.”

“Hobbits don’t belong in the air, Pip,” offered Frodo, breath hanging in misty puffs in the chill air.

Sam nodded in agreement.  “That’s right.  We belong on the ground, and I think that’s where we should stay.”  He turned a severe eye on Pippin.  “Now enough of this business about flying and such.”

Pippin opened his mouth to reply, but sneezed instead.

“How long do you suppose it will take us to reach the Anduin?” he asked, staring dubiously at the pale blue sky.  He stuck out his hand experimentally as the odd snowflake tumbled down from above.

“I’m not sure,” replied Frodo.  “Perhaps three or four days.”  The trio had decided the river Anduin would carry them towards Mordor far faster than their own legs were able.  Sam pulled his cloak tightly around his stout frame.  “Look,” he cried, pointing to the cheerful thatched roofs and cropped fields below. 

Frodo sighed in relief.  “Thank goodness,” he breathed.  “I was beginning to worry we would never reach the bottom.”

Sam fingered the three gold coins in his pocket.  “A bowl of stew and a cup of ale would have me set for the whole winter,” he happily declared.  His stomach rumbled in agreement.

The three hobbits increased their pace, watching the welcoming village grow larger as they descended down the grassy slopes.  Sheep, newly shorn, lifted their heads and bleated as the trio passed by.  Several knobby-kneed lambs trotted curiously after them.

“Allo!  Voz-et do?”  A thin and wiry boy, pale-skinned and freckled, regarded them with open curiosity.  He wore heavy boots and thick woolen clothing.  Ginger-colored hair stuck out haphazardly from beneath his beige woolen cap, and the wind had painted his cheeks almost as red as his hair.  He looked to be no older than eight years of age.

Frodo shrugged apologetically.  “I’m sorry,” he called in the Common Tongue, “but we don’t understand.”

The boy set down his knapsack--which Pippin could not help but notice contained quite a bit of food, picked up a stout shepherd’s staff, and ran up to meet them.  A handsome black dog with white muzzle, chest, and paws loped at his heels.  The dog’s long-haired tail wagged kindly.  “I said hello,” said the child, a bright grin resting upon his countenance.  His accent was smooth and flowing, and Frodo decided it was quite pleasing on the ears.  “Where did you come from?  It is dangerous for us to play up in the mountains.  Where are your parents?”

The wiry child stopped short when he noticed the hobbits’ strange dress and unshod feet.  “You are not children,” he exclaimed in awe, pale blue eyes staring unabashedly at the trio. 

“No,” replied Pippin cheerfully.  “We’re hobbits.  I’m Pippin.  That’s Sam, and this is Frodo.”

Sam gave a shy wave and Frodo smiled.

“Hob-bits?” asked the boy, his brow furrowing while he tasted the strange word on his tongue.  He peered at their slightly pointed ears.  “Are you a kind of Mountain Elf?”

Sam’s eyes widened.  “Did you hear that, Mister Frodo?  He thinks we’re Elves!”

Frodo laughed.  “No, no.  We’re not Elves.  Just hobbits.  Halflings or Pheriannath, if you prefer.”

“Are all. . . hobbits. . . this short?” asked the pale boy.  These strange creatures from the mountains intrigued him.

Pippin nodded.  “Yes, we’re all about this height.” He looked wistfully at the boy’s knapsack.  “Say...” he trailed off.

“Oh,” the boy quickly replied.  “Allin.  I am Allin.”  He gestured to the dog sitting quietly at his feet.  “This is Nwahr*.”  The dog barked in recognition of his name and opened his mouth in the friendly grin only canines possess.  His fluffy tail thumped on the cold ground.

“Right—Allin,” continued Pippin.  “You wouldn’t happen to mind sharing your lunch with three hungry travelers, would you?”

The ginger-haired boy shook his woolen-clad head.  “Not at all.”  He scampered back to his foodstuff, grabbed the sack, and quickly returned to the hobbits.  The boy watched in amazement as they ravenously consumed his lunch.  “Are you sure you cannot grow any bigger?” he asked incredulously, wondering where the small folk stored all the food.

Pippin shook his head and took a swig of cider; despite the fact his mouth was already stuffed with bread and cheese.  Frodo paused to swallow a mouthful.  “We haven’t eaten in quite a while,” he explained apologetically, reaching for another roll.  Sam tried to agree, but could only produce a muffled grunt, as he had shoved an entire strip of dried lamb into his mouth.  Pippin sneezed, and unwilling to spit out the food crammed into his mouth, started choking.  Sam gave the young hobbit several hearty thumps on the back.

“Even my Onkleh Teebow could not eat as much,” the shepherd boy said in awe.  “And he is this big!”  Allin stretched his hand as far above his head as he could.  “Why have you not eaten in several days?  Are you being punished?  Who is punishing you?”  The faithful dog Nwahr softly padded around in a circle before settling at the boy’s feet.  “Did you get into a fight?” he asked, noticing the group’s battered appearance.  “I got into a fight once.  With Filleep.  But he started it, not I.”

Pippin gnawed on a rough crust of bread.  “We were attacked.”

Allin’s pale eyes grew round.  “Attacked?  Attacked by whom?  Were you in a real battle?  With swords and stabbing and blood and Aargh! with an Oooh! and a Yaaaaah!”  In his excitement, the boy jumped to his feet and began whirling and ducking, stabbing at imaginary foes with an invisible sword.  The black dog raised his furry brows and glanced at the hobbits with his chocolate eyes, as if to say, “Forgive my boy, he sometimes gets carried away.”

Dispatching his last foe with a deft flick of the wrist, Allin plopped back down onto the grassy hillock.  Despite the cold gusts of wind and occasional snowflake, he unlaced his outer tunic and removed his woolen cap.  His hair matted to his forehead and stood out at odd angles.  “Some day I shall be a great warrior,” he stated proudly.  “Like my father and his father before him.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied Frodo, accepting the sheepskin flask from Sam and gratefully taking a sip of cider.  He passed the flask to Allin, who took a long draught.

“Actually, we were attacked by birds,” said Pippin.  “Crebain.”

Allin leaned back and cocked an eyebrow.  “Those little black birds?”

Sam grimaced and touched his healing lip.  “Nasty little beasts.”

“Yes,” agreed Pippin.  “There was a huge flock of them.  They swooped down and carried us off, just like that!  It was dreadful.”  A shadow passed over his face as he was again reminded of Merry’s fate.

Allin let out a breath of disbelief.  “They flew into the sky with you?  Mon Valo!  Why?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably and Pippin fell silent.  “They were... they were trying to stop us from reaching the river Anduin,” replied Frodo after a moment. 

Allin nodded gravely.  “Ahh.  There was a large flock of l’wazoh nwahr*—crebain you say—that flew overhead yester-eve.  My sister Laure was frightened and began to cry.”  He sat up straight and puffed out his chest.  “I did not cry, though.  I was not scared.  I looked at the great flock and shook my fist at them—just like this!”  Allin scowled ferociously and shook his fist at the empty sky.  “And then I yelled to them: Mushay rapeedimont l’wazoh nwahr!  Jeh nay pehr pah!”*

“That was very brave of you,” Sam commented politely.  He wondered if the boy had been huddled under the safety of his bedcovers at the time. 

“Why are you traveling to the Anduin?” asked the boy as he fondly scratched the dog behind his satiny black ear.

“To ride the river,” Pippin replied quickly.

“To fish,” said Sam in the exact breath.

“To visit my aunt,” replied Frodo at the same time.

Allin looked at them in confusion.  “Er, we’re going to visit my aunt so we can fish and ride the river,” Frodo stated lamely.

Allin shrugged.  “Does she have a nice boat?”

“What?” asked the hobbits in unison.

Allin again shot them a curious glance.  “A boat,” he repeated.  “Battoh.  Does she have a nice boat?”

“No,” responded Pippin without thinking.  “We don’t have a boat.”

Allin drew up his skinny knees to his chest and loosely hugged them.  “If she does not have a boat, how are you to fish and ride the river?”

Frodo blinked, realizing they had not actually thought of how they would procure a boat.  He, Sam, and Pippin had simply decided they would take a boat, and that was that.  It was a rather large problem.  Frodo wondered how they had managed to overlook it.

Pippin’s face looked as distressed as Frodo felt.  “How are we supposed to travel without a boat?” he cried.

“I don’t know,” murmured Frodo, frowning.

“Perhaps your aunt will buy one,” suggested the boy.

“Who?” asked Frodo, still lost in thought.

“Your aunt.”

“My aunt?”

Allin blinked.  “Yes, the one you are going to visit.”  These hobbits were such a strange folk!  He was about to ask them if they were ill, then bit his tongue.  It was very impolite to suggest such a thing.

“Yes, of course,” mumbled Frodo.  How on Arda were they going to get a boat?

Allin picked at his wooden shepherd’s staff while the three hobbits silently brooded.  Tiny, perfect snowflakes began to fall softly from the heavens, though they melted the moment they met the ground.  The boy re-laced his outer tunic and pulled his woolen cap back over his head.  The loyal dog Nwahr rested his paws over Allin’s outstretched legs and laid his chin upon the boy’s knees.  The ginger-haired child patted him affectionately.

“ACHOO!” Pippin sniffled loudly.  “Excuse me.”

The hours slipped by uneventfully as Allin tended to his father’s flock and told the hobbits of life in Pahtoh.  It was a small village, one of many scattered throughout the pass.  According to Allin, his people were descendents of great nomadic tribes who used to roam the vast expanse of Hollin and beyond.  They were a sturdy, rugged folk; farmers by trade and warriors at heart.  “My ancestors fought in the Last Alliance,” the boy proclaimed proudly, fire burning in his pale eyes.  “Alongside the Elves and Dúnedain.”

The hobbits, in turn, sang songs of their kindred and regaled the boy with delightful tales of lore as only the hobbits themselves can tell.  Frodo was in the middle of recounting a story Bilbo had told him as a child—about a resourceful hobbit named Wilbo Caggins and how he was forced to outsmart the wicked Modelia Rackville-Caggins, a decrepit, bitter hobbit woman who wanted to steal his fortune (Frodo privately suspected Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had never heard the tale)—when Allin suddenly stood and squinted into the gradually darkening sky.

“What is it?” asked Frodo.

The ginger-haired boy shaded his eyes with a pale hand.  “L’wazoh,” he murmured.  “A bird.  And a very big one at that!”

“A bird?” asked Pippin, his voice containing an undeniable ring of panic.  The boy nodded, and, as if on cue, the dark speck above them slowly descended and became more visible.  Sam shuddered.  The bird was monstrous.  Its wingspan was greater than five Bag Ends stretched end-to-end. 

The hobbits shrank close to the hard ground and Allin stared slack-jawed as the great bird wheeled above them.  It let forth a cry that speared straight through them.  Sheep bleated in terror and fled down the hills as fast as their knobby legs would carry them.  The black dog Nwahr cried out in a strangled yelp before tucking his tail between his legs and whining at the feet of Allin.  The villagers working the fields in the land below immediately halted their tasks and called to one another, their voices containing a mixture of fear and awe.  Some claimed it was a great dragon; others said it was the spirit of some long-departed Vala.  

“Come!” cried the boy to the quaking hobbits.  “We will run to my father’s house.  The giant bird will not find you there!” 

*        *        *

The great eagle Landroval circled and cried once more, voice carrying fierce and long on the cold wind.  His keen amber-flecked eyes caught sight of the three hobbits, boy-child, and black dog fleeing below him.  Why did the hobbits flee? 

Confused, the brother of Gwaihir the Windlord abruptly halted his descent.  He would not risk startling the villagers any more than he already had.  He decided to seek the hobbits out in the morning.  With a final cry, which sent shivers down the spines of those below, he gave his massive wings a powerful flap and wheeled back up to the icy heights.

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If you haven’t guessed by now, Allin’s language is nothing more than phonetically spelled French.  Many apologies for its slaughter—it really is a beautiful language.  It’s been four years, so the grammar might be a bit sketchy.

*Nwahr: Noir.  Black.

*L’wazoh nwahr: l’oiseau noir.  The black bird.

* Mushay rapeedimont l’wazoh nwahr!  Jeh nay pehr pah!:  Mouchez rapidement l’oiseau noir!  Je n’ai peur pas!   Fly quickly black bird!  I have no fear!

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J. R. R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  Kudos to Denethor for being such a good sport while I poke fun at him, though the poor guy didn’t exactly have a choice.

 Character List

Mysian- Barmaiden the Rangers accidentally kidnapped.  Punched Boromir.

~Eastern Scouting Party~

Barin- Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain

Orimhedil- Elf warrior from Imladris

Glorfindel

Glóin

Gimli

Legolas

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~ Chapter 20:  Trial and Errors, Part I ~

***************************************  

Chink!  Chink!  Chink!  Chink!

Boromir slowly dragged his severely dented tin cup across the prison bars.  He had straightened his nose back into place a few hours ago, and his eyes had finally ceased watering.  Unfortunately, his nose was swelling hideously, making breathing from it impossible, and he was fairly certain the deep bruises forming underneath his eyes were not exactly flattering.

Clang!  Clang! 

If he hit the bars with the bottom of the cup, he was rewarded with a lower metallic ring.

Chink!  Clang!  Chink! 

Soon, the Man of Gondor had a full-blown symphony:  Chink!  Chink!  Clang! Chink!  Ping!  Clang!  Ping!  Ping!

Boromir was thoroughly enjoying himself, despite his dismal situation.  He struck up, or rather, attempted to strike up, an old Gondorian march; hitting the iron bars in different sections with alternating angles of his tin cup.  He stopped somewhere amidst the line of “Gondor blades are just and true” when he noticed the glare being thrown at him by his jailor.  With a sigh, he dropped the cup and sat back down onto the wooden cell bench.

He leaned his back against the stone wall and closed his eyes.  The wall was cold and damp.  Boromir supposed the air smelled musty and sharp, but he could not be certain, as his nose was currently not functioning properly.  It felt strangely foreign and obtrusive on his face.  Boromir reached up to touch it, and then thought better of the idea and dropped his hand.

‘This is quite a mess indeed,’ he mused, a phrase he had repeated to himself constantly throughout the day.  There were no faults he could find in his prison: the walls were solid and held no holes; the iron bars were wrought of a good craft and showed no weakness.  He had hoped the small barred window might offer some means of escape, but its bolts were secure and its bars sturdy.  Boromir allowed himself to slide downward on the bench with a grunt.  He sighed and stared up at the ceiling, noticing the many messages carved along his cell’s walls.

“Brewil was here.  2955 Third Age.”

“Hagan is innocent.”

“The end is near.”

“Silinrain stole my sword.”

“I saw a rat/ his name was Cor/ he could squeeze/ right through the door.”

Boromir pondered for several minutes what he should write upon the walls.  It would have to be clever, that much was certain.  Something that hinted at whom he was—for it must not give his true identity away.  Something that proclaimed his innocence; that told of a terrible mistake.  ‘A man in black sits in this cell,’ Boromir recited.  ‘Innocent and…  hmmmm.’  He should probably leave out the part where the mysterious man in black is punched in the face by the serving maiden.

‘Which brings me to yet another dilemma,’ he thought with a scowl that turned into a wince as sharp pain ran up the bridge of his nose.  The serving maiden.  ‘Mysian, was it?  Yes—Mysian.’  Boromir had always been a favorite among the ladies.  But this one…  She hated him.  It was a situation he was altogether unfamiliar with, and left him utterly baffled.  All women were fond of the son of Denethor, it went against standard protocol that one should not be. 

‘This must be changed,’ he decided resolutely.  ‘And since it does not appear I shall be leaving this vicinity any time soon,’ he glanced about the solid room in resignation, ‘I suppose I have nothing better to do than focus on the task at hand.’

As he had no experience with women whom detested him, Boromir drew from the only source he knew:  Denethor’s private stock of harlequin romance novels. 

It was a little-known fact that Denethor, Twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor, was a hopeless romantic.  Denethor took great pains to conceal his embarrassing secret, lest anyone discover his passion for the harlequin romances.  It was true that since the death of his wife Finduilas the Steward had become steely and grim, but he had never hardened so completely as to be void all feelings of love. 

Only three others knew of his fondness for the books.  Of the three, Denethor was only aware of one.  He had managed to coerce his captain of the Citadel Guards, Beregond, into buying the short tales for him (a task which Beregond loathed, for the shopkeepers would snicker at him behind his back as he left with armloads of the cheap books), but it was by pure accident that Boromir and Faramir had stumbled across their father’s guilty pleasure.

Boromir had been fourteen at the time, Faramir nine.  The two brothers were poking around some dusty and long-forgotten chamber in Minas Tirith when they uncovered boxes and boxes of the novels.  Faramir, ever the reader, immediately snatched one up and began reading its contents aloud:  “…She was an orphaned girl, the most beautiful there ever was and ever will be.  Yet she could remember nothing of herself due to the bump she had received on the head, courtesy of a passing army of orcs.  The only clue to her past was a strange hair pin…”  He had continued reading until dissolving into howling fits at the part where a brave prince rescued the girl from three thousand dragons and she collapsed into his arms.

“’She looked into his deep’… hahaha…ahem…‘his deeeeep blue-green eyes and’… hee hee hee… ‘felt herself fall into the endless depths of his soul’—HAHAHAHAHA!”  Faramir laughed so hard he began snorting uncontrollably.  He clutched at his sides and rolled on the floor in hysterics.

Boromir laughed, though somewhat half-heartedly.  He would rather die than admit it, but he wanted to know how the story ended.    

“To whom do these belong to?” Faramir asked when he had sufficiently recovered.  He tossed the book carelessly back into the box and wiped away the dirt from his jerkin.  “They are terrible!”

Boromir knelt before another box and blew away the dust and cobwebs.  He opened it and randomly selected a book.  As he flipped through it, he noticed the tales contained rough sketches: here was one of a gallant knight sparring with some strange creature; there was one of a wavy-haired princess bedecked in jewels.  Boromir was fascinated.  He wanted to read them all.

In the following weeks, the brothers came to realize their father frequented that particular wing of the castle quite a bit.  “They belong to him!” Faramir declared gleefully.  Though only nine, the youngest son of Denethor was prone to worry about issues that only adults were plagued by.  He once confided to his older brother he was concerned their father “was in danger of building an insurmountable wall around himself, which enables him to shut everyone else out.”  Boromir often wondered where his little brother picked up such vocabulary, as it was obviously not his own. 

Thus began Boromir’s love affair with the books, and he read them whenever he could slip away unnoticed to Denethor’s dusty recluse. 

Boromir recalled the stories he had read where the female characters hated the men.  According to these books, for they all followed the same storyline, the female characters were actually madly in love with the men, but did not know it.  ‘Therefore,’ reasoned Boromir, ‘this fair maiden must be madly in love with me.’  But how to make her realize this was true?  Boromir pondered the thought for several moments.  Obviously, he could not rescue her.  There was nothing to rescue her from, not to mention the fact he was locked away in a prison cell.  Perhaps a roving band of orcs would choose to attack the village.  Then he would come bounding to the rescue: sword flashing in the sun, Horn of Gondor sounding deadly upon his lips. 

He shook his head.  Where would this band of orcs come from?  And again, he was still locked within the cell.  He also had the distinct feeling Mysian would be able to take care of herself should any orc attempt to make off with her.  Boromir grimaced and felt sorry for the hapless orc foolish enough to try.

Then, as though struck by a bolt of lightening, it hit him.  ‘Of course!’ he thought triumphantly.  ‘I must kiss her!’  It was all so simple, why hadn’t he realized it earlier?  Why, all he had to do was place a small kiss upon her lips, and the maiden would fall head over heels for him.  Then she would release him from the prison cell, and they would run off together. 

Boromir frowned.  Running off with Mysian was not exactly what he wanted, but he supposed under the given circumstances, it was better than his current situation.  Mayhap Faramir would grow to love her.  She had the potential to be a nice sister-in-law.

*          *          *

Legolas sat in miserable silence upon his horse.  Of all the horrible punishments Glorfindel could have extracted upon him, the Elf lord had done something far worse: nothing at all.  He had not looked at nor spoken to Legolas since the previous night.  Actually, no one was speaking to Legolas.  It was as though he didn’t exist.  Even Orimhedil, who usually sided with the Mirkwood Elf, would not acknowledge him.

Legolas bowed his head in shame and stared at Mithlaf’s shoulders as the horse walked onward.  In his current state of exile, it seemed to be an unspoken rule that the son of Thranduil ride in the back of the company, where no one would have to look at him.  This, Legolas did not mind, for his appearance left much to be desired.  His eyebrows were completely burnt off and his hair hung in fried tatters around his shoulders.  His face had begun to heal, and now only his nose, cheeks, and ears remained bright red and scorched.  Thankfully, he wore his hair in the preferred style of most archers: pulled back at the top and plaited into small braids on either side of his head.  Had they not been as such, he would have most likely lost all the hair framing his face.  As had befallen Glorfindel.

Legolas raised his head and risked a glance at the captain of Imladris riding in front of him.  Glorfindel’s back was rigid, and blackened spikes of what was once luxurious golden hair stuck upward from his forehead, somehow managing to defy gravity in their crispy state. 

From there, Legolas allowed his eyes to slide over to the Dwarves.  Their beards had been singed away to nothing more than long stubble.  Poor Barin had lost his completely.  It was the strangest sight Legolas had ever seen, for without their beards, Dwarves apparently resembled lumpy-faced old men. 

It had taken the company a better part of the morning to convince Barin he should go on living.  The de-bearded Dwarf had lain down on the frosty ground; head buried in his arms, claiming he would rather die than live with the shame of losing his beard.

“Mahal take me now!” he sobbed, voice muffled by his arms, “I cannot go on!  Never again will I face my kin, for I am shamed!  I am an abomination!”

Gimli, who had great blisters covering his nose, cheeks, and forehead, along with Glóin, who had similar afflictions, took their distraught comrade into the bushes and fashioned Barin’s hood around his face in a makeshift scarf.  Barin’s new mask did not replace his beard, but it did save him from further embarrassment.

Legolas’ eyes flicked over to Gimli, whom he had privately begun to refer to as ‘Master Stub.’  The Elf was almost on the verge of provoking the son of Glóin, just so the Dwarf might speak to him.  Anything was better than the terrible silence he was being forced to endure.  He watched the Dwarf’s shoulders as Gimli marched purposefully up the rocky mountain trail.  Gimli’s whole body rotated with his movements, and though his form was rather box-shaped, his upper body seemed to hold the majority of his strength.  Legolas found the unbalanced distribution somewhat disgusting.  A body ought to be a thing of grace and fluid movement, not a trundling boulder.

Gimli must have felt the Elf’s bright eyes watching him, for he suddenly stiffened and began to finger the handle of his axe.  Legolas sighed, lowering his gaze, and stared dully at his hands.  He did not deal well with guilt, and at the moment he was wallowing in it.  He was still unable to bring himself to look directly at Glóin, knowing the elder Dwarf had treated him with relative acceptance since the very beginning.  Legolas, in turn, had repaid his kindness by flinging the stately Dwarf into a pond and nearly roasting him on an open flame.  He highly doubted, and rightly so, that Glóin would be near as friendly towards him in the immediate future.

‘How long have I been allowed to participate in the hunting parties?’ he asked himself.  ‘I have been considered an adept warrior for many seasons now.  But a warrior would not foolishly endanger the lives of his companions as I have.  We could have been beset by Sauron’s minions while cooling our burns in the stream, or while we were salving the wounds this morning.’  He absentmindedly entwined the mane of Mithlaf in his slender fingers.  His father had finally allowed him to travel to Imladris without supervision (granted, Thranduil had been trying to rid himself of his “feisty” youngest child), and Legolas had managed to ruin the journey in just about every way imaginable.  He had even created trouble when there was none to be found.  ‘At least,’ he thought wryly, ‘no deaths may be attributed to my embarrassing behavior…   Thus far.’

He wondered what it was that caused him to attract trouble so easily.  His second eldest brother Calengaladh had once accused him of craving attention as willows crave water.  Legolas was beginning to suspect Calengaladh might have had a valid point.  ‘Must I always be the center of attention?’ he wondered.  Was he truly nothing more than Thranduil’s brat? 

The young Elf clenched his fists and set his jaw in stubborn defiance.  There was more, much more to him than that.  And now he must prove it.  ‘I shall no longer allow myself to engage in worded sparring with Master Stub,’ he decided resolutely.  ‘The pranks, I shall also cease, for they have caused nothing but added peril to our journey.’ 

A sudden vision of Gimli, screaming in panicked terror as Legolas plucked a piece of bread roll from the Dwarf’s forehead, sprang unbidden from some pleasant corner of his mind.  Legolas felt a smile tug the corners of his lips in spite of himself.  ‘Nay,’ he hastily amended.  ‘I shall only extract revenge upon Master Stub should he initiate conflict, therefore warranting such action.  And,’ he added in afterthought, recalling scenes from the previous night’s fiasco, ‘my actions shall pertain directly to the Dwarf, and to him alone.’  Since he would no longer speak to the Dwarf lest dire need called for it, Legolas reasoned their conflict would have little chance of escalating to the proportions it had in days past.

The son of Thranduil sat up a little straighter and lifted his chin.  The pangs of guilt he felt at the appearance of the eastern scouting party had not abated, but now he accepted them.  ‘Mayhap it is only the twinge in my shoulder I feel.’  Legolas unconsciously rubbed the shoulder where the Orkish blade had scored him and frowned.  It was not terribly deep, but was rather sore and aching.  He decided to ignore it.  Warriors did not indulge in the pain of their war wounds.

He dismissed his tender shoulder without a second thought and turned his attention to the foreboding land about him.  The High Pass had posed a difficult path to cross when he and his small Mirkwood company scaled the heights; the eastern scouting party would most likely reach it by noon of the next day.  Jagged bits of icy rock protruded skyward, as though the jaws of some fell creature lie agape and waiting.  A dry and bitter wind blustered over the fanged mountains, emitting a dull whine as the frozen rock bit into it.  Legolas suppressed a shudder.  The wind rushing through the High Pass had howled and shrieked as though it were being tortured.  It was not a sound he wished to hear again. 

A few gnarled trees, so mutilated and twisted they more resembled claws, shivered contemptuously as the wind raged by.  Legolas knew it was useless to speak with them, for their spirit was as grotesque as their appearance.  He had attempted to do so, ignoring the warnings of Mirkwood’s captain, on the other side of the mountain when the trees had finally thinned, and was shocked to discover their jaded nature.  They had openly cursed and taunted him.  The slender Elf regarded the wiry abominations with heartsick pity as the company trekked by.  The trees were afflicted by a darkness even the Elves could not cure.

“It shall soon snow.”  Legolas jumped at the sound of Glorfindel’s voice, which broke the group’s unofficial vow of silence.  He regarded the Imladris captain curiously, wondering if he, too, was now permitted to speak.  As Glorfindel still did not choose to acknowledge him any manner, Legolas surmised his voice was not yet granted permission to rejoin the conversation.  He remained quiet and solemn, tilting back his head and surveying the blank sky.  

“It shall soon snow,” repeated the Elf lord briskly.  “Be on the watch for a suitable camp.”

“One,” added Glóin as he shielded his face from the stinging wind with his hand, “that provides us with enough cover from this dratted breeze.”

“At least this ‘dratted breeze’ cools our blisters,” Gimli muttered under his breath.  The keen ears of Glorfindel, Orimhedil, and Legolas heard his words quite clearly.  Legolas bit his tongue.

“We cannot risk becoming trapped,” replied Glorfindel, giving no indication of having overheard the Dwarf.  He narrowed his eyes and looked out across the rocky landscape.

“Trapped?” asked Gimli.

Glorfindel nodded, though his eyes continued to roam the mountainside.  “Yes, Master Gimli.  Trapped.  If we do not choose our camp wisely, we may find ourselves snowed in.”

Orimhedil gently stroked his steed as the horse shook his head impatiently.  “It is a common occurrence amongst deer of the forest,” he interjected.  “They seek shelter and warmth within the confines of some thick pine glen, only to become trapped when the snow drifts and hardens.  They find themselves penned in, and eventually starve or are picked off by predators.”

Legolas had mind to mention the *Fell Winter of 2911, when nearly the entire population of Mirkwood deer had fallen victim (as had two Elves) to such an instance, but then realized his comments would most likely fall upon deaf ears.  The herds had sought out the protection of the trees, unwilling to leave their shelter in light of the raging blizzards.  When at last their hunger drove them to face the cold, the snow had packed between the outer trees, reaching mammoth heights, and was crusted with an impenetrable layer of ice.  The deer, despite their valiant efforts, could not escape.

 Thranduil ordered the starving creatures to be shot out of mercy, lest they all die a slow and emaciated death of hunger and disease.  On the rare wintry days when weather permitted, Legolas—who had been about 450 at the time—would spend the frigid hours traversing the tree boughs (for the ground was too treacherous to walk upon) with the rest of the Mirkwood bowmen.  When a herd was discovered, the Elves would gather in the branches above them and end their lives as quickly and painlessly as possible.  It was an unpleasant task, but a necessary one.  When at last the snows finally gave way to an overly wet spring, the Elves were forced to go back and retrieve the thawing carcasses.  Huge pyres were built at the edge of the forest, and the deer were piled upon them and burned.  The smell was revolting and had lingered over Mirkwood’s eaves for weeks.

“Death in any guise would be a blessing,” moaned Barin, his thick hand gliding over his now beardless and masked face.  “It would be a release from what I must now endure.”

Legolas fought the urge to roll his eyes.  Yes, he felt terrible for what he had done, but Barin’s whining was beginning to erode his nerves.  His sympathy towards the Dwarf had waned tremendously within the past hour. 

Unfortunately, the son of Thranduil did not hide his disdain as well as he should have, and Gimli happened to notice his exasperation.  “There is an old Dwarven custom,” he spoke to the group, though Legolas sensed the words were directed towards him in particular, “that states, ‘an axe for an axe; a boot for a boot.’”

Glóin grumbled to himself, but did not speak up, and Barin’s eyes suddenly alighted with a wicked gleam.  “It is only fair that the Elf suffer the same fate as Barin.”  Gimli crossed his arms over his chest and smiled coldly.

Legolas’ resolve to avoid arguing with the Dwarf vanished faster than a puff of smoke.  “I did suffer the same fate as he,” he snapped, waving a slender hand over his burnt face.  “We all did!”

“But it was by your hand—“

“Nay, it was you whom picked the—“

“Let us cut off his precious hair!” Barin roared over the two of them, reaching for his axe.  “Then perhaps you will learn your lesson, Brat of Thranduil!”

“ENOUGH!”  Glorfindel whirled around, eyes ablaze.  “ENOUGH OF THIS!”  The entire scouting party shrank back in fear.  “There will be no more talk of revenge!  There will be no more arguing, no more fighting, and no more petty insults!  Should you even THINK of anything of the sort, I shall personally drag you down this mountain and all the way back to Imladris.  Do you understand?”

Legolas, Gimli, and Barin nodded dumbly.

“GOOD,” snarled the golden-haired Elf lord, his burnt tufts of hair only adding to his menacing appearance.  Fists tightly clenched, he closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply.  When he opened them, he had completely regained his composure.  “I sense there are many dark creatures within these rocky confines.  We must work together if we hope to safely cross the High Pass.”

Glóin grunted in agreement.  “Let us find suitable shelter for the night,” he suggested.  “Should it begin snowing too hard, the Elf or Dwarf on watch may wake the rest of the company so we do not meet the same fate as that of the deer.”

“Agreed,” replied Glorfindel, turning and urging his mount forward. 

The bitter wind carried tiny, stinging snowflakes as it tore past the group.  The blank sky was tinted a greyish hue and the icy mountain boulders appeared almost black in their frozen state.  Hidden behind the jagged rocks, many pairs of gleaming eyes followed the eastern scouting party as they picked their way over the treacherous terrain.  Night would fall soon enough; a frigid, snow-laden wind and creatures of shadow would gleefully follow.  

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*The Fell Winter of 2911: “The Baranduin and other rivers are frozen.  White Wolves invade Eriador from the North.” – Return of the King, Appendix B: ‘The Tale of Years (Chronology of the Westlands).’  My interpretation of Legolas that he is around 550 (560) years old, and I place him as being born some time in the waning years of the Watchful Peace (2063-2460 S. A.). 

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

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~ Chapter 21: Trial and Errors, Part II ~

********************************************

The light jingle of keys being placed into the cell door caused Boromir to start.  ‘I must have dozed off,’ he thought, and quickly sat up.  He nearly toppled back over when his vision began to swim and tunnel—a sign he had arisen far too swiftly than his battered head would allow. 

The man of Gondor washed his hands over his face in attempt to dispel the sudden nausea, forgetting in the process that his nose was broken.  He doubled over and groaned as he jarred the injury, causing pain to flare over the entire front of his face and tears to spring to his eyes.  Sometime within the grasp of the searing pain, he also managed to slide off the bench. 

When the moment passed, Boromir was rather perturbed to discover himself lying on the floor; eyes watering, nose smarting, and a sizeable bump on the back of his head—courtesy of the bench or floor (from which, he was not quite certain).  ‘By my sword,’ he swore, ‘At this rate, I shall be my own undoing.’

“’Eesss na doh skaweee.”  Boromir wondered if perhaps the fall had muddled his head.  He was positive the townsfolk had been perfectly understandable the day before.  He slowly sat up and turned around. 

“Yes, you are right Thorald.  I do not find him much threat to us either.  His power must have been lost when the rest of his lowly pack disappeared.”

Boromir sighed deeply.  The girl Mysian and a very thin, wiry peasant with no teeth were standing in his cell.  The bony peasant vehemently brandished a rickety gardening hoe at Boromir.  Though the tool had undoubtedly been the death of many a weed, Boromir found the makeshift weapon completely non-threatening.  Then again, he had also thought the same of Mysian. 

‘The plan!  Use the plan, you fool!’ his mind began screaming.  Boromir paused: the addition of the toothless farmer was unexpected.  Would he have to somehow cause the old man to fall in love with him too?  He could not recall Denethor’s books ever describing such a situation. 

He eyed the man, who was prone to drooling, and decided even by order of the Valar would he not kiss such a repulsive creature.  Boromir was willing to perform many acts of desperation if it meant he might regain freedom, but kissing toothless old peasant men was where he drew the line.      

“Come Borofara, on your feet.  The Council awaits.”  Mysian, rosy-cheeked face void of any kindness, crossed her arms and narrowed her green eyes.

Boromir blinked and furrowed his brow in confusion.  “Council?”  He had been to enough councils as of late, and none of them yielded pleasant results.  “I have no need for such a meeting.”

Thorald growled and mumbled something.  “No, Thorald,” answered Mysian, addressed the wispy old man,  “You need not hit him.”  Boromir eyed the hoe-wielding peasant warily.  Apparently, deciphering his words was an acquired ability. 

The honey-haired maiden turned back to Boromir.  “You are to be brought before the leaders of Fenadoch and judged, Borofara.”

Boromir’s jaw dropped.  “Judged?” he cried.  “What shall be the basis of this judgment?  I have done no wrong!”

Thorald emitted a snort, which caused his entire body to heave.  “That is for the council to decide,” Mysian responded briskly. 

“I do not doubt they have already proclaimed me guilty.” 

Mysian did not meet his eye and shrugged as though it mattered not whether the council had already reached its decision.  “You do not deny it,” exclaimed Boromir, an unsettled anxiety growing within him.  “They have already declared me guilty.”

“But you are guilty.”  Mysian tried not to feel empathy for the man as she bound his hands with a frayed rope.  He seemed so…  helpless and lost.  He reminded her of a little boy; she was beset by motherly instincts to comfort the poor child.  ‘A small child who has been severely beaten,’ Mysian decided, glancing up at his bruised and swollen face. 

She sighed at the look of pure misery settled upon his marred features.  “Do not worry, Borofara.”  She gave his hand a sympathetic pat.  “Mayhap you shall be granted a quick death.  I am sure a hanging or beheading would not be above the mercy of the council.”

Thorald gurgled in agreement.

“Death?”  Boromir jolted.  “You are going to kill me?”  The man of Gondor had been expecting to be jailed indefinitely, or a sentence of exile; perhaps indentured servitude at worst.  What kind of bloodthirsty townsfolk had captured him?  “You cannot kill me!  I am the—“  He stopped abruptly.

Mysian shot him another sympathetic glance.  “—Leader of the Black Riders?” she finished, as though speaking to a child of four.

Boromir closed his eyes and groaned.  “Nay!  How many times must I tell you—we are not the Black Riders.”

“Weh?”  Thorald gripped his hoe and let his eyes rove the room suspiciously.  Apparently the man was able to pronounce some words.

“Yes, we,” snapped Boromir, wondering if perhaps he should stop acting so complacent while Mysian tightened the knots on the rope.  “Myself, Strider, Malbeorn—“

“—Elrond and Gil-Galad?”  Mysian again finished.  She gave the knot a final tug to make sure it was secure. 

“No, yes.  I mean…”  Boromir groaned a second time.  He was going to hang. 

Much to his surprise, Mysian leaned forward and whispered into his ear.  “Borofara,” said the rosy-cheeked maiden,  “If you admit to your guilt, I am certain the council will grant you a quick and painless death.”

“But I am not guilty!” Boromir roared, frustration lacing his voice.

Mysian huffed and turned sharply on her heel.  She tried to warn the foolish man, it would be his own fault if he was racked or burned.  “Come.  I shall not bind your feet, for I trust you are wise enough not to attempt an escape.”

“Wait,” cried Boromir.  He sensed his plan must be acted upon, or he would never again have the chance.  Mysian turned and cocked her head.  “I would speak with you.”

The serving maiden and her toothless bodyguard met eyes and held silent council.  “Please,” Boromir implored.  “I beg of you.” 

Thorald shrugged and wiped drool from his chin with the back of his hand.  “Very well,” stated Mysian.  “Speak your piece.”

Boromir glanced at Thorald.  No, he would kiss his own horse ere he would plant one upon the old peasant.  “I desire a word with the lady alone,” he said. 

Mysian again looked to Thorald.  The wispy peasant shrugged, then brandished his gardening hoe at Boromir before turning and exiting the cell.  “Iee wehl gid ooou eeble bwahck widah,” he called over his shoulder.

Boromir blinked.  “Pardon?”

“He says he shall rip you apart limb-by-limb, beat you with his weapon until you are nothing more than a helpless mass of bruises, and then pour oil onto your skin and light you on fire if you even so much as look at me in a threatening manner.”

“Ah, I see.”  Boromir mentally repeated Thorald’s words, concluding Mysian must have added a few extra punishments, as the peasant’s threat came nowhere near the length of her translation.   

Mysian placed her hands upon her hips and bore her green eyes into the man of Gondor.  “You may now speak, Borofara.”

Boromir paused.  Should he first kiss her or reveal his true identity?  He pondered the thought for several moments.  ‘The ordeal shall probably go over better if I first tell her who I am,’ he decided.

 Mysian cleared her throat impatiently.  “If you seek to stall for time, I assure you—“

“—Nay,” Boromir hurriedly interrupted.  “I must… I must reveal something to you.”

The honey-haired girl looked up at his bruised face, curiosity clearly exposed on her own.  “Go on,” she said.

Boromir furtively glanced about the cell, lest anyone overhear what he was about to impart.  “I am not Borofara,” he stated, his voice at a low whisper.  “My true identity is Boromir II, son of Denether II Twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor.  I have embarked upon a scouting mission of the utmost secrecy and importance with the Dúnedain of the North, in the name of the free peoples of Middle-earth.  We seek to discover the movements of Sauron and his allies.”  He watched her face as she digested the information, but could not decipher her thoughts.

After several moments, Mysian crooked a finger at him and beckoned him to lean closer.  He acquiesced and placed his ear near her mouth.  “And now I shall tell you a secret, Boromir son of Denethor,” she whispered.  “I am not really a simple serving maiden.”

Boromir jerked his head up and looked at her in astonishment.  “You are not?” he exclaimed.  By the Valar, this was turning out just as Denthor’s books were written!

“Nay,” whispered the girl, grabbing his collar and pulling him back down.  “I am…”  she paused and looked around the room suspiciously.  “I am…  QUEEN OF THE DWARVES.”  Boromir yelped in pain and jerked his ear away as her shrill voice stabbed through his eardrum.

 “How foolish a maiden do you take me for?” she spat vehemently.  “Son of the Steward of Gondor?”  The girl snorted.  “I must congratulate you on a fine tale, for I had yet to have the ‘Son of Denethor’ grace my humble, insignificant table at The Singing Mûmak.  The great Elendil and Fingolfin once paid visit to me, though they came in the form of a pot-bellied drunk and his three-legged dog.”   

Boromir tried in vain to interrupt her rant, but could only manage to stammer one-word responses.

“May the Valar help us!”  Mysian threw up her hands to the heavens in disgust.  “You and your lackeys descend upon our gentle town as a plague of shadow, destroying half of our village, and YOU—“ she jabbed his chest with her finger, causing him to stumble backwards and wince,  “—have the horrid nerve to claim you are Gondorian royalty?”

Boromir decided that now was probably the best time to kiss Mysian, as he could think of no other way to silence her.

“—not to mention you clearly do not resemble the line of Stewards, for it is well-known that…”  Before Mysian could react, Boromir cupped his bound hands underneath her chin, brought her face forward, and placed a most generous kiss upon the fair maiden’s lips. 

It was a kiss to remember.

Instead of melting into his arms and returning the kiss as Boromir supposed she would, Mysian went rigid as the iron bars within his cell and, wrenching herself away from his grasp, promptly slugged him.   

*          *          *

Winter fell soft and heavy upon Mirkwood.  The newly fallen snow, undisturbed as of yet by foot or paw print, glistened under the morning sun.  Legolas inhaled, a shiver of pleasure running down his spine as his lungs took in the biting air.  The clear and silvery laughter of his brothers Mallos and Calengaladh pealed throughout the serene forest.  Grabbing his bow and hastily donning a cloak in afterthought, Legolas sprang to the branches in search of them.  Lhûn, his eldest brother and Mirkwood’s Heir, was most likely engaged in some dry political session with Thranduil and the king’s advisors.  Legolas felt a twinge of sympathy for his brother—what a shame to be locked inside on such a wondrous day!    

The young Elf darted through the trees, marveling at the snow’s ethereal purity.  He passed through the ancient pine grove; the smell of their wet needles was so bitter it was almost sweet.  Legolas smiled as he hopped down to the snowy earth.  His brothers’ laughter drew closer, their joy was infectious and all his troubles seemed to fade away.  Even his shoulder ceased to ache.

Quite unexpectedly, the ground began to shake.  Legolas froze in alarm as the stately trees began to tilt crazily.  What was happening?

“Legolas.”

The ground’s quaking increased in severity.  Legolas instinctively fell to his knees and attempted to curl into a ball.

“Legolas!”

Was someone calling his name?

“Legolas!  Elbereth, do all the Silvan Elves sleep so deeply?  Get up Legolas!  I am tired and wish to sleep.”

The youngest prince of Mirkwood blinked and roused himself.  The sunlit snowscape of Mirkwood vanished, replaced by looming boulders, howling winds, and a vast and starless sky.  “Arise, son of Thranduil.”  Orimhedil’s shadowed face peered down at him.  The Rivendell Elf gave him another vicious shake.

“I am up,” snapped Legolas, annoyed by the rude awakening.  “Kindly cease throwing me about.”  He sat up with a scowl and instinctively reached for his bow. 

“If you had awoke when I first called out to you, I would not have resorted to such means,” replied Orimhedil crossly.  “It is time for your watch.”

Legolas lifted his face up to the empty sky, searching for some clue as to what time it was.  However, the moon and stars appeared to have abandoned the treacherous night.  Legolas did not blame them.  “My watch has come already?”

Orimhedil had already thrown himself to the ground.  “Yes,” he answered tersely.  Legolas recalled how little sleep the eastern scouting party had managed in the last few days.  To say tempers were flaring was an understatement.  “Wake Glorfindel when your watch is over.”

Legolas sighed and wearily pulled himself to his feet.  It was far colder than he remembered, and he was almost to the point of shivering.  “The weather is uncommonly bitter,” he commented, rubbing his hands vigorously up and down his arms.  Large snowflakes floated downward and settled at his feet.  Legolas found himself thankful for the wall of boulders, which surrounded the company and effectively blocked the wind.

Orimhedil rolled over onto his side and looked at the Mirkwood Elf curiously.  “Yes, it is somewhat chilly, but no more than usual.”  The tall Elf of Rivendell gave a sharp nod to the thick snowflakes.  “If it continues to snow as thus, we shall be forced to move our camp.  Rouse the others in a few hours’ time if the snow has not abated.”  He shot Legolas a scrutinizing glance as the younger Elf shivered.  “Are you well, son of Thranduil?”

Legolas blinked in surprise and looked back to the Rivendell Elf.  Slight concern reflected in Orimhedil’s eyes.  Legolas flushed indignantly.  “Of course I am well,” he responded, chagrinned.  Orimhedil shrugged apologetically and rolled over.

Legolas climbed atop an icy boulder and crouched wearily.  Forsaken by even moon and stars, the barren land lie in agitated slumber.  Inky sky melted into blackened mountains, which in return receded into even darker crags and crevices.  A frigid wind whistled and ranted as it rushed by, the snowflakes it carried stinging Legolas’ cheeks.  His cloak flapped maddeningly within its icy blasts.

He strained his eyes and ears to the utmost, searching for any sign of foe in the bleak night.  He sensed nothing.  Legolas began to silently traverse the surrounding boulders.  The company had found a giant ring of sorts, and slept encamped within its walls. 

‘It is an ill sign when even the stars deny us the comfort of their light,’ he thought with a sigh.  ‘Starless and moonless, as was the eve of Gollum’s escape.’  He shifted his quiver, as it was aggravating his shoulder.  Eyes still roaming the blackened distance, Legolas prodded the shoulder and grimaced.  It should have ceased to pain him by now.  Granted, he did keep poking at it, but that was beside the point.

He returned to the first boulder and sat down, cross-legged.  Laying his bow across his lap, he gave his aching shoulder a languid roll.  The wind continued to howl, and he shivered and drew up his cloak a bit tighter.  ‘It shall be a long watch this night,’ Legolas thought wearily.  His entire arm felt stiff, and he was fatigued—unnaturally so. 

He shook his head as his eyes began to close of their own accord.  He stiffened in alarm.  This was not right.  There was no reason his body should be so tired.  He must wake Glorfindel; he must inform Glorfindel that he was ill.

Legolas tried to push himself to his feet, but his efforts were in vain.  His body simply would not comply.  His arm ached mercilessly and every limb felt as though it were packed with lead.  Even his eyelids were too heavy to keep open. 

Legolas struggled against the overpowering fatigue.  ‘Stay awake, stay awake,’ he desperately urged himself.  ‘Glorfindel!  You must... wake... Glorfindel.’  Panic welled in him as his eyelids drooped and clamped shut.  It seemed as though his entire body had shut down.  Despite his best efforts, the archer soon drifted off into a still and blissful slumber. 

*        *        *

The gleaming yellow eyes watched in barely contained excitement as the Elf’s head slowly sank to his chest.  Slender hands relaxed and released their grip on the wooden bow, and then the lithe body crumpled and slid off the boulder.

Snow flurried down from the dismal heavens at an alarming rate, making visibility nigh impossible.  The wind swirled and tossed the flakes, packing them into every opening and crevice.  Temperatures plummeted amidst the howling gusts, lending a thick crust of ice to the wet snow.  Winter released its first storm, borne of long and pent-up waiting, upon the Misty Mountains.

*        *        *

Glorfindel’s senses were literally screaming.  Still half-asleep, the Elf lord sprang to his feet and unsheathed his sword.  Snow blotted out the morning sun, and he could see nothing save an impenetrable wall of swirling whiteness.  The flakes had covered everyone and everything.  He hoped the oddly shaped lumps surrounding him were the remaining company and not random boulders. 

The golden-haired Elf held up a hand to shield his eyes from the driving snow.  His cry of dismay awoke the rest of the company.

Clouds of snow flew up into the already-whitened air as Orimhedil, Barin, Gimli, and Glóin bolted upright.  “Eh?  What!” shouted Glóin in alarm.

Gimli desperately tried to brush snow from his body before it melted on the uncovered parts of his skin and left him freezing.  Nonetheless, he could feel the biting cold on his wrists and ankles; so frigid it burned.  He could see nothing but white—it was everywhere.  The Dwarf felt himself removed from reality.

“We are trapped!”  The melodious voice of Orimhedil contained a clearly defined note of panic.  “We cannot get out!  We are trapped within the rocks!”  An odd scraping could be heard as the Elf unsuccessfully attempted to climb the boulders.  They were too icy for even an Elf to discover footholds.    

Glorfindel threw himself against what had once been an opening between two boulders.  Now, it had become a great wall of snow and ice.  The Elf lord’s powerful frame hit the wall with a crunching thud, but the snow did not give.  Glorfindel backed up further, hoping to succeed by gaining more speed, and tripped over a snow-covered boulder.

Rolling over, the golden-haired Elf cursed as something jabbed him sharply in the ribs.  He angrily sought out the object, intending to throw it out of the way.  His hand unexpectedly met the polished wood of Legolas’s bow.

Scrambling on all fours, the Elf began digging at the “boulder” he had tripped over.  He was soon rewarded with the still form of Legolas.  The young Elf remained limp and placid, despite Glorfindel’s incessant shaking.  What concerned the captain of Imladris the most, however, was that Legolas’s eyes remained tightly shut.  He put his mouth next to the young Elf’s ear and yelled loudly. 

“Legolas!”

He received no response.

A high-pitched, keening howl floated eerily on the blustering wind.  The entire company froze.  Several more howls, some low and guttural, others high and whining, were quick to follow. 

Gimli, axe gripped tightly between his hands, whirled around and nearly decapitated Orimhedil as they accidentally backed into one another.  “What, in the name of Mahal, is that?” the Dwarf fairly shouted, his nerves on edge.

“Wargs,” hissed Orimhedil, his fair face pinched and grim as he flexed his fingers over his sword handle. 

“Wargs?”  Gimli’s mind brought forth a vague and shadowy image.  He had never actually had the pleasure of meeting one of the beasts first-hand.  “Where are they?” he demanded, peering furtively into the whirling snow.  “I can see nothing!”

The howls rang out again amidst the screaming wind.  Glorfindel suddenly appeared from the swirling whiteness, carrying the still form of Legolas in his arms.  He deposited the unmoving Elf onto the snow and called for the others to draw near.  Gimli cast a disgusted look at the son of Thranduil.  What had the troublesome Elf gotten himself into now? 

“Is he dead?”

Gimli immediately wished he had not bothered to ask.  Glorfindel somehow managed to simultaneously glare at him and the shapeless howling beasts surrounding them.  “Nay,” responded the Elf lord tightly, his sword aloft and ready to strike, “but I cannot wake him.”

The deadly chorus of howls stopped as suddenly as they began.  The eastern scouting party stood tense and on edge, surrounding the body of their unconscious comrade.  Gimli could hear nothing save the wind, his pounding heart, and the gasping breaths of his companions.  The air was thinner and harder to come by at this altitude.  He looked worriedly to his father.  Glóin’s powerful chest heaved in and out, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes and he brandished his axe with all the flare of the deadliest Dwarven warriors.   

A sharp bark echoed across the mountainside, and suddenly the howls resumed, coupled by the scrabbling of claws upon icy rocks.  “They attack!” cried Orimhedil.

Glorfindel planted his feet firmly upon the snow.  “Hold fast,” he ordered.  Gimli marveled at the Elf’s level of calmness.

Shrieking dark shapes came barreling out of the snow, their size and speed catching even Glorfindel off-guard.  Gimli whirled and hacked blindly at anything that moved.  He fervently hoped his blade met only Wargs, for in the whiteout it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe.  His world became a mass of teeth, fangs, and thickly furred bodies amidst endless snowflakes.  He could not make out the others in the strange white nightmare, but could hear their singing blades and arrows along with the occasional Dwarven or Elvish cry. 

“AAARRGHHHH!”  Gimli roared as he embedded his axe into the Warg’s leaping body.  Much to his dismay, the blade became lodged in the beast’s ribcage.  He tugged with all his might, frantically trying to remove the blade before the next Warg was upon him.  A ripping snarl warned him that his attacker sprang from the right.  His axe would not budge.  Mustering the last of his strength into a great jerk, Gimli somehow managed to dislodge the blade just as the Warg pounced.

Unfortunately, the Dwarf was not fast enough.  He felt his axe wretched from his hands as the dark beast slammed into him.  Its teeth sank into the mail on his chest as they fell heavily into the snow.  The dark beast snarled and snapped its head back and forth in attempt to tear off the metal protecting the Dwarf’s chest.  Gimli cried out and began pummeling the Warg with his fists, his axe out of reach and half-buried somewhere in the surrounding snow.  The Warg shrieked in pain as Gimli’s thick fist came into contact with its sensitive nose.  The Dwarf successfully managed to shove the beast off of him and rolled into the snow, thankful the blizzard would conceal him as it had the Wargs.

He hastily scrambled to his feet, poised and ready for the next attacker to jump out at him from the swirling snow.  ‘I must find a weapon!’ he thought urgently.  His eyes scanned the snow-laden ground.  He needed a rock, or perhaps a sharp icicle.  Anything would do at the moment.  And then he saw the Elf.  The Elf, who was partially buried in the snow, and appeared to be...sleeping. 

Gimli growled and dropped down onto his knees next to the Elf.  All around him, amidst the whirling snow, Wargs howled in tune to the wind and Elves and Dwarves cried in ancient battle tongues.  And still the Elf—Legolas—slept. 

The Elf had a bow and arrows.

The hairs on the back of Gimli’s neck stood on end, as they always did when his gut was trying to warn him.  The Warg whose nose he had injured released a deadly wail from somewhere close by.  Gimli growled and acted upon the first impulse that sprang to mind.  He lifted his hand, and then swung it across the Elf’s face as hard as he could.  “Wake up!  Wake up you stupid, arrogant Elf!” he hissed.  The Elf moaned and his eyelids fluttered.  Gimli gave him another slap for good measure.  This time, the Elf’s eyes flew open, though he appeared greatly disoriented.  Gimli grabbed a handful of snow threw it in Legolas’s face.  “Get up!  We are going to be eaten alive!”

*        *        *

Legolas was yanked back to the waking world by a stinging slap, which nearly took off his head.  He groaned and tried to open his eyes. 

“Wake up!  Wake up you stupid, arrogant Elf!”  The iron fist again assaulted his face.

He was dreadfully cold and his shoulder was throbbing.  He had never been ill before, for such afflictions did not plague the Elder, but he certainly felt as though he were at the moment. 

“Get up!  We are going to be eaten alive!”  A handful of wet snow landed on his face.  Legolas jerked his body in response.  The world made no sense: only a cold and sterile whiteness greeted his eyes.  Strange howls and cries mingled in the wind.  They were vaguely familiar—disturbingly so.  He closed his eyes and wished to fall back to sleep.

“Fine.”  Someone kicked him.  “You can lay here and die for all I care.  We would be better off without you.”  He was being rolled over onto his stomach.  Legolas tried to push himself over, but his body refused to obey.  He still felt as though he were filled with lead.  His tormentor finally gave up and left him alone.

A bone-chilling howl caused his eyes to snap open.  He wearily lifted his leaden head, only to discover, to his utter horror, Gimli the Dwarf attempting to shoot an enraged Warg by means of bow and arrow.

 HIS bow and arrow.   

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  We have a few new characters in this chapter (Allin’s family!), and translations are at the bottom of the page.  Tip your hat to arabiasil and her wonderful horse stories in regards to the plight of Shadowfax.  :)   Happy Reading! 

CHARACTER LIST:

Fanlin- Male Elf of Imladris.  Joined the Eastern Scouting Party, injured in the first battle.

Rithol- Female Elf of Imladris.  Joined Eastern Scouting Party, escorting Fanlin back home.

Allin-  The 8 year old shepherd boy Frodo, Pippin, and Sam meet in the highlands.

Laure-  Allin’s 6 year old sister.

Atan Lerooj (“Atan the Red”)-  Allin’s father, one of three chieftains of Pahtoh.

Vanrie-  Allin’s mother.

Nwahr-  the sheepdog.

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~ Chapter 22:  Fatherly Love and the Frodohobbit  ~

****************************************************

Autumn had reached its peak in Rivendell, and the realm was abloom with fiery reds, gilded yellows, and eye-watering oranges.  The grass, nurtured by delicate fall rains, remained emerald as ever; the sky was an endless blue of possibilities. 

Elrond, his dark-haired figure melding into the scenery as only Elves do, moved serenely down to the pastures, several apples in hand.  His journey came to an abrupt halt when he caught sight of his daughter flitting beneath the trees, dancing and singing as though she were Autumn herself.

He watched her dark hair swirl and bounce about her as the breeze teased it, noticing how her slender arms entwined and swayed like sapling branches.  Her lithe figure moved gracefully as she twirled on bare feet; her grey eyes shown with a light borrowed from the stars.  Were the sun a bit dimmer, Elrond would have sworn he was witnessing some long-forgotten vision of Lúthien waltzing beneath the shady eaves.

Sensing her father’s presence, Arwen lifted her skirts and skipped gracefully to his side.  “You go to feed the horses,” she said as her twinkling grey eyes fell upon the apples in his hand.  “You spoil them, Father.”

Elrond smiled at his daughter.  “Nay, it is your brother Elladan who is in the habit of spoiling them.  I merely sweeten them.”

“You shall fatten them if you are not careful.”  Arwen stole one of the apples from his hand and bit into it.

“A single apple now and then does no harm unto our swift friends.”

The two Elves walked in comfortable silence for a time, save the loud crunches of Arwen’s swiped apple as she bit into it.  Elrond soon found himself lost in thoughts, which lately had begun to flow a more bittersweet course.

Arwen held the apple-core by the stem and watched, almost curiously, as its white flesh began to turn a bruised brown in the crisp air.  She smiled and held the core up to her father.  “A bit of magic from the wind.”

The Elven lord of Imladris frowned at the withering core, and Arwen caught the heavy look of weariness in his eyes that seemed to grow more prominent as the weeks went by.  Before their departure, Elladan and Elrohir had voiced quiet concern over their father’s increased moodiness.  The twins had attributed it to the change in season, whereas Arwen suggested her brothers had finally succeeded, after several centuries, in driving their father mad.  All three knew the true cause of Elrond’s despondence, but they seemed to reach an unspoken understanding that naught be spoken of it.    

“Days such as this do not grace us with their presence as often as I wish,” said Arwen, hoping to redirect her father’s melancholy.  She gathered several brilliantly colored leaves and began fashioning them into a crown.

“Alas, you speak truth.”  Elrond sighed wearily and looked to the trees.  “Autumn has fallen sooner this year than years past, and winter shall be upon us within the blink of an eye.  Time weighs heavily upon the land and burdens us all.”

Arwen’s delicate fingers paused their weaving and she lifted her head.  “You burden yourself in thinking such thoughts.”

“Do I?”  The Elf lord’s response was sharper than was his wont, and he immediately regretted his words as he noticed Arwen flinch.  “Forgive me daughter.  I have not been myself as of late and it is in poor taste to lash out at those around me.”

“Even if they may be the cause of such feelings?”  Arwen lowered her head and seemingly bent her full concentration on the leaf crown.

Elrond did not speak for several moments.  He watched Arwen’s slender fingers as they skillfully wove the leaf stems, not missing their barely perceptible trembles.  ‘So much like her mother,’ he thought.  ‘Celebrían’s hands were just as delicate.’  He blinked rapidly and cleared his throat.  “Child, what mean you by those words?” 

Arwen’s fingers began to move faster.  Over, under, pull, twist, straighten.  “I know you are not... pleased...with my decision.”  Her voice was barely audible above the rustling branches of the trees.  “I hope you will one day be able to forgive me.  Please do not blame Estel, he—“

“Daughter,” interrupted Elrond, his voice unnaturally hoarse but firm, “Many a time have we discussed this.  I never have, and I never will blame you or Estel for the paths you have chosen to walk.”  He saw Arwen’s tensed shoulders drop in slight relief.  “Long have I known where your heart would ultimately rest, my child— before even you were aware of its desires.” 

He cupped his daughter’s face in his hands and pressed a loving kiss to her forehead.  “I may wish to keep you for my own selfish reasons,” he looked straight into her suspiciously misty eyes, “but your happiness is what matters most to me.  For if you are happy, I am happy.  I would give up everything for the sake of my children’s happiness.”  He smiled and gave one of her long braids an affectionate tug.  “After all,” his grey eyes twinkled mischievously, “I always favored you most amongst my daughters.”

Arwen released a peal of silvery laughter and placed the crown of leaves upon his head.  “And I always favored you most, My Lord, amongst my fathers.”

Elrond dipped in an elegant bow and offered his arm to Arwen.  “Then by all means, my fair Evenstar and best-loved daughter, shall we continue our walk to the pastures?  I suddenly feel most festive with this wreath upon my head.”  The Elf lord tossed his head and struck a gallant pose.

A serene and somewhat smug grin broke across the face of the beautiful maiden.  “Indeed Father.  I have not seen you adorn yourself so... ‘festively’... since our last visit to Mirkwood.”  The grin broadened.  “As I recall, you and King Thranduil—“

Elrond shot his daughter a severe look, though his cheeks and the tips of his ears blushed a noticeable crimson.  He had last visited Mirkwood to celebrate Sauron’s release of Dol Guldur.*  Thranduil had been a most liberal host, diving straight into Oropher’s vintage Dorwinian casks.  Wine had flowed that night and the following three evenings with more force than the mighty Anduin.  For his part, Elrond remembered very little of the celebration, and the brief flashes he did recall he professed to have no knowledge of.

He grimaced as a particularly distorted image of he and Thranduil attempting to shove a very inebriated Gandalf into the Forest River suddenly surfaced forth.  In a bout of drunken reasoning, the two Elf lords decided they needed the Istari’s staff (Valar knew for what purpose) and...  Elrond shook his head to dispel the image.  ‘Nay,’ he firmly reassured himself, ‘I do not remember such an incident.’

Arwen stifled a laugh at the perturbed look clouding her father’s face.  “Legolas was born a short while after that, as I remember,” she stated lightly, recalling how a similar look would grace the young prince’s face should anyone mention the words “victory celebration” and “unexpected gift” in the same sentence.

“Did not his brothers give him the nickname of—“  Elrond suddenly raised a hand and turned intently to the trees, effectively hushing his daughter.  Arwen strained her ears and watched her father’s clear bright eyes as they darted to and fro, piercing the forest eaves.

“Horses,” murmured Elrond.  His brow constricted as he narrowed his sharp eyes.  “Two Elvish mounts.”

Arwen frowned.  “None of the parties are due to return as of yet.  Mayhap they are messengers sent by either Mithlond or Mirkwood?”

Elrond shook his head.  “Nay, Galdor has yet to reach Círdan’s Haven, for he left but two weeks ago.  These riders come from the East, but were they of Thranduil’s kin they would have encountered the eastern scouting party..."

“If they ride from the East they will not be of the Golden Wood,” Arwen concluded, furrowing her brow in the same manner as her father’s.  “I suspect we shall soon find from whence they hail, for they are headed this way.” 

The sound of pounding hooves drew near, sending a wave of tense urgency rolling throughout the sheltered forest.  As Elrond predicted, two Elvish mounts dashed out from beneath the trees.  Necks arched proudly, their long limbs covered ground in a flowing gallop more akin to flight.  Mane, tail, and Elvish hair streamed behind the sun-dappled bodies in ribbons as the horses charged down the gentle pasture slope. 

Both father and daughter stiffened in alarm; each horse bore a rider of the Elven race, but one of the riders lay slumped forward and was clearly impaired. 

“My lord!  My lord Elrond!”  Rithol’s panicked voice rang clear across the pasture.  The two parties met at the bottom of the field, and the blowing steeds had barely halted before the Elves began to exchange words.

“Lord Elrond,” panted Rithol, hastily brushing unruly strands of dark hair from her face, “we were waylaid on the mountain trail by an Orkish band and Fanlin took hurt.  Glorfindel bade us return to the Homely House and warn you that that fell beasts wander unhindered across the western face of the mountains.”

A small gasp of alarm escaped the lips of Arwen.  “The western face of the mountains,” she repeated, reflexively looking to the shrouded slopes in the distance.  “Then the darkness draws near our borders, as well.”

Rithol shuddered and nodded vigorously.  She breathlessly continued to relate the tale while Elrond gently lifted Fanlin from the back of his steed.  The horse stomped her foot and snorted in concern, seeking reassurance her rider was in good hands.  Arwen stroked the winded beast and spoke soothingly into her ear.  The mare quieted immediately.

“How long has he been as such?” Elrond asked as he carefully lifted the back of Fanlin’s tunic.  He frowned when he noticed a slight bloodstain on the otherwise spotless white bandage.

Rithol slid off the back of her steed and wearily draped an arm over the stallion’s withers.  “Since last evening.  He showed no signs of ill side-effects from the wound, save what is to be expected, and then he simply fell asleep.”  The pretty Elf’s brow wrinkled in concern.  “I have been unable to wake him!”

Elrond gently pulled aside the bandage covering the injured Elf’s back and examined the wound with an expertise gained from long years’ experience.  He elicited a small grunt at the stitch-work holding the wound together— Glorfindel’s work, no doubt.  ‘For all his experience on the battlefield,’ thought the chagrinned Elf lord, noticing the varied sizes of loops and knots, ‘one would think it possible for Glorfindel to pull a decent stitch.’ 

“See how it has turned a deep purple around the edges of the stitching, more so than is normal?”  Arwen knelt down next to her father to closer view the wound and nodded.  “The blade was undoubtedly poisoned,” Elrond continued, “though judging by the appearance of the injury and the time it took for the toxins to affect him, I do not believe it will be too detrimental.  From what you have told me, Rithol,” the Elf lord glanced at the dark-haired maiden, “I suspect it is some mixture of the Faelerons* plant.”

Rithol breathed a sigh of relief and hugged her tired mount, pressing her forehead against his sleek neck.  “Blessed Elbereth,” she murmured, “I feared Fanlin would never again open his eyes to the day.”

Elrond scooped Fanlin into his arms, taking care not to jostle the unconscious Elf.  “It is but a minor poison, Rithol,” he gently assured the female warrior.  “In small amounts it may render one sluggish; larger doses render a victim unconscious.”

Rithol chewed on her lip thoughtfully.  “An easy victory would we have been, were the entire company poisoned.  Even had we escaped the first attack, a second or third party of the fell beasts might have overwhelmed us.”

Elrond nodded gravely and murmured in agreement.  “It is well no other members of the party suffered injury.”

*        *        *

Shadowfax galloped proudly over the treacherous mountain terrain, arching his neck and watching as his wet hooves glinted silver in the muted sunlight.  The thick fog from whence the Misty Mountains earned their namesake had yet to lift, and the land was transformed into a surreal golden haze.  The golden shrouds clung and swirled about the stallion’s silver coat, reminding him of how the very first King of the Mearas must have appeared as he flew through the heavens.

Middle-earth was graced by the presence of Shadowfax, and the stallion knew this.  Even the Valar would shed tears of delight if they could see him now: charging bravely into unknown peril, with no thought for his own safety.  He was the savior of Middle-earth, a shining beacon of light and goodness.  Even the clouds parted and bowed before him as he galloped onward.

Why had Gandalf chosen the mare?

An Elvish mare!  Shadowfax snorted contemptuously.  Elvish horses were sneaky and addle-brained.  The mares were the worst, for they refused to consider any stallion raised by those other than the Elder.  They simply ignored all other suitors— not that Shadowfax had ever tried to catch the attentions of an Elvish mare...  Never whole-heartedly attempted, anyways.  They were far below his notice.

Shadowfax laid back his ears and curled his lip in disdain.  He also hated the way Elvish horses didn’t leave proper tracks.  Their gait was too similar to that of the Elves, and as far as Shadowfax was concerned, any horse who imitated the gait of a two-legged creature was a sad beast indeed.

Tracks...  Tracks...  Shadowfax’s long strides faltered to a gentle lope.  Where were that confounded mare’s prints?  He halted and flared his nostrils.  He could either go to the left, to the right, or continue galloping straight ahead.  The great stallion swung his head around and surveyed his options.  To the left there was golden mist.  To the right, there was golden mist.  And straight ahead, there was...  golden mist.  Shadowfax took one last look, just to be certain.  Yes, the golden mist was everywhere.

He picked up one foot and arched his neck and tail, striking up what he believed to be a gallant pose of confusion.  In the end, the silver King of the Mearas decided to veer right:  he still looked just as beautiful in the golden mist—as it was everywhere—and going right allowed him to gallop downhill, which would in turn show off his highly-muscled haunches.  

*        *        *

“Is it safe to come out now, Allin?”  Frodo poked his head out from underneath the creaky bed and looked to the boy expectantly.

“I do not see the bird,” replied the boy, craning his neck while he surveyed the evening sky from the window, “but I think you should stay where you are.  Just in case it comes back.”

“I would like to see him stuffed under this bed,” grumbled Pippin.  “Then you watch how quickly it would be safe to come out.”

Allin’s house was fashioned in the manner of all the village houses: a sturdy structure of piled limestone rock covered by a thatched roof.  The front of the house served as the main room, containing a large fireplace to the left and a beaten wooden table with two benches at the right.  Various iron cookware lined the fireplace, and the eastward window above the table and benches contained several potted herbs and three cooling meat pies.  A large tin bathing tub sat discreetly in the corner, next to a smaller wooden bucket.  Aside from a woven grass mat on the hard-packed floor, the room was relatively bare.  The back of the house, though it had been sectioned off into two separate sleeping compartments, was just as scarce; neither containing an abundance of furnishings.  Thus, it had only made sense that the safest place for the hobbits to hide was under a bed. 

“Stop breathing on me, Sam!”  Sounds of a light scuffle arose, and Frodo attempted to twist his body around to better view what sort of fight Pippin and Sam were engaged in.  He had been last to dive under the bed, and had not ended up compacted against the wall and each other, as had Sam and Pippin.

“Ouch, those were my ribs!”

“Then stop breathing on me!”

“I’m not doing it on purpose.  Why don’t you stop making your elbows so pointy?”

This was followed by a snort, and Frodo thought he saw a glint of light reflecting in either Pippin or Sam’s eyes.  Whose, he could not be certain.  He wormed his way back to facing Allin, and was perturbed to find the boy gone missing.

“Allin?” 

There was no response.

Someone grabbed his sleeve, accidentally pinching his arm in the process, and began tugging at him.  “Frodo, mister Frodo!”

“What?” he snapped crossly, jerking his arm away.

“I think I’m stuck.”

Biting back the word “good,” which seemed to immediately find its way to the tip of his tongue, Frodo gritted his teeth in frustration.  “Sam, I am sure you are not stuck.”

“No, mister Frodo, I’m fairly certain—“

“If he’s stuck I won’t be able to get out either,” moaned Pippin.

Frodo again poked his head out from underneath the bed.  “Allin?  Allin!”  Growing worried, he risked pulling himself out a little further.

“Frodo, where are you going?  Mister Frodo?  Don’t leave me, I’m stuck!”  Sam began pulling at his legs.

“He’s breathing on me again Frodo!  Stop it Sam.  Frodo, kindly tell him to stop!”

“I can’t get out!  Help oh help!  What would the Gaffer say if he saw me now?  He would tell me it serves me right, he would.  He would say ‘Samwise Gamgee, this is what happens when you try to hide under beds, because beds were made to sleep on and not hide under.’”

“Sam, will you please stop pulling on my leg?  Allin?  Allin!” 

“Stop breathing on me!”

“Why don’t you both stop yelling at me?  I’m the one who’s stuck!”

Deciding enough was enough, Frodo crawled out from underneath the bed and went to look for Allin himself.  He nearly ran into the boy as they both simultaneously stepped into the doorframe.

“Mon Valo,” cried Allin, jerking back in surprise and nearly dropping the meat pie he held in his hands.  He juggled the pie for a few precarious moments.  “Frodo, why have you left the bed?  It is not safe for you to walk about.”

Frodo glanced at the bed and grimaced at the squabbling voices originating from underneath it.  He sighed and looked back to the ginger-haired boy.  “I grew worried when I called and you didn’t respond, Allin.”

The gangly boy wrinkled his nose and grinned apologetically, not sure of whether to be offended Frodo thought him unable to care for himself, or pleased by the hobbit’s concern over his welfare.  “I have brought you a meat pie, Frodo Hobbit.”  He proudly held forth the pie.  “Mah Mehr made it herself.  She is known as the best cook in our village.”

Frodo smiled and bowed slightly, touched by the boy’s thoughtfulness.  “Thank you, Allin.  We hobbits are never ones to pass up a meal, and I am sure Sam and Pippin will be just as pleased.  You know, they say thoughtful persons like yourself often make the greatest leaders.”

The ginger-haired boy’s face broke out into a snaggle-toothed grin.  “I shall be a great leader one day,” he fiercely declared, puffing out his chest. 

Frodo, Pippin, and Sam (who had immediately become un-stuck at the mention of food), sat down to their second large meal of the day.  Allin again watched in admiration as they consumed the entire pie, which was quite a feat, as it was large enough to satiate four fully-grown men.  When the three had finished their meal, the boy bid them to hide under the bed again.

Sam eyed the dark space warily.  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, seeing as how I got stuck last time when my stomach wasn’t even full.”

“Oh you were not stuck,” snapped Pippin.

“Allin,” asked Frodo, “why do we need to hide underneath the bed again?”

The boy averted his eyes and mumbled to his feet, unconsciously tugging at his hair.

“Pardon me?” Pippin asked curiously. 

All three hobbits turned to regard the boy expectantly.  Allin flushed and tugged at the nape of his sweater.  “Ah, so l’wazoh will not get you..."

Frodo raised an eyebrow, suddenly realizing why the boy wished for them to continue hiding.  “Allin, will your parents allow us to stay in your house?  You were planning to tell them of us, weren’t you?”

The boy picked at a piece of pie crust left in the pan and chewed on it half-heartedly.  “Mon Pehr still works in the hills and mah Mehr and Laure help the other women salt meat for winter.”

“Allin,” said Frodo, “we do not wish to intrude upon your family.”  Placing both hands on his hips, he gave the boy a stern look, imitating Farmer Maggot’s scowl to the best of his abilities.  It seemed to have the intended effect, as the boy’s face fell and he grew rather somber.  Frodo ignored Pippin’s stifled snicker.  The younger hobbit had immediately recognized whom the furrowed brow, glowering eyes, and puckered mouth belonged to.      

Allin heaved a great sigh.  “I shall tell them as soon as they arrive home.  But I still think you should—“  The telltale sound of a creaky wooden door being pushed open caused all four companions to freeze.  Allin sprang to his feet and desperately attempted to usher the three hobbits underneath the bed.

However, he was not fast enough.  The door had already been opened and none of the hobbits were in any great hurry to return to their cramped hideaway. 

“Allin!” shrieked a voice belonging to a young girl, “Kehs-keh-say?”*

Allin roughly nudged Sam’s arm under the bed with his foot.  “Be careful!” cried the gardener.  “There’s no use kicking me.”

Frodo laid his head flat against the floor and tried to catch a glimpse of their newest arrival.  A young girl, no older than six, stood glaring at Allin suspiciously from the doorway.  Her cheeks were a rosy red, courtesy of the wind, and her wind-swept ginger hair rested haphazardly about her shoulders.  She, too, was dressed in heavy woolen clothing, from her button-up coat down to her thick stockings. 

The girl child cocked her head to one side and stuck her nose up into the air, hands still rested on her hips.  “Kehs-keh-say, Allin?”  She stressed the words, almost menacingly, and pointed an accusing finger towards the bed.

Allin glowered.  “Lahs tu, Laure.”*

Pippin wriggled next to Frodo.  “What’s going on?” he whispered.

“I am fairly certain that is his sister Laure,” Frodo whispered back.  “But other than that, I’m as lost as you.”

Pippin nodded and wormed his way back to Sam.  “Allin is talking to his sister Laure.”

The girl child’s eyes grew wide as she heard her name whispered from underneath the bed.  She gasped and took a step backwards. 

“Laure,” snapped Allin, “Neh racohnt pah Maman ou Papa, ou ahlor meh crehtur— eel voolahnt mahnjay tu!” *   

Allin’s younger sister whimpered and shrank against the doorway.  Frodo watched as the boy bent his hands to resemble claws, gnashed his teeth, and stalked towards the girl menacingly.  ‘I wonder what he has told her,’ Frodo wondered, finding himself very disturbed.  The girl Laure squeaked and retreated back into the main room.  Allin was quick to follow, hunching his body and making odd clawing-motions, growling all the while.

The sleek sheepdog Nwahr, thinking some new game afoot, leapt up from his place by the fire and began frisking about the two siblings, wagging his tail and barking excitedly.  This, in turn, excited Allin, who increased the ferocity of his growls until they took on a distinctly wolf-like bellow.  Laure threw herself into the oversized bathing tin and screamed for her mother in octaves only attainable by the very young.

The front door opened abruptly, sending a blast of cold air sweeping through the cozy home.  The flames in the fireplace shivered and leapt at the sudden intrusion, and several iron ladles and spoons clinked together pleasantly.  All activity ceased immediately, save the tearful, albeit joyful, cry of Laure from inside the metal tub.

“Papa!”  

Frodo’s heart suddenly resided in his throat and he had the overwhelming urge to stay hidden underneath the bed.  Permanently.  Judging by the gasps elicited from Sam and Pippin, they were of the same mindset.

Frodo could not recall having ever seen such an imposing man.  Allin’s father resembled an overgrown Dwarf in compactness, from his broad shoulders and barreled chest to his full, braided beard.  Though his legs were much longer than those of a Dwarf, he nonetheless looked as though he had been chiseled from solid rock.  His hair was the same gingery red as that of his children, and his eyes were a shocking pale blue.  However, the most imposing aspect of the man was not the shape of his body, but rather the tattoos that adorned it.

Blue woad tattoos of fantastic design covered nearly every inch of visible skin.  They swirled around his eyes and across his brow; wound up his arm from his fingertips and palms.  There were woven knots, birds, deer, and creatures the hobbits had never even seen before.  Frodo was riveted and terrified at the same time. 

Sam gurgled incoherently before finally rediscovering his ability to speak.  “He’s like a walking picture!”

A stout woman bearing a basket laden with wool came bustling in behind the man.  Her hair was not as fiery as the rest of the family, and her dancing eyes were more of a watery blue.  A healthy smattering of freckles dashed across her face, which was tattooed in a manner similar to her husband’s though not to the same extent.  She seemed a cheery and robust woman; Frodo imagined she laughed often and heartily.

The large man swept his daughter into his arms and proceeded to reprimand Allin for his antics.  His deep, booming voice was occasionally interrupted by added words or phrases from his wife, who was setting the dinner table and out of the hobbits’ line of view.  “I hope she doesn’t notice the missing pie,” whispered Pippin as they watched Allin shuffle and squirm under his parents’ lecturing voices. 

Sam noticed the girl child Laure had wrapped her arms around her father’s massive neck and was blatantly smirking at her brother.  He felt a pang of sympathy for the boy as Laure grinned devilishly and stuck out her tongue.

*        *        *

Atan Lehrooj, or Atan the Red as he was called, had descended from the great warrior tribesmen of Pahtoh.  His forefathers had fought in the Last Alliance, bringing much honor and pride to his family name.  He was one of three chieftains of the village, and a force in his own right.  He proudly bore the great deeds of his ancestors and those by his own hand on the tattoos decorating his body.  Few dared cross him, and those who did almost always regretted it.

“Allin,” he boomed, his voice reverberating off the limestone walls, “how many times must I tell you to leave your sister alone?”

“Listen to your father, boy.”  Vanrie, his wife and perhaps the only person who could cross the man, called from across the room.

Atan watched his son squirm uncomfortably.  Laure wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and sniffled loudly.  “He said his creatures under the bed would eat me,” the pixie-esque child complained woefully.

Atan the Red shook his head and sighed.  “Allin, again, how many times must I tell you not to bring animals you find on the mountainside into this house?”

An angry exclamation came from the opposite side of the room.  Vanrie stood wiping her hands with the apron she had donned.  “Allin, have you been eating my pies again?  I specifically told you not to touch them!”

Allin flushed and tugged at his hair.  “And what have you brought home this time?” Vanrie continued.  “A snake?  A dead bird?  I certainly hope it isn’t another goat.” 

Allin gulped and tried to avoid both his father and mother’s eyes.  Laure was grinning at him in smug delight.  A month ago he had brought home a stray goat, which had eaten half the bed sheets and the woven floor mat, gnawed on the table, and kicked in Vanrie’s prized iron kettle.   

“He brought home little creatures from the mountains with big hairy feet,” Laure declared gleefully as she pointed to their bedroom.  Allin groaned.

“Frodo,” Sam whispered in the darkness.  “The little girl is pointing at us.”

Atan the Red gently placed his daughter back on the floor and reached for the family sword, which rested above the doorway, as this was believed to ward off any evil spirits or sickness.  “Come now, Laure.  I am sure these ‘hairy mountain creatures’ will not last long against my sword.”

Vanrie reached down to give the dog Nwahr a friendly pat and chuckled.  It never failed to charm her the way her husband treated the fears of her children so seriously and then went about banishing them as though battling an enemy. 

The huge man tossed the blade over his shoulder and jauntily strode towards the bedroom.  “Run, Frodo Hobbit!” Allin cried out in Westron and dashed for the front door, flinging it wide open.

Running was the last thing on Frodo’s mind as he and the two other hobbits stared in utter horror at the towering figure blocking the doorway. 

Atan the Red got down onto both knees, then turned to Laure and gave the child a cheeky wink.  He was not sure what a Frodohobbit was, but he intended to get it out of his house nonetheless.  ‘Probably a field mouse,’ he thought, remembering Laure’s irrational fear of the small furry animals.  Chuckling, he lowered his face to the floor.

Three pairs of very non-field mouse eyes stared back. 

************************************************************************

Translations:

“Kehs-keh-say?”:  ‘Ques-ce c’est?’  -- What is this?

“Lahs tu, Laure.” :  ‘Laisse tu, Laure.’  -- Leave [you], Laure.

“Laure, neh racohnt pah Maman ou Papa, ou ahlor meh crehtur— eel voolwah mahnjay tu!”  : ‘Laure, ne raconte pas Maman ou Papa, ou alors mes creatures— ils veulent manger tu!’  -- Laure, do not tell Mama or Papa, or else my creatures— they will eat you! 

________________________________________________________________________

*Sauron’s release of Dol Guldur:  “2063 Third Age:  Gandalf goes to Dol Guldur.  Sauron retreats and hides in the East.  The Watchful Peace begins.  The Nazgûl remain quiet in Minas Morgul.”  -- ‘The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King’; Appendix B: “The Tale of Years (Chronology of the Westlands),”  “The Third Age.”

*Faelerons plant:  Asclepias faeleronis. Member of the milkweed genus.  A perennial species found most commonly in the rocky, arid soil of shallow caves.  Leaves arranged in whorled configuration and approximately 3-4 cm in length.  Pale green in appearance and somewhat velvety to the touch.  Known to produce a milky toxin containing potent sleep-inducing chemicals.  May cause tongue to itch if eaten.  Also see: “Snore Leaf.”

 --- Bryn’s Guide of Imaginary Middle-earth Species, Chapter 7: “Don’t Know Elvish?  Just Spell It Backwards.”  Pg. 46.

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  There is a very, very minor reference to Oropher and the Last Alliance towards the end of this chapter.  I’m sure most of you know who he is and what happened to him, so I’ll leave it at that.

Thanks to all the people who are helping me brush up on my French (it’s such a fun language). 

CHARACTER LIST

Allin-  the 8 year old boy the hobbits meet on the highlands

Nwahr-  Allin’s dog

Atan the Red- Allin’s father.  One of three chieftains in the village of Pahtoh. 

Vanrie-  Allin’s mother.

Laure-  Allin’s younger sister.

Frodo, Sam, and Pippin

Erestor-  chief counselor in Elrond’s household

Elrond

Merry

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~ Chapter 23:  In Reverence of the Mountain Elves ~

***************************************************

Atan the Red slowly straightened and sat with his knees folded underneath him.  He stared unseeing at his reflection in the blade of his sword for several moments, then lowered back down to the floor.  A hushed silence fell over the tiny house, save for the pop and crackle emanating from the fireplace.

“Atan,” Vanrie called from the doorway, her voice sounding unnaturally sharp in the stillness.  “What is it?  What sort of animal has he brought home this time?”  Laure gripped the woman’s skirts and giggled nervously while whispering about hairy mountain creatures.  Vanrie promptly hushed the child.

The large man sat up once again and slowly rotated his head to face Allin.  The ginger-haired boy flushed darker than his hair and sheepishly closed the front door.  He attempted to offer his father a grin, but failed miserably as an extremely lopsided grimace was all his mouth would allow.

Atan took a deep breath and pointed his sword at the bed.  Pippin squeaked fearfully at the sight of the shining broadsword. 

“What are those?” Atan demanded.  Though spoken softly, the words carried a menacing sting.  Allin’s face drained of all color as he stammered a response.

“You found them on the mountainside, and you let them into this house.”  Atan’s reply was not a question, and Allin nodded miserably.  The barrel-chested man found it necessary to repeat the statement, albeit with more force.  The iron cookware above the fireplace clinked nervously.  “You found them on the mountainside, and you let them into this house!”

Frodo, Pippin, and Sam could not understand a word of the conversation, which perhaps made it all the more terrifying.  The tattooed man’s voice was akin to shoving thunder in a small room and watching as it rattled the walls. 

Atan the Red rose to his feet as Allin began stammering several long and excited sentences.  Sam stared at the man’s legs and feet, which were now the only visible parts from the hobbits’ viewpoint.  The gigantic man’s legs were the size of oaken tree trunks; his foot could easily crush a hobbit’s skull.  Sam squinted and began to examine the tattoos wound around Atan’s legs.  ‘I dearly hope there are no pictures of him stepping on hobbit heads.’  It was a disturbing thought, and Sam could not help but wonder what the Gaffer would think of such a demise—or Rosie, for that matter. 

‘I wonder if she would even miss me,’ he thought with a heavy sigh.  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she up and married Gruno Chubb when news of our deaths reached the Shire.’  The stouthearted gardener scowled at the image of beautiful Rosie hanging off of the arm of Gruno Chubb—a rather paunchy hobbit with an overtly lumpy head. 

He soothed himself by imagining Gruno’s head underneath Atan the Red’s mammoth foot; Chubb’s lumpy face puffing out in indignation while the tattooed giant’s boot slowly pressed downward...

“Sam?”

Sam wiped the foolish grin off his face and blinked sheepishly, hoping he had not accidentally laughed out loud, or said anything out loud for that matter.  Frodo and Pippin were both looking at him in minor annoyance, having called his name more than once.  “Yes Frodo?”

“They want us to come out now.” 

Atan the Red’s giant boot tapped impatiently.  Sam noticed the man’s legs were nearly as hairy as his own hobbit feet.  “Well then,” he said, “I guess we ought to, shouldn’t we?”

The three dusty and disheveled hobbits crawled out from underneath Allin and Laure’s bed.  Pippin sneezed as he brushed the dirt from his arms and then wiped his hands on his trousers.  Sam tried unsuccessfully to flatten a clump of hair, which insisted on standing on end, and Frodo gave the front of his soiled tunic a forceful tug before offering Atan and Vanrie a polite bow.     

“Greetings, good sir and lady,” he began, “I am Frodo.  These are my companions Pippin and Sam.”  Pippin smiled and Sam waved shyly at mention of their names.  “We didn’t mean to startle you, and—“

Atan the Red raised a hand and Frodo stopped speaking immediately.  “There is no need to apologize, Frodohobbit,” the man spoke in Westron.  “It is I who must apologize.”

“Oh no, don’t worry sir,” exclaimed Pippin with a shake of his head.  “You scared us at first because you were so big, but we don’t hold it against you.  Besides,” he added ruefully, “most folk are bigger than us.  There’s no need for an apology on your part either.”

Atan the Red dipped his head in thanks.  “My son tells me you came across him on the mountainside, and that you brought him much luck on his watch this day.”

The three hobbits nodded vigorously, still somewhat intimidated by the large tattooed man with the broadsword.

“Indeed,” continued Atan, “long has it been since the Eldar graced our barren lands.”

“Eld—” began Sam.

To their complete surprise, Atan the Red bowed down onto one knee and placed the great sword flat across his palms.  “Our village is a thousand times blessed by the presence of Mountain Elves.”  He held out his arms and offered his sword to the hobbits in a gesture of subservience.  “I offer my service unto you, Firstborn children, and the service of my people.”

“Mountain Elves?” hissed Sam.  “He thinks we’re Mountain Elves?” 

Frodo laughed and pressed a hand to his forehead.  “I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir.  Did Allin tell you this?”  Allin conveniently averted his eyes and shuffled his feet.  “We’re not—OOF!”  Pippin silenced Frodo with an elbow to the gut.

“We have traveled far and wide to reach your lands,” the young Took proclaimed with a wide sweep of his arm.  “It is we who are honored to reside within your presence.”

Atan lifted his head and smiled warmly.  “Then come, master Elves.”  His hearty voice filled the small room as he beckoned the three hobbits to the dinner table.  “In two morrows' time we shall hold a grand feast in your honor, for truly, the Valar must smile upon Pahtoh this day!” 

Sam grabbed Pippin by the arm and Frodo resisted the urge to box the young hobbit’s ears.  “Pippin,” Frodo hissed, “what have you done?” 

Pippin yanked his arm away from Sam’s grasp and squared his shoulders.  “The way I see it,” he stated matter-of-factly,  “we are deserving of a bit of warmth and comfort.”

“But they think we’re Elves,” protested Sam.

Pippin shrugged and crossly folded his arms over his chest.  “Need I remind you where we are headed?” he snapped.  “And just name one good thing that has come out of this Ring business so far!  One good thing!”

Frodo sighed wearily and Sam uncomfortably chewed on his bottom lip.

“See,” hissed Pippin.  “No good has come out of this whole mess so far!  Frodo was stabbed, Lord Elrond is after us, crebain made off with us, Merry is dead,” his voice took on a hysterical note, causing the red-haired chieftain and his family to eye the hobbits curiously.  “An even bigger bird is out to get us, and we aren’t even halfway to Mordor yet!”

“Pippin, calm down,” Frodo murmured, trying to soothe the irate youngster.  Pippin’s mention of the incident at Weathertop caused several unpleasant memories to surface.  

“Calm down?  CALM DOWN?  I’m trying to calm down, but you obviously would have us tramping through every known danger as well as the ones we don’t!  We deserve a good rest, and we deserve to have a peaceful night’s sleep just once.  Who cares if they think we’re Elves?  Good, I say!  GOOD.  I seriously doubt the Valar will mind if we impersonate Elves, because after everything else we’ve gone through—“ the young hobbit bristled as he balled his fists and gnashed his teeth.  “And all for the sake of a stupid little ring!”     

By this time, Atan the Red, Vanrie, Allin, and Laure were blatantly staring.

“Shhh,” hushed Sam, frantically trying to quiet his comrade.  “It’s okay Pip.  Mister Frodo is going to let us stay, aren’t you, Frodo?”  The gardener turned a severe eye upon his friend and gave Frodo a look that suggested he had better agree.

Frodo smiled crookedly and gave Pippin an amiable punch in the shoulder.  “Of course we’ll stay.”  To the great relief of Sam and Frodo, Pippin ceased shouting and allowed himself to be led to the dinner table.

Thankfully, Atan the Red and his wife Vanrie did not press the hobbits over the nature of their argument.  The people of Pahtoh were firm believers in minding one’s own business, and reasoned that if an issue were of any great importance to them, they would be informed of it.  It was reasoning as stark and bare as the lands they inhabited, and suited the people well.    

Frodo watched in contentment as Sam and Pippin filled themselves to their hearts’ desire.  ‘It is the first time I have seen Pippin smile in days,’ he noted as he quietly sipped his mead.  The meal was a lively one, as the family of Atan the Red proved to be most entertaining and gracious hosts.  The smells of roasted meat, onions, and potatoes hung thick in the air, while a crackling fire cast flickering yellow and orange flames about the cozy room.

Atan had a booming laughter that seemed to well up and overflow from deep within his chest.  It was oddly comforting and inviting to hear.  Vanrie was never at a loss for a witty comment or two, and felt it her duty to make sure each was given more than his fair share of food.  Allin, who had the tendency to become overexcited, gave an animated and greatly exaggerated narrative of his meeting with the hobbits, while Pippin interrupted with minor details here and there.  Laure, as she had not yet mastered the Common Tongue, pulled off her stockings and placed a foot next to Sam’s.  She giggled nonstop as she compared the two, and even more so when Sam began wiggling his toes.

Frodo was roused from his musings by an unexpected weight upon his leg.  The sheepdog Nwahr had silently padded over to the quiet hobbit and rested a comforting head upon Frodo’s thigh.  Frodo smiled and reached down to pet the dog, taking comfort in the feel of the warm velvety ears between his fingers.  “Good dog,” he murmured, wishing Pippin’s earlier words would cease running through his head: 

‘No good has come out of this mess so far!  … And all for the sake of a stupid little ring!’ 

*          *            *

He was Shadowfax, King of the Mearas.  He was a silver god wrapped in a cape of misty golden cloud.  His hooves pounded the earth like thunder, his neigh split through the air like lightening.  He was strong, witty, capable…

And utterly lost.

Shadowfax squealed in anger and lashed out his hind legs, feeling no pity for the poor juniper bush that took the brunt of his fury.  He kicked harder until it was no more than a mass of splinters and bruised leaves.  The great stallion snorted in disdain as the scent of bittersweet juniper leaves invaded his nostrils and caused his mouth to water.  He turned and narrowed his eyes at the remaining bushes.  That would show them.

It was the third time he had passed the juniper grove, or at least, he was fairly certain it was the same grove.  Perhaps he should have asked the goldfinch which way he was headed…  The proud stallion shook his elegant head viciously to dispel the thought.  He was Shadowfax, King of the Mearas.  The day he would ask for directions was the day he would turn into a mare.  An Elvish mare, to be exact.

He flared his nostrils and flicked his ears.  Aside from the permeating smell of damaged juniper, the air was chill and musky.  The scents of decaying leaves, water, and wet earth hung in the misty atmosphere, and low clouds muted almost all sounds.  The horse let out a slow breath, watching as it steamed and evaporated.  The mist tended to distort things, causing odd shapes to appear, disappear, and then reappear in the swirling vapors.  Usually they proved to be gnarled trees and gouged boulders, but sometimes the stallion swore the trees would actually pick themselves up and bound off into the mist. 

Shadowfax flicked his tail in annoyance.  Bounding trees, indeed. 

He nearly jumped out of his beautiful silver coat as one such “tree” bolted across his line of vision.

The horse blinked.  Since when were the trees gifted with four legs?  Quickly equating four legs and bounding with an animal that could not be of predatory nature, the stallion picked up his hooves and sped after the leaping “tree.”

*          *            *

“A hobbit lad, there was of old…”

The mournful wail of Merry’s tune echoed pleasantly in the high-ceilinged room.

“A brave and perilous soul.

Locked up by an Elven lord,

‘Til he began to mould….”

Merry paused and cocked his head.  Aside from the extremely annoying lark outside his window, which seemed to be fixated on the same chirrup, only silence greeted his ears.  He cleared his throat and struck up the song again at a much louder volume level, closing his eyes and swinging his head to and fro in time with the beat.

“A HOBBIT LAD, THERE WAS OF OLD,  

A BRAVE AND PERILOUS SOUL.

LOCKED UP BY AN ELVEN LOR—“  A light touch on the shoulder caused his eyes to snap open.

Elrond’s voice rang clear and strong, as Merry seemed to have forgotten the last line.  “’Til he began to mould…’”

The young hobbit flushed crimson and avoided the Elf lord’s eyes.  “Bilbo taught it to me,” he blurted.

Elrond chuckled and bent down to examine Merry’s wounds.  “Quickly do the Pheriannath heal,” the Elf mused, his skillful hands running over the hobbit’s newly-fused collarbone.  He emitted a small murmur of satisfaction at the sight of Merry’s fading bruises and scrapes.  “You shall be fit for travel ere the Fellowship depart, Master Brandybuck.”

A small sigh of relief escaped Merry’s lips.  “I bet you will be happy to see me go.”  He looked cheekily to the Lord of Imladris and grinned.

Elrond’s bright eyes twinkled.  “Nay, Meriadoc, I shall be most saddened when you take leave of my halls.  I have not had the pleasure of one so antagonistic since Elladan and Elrohir were children.”  The Elf turned and began rummaging through the medicinal cupboards lining the wall of Merry’s room.

“I am not antagonistic!” protested Merry.

The Elf lord raised an eyebrow and turned to stare intently at the hobbit.  “Indeed, Master Brandybuck.  Yet you still found it necessary to loudly repeat your song when you thought none had overheard.” 

Merry blushed again.  “I was trying to drown out the bird at my window,” he mumbled. 

“Ah, of course you were.”  Elrond emptied a final vial of liquid into the cup of medicine he was concocting and turned back to Merry.  He held the cup out to the hobbit and motioned for him to drink.  Merry’s previous plans to refuse the Elf lord’s poison quickly vanished when he caught the challenging gleam in Elrond’s eyes. 

*          *            *

Elrond stood by the hobbit’s bedside until he was positive Merry had fallen asleep.  The young hobbit could be most devious when he wanted to—the previous day he had feigned sleep and actually hobbled all the way down the corridor.  There was no telling how far he would have gone had Elenthil not chanced to walk by.

Chuckling quietly to himself, the dark-haired Elven lord strode down the autumn-painted walkways of Rivendell. 

He reached his study in a few minutes’ time.  Pushing open the light wooden door, Elrond was unsurprised to find his chief of counsel, Erestor scrutinizing several large and painstakingly-drawn maps of Rhudaur, Rhovanion,* and the whole of Middle-earth.

“I conversed with Rithol but an hour ago,” said Erestor as he lifted his head to greet Elrond.  “Her news does not bode well for Imladris.”

“Nor does it offer comfort to Mirkwood or Lórien,” Elrond replied.  He walked over to the map-covered desk and idly seated himself.  “Speak, my friend.  I know you are troubled, as am I.”

*          *            *

Erestor folded his arms across his chest and frowned.  “I worry naught for Imladris, for our borders are well-protected.”  He glanced at the ring on Elrond’s finger.  “Foolish indeed is the foe who would dare challenge our fair realm.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Elrond.  “But perhaps not.  Sauron is aware the Ring rests within our borders, though he does not know of our intentions.  An assault on Imladris would not only serve to cripple us, but he might obtain the Ring through such action as well…”

Erestor shook his head.  “Nay, nay,” he argued.  “It would be far simpler for him to seize the Ring as the Fellowship traveled to Mordor.”  Elrond’s head counselor traced his finger along a map from Rivendell to Mordor.  “Besides, he has not amassed numbers to launch a full-scale attack against Imladris as of yet.  Roving orc bands are but tiny stones sent to dam a surging river.  I suspect they intend to waylay those traveling to and from Imladris.”

Elrond laced his fingers together and sighed.  “I think you underestimate the numbers of Sauron’s force, Erestor.”  He quickly pressed on as Erestor opened his mouth to object.  “Nonetheless, I go with your counsel on the unlikeness of an attack.  The ultimate fate of the Ring is not to be decided within our borders.”

Erestor gave a curt nod.  “Very well, my Lord.  Then let us move on.”

Elrond narrowed his eyes and stared at the maps’ outline of the Misty Mountains.  “We know the eastern scouting party interrupted the orcs’ slumber, which explains why they were attacked while the sun’s light was still strong.  We also know that the party had been split into two groups due to certain… disagreements among members.”  Elrond sighed deeply and put a hand to his temple.

“Perhaps you ought to consider replacing the young Prince of Mirkwood with a more mature warrior,” suggested Erestor.  “I do not doubt Legolas’ abilities, but it is the fate of Middle-earth of which we speak.  He is Sindar and but a child—“

Elrond held up a hand.  “Nay Erestor.  We cannot risk a known Elf lord traveling with the Fellowship.  It would draw far too much attention to the company.  Legolas’ presence will go unnoticed by the Enemy, for he will be viewed as but an insignificant Wood-Elf.  Do not worry, my friend.  He will prove himself worthy when the time comes.”

“With all my heart do I hope you are right,” Erestor murmured. “After Mithrandir and Estel, I find my faith slowly wanes.”  An unexpected smile danced across the slender Elf’s lips.  “I do, however, admit to taking quite a fancy to the merry Pheriannath.”  He slyly looked to Elrond.  “And I suppose if Meriadoc Brandybuck is no exception, the Dark Lord shall find he has taken on more than he bargained for in those stouthearted folk.”

Elrond smiled in spite of himself.

“How did the tune go?”  Despite the light innocence of Erestor’s tone, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his fair face.  “’A hobbit lad, there was of old—‘“

“Save your enchanting voice for the evening festivities,” Elrond growled in mock warning, “lest you suddenly discover yourself lacking a tongue.”

*          *            *

Time slowly slipped by and day gradually waned to dusk.  Soft shadows spread along the floors of Elrond’s study and listened silently as the two Elves continued to debate.  Erestor lit several candelabras while Elrond poured two cups of warm cider.

“Then we are both in agreement that the Orkish bands must somehow be pushed from our borders?”

Erestor nodded and shook out the match he had used to light the candles.  He graciously accepted a goblet of cider from the Elf lord.

“I dare not use Vilya,” Elrond continued, shuddering at the very thought.  “I suppose we may try tactics employed by Thranduil’s folk to rid ourselves of the enemy.  Long have they succeeded in staving off the darkness, without aid of ring or staff.”  He pursed his lips and frowned.  “I wish I knew of their exact methods.”

Erestor’s dark eyes flashed.  “I believe they tend to favor charging heedlessly into battle, regardless of whether or not they have been ordered to.”

“Peace, Erestor.”  Elrond took a sip of cider and mildly eyed his chief counselor. “We have awoken far too much of the Past these last weeks; let us allow some of it to remain undisturbed.” 

************************************************************************

Rhudaur-  The area consisting of Rivendell, the Trollshaws, The Last Bridge, etc.

Rhovanion-  Mirkwood, a bit of the Misty Mountains, Lórien, and surrounding areas.

************************************************************************

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  A round of applause for Halbarad’s  reviewer-inspired rescue plan! ;)  

§ CHARATCTER LIST §

Western Scouting Party:

Malbeorn- a veteran Ranger

Rowgond- a young Ranger from Hollin

Halbarad-  Aragorn’s longtime Ranger pal

Aragorn

Boromir

Eastern Scouting Party:

Orimhedil- male Elf warrior from Rivendell

Barin- male Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain

Glóin- father of Gimli

Glorfindel

Legolas

Gimli

************************************************************************

~ Chapter 24:  If You Give a Dwarf an Arrow ~

*********************************************

A pale dawn and smoky blue remnants of the previous night’s campfire were all that greeted the Rangers when they awoke.  Breakfast was a scant affair consisting of bread, tea, and plans of how to rescue the captured son of Denethor.

The day had broken uncharacteristically warm, reducing the frozen ground to soupy mud.  Halbarad, cloak hanging carelessly from his shoulder, took to a nonchalant pacing between puddles while Aragorn sketched an outline of Fenadoch in the wet earth.  Grizzled Malbeorn prowled along the borders of their recluse amidst soggy leaves, padding between trees with such stealth that would impress even an Elf.

Rowgond knelt beside Aragorn and frowned.  “I suppose,” he said, “if we each slipped in after dusk, we might be able to locate Boromir’s whereabouts.”

Aragorn nodded.  “I was thinking along similar lines myself.  And I am sure Malbeorn would prefer such a method as well.”  After shooting momentary glances towards the solitary grey figure slinking through the trees, the two Rangers turned their attention back to the rough drawing.  Various tactics of how to go about infiltrating the town carried softly in the still morning, blending with the odd birdcall and steady patter of dripping tree branches. 

“I see no fault in my plan.”  Halbarad leaned back against a gnarled oak tree, ignoring its wet bark, and pretended to squint up at the morning sky as though it suddenly required his undivided attention. 

Rowgond raised his head and unleashed an impressive glare at the tall Ranger.  “I do,” the younger man spat.

A lazy smile spread across Halbarad’s face, though he kept his head tilted towards the heavens.  “Of course you do, Rowgond.  That is because you are young and inexperienced.”

Rowgond’s glower deepened.  “I am not wearing a dress!  You cannot make me—I refuse!”  The young Ranger folded his arms across his chest and glared challengingly at his companions, giving all the appearance of a miffed bear cub.  “And if you so much as mention it one more time, I shall—“

“You shall what?”  Halbarad cocked an eyebrow at the blonde Ranger and smirked.  It was a look Aragorn knew well, and one that more often than not resulted in an overwhelming urge to remove it from the man’s face by physical means.  Valar only knew how many tavern fights Halbarad had purposely started by merely quirking his lips in such a smug manner.

Rowgond opened his mouth several times to respond, then came to the infuriating conclusion there was very little he could do.  Halbarad chuckled as the younger Ranger muttered vehemently under his breath.  “If you are so intent on one of us slipping into the village disguised as a woman in order to save the son of Denethor,” Rowgond snapped, after several moments of unintelligible muttering, “I think you ought to be the one to do it.”

Halbarad unsheathed his hunting knife and began to nonchalantly flip it in his hand.  “But I lack the well-defined features of a Hollin-bred beauty such as yourself.  Is he not wondrously fair to look upon, Aragorn?”  He smoothly gestured to Rowgond with the haft of his knife, and then resumed flipping it.  “Indeed, I would almost go as far to say he rivals that pretty Elf friend of yours.  What was his name?”

Aragorn blinked.  “His?”

“Yes.”  Halbarad paused his incessant flipping of the knife and frowned. 

“Legolas?” Aragorn mentally apologized to the Elf for having immediately thought of him at the mention of “pretty.”

Halbarad shook his head.  “Nay, not Legolas.  It was the Elf who did not like me.”

Aragorn regarded the dark-haired Ranger with raised eyebrows.  There were many Elves who did not like Halbarad.

 “I believe he hailed from Lórien,” Halbarad continued.  “He was visiting Rivendell for some purpose, and took an immediate disliking to me.  I never did figure out as to why that was.”

Aragorn snorted.  “Haldir.  It was Haldir.  And as to him ‘taking an immediate disliking’ to you: I believe it took root the moment you took it upon yourself to chase after the maiden he has been courting for quite some time.”

“He chased after an Elven maiden?”  Rowgond snickered as he stood and brushed mud from his hands.

“I was only trying to follow Aragorn’s lead,” Halbarad sniffed, sheathing his knife and kneeling to pack up his bedroll.

Aragorn fought down a rising blush and held up his hands.  “Nay my friend, I am not to blame for your shortcomings.”  

“Aragorn’s lead?” asked Rowgond.  “Oh, of course—Arwen…”  The young Ranger looked curiously to Aragorn.  “How exactly did you manage to capture her?  Aragorn, are you blushing?”

In light of further embarrassment, the Heir of Isildur tactfully changed the subject.  “We must rescue Boromir before evening.”  He strode over to Malbeorn and looked through the trees to the dawn-lit rooftops of Fenadoch.

“Why?” asked Rowgond.

Aragorn held up a hand and motioned for silence.  “Listen.  What do you hear?”

Rowgond paused.  “I hear… the wind.  A bird.  Drops of water and the branches of the trees as they creak in the breeze…”

“The man did not request you recite poetry,” groused Halbarad.  Aragorn shot him a warning look.  Halbarad shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“And what do you hear over it all?  More specifically, what do you hear echoing from the town?”

Rowgond blinked.  “Ah…  Knocking.”  He turned to face Aragorn and furrowed his brow in confusion.  “A lot of knocking and banging.”

“Hammering,” Halbarad emphasized. 

Malbeorn’s smooth growl startled all three.  “They build gallows.”

An uncomfortable pall settled over the company while they finished packing.  Silence reigned over the ring of ash, oak, and thorn trees, save squelching footfalls and the eager snorts of horses.  ‘What am I to tell Father should ill befall Boromir?’ Aragorn’s mind raced as he counted his blades for the fifth time—a nervous compulsion he could not seem to rid himself of.  ‘What would befall Gondor, for that matter?’ 

Of all the Fellowship, only Boromir possessed strong connexions with the race of Men.  Granted, Aragorn was deigned to rule them, but he had been raised in an Elven household and “grew up Elvish,” as Halbarad was fond of saying.  Aragorn was not so bold as to stake his claim without support of the people.  Or, more importantly, without the support of Boromir.  Boromir was his link to Men; he needed Boromir.

Halbarad gathered his saddle and threw it over his mount with a grunt.  “I suppose we shall have to vote on the manner of rescue.  All those in favor of Rowgond demonstrating his knowledge of feminine wiles—“

“Halbarad,” interrupted Aragorn, “Even if I were to agree with your plans of rescue—which I do not—where are we to find a dress?” 

Rowgond leaned around the stocky black shoulder of his steed and smirked at Halbarad.  “I bet he has one in his travel sack.”

“Aye, and its lovely blue will match your eyes,” responded the Ranger.

Malbeorn cleared his throat.  “Or we might ride in and grab Boromir as he is taken to the gallows.”

All three Rangers turned to stare at him in silence. 

“And that does not lack in subtlety,” came Aragorn’s dry comment.  He shook his head incredulously.  “You surprise me, Malbeorn.  I seem to recall a certain Ranger stressing the importance of stealth above all else.”

“Yes,” answered the greying Ranger, “and this I still believe.  But as the past few days have demonstrated your skill in the area, I deem it necessary to explore other options.”  

Aragorn brushed aside the insult before it sank in.  During his younger years he often took to heart and would brood over Malbeorn’s comments for days.  It had taken him some time to realize the man meant no ill will towards him; the steely aloofness was just the Ranger’s manner and covered a fierce, protective loyalty to those he cared for.

Still, such remarks occasionally drew Aragorn’s ire.  Malbeorn seemed to have a knack for driving him, and many others, to aggravated indignation.  Even Elrohir, one of the most patient souls Aragorn knew, had fallen victim to the old Ranger’s bite.  And during Aragorn’s first journey to Esgaroth, Legolas’ brother Calengaladh had nearly left them to wander the Old Forest Road unaided after Malbeorn curtly reprimanded the Elf for training an arrow at his forehead.

Aragorn’s horse gave him a fond nudge and snorted, effectively breaking the Ranger’s train of thought.  The dark-haired Ranger blinked and patted the stallion’s shoulder, giving the saddle girth one last tug to make sure it was secure.  Grabbing Roheryn’s wiry black mane, he hoisted himself up and swung one leg over the horse’s broad back.

He twisted around in the saddle and surveyed the remaining group, taking in their subtle differences:  Rowgond was short and stocky, as was his steed.  The horse barely stood 15 hands.  The young Ranger’s hood covered his corn-silk hair and lighter complexion.  His build was most ill-suited for the cloaked garb he wore—it tended to make him appear extremely puffy. 

Malbeorn, meanwhile, was thin and wiry atop an aging stallion flecked with silver.  Aragorn did not doubt both still had quite a few years left.  The crafty veteran and his horse stood poised and statuesque, seemingly indifferent to whatever might come their way.  Had it not been for the man’s clipped beard and the obvious effects of Time playing across every line in his face, Aragorn would swear the greying Ranger was an Elf.  Though he had known Malbeorn for years, the man’s origins were still somewhat of a mystery.  Halbarad was convinced the old Ranger had been raised in the woods by a family of foxes.  It was an opinion he voiced loudly and often—when Malbeorn was, of course, out of earshot.   

And then there was Halbarad: tall, lean and obviously at ease on the back of his lively mount.  He and Aragorn had been fast friends the moment Aragorn arrived at the Rangers’ camp to begin his training.  The dark-haired Dúnedan had taken it upon himself to rid Aragorn of what he viewed as “Elvish snobbery.”  Aragorn loved him like a brother. 

The Heir of Isildur started as a cold droplet of water from an overhanging thorn branch splashed across his nose.  He absentmindedly brushed it aside.  “Do any object to Malbeorn’s plan?  I believe it risky, but we have few options and time runs short.”

Giving his head a slight bob, Halbarad flashed Aragorn the giddy, mad grin of one who knows he is about to charge headfirst into disaster.  “We stand with you and await your command, Strider.”

Aragorn kicked Roheryn’s sides with his heels.  “Proceed.”

“Should we not first work out some semblance of a plan?” Rowgond asked nervously as they left the protective ring of oak, ash, and thorn trees.

Aragorn heard Halbarad chuckle.  “We already have a plan, my Hollin beauty:  Should you see Boromir, grab him.”

*               *               *

Gimli fumbled with the bow and arrow in his numbed hands.  Thick white snow continued to flurry about him, settling in his eyelashes and rendering any form of sight impossible.  ‘Not that I suppose it matters whether I can see the wicked beast or not,’ the Dwarf thought as he squinted and blinked profusely. ‘It would be just as well if I shot with my eyes closed.’

His fingers, which seemed far too slow and cumbersome, sought to nock the weightless arrow against the bowstring.  Gimli was positive he had held feathers heavier than the fletched wooden shaft.  There was a certain amount of comfort found in the bulky weight of an axe or sword; such weapons seemed real and dangerous.  Legolas’ flimsy bow elicited no such feelings, and Gimli suddenly felt himself extremely vulnerable and bare.  It was a feeling he did not like. 

He cried out in dismay as the slender arrow slipped from his grasp and landed harmlessly into the snow.

The Warg lowered its head and stalked back and forth, tail lashing to and fro across its thickly furred body.*  Snow folded and crunched beneath the beast’s massive paws.  A low growl rumbled deep within its chest.

Gimli knelt and fumbled frantically in the snow for the dropped arrow, keeping his eyes trained on the prowling beast.  Its piggish eyes gleamed as it pulled back wrinkled jowls to reveal yellow, dagger-like fangs.  A wave of revulsion swept over Gimli as he caught sight of long saliva strings extending from the Warg’s upper and lower lips.

The dark beast hunched to a pouncing position; oversized shoulder muscles bulging as they contracted under its bristling fur.  Cracked, razor-like nails extended from snow-flecked paws.  Gimli’s hands rabidly sought out the arrow.  Where was Glóin?  Where was Barin?  Even Glorfindel or Orimhedil would have been a welcomed sight.  

He cried out in triumph as his frozen hand came into contact with the arrow’s fletching.  Quickly lurching to his feet, the Dwarf threateningly brandished the arrow at the Warg—as though he held a spear or sword within his hand.  “Hah!  Back, you demon beast!  BACK!”

The Warg snarled and dodged the Dwarf’s jabs.  Gimli snarled right back.

A groan from behind nearly distracted him.  Out of the corner of his eye he caught the swaying figure of Legolas.  The flighty prince had managed to stagger most un-Elf-like to his knees and, aside from his disorientation, appeared utterly mortified.  “Stay down, Elf,” Gimli ordered, returning his attention to the snarling Warg. 

“You—you—That is my—“  Despite the severity of their situation, Gimli could not help but get a small measure of satisfaction from the knowledge he had rendered the wordy Elf incoherent.  He was suddenly struck by the thought of throwing the Elf at the Warg; as such an action would probably be more effective than the flimsy arrow he was currently using to keep the creature at bay.

The Warg howled and hunched again.  Gimli somehow managed to correctly nock the arrow, though the angle at which he did so would have caused many an archer to pale. 

Pulling the bowstring back proved even more difficult.  Legolas was apparently much stronger than he looked, and had Gimli been less acquainted with metals he would have sworn the bow was strung with iron cords.  He was thankful the Elf’s weapon was not a longbow*, for it would have been impossible to draw. 

Gimli pulled back the bowstring with all his might, nearly ripping his arm from its socket in the process.  He could feel the muscles in his forearm quiver as they protested violently against the strain.  The Warg sprang forth.  Its snarling mass slammed into Gimli like a sack of toothed bricks.  As the two combatants tumbled to the snowy ground, Gimli released the arrow—or rather, the bowstring snapped back to its original position.

There was a surprised cry of pain, and then silence.

Hastily scrambling to his feet, Gimli brushed snow from his face and burnt beard.  His eyes darted furtively over the snowscape as he squinted and sought out the dark creature’s body.  It lay wriggling on its back, desperately attempting to right itself.  With a low-pitched keen, the Warg staggered to its paws in defeat.

Fierce pride followed by a swift rush of adrenaline coursed through Gimli.  He, Gimli son of Glóin, had done it.  He had shot the Warg with what was quite possibly the worst weapon ever conceived by any race on Middle-earth.  “And let THAT not be a lesson you forget!” he thundered, raising the bow and shaking it victoriously at the panting, slobbering Warg.

The panting, slobbering… unscathed Warg. 

Gimli blinked and lowered the bow.  Why was the Warg still standing?  Where had the arrow gone?  He hadn’t counted on using more than one to slay the beast. 

The Warg sat back on its haunches and cocked its head.  It shook the snow from its foul face and shuffled massive paws.  ‘It appears… confused,’ Gimli decided.  Perhaps he had shot it in the head. 

The dark beast whined at him.  Then, to Gimli’s great surprise, it slowly walked off into the swirling snow, casting several dumbfounded glances over its shoulder as it retreated.

Gimli was just as puzzled.  Why hadn’t the Warg attacked him? 

A sharp hiss of pain from his left distracted him from his ruminations.  “Shut-up, Elf,” he snapped.  “Allow me a moment for thought—it is the least you could do considering I have just saved both of our lives.”  If another Warg chose to attack, he intended to deal with it in the same manner as that of the first.  That was, if he could figure out exactly what it was he had done.

Gimli’s ears caught the blasphemous phrases directed towards his kin, which Legolas did not even bother to revert back to Sindarin before delivering.

He spun around, intending to break the Elf’s bow over his empty, pretty head.

Only then did he find the missing arrow.

It was projecting from Legolas’ thigh.

************************************************************************

* “The Warg lowered its head and stalked back and forth, tail lashing to and fro across its thickly furred body.”  --- I am unsure whether or not Wargs have tails.  (I must admit, I’ve never actually seen one.)  Speaking from a strictly evolutionary standpoint, a tail would serve to help balance the animal (which we are told is very large).

*  “He was thankful the Elf’s weapon was not a longbow,” --- Legolas didn’t use a longbow until Galadriel presented him with one in Lothlórien.  Further evidence is given during the Fellowship’s journey to Moria (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book II, Chapter V: The Bridge of Khazad-Dûm), Tolkien writes: ‘Legolas turned and set an arrow to the string, though it was a long shot for his small bow.’

Fear not for the safety of our beloved Elf!  Resident physiologist, Ruth, has kindly offered to see to his ailments.  He rests in capable hands. 

************************************************************************

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

CHARACTER LIST

Eastern Scouting Party:

Orimhedil- male Elf warrior from Rivendell

Barin- male Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain

*Mithlaf- Legolas’ horse

Glóin- Father of Gimli

Glorfindel

Gimli

Legolas

The House of Oropher:

Lhûn- Eldest living son of Thranduil.  Heir of Mirkwood

Calengaladh- 2^nd (living) son of Thranduil

Mallos- 3^rd (living) son of Thranduil

Tuilë- daughter and 4^th  (living) child of Thranduil

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~ Chapter 25:  The Bear, the Rangers, and Their Wardrobe ~

********************************************************

It was quite unnerving to attend trial while the very gallows from which you will hang are being constructed outside the door.  Boromir found himself wondering why the town had even bothered to give him a trial.

As things stood, he was accused and pre-convicted of destroying the Last Bridge, rampaging the town, burning down the Singing Mûmak—Fenadoch’s oldest establishment, Sorcery in the Degree of Infatuation (of which Boromir did not quite understand, but suspected Mysian had something to do with the matter), serving the Dark Lord, and leading the Black Riders’ charge through Fenadoch.  Several of the townsfolk had also accused him of bringing bad dreams, and one elderly lady was convinced he had slain her cat. 

Then came the stories. 

One farmer had seen him perch on the window ledge of the Singing Mûmak and transform himself into a great black dragon.  He had then breathed fire into the room, which eventually led to the demise of the tavern. 

Boromir tried to remind the townsfolk that they had been the ones to set the Singing Mûmak on fire, but he was apparently forbidden to speak.

One of the men who had charged the Rangers’ door with Mysian claimed to have stabbed Boromir no less than fifteen times, yet Boromir had not a scratch on him.  Boromir had wretched the spear from his hands, the man insisted, and then sang a strange chant over it.  The spear transformed into a dead fish, and the man had brought the fish to prove it. 

All townsfolk in the building had gasped in horror at the sight of the eyeless, dead fish.  Boromir had, of course, taken the eyes of the fish and put them into his own head.

The man of Gondor was by this time so disgusted that he sarcastically puffed out his cheeks and wiggled his hands behind his ears in the manner of a fish.  Several women fainted from sheer terror.

The judge reached a verdict within five minutes of the trial’s completion.  Thus, when he was sentenced to hang, Boromir had already begun to plot whom his wraith would haunt.  First, he would haunt the Fish Story Peasant, then the Black Dragon Farmer.  Then there would be the judge, the old cat lady…  And Aragorn.  Aragorn and his mighty Rangers, who had all fled and left him in the hands of the rabid townsfolk.  Boromir scowled, deciding he would terrorize the Heir of Isildur for the rest of his days.  When Aragorn passed away, he would move on to any of the man’s descendants.  

And while he was busy spooking Fenadoch he might as well give the serving maiden Mysian a few scares. 

He shot a quick glance towards the rosy-cheeked maiden, who sat calmly amongst the other peasants.  Though she did not believe him to be the son of Denethor, Boromir suspected she was beginning to doubt his affiliation with Sauron.  If only he could speak with her…   

*

The frayed rope bonds chafed against his hands.  The bailiff chuckled as he slipped the noose over Boromir’s head.  The shoddy wooden platform wobbled precariously as the bailiff jauntily strode to the side.  Boromir traced the outline of the trapdoor-styled floor with his eyes.  When the floor was released, there would be nothing left to hold him in place but the rope. 

He closed his eyes and gulped, acutely aware that these were his last minutes on Middle-earth.  ‘Strange,’ he thought.  ‘I always envisioned myself being slain on the battlefield.’  Yet here he was, the son of Denethor Steward of Gondor, about to be hung like a common thief by a rabble of country zealots.  There was no glory to be found in such a demise; no honor.  In fact, it was rather embarrassing.  ‘I hope the Elves are kind enough to tell Father and Faramir I died with a sword in my hand, inflicting much damage on the enemy.’ 

Elves…  Elrond.  He quickly made a mental note to haunt the Elf lord as well.

The townsfolk were shouting and catcalling, but he felt oddly removed from the scene.  Faces leered and smirked; mouths opened and closed as words were flung at him.  He heard nothing.

As the bailiff began to speak, and the bloodthirsty crowd continued to roar, Boromir sought out Mysian’s face.  She stood watching him with what Boromir believed to be a touch of sympathy, but for the most part remained impassive.  Boromir sighed.  He was going to die alone and surrounded by enemies. 

The bailiff paused as someone began pointing in the direction of the town gates and screaming.  Boromir felt a ripple of alarm wash over the crowd and looked bleakly to Fenadoch’s entrance.  At least being situated on the platform gave him a clear view. 

A ragged cry of relief caught in his throat:  Aragorn had arrived. 

The Rangers and their fierce steeds charged into the town, cloaks snapping and billowing behind them as though the fabric contained a life of its own.  The townspeople were sent into panic: women screamed, children cried, and men grabbed whatever weapons they could.

Boromir groaned.  It was small wonder Fenadoch had mistaken them for the Nazgûl.  ‘Why,’ he thought, ‘could they not have chosen a different color for their garb?  A nice green or royal purple, perhaps?  

Unfortunately, his ruminations were cut short.  The man of Gondor suddenly discovered there was no solid ground beneath his feet.

*          *          *

Legolas, his face pinched and white, tightly gripped his injured leg.  His shoulder was still numb, his head was throbbing, and the world had yet to cease spinning.  White hot flashes of pain seared up his thigh, contrasting sickeningly with the bone chilling cold he could not seem to rid himself of.  The young Elf felt the warm slickness of blood spill over his hands despite his best efforts to staunch the flow.

He suspected he would have passed out long ago had it not been for the sheer, scalding fury lacing through his veins.       

He narrowed his eyes in warning as Gimli took a hesitant step forward.  The Dwarf wisely stopped.

Legolas continued to glare as Gimli made pretense of scouring the area.  Leaving Legolas to fend for himself was somewhat out of the question; especially considering Gimli was to blame for the Elf’s current condition. 

A dark figure loomed from behind in the driving snow.  The flustered Dwarf, desperately seeking to escape the piercing eyes of Legolas, did not notice. 

Legolas held his tongue, hoping whatever it was would pounce and rip the lowly Dwarf to shreds.                 

Being the object of an Elven glare was akin to having thousands of tiny needles poking a body all over.  It was immensely uncomfortable, to say the least.

Gimli turned abruptly, deciding the skin on his back was thicker and better adept at dealing with such looks.  His face met the snow-covered body directly behind him.  With a muffled cry of surprise, the Dwarf fell heavily into the snow and landed on his backside.

“My apologies, son of Glóin.  I thought you knew I approached from behind.”  Glorfindel’s concerned face peered down at him.  Relief washed over Gimli like a wave.

The snow-covered Elf lord still breathed in exertion from the skirmish.  His cheeks were flushed and his bright eyes had yet to lose the reckless gleam of battle.  He gracefully extended a hand and offered it to the Dwarf.  Gimli gratefully accepted and grunted in surprise as he was quickly hauled to his feet.

“I am afraid I lost sight of Orimhedil and your kin,” said the golden-haired Elf.  He squinted into the snow.  “I believe all fared well.”  He turned his attention back to Gimli and gave the Dwarf a wry smile.  “It would appear not all luck has abandoned us.  There were naught more than ten Wargs.  If we—“  Glorfindel cut himself off and blinked in puzzlement.  “Gimli, is that Legolas’ bow you hold within your hand?”

Gimli wished he had thought to drop the bow.

Glorfindel frowned.  “Where is Legolas?” 

His grey eyes slid past Gimli and rested on the silently bleeding form of Legolas, who had learned long ago it was better to be seen than heard.  Such methods generally produced more shock in authority figures and led to greater punishments for the perpetrators. 

It was quite by accident that Legolas discovered the method.  When he had been fifteen, his sister Tuilë took it upon herself to cut the Elfling’s hair.  Alas, Mirkwood’s youngest prince could not be made to sit still for prolonged periods of time, and the resulting trim was nothing short of a disaster. 

Legolas, as he was but a child, gave no thought to his appearance.  He had been thrilled to finally escape his sister’s clutches and saw no need to go screaming to his father—a tactic he always employed when dealing with the cruelties of his older brothers.

The evening meal had been a memorable one.

Legolas, as he had been taught, solemnly walked into the dining room and stood by his chair in preparation for the arrival of Thranduil.  There had been several gasps from the servants.  Old Galion nearly dropped the pitcher of wine he held.  Tuilë had gone quite pale, whereas Mallos’ jaw dropped in shock, Calengaladh made a strange choking sound, and Lhûn had raised an eyebrow and shot Tuilë a very un-amused look. 

Legolas would often use the reactions of Lhûn to predict the reactions of Thranduil.  Lhûn, as he was the eldest and heir of Mirkwood, was the most alike to Thranduil in action and disposition.  Legolas found it most convenient (and far less dangerous) to first test his limits with Lhûn.  If Lhûn allowed a certain escapade or action to slip by, chances were Thranduil would too.  It did not always work as such, but for the most part it kept Legolas from facing the permanent wrath of Thranduil.

Lhûn’s gaze suggested Tuilë was headed for trouble, indeed.

When at last Thranduil arrived, the atmosphere had grown so tense the Elven-king immediately suspected something was amiss.  He questioningly looked to each of his children, and when at last his eyes fell upon Legolas…

Tuilë’s punishment lasted until Mirkwood’s youngest prince regained a full head of hair.

Legolas had carefully stored the incident away, somewhat intrigued by the effect his lack of reaction had caused.  He did not wish for Tuilë to be punished, but his brothers were another matter all together.

Thus, the next time Mallos and Calengaladh left him tied and hanging from a beech tree by the cord of his bowstring (they had told him it was the only way he would ever grow as tall as they and he foolishly believed them), he patiently waited until the search party found him.  It was a full day before the frantic group discovered the Elfling, as Mallos and Calengaladh had forgotten which tree they left him in.  Rumor had it that even Thranduil had joined the search, and the whole kingdom was in uproar over the missing prince.

The Elven-king had been none-too-pleased to learn his youngest son was found quietly dangling from the branches of a massive beech tree, and was even more displeased that Legolas had been there all night.

Calengaladh and Mallos were ordered to dangle themselves from the same tree for a day, and then banned from any form of archery for a full year.  Both had been furious.

Lhûn, on the other hand, had been quite amused by the whole affair.  The eldest and youngest sons of Thranduil had never been particularly close, as their ages were so far apart and their interaction usually consisted of Legolas pulling a foolhardy stunt while Lhûn did his best not to throttle the young Elf.  Looking back, Legolas supposed it was the first time his antics were not directed towards Lhûn, which allowed his brother to view him as more than just a nerve-snapping Elfling.  Following the incident, Lhûn began to treat his littlest brother with a bit of affection.  He flatly refused, however, to take Legolas on any prolonged journey or scouting mission, claiming, “His antics would drive me to madness.  Being strung from a tree would be the least of his worries.” 

Gimli had hoped the others might not notice the arrow protruding from the Elf’s thigh.  It was a futile wish, he knew, but he could not help himself.

Unfortunately, one would have to be blind in order to miss the shaft, and the Elven eyes of Glorfindel were anything but.  Gimli’s skin crawled as those eyes traveled from the feathered arrow to the bow in his hands.  He decided he ought to start explaining himself before the Elf lord struck him down.

“There was a Warg,” he rumbled, “I dropped my axe and found the bow, Warg jumped over knocked we fell backwards,” he vaguely realized his words had stopped making sense and hoped Glorfindel would be able to pick out the important ones.  “Flipped arrow accident shot.”  The Elf lord had not yet moved, and Gimli grew more concerned, having come to recognize the danger of a still Elf.  He threw out more words in vain and hoped the Elf would respond.  Even Glorfindel’s eyes had ceased to blink—a dire sign indeed as he tended to blink quite a bit.  “Leg arrow bow Elf snow…”  He trailed off miserably.

“He has shot me.”  Deeming the time right to put an end to his noble suffering, Legolas offered further explanation of the situation.

Glorfindel was not in the habit of wishing for death.  He had already died once, and that was enough for him.  Yet at that moment, he suddenly found himself desiring such a thing.  He wanted the mountain rock to open and swallow him up.  Or perhaps a lightening bolt courtesy of the Valar.  Maybe an icicle would snap from some rocky overhang, or a Balrog would appear around the path and require the Elf lord to play martyr.  He supposed there was always the option of throwing himself down the mountain, but he did not relish the feel of falling through the air.  Though at this point, he was willing to try almost anything if it meant escaping the frozen nightmare he now inhabited.

‘Legolas is bleeding,’ his mind reminded him.  Thousands of years of battle experience instinctively took over.

“Gimli,” he ordered as he approached the fallen Elf.  “Please fetch Orimhedil.”  His voice sounded remarkably calm and collected given his inner thoughts:  The group was trapped inside an icy tomb, and even if they were to get out, what then?  They could either trek back to Imladris in defeat and meet countless numbers of orcs and whatever other beasts were on the loose, or continue their suicidal journey to the High Pass and face more dark creatures and fickle weather.  Legolas’ injury only added to their growing troubles.  There was no telling what sort of beasts would be attracted by the scent of blood, and the group was in no condition to make fast getaways.  ‘At least Legolas is awake,’ he thought.  ‘Though he still looks far too pale and shaky.’

He took off his cloak and draped it about the younger Elf’s shoulders, then placed his hands over Legolas’ in further effort to staunch the flow of blood.  “If Orimhedil has his pack, we shall remove the arrow before we attempt to escape this place.  If not, I am afraid we must wait until we locate the horses.”  He sighed.  “It appears they were smarter than we, and most of our supplies are in their packs.”

Legolas grimaced and spoke through clenched teeth.  “Leave it.”

Glorfindel blinked.  “Pardon?  Leave what?  The arrow?”  He snorted.  “Legolas, I am not leaving the arrow in your leg.  Why in Elbereth’s name would you want such a thing?”

Legolas scowled.

Glorfindel rolled his eyes towards the snowy heavens and shook his head in exasperation, wondering what sort of daft reasoning the Elf followed.  “Thranduilion, you are by far the oddest Elf I have known.  And,” he added, “perhaps the most infuriating.  I am not about to let you travel back to Mirkwood with an arrow protruding from your leg just so that your father may see it.”

Midway through his sour jest, Glorfindel noticed the look on Legolas’ face suggested those were his exact intentions.

Fortunately for Legolas, Orimhedil stepped out of the whirling snow, provision sack in hand.  Gimli reluctantly followed him.

“Master Gimli tells me you require—“  The Rivendell Elf furrowed his brow when he caught sight of Legolas’ injury.  “I assumed someone was maimed by a Warg.  Legolas, how did you manage to shoot yourself?”  

“I did not shoot myself,” Legolas snapped, straightening in indignation.  Glorfindel quickly placed a hand on his shoulder and forced him to be still.

Orimhedil knelt down beside the two Elves and began rummaging through his pack.  “The arrow is not from the Wargs, for they cannot shoot and have no riders.  Your arrows are the only ones fletched with green.”  The dark-haired Elf started pointedly at Legolas.  “Though I admit, you have managed skewer yourself at the strangest angle.”

“It was that fool of a Dwarf who shot me!”

“Legolas,” warned Glorfindel.

Orimhedil’s hand paused midway between his pack and passing Glorfindel a roll of gauze.  He turned to Gimli with raised eyebrows.  “Son of Glóin, did you truly shoot the Prince of Mirkwood?”

“I did not intend to shoot him,” Gimli quickly replied.  Where were his father and Barin?  He was feeling uncomfortably outnumbered, and doubted even Glorfindel would do much to protect him.  The Elf lord seemed to have reached his limit, though he was keeping a remarkable pretense of serenity.  “There was a Warg, and it was about to pounce.”

Legolas glowered.  “Then perhaps you should have shot the Warg, Master Stub.”

“I tried.”  Gimli glared back as best he could. 

“Then what became of this Warg?” Orimhedil asked.  Three pairs of bright Elven eyes turned to Gimli in curiosity, though two held an arguably murderous gleam.

Gimli cleared his throat and wiped his frozen and running nose across the back of his hand.  “Ahem, well, I believe it ran away.”

“It ran away?”  Orimhedil snorted in disbelief, his breath hanging momentarily in the cold air.  Even Glorfindel looked somewhat skeptic.

Legolas again adopted the tactic of being seen and not heard.  After all, it is not wise to interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.  And the Dwarf was digging itself into a fine little hole as far as he was concerned.

Gimli knew he sounded utterly ridiculous.  Legolas could, of course, back the Dwarf’s claim, for he had witnessed the scene as well.  However, the Elf seemed far more content to sit bleeding in the snow and watch as Gimli made a fool of himself.

“It leapt at me, and as we fell backwards I accidentally loosed the arrow.”

“It was then that he shot me,” Legolas helpfully supplied.

Gimli paused before continuing, deciding he liked the Elf better unconscious.  “When it saw that I had accidentally—“ he made sure to glance at Legolas, “—shot the Elf, the Warg grew distressed and just left.  I have no explanation for its actions.”

Orimhedil shook his head and produced several leaves of athelas from a small leather pouch.  Gimli might as well have told him the Warg sprouted wings and flew off to Rivendell.

“Perhaps,” Glorfindel said slowly, “the beast was unsure if you were friend or foe, and instead chose to leave the situation.”

Orimhedil’s head bobbed as he examined the arrow wound.  “There is a grain of truth to that.  In days past Dwarves often aligned with the darker powers.”

Gimli bristled.  “We did not ‘often’ join them.  We were tricked or forced to join them.”

“Yet you do not deny this fact.”  Orimhedil gave the tender skin around the wound a gentle prod, eliciting a hiss from Legolas.  “My apologies,” he murmured.  Legolas offered him a wan grin.

“You have twisted my words and those of history as well!”

“Gimli,” said Glorfindel, “I believe it would be most beneficial if you sought out Barin and your father.”  He bade Legolas bite down on a piece of his leather quiver strap and then tightly restrained the Mirkwood Elf by the shoulders. 

Gimli trundled off into the snow as Orimhedil simultaneously snapped the arrow in half and swiftly pulled it out.  The Dwarf winced at Legolas’ muffled groan in spite of himself.

*        

Escaping the prison of rock and ice proved to be less difficult than Glorfindel anticipated.  Barin and Glóin piled the fallen Warg bodies atop one another, and the company was able to more or less climb out of their icy shelter.  The horses, being of good Elvish quality, had not strayed far. 

It was put to a vote whether they should turn back or continue onward.  In the end, it was decided they would press on to the High Pass.  “We are too close to turn back,” Glóin had said.  “And we are long overdue for a bit of good luck.”

Glorfindel was of the opinion that Good Luck had fled to warmer and less hostile environments, but kept his thoughts to himself. 

*                 

It was just after midday when the eastern scouting party at last reached the High Pass.  Snow had ceased to fall, but the bitter winds howled and raged with such force that even the Elves were affected.  An eerie scream was produced as it whistled between the peaks.  At times the keening would grow so voice-like and high that the company was forced to stop their ears.  The Elvish mounts grew skittish and fearful.

A biting sun smiled coldly upon them, causing the frozen topmost layer of snow to sparkle like tiny shards of glass.  Jagged black rocks seemed to absorb the sun’s rays and contrasted starkly with the white snow and stretches of blue sky.  Great blackened cliffs rose steeply on either side of the group as they plodded forth.  Odd rumbles coupled with unexpected avalanches left them tense and on edge.  Too often would a large rock come barreling down the mountainside, seeming to bring half the cliff with it.  “Giants,” Glóin said, his voice gone hoarse with nerves.  “They find sport in tossing the rocks about.”

Barin made a frightened gurgling sound and pulled the hood tighter around his beardless face.

“Mayhap they will leave us be?”  Orimhedil managed to keep his voice from shaking as he clung to his steed.  The poor horse was in as bad a state as his rider.

Legolas nodded and spoke with false bravado.  “If they do not notice us we shall be fine.”  The cold was causing his thigh to grow tight and cramped.  Having to straddle the steed Mithlaf’s back pulled and tore at the wound.  He was not sure he would be able to hang on if the horse moved any faster, and attempting to walk was simply out of the question.  Oddly enough, his shoulder did not ache as before and he felt more awake as time went by.  ‘I suppose whatever it was that ailed me has run its course,’ he thought.  Still, he could feel Glorfindel watching him as though he might topple over any minute.   

Telltale rumbles shook the cliffs on either side of them.  The horses and Dwarves snorted in alarm.  “Faster,” Glorfindel snapped, his face taut and grim.       

Legolas instinctively looked to the mountainside and immediately wished he hadn’t.  Great clouds of snow hung suspended in the air.  A deceptively slow wave of snow and rock began to build and ripple atop the cliffs.  His cry of alarm mingled with Orimhedil’s.

“FLY!” cried Glorfindel.  “Fly quickly!”  

Elvish mounts squealed in terror as the ground began to quake.  The three Dwarves floundered desperately in the snow.  Orimhedil and Legolas each grabbed the Dwarf closest to them.  It vaguely registered to Legolas that the writhing, cursing creature he held by the collar was Gimli.  However, as the Elf’s primary concerns were to avoid being buried and stay atop Mithlaf, he could have cared less.  

The hooves of Mithlaf thrashed and tore through snow as the mountains toppled on either side.  Legolas cried out as sharp pain stabbed through his injured leg.  He clung to Mithlaf for dear life, terrified at the possibility of being buried alive.  He still held Gimli by the collar, though the Dwarf was heavy as a boulder.  Gimli flailed and choked, trying to avoid Mithlaf’s flinty hooves as the panicked horse lunged forward.

They shot out of the Pass as though Morgoth himself snapped at their heels.  The instant they cleared the canyon, Mithlaf stumbled and pitched forward, sending Gimli and Legolas tumbling into the snow.  Legolas jerked aside as the body of Orimhedil landed next to him with a dull thump.

The company lay gasping on the ground for several moments, each thanking the Valar he was still intact.

Orimhedil rolled over with a slight moan.  “Ai, we shall have a tale to tell when we reach Mirkwood.”

“Or the Lonely Mountain,” added Barin with a grunt.

Gimli sat up, massaging his throat.  If he was never again able to draw a full breath of air, Legolas was solely to blame. 

The son of Gloin started in alarm when he noticed their company was short one Dwarf.

“Father?”

The only response was the distant rumble of falling rock.

Legolas and Orimhedil quickly sat up and shot one another worried glances.

“Glorfindel?”

They were again greeted with silence.

Orimhedil leapt to his feet and started back towards the avalanche.  Gimli was immediately behind him.  Legolas pushed himself up and limped after the two as best he could.  Their dismayed cries reverberated throughout the mountains.

“Glorfindel?  Glóin?”

“Father?”

“Glorfindel?”               

“BEAR!”

At Barin’s shriek, Legolas, Orimhedil, and Gimli turned. 

A massive bear, the largest any had ever seen, was charging up the slope.  The remaining members of the ragtag company immediately drew their weapons.  ‘This cannot possibly get any worse,’ Legolas thought wildly as he nocked an arrow. 

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I have some good news for those of you concerned over the well-being of Boromir (a.k.a. “Borofara,” or my personal favorite, “Boz,”):  Aralanthiriel has graciously offered to care for him in his current state of need.  He’ll be as good as new. 

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

CHARACTER LIST:

Grimbeorn- the Carrock

~ Western Scouting Party~

Malbeorn- a veteran Ranger

Rowgond- a young Ranger from Hollin

Halbarad

Aragorn

Boromir

~ House of Oropher (living members) ~

Lhûn- Thranduil’s eldest child.  Heir of Mirkwood

Calengaladh-  Thranduil’s 2^nd son

Mallos-  Thranduil’s 3^rd son

Tuilë- Thranduil’s 4^th child.  Daughter

 Legolas- Thranduil’s 5^th child

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~ Chapter 26:  Lost and Found ~

**********************************

Yellow stars exploded before Boromir’s eyes as he writhed from the taut rope.  He clawed feebly at the choking noose.  It would not give.  He frantically tried to draw a breath, but only succeeded in managing a panicked choke. 

The pain was excruciating.  The rope burned like fire, sending tongues of pain up through his jaw.  His eyes bulged from the pressure. 

The yellow stars exploded more intensely in a darkening green haze.  Boromir felt his legs and arms jerk of their own accord.  His fingers and toes clenched and unclenched as shock waves ripped through his body. 

Then the yellow stars fizzled out and the green haze faded to blissful darkness.

*          *          *

The Rangers swept through Fenadoch like a black tide, roaring with such fury even a Balrog would pause for thought.  Cold mud sprayed from beneath the hooves of their galloping mounts.  Townsfolk were bowled over left and right as the company battered them aside.

“ELENDIL!”  Aragorn sent a peasant man flying with a two-handed sweep of his sheathed blade.  Enraged villagers swarmed from every angle, seeking to drag him from the saddle.  Aragorn dealt them vicious blows amidst his cry of battle. 

“I am—“  WHACK  “—Aragorn!  Son of—“  THUD  “—Arathorn!  And am called Heir of—“  CRUNCH  “Elessar—“  WHUMP, THUD  “—the Elfstone!”  CRACK  “Dúnadan—“  grunt  “—the heir of Isildur!”

Charging recklessly at Aragorn’s side, sheathed sword whirling and fists flying, Halbarad began howling out a lineage of his own.  Though the giddy rush of battle went to the man’s head, and he instead roared the ancestry of his horse between frenzied blows. 

“Rohdimm—“  THUNK  “—sired by Dimmor—“  CHINK  “—sired by Flaesûl!”

Young Rowgond was completely carried away.  He simply screamed the first sounds that sprang to his tongue, regardless of whether or not they were actual words.  The stout blonde Ranger wielded his mace like a madman, swiping townsfolk off their feet with its bound iron handle.

Malbeorn ducked before he was clipped by one of Rowgond’s wild swings.  Growling, he wretched a shovel from an attacking old peddler and sent the man sprawling with a stirruped kick to the chest. 

They continued their furious charge through Fenadoch.  Villagers fell back, not wanting to be cut down by the barreling Rangers and their iron-shod mounts.

Aragorn was grateful the town housed no archers.  His triumph, however, was short-lived.  The resourceful people of Fenadoch, realizing they could not meet the Black Riders at close range, took to throwing all manner of debris.

Malbeorn snarled as several rotten tomatoes and a soggy head of lettuce found their mark.  Two more tomatoes hit his mount on the neck.  The horse balked and squealed in protest.

Halbarad shielded his face with an arm while the angered townsfolk pelted him with eggs.  “For the love of Valar,” the man swore, “Those things HURT!”  A well-placed egg cracked against the side of his head, splattering down his face.  The Ranger yelped and lifted his arm higher, only to be hit by two more: one in the jaw and one on the collarbone. 

“The lousy fiends are throwing rocks!”  Rowgond snarled and pitched forward as a stone hit him square between the shoulder blades.  He twisted around with bared teeth, in the hopes of finding the slinger.  An apple cracked him on the bridge of his nose.  His steed sat back on its haunches and screamed as an apple smacked into the horse’s chest, emitting a hollow thump.

Aragorn furiously tried to wipe the pitch from his face and succeeded only in smearing it.  The town carpenter had managed to dump a bucket of warm tar on him from the rooftop. 

He cast a glance over his shoulder, intending to somehow charge back into the melee and cut Boromir from the gallows.

The rope was already severed.  Boromir had been rescued.

With a cry of relief, cut short by a rock that bit into his shoulder, Aragorn let Roheryn take the lead.  The horse thundered out of Fenadoch like a madbeast.

*

It was a bedraggled group of Rangers that met within the tangled ring of ash, oak, and thorn.  They sat atop their mounts amidst dripping leaves and muddy earth, silently cursing every known thing in creation.  Did the Valar purposely seek to punish them?

Rotten tomato dripped from Malbeorn’s face.  Bits of wilted lettuce clung to his short beard and cloak.  He made no move to wipe it off, seeming content to send scathing glares in the direction of the others.

Halbarad looked as though he had fought an army of snails and lost.  Slimy egg yolk, only beginning to harden, covered him from head to toe.  Angry welts were already forming where the eggs came into contact with his body.

Rowgond’s nose was swollen to twice its normal size.  The young Ranger could barely keep his eyes open.

The sticky mass that was Aragorn found he was literally glued into the saddle.  Even water would not wash away the pitch.  Soap might have helped, but none of them carried it.

The Heir of Isildur attempted to keep his voice as even as possible.  “I assumed, as the rope was severed and Boromir no longer hanging from it, that one of you had cut him down.”

“And I assumed,” said Halbarad, his voice equally strained, “since you were charging out of that demon-filled town and Boromir was no longer hanging, you had cut him down.”

Aragorn angrily clenched Roheryn’s reins, only to discover himself unable to let them go.  Now he was stuck to both saddle and reins.  “Obviously, that was not the case.”

“Obviously.”  Halbarad seethed as he picked off pieces of eggshell from his sleeve.

“If I do not have Boromir, and you do not have Boromir,” Aragorn could not prevent the anger from shaking his voice, “and neither Malbeorn nor Rowgond has Boromir…  Then where is he?”  He felt like screaming, not to mention his fingers were itching to grab one of his companions by the throat.  Halbarad’s throat in particular.

Halbarad clenched his teeth.  “Is it not the duty of our brave and fearless leader to know such things?”

“I thing the person who camb up with the pland should doe zuch a thing.”  Rowgond’s nose bobbled as he glared at Malbeorn.  It took the others a few moments to decipher his stuffy accusation.

The grizzled Ranger scowled.  “No blame lies here for your incompetence!  You cannot act with stealth, you cannot form a decent plan—“ he threw up his tomato-stained hands in disdain, “—you cannot even act when there is no plan!”  Leaning over the shoulder of his greying horse, the veteran Ranger spat in disgust.

“Pardon me,” said Halbarad, “but I would like to remind you all that I did have a plan.”

“Id was a stooped pland!”

Halbarad twisted viciously in the saddle, causing his steed to snort and stomp its forefoot.  “And speaking of stupid, listen to yourself, Rowgond!”

The blonde Ranger flushed angrily.  “Ad leasd I do nod sbmell like rodden eggs.  Even wid this doze I can sbmell you.”

“Enough!” cried Aragorn.  He unsuccessfully tried to free his hands from the reins.  Roheryn grew confused by his rider’s tugs and sidestepped nervously.  “This will not aide us in finding Boromir.  I do not care who sounds worse or smells worse or looks worse.”  It vaguely crossed his mind that he, covered as he was in sticky black pitch, must look terrible.  “We MUST find Boromir.”

“Indeed,” muttered Halbarad.  “I, for one, am at a loss as to what we would say to Lord Elrond when explaining how we managed to lose a hanging man.”

“We did not lose him,” Aragorn snapped.

Malbeorn snorted.

“We are back do where we sdarded.”  Rowgond gingerly touched his plumb-sized nose.  “Dow whad?”

*          *          *

Boromir arched his back and groaned.  Where was he?

Brittle, sweet-smelling sticks poked him all over.  ‘Hay,’ his mind identified.  His eyes fluttered open and he groaned again.  His neck felt as though…  ‘As though I have been hanging from it.’

It was difficult to see, for the only light in the place came from small tin lanterns, which hung from the rafters.  Boromir squinted in the dim glow, concluding he was in some sort of stable.  Silence draped over the building like a heavy velvet curtain—more soothing than unpleasant.  The air was slightly damp and Boromir discovered himself somewhat chilled.  Still, if being cold was the only thing he could complain about, his situation was much improved.

Soft munching and muffled huffs reached his ears, indicating the presence of horses.  Had he ended up in a Rohirric version of the Afterlife?  ‘Nay,’ he thought with a grimace, ‘if I were dead, I do not think my neck would be so sore.’  He reached up to touch the bruised flesh and was surprised when his hand instead met wet cloth. 

A lantern was flashed before his face.  He winced at the unexpected light.  “It is a poultice of dock leaves.  They will help your circulation and reduce bruising.”

The voice made Boromir’s stomach drop.  He instinctively raised his hands to cover his nose, lest Mysian feel the need to punch him yet again.

The tin lantern was moved away.  Boromir warily eyed the serving maiden as she handed the lamp to toothless Thorad.  She turned and knelt down next to him.  Boromir recoiled.  What did the cherub-faced witch have in store for him this time?

*          *          *

Mallos sat in the bare elm branches, one leg folded underneath him while the other dangled below.  He jiggled his foot while nervously twirling an arrow between slender fingers.

“Mallos, will you kindly cease?  You are making me nervous.” 

The dark-haired son of Thranduil stilled his foot and looked up in the direction of the ill-tempered voice.  Calengaladh’s icy grey eyes glared back at him.  Mallos returned the arrow to its quiver and resignedly looked to the mountain trail.  The small party of seven had been camped at the bottom of the Misty Mountains for a week.

“Do you see anything?” he asked, despite the fact Calengaladh was a mere three branches above him.

“Do you?” came the reply.  Mallos remained silent.

The two brothers had been born a mere twenty years apart, Calengaladh being the elder.  They seldom traveled without each other, yet were different as birch and pine.  Calengaladh’s ire was easily roused, and he had the propensity to lash out at those around him.  Still, he possessed remarkable leadership qualities despite his quick temper and fiery tongue.  Mallos often played the role of buffer between Calengaladh and the object of his wrath.  Far more levelheaded than the rest of his siblings, Mirkwood’s third prince lent a calm and soothing presence to the notoriously rash House of Oropher.  He was, however, occasionally prone to fits of nervousness.

Calengaladh had inherited Thranduil’s golden locks whereas Mallos bore the same chestnut hair as their Silvan mother.  Both possessed the Elven-king’s grey eyes, and had Mallos been slightly taller he could have easily passed as one of the Noldor.   

Thranduil’s dark-haired son pulled out another arrow and toyed with it, feeling the need to keep his hands busy.  He could feel Calengaladh’s annoyance, but calmly ignored it.  His brother was far too temperamental as it was. 

The two brothers waited in silence, staring bleakly at the same trail they had watched for days.

Twenty or so woodsmen mulled on the ground beneath them, talking quietly amongst themselves in peculiar, clipped accents.  “They speak as the chopping of axe against wood,” Girithron, one of the Mirkwood warriors, remarked when the two groups first met.

“I cannot believe him,” Mallos finally exploded, snapping the arrow in two.  “One must wonder if he truly seeks to test the limits of his immortality!”  He threw the broken shaft in disgust.  Several woodsmen eyed the trees warily before retreating to stand in small clusters.  Necessity called for the two races to combine forces; neither made any effort to further the relationship. 

It was by mere chance the two parties came together.  The woodsmen sought to halt raiding orcs and Wargs, and had sworn to protect the mountain paths lest any more of their kindred fall prey to Sauron’s minions.  As the woodsmen and seven Mirkwood warriors shared a common enemy, it was far more practical for both groups to declare a hasty alliance with the other. 

Calengaladh mildly plucked at his bowstring while Mallos continued to rant.  “One must wonder what possessed Legolas to send the escort back without him.  Does he intend to journey back by himself?  He is already in enough trouble as it is for sneaking off to Esgaroth when My Lord strictly forbade it.”  Mallos swatted at a dead elm leaf in frustration.  “Was that not why he was sent to deliver news of Gollum’s escape in the first place?  Father hoped it would do him a bit of good to shoulder responsibility for a change.”

“Nay,” answered Calengaladh with a dry chuckle, “The King was most likely hoping Legolas would have to face the wrath of Elrond for a change.  I fear our younger brother has grown somewhat immune to Father’s ire this past decade.”  The five other Mirkwood Elves in their party laughed softly in agreement.  Mirkwood’s youngest prince had a special knack for driving Thranduil, and many others, to wits’ end.  “Do not fret,” the golden-haired prince continued.  “Lord Elrond would never allow Legolas to journey back by himself.”  It secretly amused Calengaladh to see his soft-spoken brother so irate.  Mallos possessed Thranduil’s volatile streak as they all did, but rarely did it surface.

When the Mirkwood delegation returned minus one—and arguably its most important—member, Thranduil was livid.  Then Taurmil, one of the king’s advisors and the Elf who acted as Legolas’ second, had related news of the Ring.  One of the Pherianneth, the Elf said, not unlike Bilbo Baggins—famed elvellon and Burgler, had offered to take the ring to Fire.  Taurmil supposed the hobbit would be accompanied by others, and it was rumored Lord Elrond wished for each Race to have a representative.

Thranduil grew strangely silent at this news.  Those present saw a momentary flicker of some unfamiliar emotion in his grey eyes, oddly reminiscent of fear, and his face took an unnatural pallor.  He swiftly ordered Calengaladh and Mallos to take with them five Elves and await Legolas’ return at the base of the Misty Mountains.  If Mirkwood’s youngest prince had not returned within three weeks, they were to travel to Imladris and fetch him.

Lhûn later found the Elven-king passed out in his study, half a barrel of Dale wine at his side.  It was then that Mallos began to worry: the wine of Dale was good for no other purpose than to drink oneself into oblivion.  A year after the fall of Smaug the men of Dale, seeking to follow in the footsteps of their Dorwinian counterparts, attempted to brew a vintage of their own.  Unfortunately, they knew nothing of the business.  Fermentation, aging, specialty grapes, and which types of wood produced what flavors were utterly lost upon them.  The resulting product was akin to drinking liquid fire.  It was also strangely gritty and had a peculiar aftertaste not unlike swamp water (or so Legolas claimed—and as Calengaladh had once forced him to drink water from the marshes, no one argued).

Thranduil had purchased five barrels out of politeness.  Three were discreetly dumped into the Forest River; one had been liberated by Mirkwood’s Captain Daelir and was used for disciplinary means.  The whereabouts of the last barrel were until that day unknown.

“If some ill should befall him, Father will have our heads!”  Mallos frowned at the worn mountain path and began twitching his foot again.

“Correction, my dear brother,” Calengaladh smoothly replied.  “He shall have your head.  Was it not you who helped convince the King he ought to send Legolas?”

Mallos nodded glumly.  He had argued in Legolas’ favor, feeling sympathetic for his younger brother.  Following the death of the Queen, Thranduil was hard-pressed to let his children leave the realm.  The oppression did not sit well with Legolas.  Nonetheless, Thranduil was seldom swayed; the death of his wife had been the last straw.  Already had he lost two children in earlier battles.  He swore he would lose no more.

There had been two before Lhûn: Orodil and Simbelmynë.  Simbelmynë’s beauty and kindness was said to rival even that of Elbereth, and Orodil had been both fierce and fair to look upon.  They were brave warriors, strong in body and soul.  But both had perished in the Last Alliance.  A healer, Simbelmynë was felled by an arrow to the throat when the Healers’ Tents were ambushed; Orodil met his end at Dagorlad.  His body still lay trapped in the Dead Marshes with the rest of the fallen. 

Calengaladh and Mallos had been too young to fight, having cut their warrior’s teeth at Dol Guldur with the sons of Elrond.  Neither had the heart to ask Thranduil or Lhûn exactly what befell their lost siblings.  Tuilë and Legolas relied on the reverent whispers of those around them, as Tuilë barely remembered her older brother and sister and Legolas had never met them at all.  

“The Carrock returns.”  Othon, a handsome Elf with hair the color of polished mahogany, stretched a long arm and pointed to the hills.  It was well known the Silvan Elf was madly in love with Mirkwood’s princess, and she with him.  Unfortunately, the fair warrior was terrified of Thranduil.  He had yet to propose to Tuilë for fear of the Elven-king’s reaction.  Calengaladh had informed him the previous evening that while Thranduil did hate him and would never think Othon good enough for his daughter, Othon had better propose soon.  “Thirty years is a long time to carry on a love affair,” the golden-haired prince said.  “Father grows impatient.  It would be in your best interest to marry my sister before he forces you to.”  Calengaladh crossed his arms over his chest and shot the Elf a no-nonsense look.  “And trust me, Othon.  He will force you.”

The poor archer grew quite pale and fled to the treetops, mumbling something about needing to re-wax his bowstring.  “He does not hate you, Othon,” Mallos had called after the terrified Elf.  “At least…  Not as much as he first did!”

The Elves sprang lightly to the ground and joined the woodsmen as Grimbeorn strode into camp. 

“What news have you, my friend?” asked Mallos.

The large man paused to accept a water skin from one of the woodsmen.  “There is a small company attempting the Pass.”  He bit off the water skin’s cap and spit it into his hand.  “Though I couldn’t tell you what sort of party they be.  There were tall ones on horses and short ones in the snow—Dwarves I’m guessing.  They must be traveling with a few Men.”  He shrugged apologetically before lifting the skin to his lips and guzzling loudly. 

Disappointment flickered across Mallos’ face.  “Then I suppose we can do naught but continue to wait.”

Grimbeorn lowered the flask and popped the cap back on.  “I’d understand if you Elves stay behind.”  He tossed the water skin back to a woodsman.  “But that company’s bound to run into trouble, if they haven’t already.  The weather’s cruel and beasts roaming the mountains are even crueler.  I promised Radagast I would watch over the Pass, and Grimbeorn keeps his word.”

The woodsmen, having already sworn to keep the mountain trail safe as well, began gathering their supplies in preparation for departure.  Calengaladh shifted the quiver across his shoulder and frowned at the mountains.  Grey clouds brooded atop them, concealing their bare peaks from even elven eyes.  ‘Snow,’ the Elf thought darkly. ‘And quite a bit at that.’  The seven Mirkwood warriors were already far from their lands, and he was reluctant to take them further.

He could feel the eyes of the other Elves as they patiently awaited his decision.  ‘What business of ours is it if Dwarves and Men become trapped on the mountain?  None, none at all.’  And yet, what if the Men had brothers awaiting their safe return?  What if they were Men like Bard II?  Calengaladh rather liked the man.  The Elf sighed.  ‘Ai, I shall regret this…’

*

“Listen to the mountains!”  Grimbeorn put a paw to his mouth to shield his words from the howling wind.  The Carrock had changed himself into bear form to better cope with the weather. 

A great crack echoed from the Pass above, sounding as though the mountain had split to the earth’s very core.  Elves and woodsmen gripped their weapons and huddled together as clouds of snow and ice rained down on them.

“Grimbeorn!”  Calengaladh coughed as he took in a shockingly cold breath of air.  “Grimbeorn!  It is unwise to go any further!  We must turn back.”

“Aye,” shouted Ulyss, leader of the woodsmen.  “We’ll all be buried!  Whatever company attempted the Pass is probably crushed.”  Several of his men, sniffling and raising arms to shield their faces from the arctic blast, cried out in agreement.

Grimbeorn hefted a large chunk of snow at the uneasy group and roared with laughter.  “Come, you thin-blooded creatures.  A little snow never hurt anyone.”  He shook flakes from his greying black fur and charged up the path, bellowing in delight. 

“A lunatic, that one,” Othon muttered in his own tongue.  “Mad as the twisted trees rooted in these rocks.”  The other Elves murmured in agreement.   

Calengaladh readjusted his quiver and set his jaw in determination.

“Ai-oi!”  Grimbeorn’s cry sounded strangely foreign as the wind whisked it down the rocky trail.  “Found ‘em!  Elves and Dwarves!”

************************************************************************

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

CHARACTER LIST:

Shadowfax

Allin-  8 year old boy befriended by the hobbits. 

Atan LeRooj- Allin’s father.  One of the chieftains of the highland village Pahtoh.

Frodo

Sam

Pippin

Erestor- Elrond’s chief advisor

Bilbo

Merry

Elrond

~ Extra Special Thanks to the Goddess of Future Tense and All French Translations herself, Diana.  You are a lifesaver! ~

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~ Chapter 27:  Wrong Impressions ~

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The bounding trees were surprisingly agile.  Had Shadowfax been any less of a horse, he would have had much difficulty keeping up.  Thankfully, he was not any less of a horse.  He was King of the Mearas: superbly fit in every way possible.

After all, when one is King of the Mearas, physical prowess and stamina are paramount.

Shadowfax had always taken extra care of himself.  He engaged in leisurely walks at dawn, every day, to ensure he stayed in peak condition.  And besides, there was nothing quite like watching the silver stallion reach a hill’s zenith the very moment the sun broke through the night behind him.  He fancied it made him appear as though he brought the sun to Middle-earth each morning.  True, he did look downright gorgeous in the moonlight as well.  But the sun just added an extra bit of sparkle to his coat.

And then there were the mud rolls, which made his coat sleek as mink pelt, and kept circles from forming underneath his eyes.  Of course, a brushing was also required.  Only fine brushes made with elven hair were allowed to touch him, and the comb for his mane and tail must be of ivory oliphaunt tusk.  Anything less would tug at his hair and break it.

Oats were eaten but twice a week (they tended to be fattening), and he would only consume grass from the eastern face of hilltops (the sun hit this grass first and nothing distasteful drained down upon it like the sod at the bottom of the hill).  Apples were to be delicately munched once a week.  He had once eaten them three times a week and noticed, to his utter horror, an unsightly bulge of flab collecting around his shoulders.  And hay…  Well, hay was for stable horses.  He was certainly not one of THOSE.

Shadowfax was not, of course, vain.  He was merely extremely conscious of his good looks.

The bounding trees grew in number, until Shadowfax found himself in a small grassy clearing.  Much to the stallion’s disappointment, the golden mist slowly receded into the trees and beyond.  He was not nearly as magnificent without it, but no matter.  He could not control all aspects of the weather. 

Flicking his tail in minor annoyance, the horse looked to the herd of bounding trees—deer—he corrected himself, as they peacefully grazed across the slope.

He proudly lifted his head and pranced towards them; pleased he stood out so well against the many drab brown coats.

The deer ignored him.

Rather insulted, the stallion snorted and began an impressive show of leaping.  Let them ignore him now!

Several does lifted their heads, liquid brown eyes regarding him with dull stares.  Twitching their long ears, they continued to slowly chew their food, appearing quite nonplussed by the whole affair.

Shadowfax stopped, nostrils and ears quivering with indignation.  How dare they ignore him so.  He was King of the Mearas.  They ought to bow their mule-shaped heads before him and offer thanks he had chosen to grace them with his presence.

Apparently, the mule-faced deer not only looked like mules, but had the intelligence of the beasts as well.

A small group of bucks, their shoulders and necks enlarged by the fall rutting season, were not pleased with Shadowfax’s intrusion.  His incessant prancing and overwhelming need to be admired only made matters worse.

The silver horse completed a pirouette and spun around to find five stags glaring at him.  He lifted his head in disdain.  It was not his fault they possessed less talent and grace than he.

The males stomped their toed forefeet and snorted, shaking antlered heads side-to-side in a most threatening manner.

Shadowfax wriggled his ears and whinnied in a pitch oddly akin to laughter.  What could the measly spindle-legged, mule-faced deer, who barely reached his shoulder, do to him—King of the Mearas?

He arched his muscled neck and strutted away from the disgruntled stags.  Sunlight glinted off his polished hooves, making them shine like obsidian. 

By the Valar, he was gorgeous.

Théoden had installed a full-length looking glass in his stall (a large compartment he only inhabited during storms—a little rain made his coat soft and shiny, but downpours only made him miserably wet).  Shadowfax wished he had the mirror in front of him now.  The Rohirric stable hands would probably be reduced to tears by his glory.  Then Théoden would come before him, humbled and bearing armloads of hand-picked—

WHUMP!

Shadowfax squealed in shock as he took an unexpected blow to the haunches.  He whirled around with bared teeth, knowing his display of fury would strike utter terror into his enemy.

WHUMP!

He had barely focused on the first deer when a second blow from the rear sent him staggering. 

WHUMP!  THUD!  Two more antlered blows slammed into his body.  This was not fair; they had ganged up on him!  There was no honor to be found in such methods.

Shadowfax lashed out with his hind legs, but his hooves met only air.  The stags encircled him and continued their brutal assault.  The mighty horse was pummeled and beaten into submission.

The silver King of the Mearas laid back his ears and retreated as slowly as he dared.  Emitting airy snorts of challenge, the bucks charged.

Shadowfax dropped all pretense of dignity and fled.

*

The seething stallion halted a short while later when he came to a second clearing.  He flattened his ears as he caught the lingering scent of the deer herd.  So they liked to graze on this slope too, did they?

Narrowing his eyes, he gave his tail a smug flick of satisfaction.  The sweetest revenge would yet be his.

And with that, the great Shadowfax set about eating as much of the grass in the clearing as he possibly could.  Within three hours’ time, not a blade of grass remained, for Shadowfax had cropped the hill barren.

Ten minutes later, an extremely bloated King of the Mearas was beset by an excruciating case of colic.

The gluttonous stallion moaned as he stumbled blindly down the mountainside.  He was going to die, that much was certain.  And he was going to die a horrible death:  sweating profusely while numerous antler-inflicted welts spread across his silver coat. 

At least none would witness his humiliating demise.

*          *            *

Wind blustered over the rolling highlands as autumn sun shone brightly upon the dull, close-cropped hills.  Clouds stretched across the pale blue sky in feathered streaks, high above the earth.  Sheep bleated and frolicked on the slopes under the watchful eye of sheepdog and shepherd.

Nestled at the hill foot below, the village of Pahtoh burst with excitement.  It was a celebration the hobbits would not soon forget.  They were presented fine tunics of blue wool and adorned with crowns of dried thistle.  A coal-colored plowhorse drew them down Pahtoh’s main path in a sturdy wagon.  Bells sewn on the animal’s halter and reins jingled merrily with each step he took.  Sensing his passengers were of great importance, the horse proudly lifted his feathered hooves (“They are hairy, as Mountain Elf feet!”  Allin had gleefully pointed out) as he plodded along.

Children screamed in delight and scrambled underfoot.  A rustic group of musicians sent frenzied reels tumbling through the air.  Whistles and flutes trilled, tambourines clashed, and the reverberation of pipes was felt to the very bones.  Fair maidens laced ribbons through their unbound hair, laughing sweet as birdsong.  Young village warriors jostled with each other and put on many a display of bravado, each with the hopes he might catch the eye of a desirable maiden.  Young and old alike sang, danced, and cheered. 

Sam threw up his hands in embarrassment as a wrinkled old woman, her woad tattoos faded and hair a snowy white, cried out in rapture and pawed at his tunic.  Eager hands reached for the hobbits from all directions, wishing to merely touch the revered Mountain Elves.

Pippin steadied himself in the lurching wagon before leaning down to kiss an infant on the forehead.  The child’s mother gushed proudly.  Discovering he had kissed all the babies in Pahtoh, Pippin took to shaking the villagers’ hands with the utmost dignity.  The townsfolk were enamored with him.

The three hobbits were drawn to the village center, where they were ceremoniously ushered to a large dais set before many other wooden tables and benches.  A great feast commenced; and though the people of Pahtoh were not wealthy, they certainly were not lacking in the arts of feast and merrymaking.  There was mutton and barley stew, potatoes, cheeses, breads, tarts, mead…  anything and everything the hobbits could ever wish for in an excellent meal.

Many a speech was given and many a toast called forth in their name—or rather, in the name of the mythical “Lez Elves day Mohntahnyeh.”  Though they had no idea what was being said of them, the hobbits nonetheless found the praise quite enjoyable.

Pippin made move to join the dancers when the trio had finished their meal, but was stopped as Atan Le Rooj beckoned for them to remain seated.

“I wonder what happens now,” the young hobbit said to his companions.  Sam shrugged good-naturedly and turned to Frodo, who knew no more than he. 

Frodo seemed, in Sam’s opinion, rather miserable.  The gardener could not help but notice how his friend’s eyes often grew distant and glazed, as though seeing something only he was able to view.  Sam found himself becoming somewhat concerned, and made a mental note to interrogate Frodo as to what ailed him so during a more appropriate moment.

The wiry, doubled form of an elderly man slowly came to stand before the dais.  The crowd hushed in respect as he raised a shaking hand to silence them.  “Who is he?”  Pippin whispered.

Sam furrowed his brow and scrutinized the old man.  He leaned heavily upon a wooden staff, from which there hung a variety of small animal skulls and beads.  The ancient one’s long hooded robes fairly swallowed him, so loosely did they hang from his gaunt form.  As best Sam could guess, the man was some sort of village priest.       

The man opened his small, bird-like mouth and began speaking in an eerie singsong voice.  “Vooz ehtay vehnoo kwand nooz avonz-oh behswahn deh votreh ahd.”*

The crowd let out a raucous cheer.  The ancient priest again signaled for silence.  Frodo, Pippin, and Sam exchanged mystified glances.  What was going on?

“Voo teray le mayshant bet.”*  The robed man pointed an arm that shook with age in the direction of the hilltops.  “Allay voo, Lay Sacreh.  Valoo protejay voo.”*

He offered them a profound and wobbly bow before hobbling off into the crowd.

The three hobbits suddenly found keen-bladed spears being pressed into their hands.

Frodo shook his head and tried to signal to the woman offering him the weapon that he needed no such thing.  “Sir Atan?”

The bulky man beamed down at the hobbit.  “Yes Frodohobbit?”

“What is the meaning of this?  I’m sorry, but we don’t quite understand.”

“The Wise One has spoken,” said the village chieftain.

“Yes,” interrupted Pippin, “but what did he say?”

Atan bowed slightly.  “He said you have been sent to us when we are most in need of your aid.”  He lifted his head and smiled, pale blue eyes twinkling with excitement.  “For it is you, Master L’Elf day Mohntahnyeh, that will rid our lands of the great Winged Beast.”

“W-w-winged beast?” stammered Sam, his face draining of all color.  “What Winged Beast?”

Atan pointed to the hilltops as the priest had done.  “The one that appeared on the day of your arrival.”

A ragged gasp of terror escaped from Pippin’s lips.  “Not the giant bird…You don’t mean the giant bird, do you?”

Much to their dismay, Atan nodded.  “Yes, the ‘giant bird,’ as you say.”  He gave Pippin a hearty clap on the back.  “Now!  You go to slay the beast and bring great honor to Pahtoh in the name of your ancestors.  Much luck do I wish you, Lay Sacreh.”

The villagers parted before them and called many words of encouragement as the three hobbits slowly plodded from Pahtoh.  There was simply no way to avoid it:  Frodo, Sam, and Pippin were deities.  And gods did not run from their sacred duties.  Heads hung and feet dragging, the miserable trio headed off towards the hills to meet certain catastrophe.

*

A chilly wind, cold as death itself, bit at them as they trudged up the hills.  At least, Sam imagined death must feel this cold.  He would soon find out for himself.

Pippin sniffled.  “I’m sorry.”  His voice wavered.  “This is all my fault!  If I hadn’t made them think we were Mountain Elves this never would have happened.  We’re going to die because of me!  I’m sorry.  I’m so very sorry…”

Frodo turned to the young Took with a sigh.  Pippin’s face twisted as though on the verge of tears.  “Pippin, if anyone is to blame, I think it would be me.  None of us would be here if it weren’t for me.  This is all my fault.  I’m the one who is sorry.” 

Frodo reached for the Ring and allowed his fist to wrap around it.  Oh how he hated it!  He hated it for the nightmares it brought, for the pain in his shoulder.  He hated it for the Nazgûl.  He hated it for causing the death of Merry, and for the deaths of those he knew would follow.  Frodo clenched it tighter, his eyes filling with angry tears of frustration.  If only his hatred and loathing could crush the Ring to dust.  ‘I hate it!  I hate it!  I hate it!’  He vehemently repeated the phrase to himself.

 Most of all, though, he hated it because there was a tiny part of him that didn’t.  And it was a tiny part that kept growing bigger.     

Sam felt as though he should be crying.  Pippin was crying.  Frodo was crying—though he didn’t appear to realize he was.  Therefore, it only made sense that he ought to cry too.  Still, try as he might, Sam couldn’t shed a tear.  There was something about it all that struck him as impractical.

“It’s not your fault Pippin,” he finally spoke.  “We were saved from the crebain because of your lucky Elven coin.”  He furrowed his brow in thought.  “And Frodo, this isn’t your fault either.  Bilbo gave you the Ring—you never asked for it.  And I don’t rightly think Bilbo is to blame either.  He happened to find it because Gollum dropped it.  In fact, if old Isildur had destroyed the Ring when he was supposed to, Gollum would have never found it.”

The stouthearted gardener pursed his lips.  “I guess, what it all comes down to, is that Sauron is the one to blame.  If he hadn’t made the Ring in the first place, none of this would have happened.”  He paused to heft the spear over his shoulder, unfamiliar with holding such a weapon.  “So you see, it’s Sauron’s fault we’re marching off to face this giant bird.  Yes sir, Sauron is the one who ought to be sorry.”

Pippin tried to laugh at the gardener’s straightforward reasoning, though it came out as more of a choked sob.  “When we get to Mordor, we’ll have to be sure and demand an apology from him.”

Frodo hastily dashed tears from his eyes and gave his companions what he hoped to be a brave smile.  He wondered for perhaps the thousandth time where he would be without them.  He may be on his way to die, but he could think of no others he would rather die alongside.

A shrill call, so sweetly powerful it chilled the soul, echoed over the land.  An ominous black shadow fell across the hobbits as they reached the hill’s crest.  They gripped their spears and grimly awaited the arrival of the massive bird.  It cried again from the icy heights and circled above, its shadow growing ever larger as it slowly descended to earth.

“Mister Frodo?”  Sam pushed back his thistle crown and took a deep breath.  “I think you should run.”

Much to the gardener’s dismay, Frodo gave his head a resolute shake.  “No Sam,” the hobbit replied, his face contracting in the tired fear of one who has finally accepted his fate.  “I will not leave you.”

The shadow loomed directly above them, blocking out the sun with its massive wingspan.  The air grew even colder, if indeed such a thing were possible.  Sam shuddered as the sound of wind over swiftly beating wings filled his ears.

Pippin, his eyes wide with terror, could not tear his gaze from the approaching monstrosity.  “Frodo,” he sounded almost pleading in nature.  “Run.”

“Two against one, Mister Frodo.”  Sam’s face grew grim as he squinted into the sky.  “And this isn’t about just us hobbits anymore.  It’s a lot bigger than that.  We’ve got everyone in Middle-earth to look out for, too.”

“No, Sam.  I refuse to leave you.”

Sam whirled around to face Frodo, brandishing the spear at his surprised companion.  “You’ll run right now, Mister Frodo!” he cried, eyes brimming with tears.  “Or I’ll push you right down this mountain—so help me I will!”

 Frodo regarded the normally mild-tempered gardener with a mixture of shock and pride.  Was this his Sam?

“And I’ll help!”  Pippin scowled in fierce determination.

Their massive foe again cried out, provoking all three hobbits to action.  Pippin and Sam held their spears aloft and answered the bird’s cry with defiant shouts of their own.

Frodo’s body acted of its own accord.  It turned and ran, carrying his passionately objecting mind with it.  His feet stumbled several times, and more than once he cracked his knees or bruised his palms on the unyielding earth beneath him.

The hobbit’s breath came in ragged gasps; a painful stitch stabbed at his side.  Some morbid sense of curiosity forced Frodo to cast a glance over his shoulder.  He wished he hadn’t.

Sam and Pippin screamed as the giant beast captured them within its golden talons.

For a brief moment, Frodo considered running back to his companions.  He would be no better off than they, but at least they would all be together.  The great bird, however, wasted no time in retreating back to the pale sky.  The cries of Pippin and Sam grew ever distant as the winged monster swiftly bore them away.

And then, all was silent.

The sun dared to shine a little brighter and the wind remembered its drafty purpose.

Frodo sat on the stubby grass in stunned horror.  He was alone, save the company of two new and wholly unwelcome companions:  Isolation and Despair.

*          *            *

Merry furrowed his brow and stuck out his tongue to the side of his mouth, so intent was he upon his drawings.  Elrond had finally acquiesced and permitted him to leave the healer’s room.  He was still unable to move about freely, as the cast on his leg tended to inhibit mobility.  Still, it felt marvelous to be out of his confining room.  Even if it only meant sitting on a well-cushioned sofa with his bad leg propped up in front of him.

Merry lifted his head and paused to study shadows cast by the vase he was sketching.

It was a newly discovered talent—one Merry found he enjoyed immensely.  He had never imagined himself as possessing any artistic ability, and when Elrond had first presented him with the finely grained paper and slender pen, he did not know what to expect.  The young hobbit wondered why the Elf lord hadn’t given him a simple puzzle or book to read instead.  However, Elrond did seem to have a knack for revealing hidden talents in others.  In the end, the Elf lord proved he had chosen appropriately yet again. 

“—And he had magic doors!”  Bilbo’s excited voice echoed from the hallway.  Merry craned his neck and leaned back on the sofa, wondering whom the old hobbit was speaking with.  If Merry hadn’t been previously acquainted with the silence of Elven footfalls, he would have thought the elder hobbit was talking to himself.  “—And they would close on you, if a body wasn’t careful,” Bilbo continued.

“We had hoped you might provide us with some insights as to Mirkwood’s fighting techniques, Master Baggins,” came a slightly annoyed voice.  “Enchanted rivers and magic doors are of no use to us.”

Bilbo, followed by Lord Elrond and a slightly sour-looking Erestor, entered the room just as Merry recognized Erestor’s voice.

“Merry, my boy!”  Bilbo offered the younger hobbit a wide smile, effectively ignoring Erestor’s complaint.  “And how fares the mending Brandybuck this day?”

Merry smiled in return.  “Well enough, Bilbo.  Though I am rather hungry.”

“What is this?”  Completely forgetting Bilbo’s shun, Erestor bent down to examine Merry’s work.  His eyes gleamed with a dangerous curiosity.

“It’s just that vase,” Merry responded, gesturing to the vase and evasively attempting to cover the drawing with his good arm.  Erestor promptly snatched the paper before the hobbit could hide it.

“Nay,” said the Elf.  “I speak of these sketches around the vase.”  His lips twitched as though threatening to break into a smile.  “Correct me if my eyes do deceive me, young Meriadoc, but I should say these sketches bear marvelous likeness to—“

“They are not,” Merry hastily interrupted.  A telltale blush rose to his cheeks. 

Erestor discreetly coughed back a laugh.

Elrond and Bilbo regarded the two expectantly.  “Come now,” Bilbo protested as Erestor made move to return the parchment to Merry, “we wish to see as well.”

Merry stifled a groan as Erestor passed his work to Elrond.  The lord of Imladris studied the sketches a few moments before lifting his head and raising an eyebrow at the young hobbit.  Merry began chewing at his fingernails.

“Let me see!”  Bilbo huffed with impatience and clambered atop a chair next to the two Elves.  “You lot are far too tall for your own—MERRY!”

Several doodles surrounded the sketch of the vase.  They all seemed to revolve around the same theme:  A dark-haired Elf meeting his demise by various means of torment.  Here was one of the Elf being trapped underneath a fallen tree; there he was being chased by a giant troll.  Perhaps most revealing was the sketch of the dark-haired Elf being forced to drink a bottle labeled “Poison,” while a suspiciously hobbit-like being poured it down his throat.

“Perhaps, Master Brandybuck, you ought to concentrate on sketching vases.” 

Merry cringed under Elrond’s accusing stare.  The Elf lord gave the drawing one last glance before handing the parchment back to him.  “And now that I am reminded of it, I do believe it is time for your medicine.”  

*          *            *

Arwen, balancing a tray of thin wafers and honeyed water, placed an affectionate kiss upon her father’s forehead.  Elrond smiled and then waived his daughter off as she lightly set the tray upon the table between he and Erestor.  “Be gone, child,” he said, pushing the silver tray aside.  “We are far too pressed to bother with such indulgences.  And have you not been taught to avoid disturbing me when the door of my study is closed?”

“I bear tidings from your captains.  And,” she looked poignantly to the two weary Elf lords, “I begin to grow concerned for your well-being.  When was it you last dined?”

Elrond absentmindedly reached for a wafer.  “I believe I am the Healer, Daughter.”

Arwen snorted, an unladylike sound usually attributed to her brothers.  “Indeed.  I happened to have the most interesting conversation with Fimbrethil in the healers’ quarters this morning.  She was of the opinion the injured Pheriannath ought to have had his cast removed yesterday.  Yet you insisted it remain.”

Erestor looked up from the scroll in front of him, a slightly bemused expression playing across his face. 

Elrond reached for a second wafer.  “As I said: I believe I am the Healer.  And I will not have young Meriadoc wandering about my grounds unsupervised.  I fear he would attempt to locate his lost companions.  Nay, I know he would.”

A momentary flash of brilliance led Erestor to suggest Elrond try a more standard method of imprisonment: perhaps ball and chain?  He immediately quelled any further propositions under the Elf lord’s dark gaze.

Arwen allowed herself a gentle chuckle.  Very few could claim the honor of running her father ragged, and usually the offenders came in pairs.  Elladan and Elrohir were masters of this feat, though Aragorn and Legolas formed an impressive duo as well.  Recalling there was a second young hobbit whom had journeyed to Rivendell—Pellegrin, or Peregrin, was it?—Arwen could not help but wonder what sort of mischief a pairing of that nature might incur.  Gandalf would certainly have his work cut out for him, that much was certain.

Erestor cried out in frustrated disgust and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.  “This is folly!  No civilized Eldar use Mirkwood’s ridiculous defence tactics.  Enchanted rivers, magic doors, disappearing fires…”  The dark-haired advisor delicately curled his lip in disdain.  “Such primitive magicks are but relics of early days when Elf-kind knew only of tree or star and little else.”  

The fact that Thranduil’s realm remained potent despite constant assault from the Enemy, or that Galadriel’s fair Lothlórien was literally a fused entity of Ring and ancient spell, was utterly beside the point.

“Mayhap we might offer a plea of mercy to the rushing waters of the Bruinen?  Or shall we place gentle kisses upon each tree of the Misty Mountains, that they might severe themselves and smite our enemies with their heavy trunks?”
 

Elrond finished his fifth wafer, knowing well it was pointless to argue over the matter.  “Are you quite done yet, Erestor?” 

Arwen twisted the satiny folds of her dress in embarrassment.  Erestor’s Wood-Elf rants always left her feeling uncomfortable.  From what Elladan had confided to her, Erestor’s anger stemmed from the loss of his brother, whom had fought under Oropher during the Last Alliance.  It was out of devotion to some Elf-maiden that he had joined the Greenwood forces.  Erestor was convinced his brother would have been spared had he not done so. 

Erestor folded his arms over his chest and sighed deeply.  “Quite.”

Elrond bobbed his head in acknowledgement before turning to Arwen.  “Then let us move on.  You spoke of bearing news from the captains, Daughter?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Arwen brushed an errant strand of dark hair from her face.  “Our border guards have been doubled, as you requested, though our enemy has not shown himself as of yet.  Oh, and,” her smooth brow furrowed in slight puzzlement, “Captain Amacil reports one of your horses missing.”

Elrond blinked.  “One of my horses,” he repeated.  “Which?”

“The copper mare you are so fond of.”

“Valaithe?”  Elrond frowned, taking mental note of all those whom might be in need of a mount.  He was positive none of the departed scouts had taken her.    

“Horses!”  Erestor’s cry of triumph startled both Elves.  “Of course!  We have horses!”  His dark eyes shone as he laughed in delight.

Elrond regarded his advisor with raised eyebrows, deciding the Elf’s fevered excitement far too reminiscent of an over-taxed mind that had finally snapped.  “Calm yourself, Erestor.”  He reached for another wafer and could not help but feel a stab of disappointment upon discovering he had eaten them all.

Erestor pushed back his chair and rose to his feet in one fluid motion.  “Summon Meneldor the Eagle.  Greater plans have come before this, but so have worse…”

*********************************************************************

FUN WITH FRENCH:

“Vooz ehtay vehnoo kwand nooz avonz-oh behswahn deh votreh ahd.”  -- Vous êtes venus quand nous avons eu besoin de votre aide.’  [You came when we needed your help.]

“Lez Elves day Mohntahnyeh.”   --‘Les elves des montagne.’  i.e. ‘Mountain Elves’

“Voo tooray le Mayshant Bet.”  --‘Vous tuerez le méchant bête.’  [You will kill the Evil Beast.]

“Allay voo, Lay Sacreh.  Valoo protejay voo.”  --‘Allez vous, Les Sacré.  Valar protégez vous.’  [Go, Sacred Ones.  Valar protect you.]

*********************************************************************

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  *moan*  I can’t believe I did this, but I guess in honor of Valentine’s Day and as my very belated birthday present to you, Ithilien. . . 

*uuuugh*  I am already slapping myself upside the head for this one.  Merciful Tolkien, please forgive me. 

And stop grinning, Ithilien.  I can see it from here.

CHARACTER LIST:

Mysian- barmaid at the Singing Mûmak, accidentally kidnapped by Boromir and Aragorn

Grimbeorn-  The Carrock (he can change from man to bear form).  Son of Beorn, a prolific figure in ‘The Hobbit’

~ Eastern Scouting Party Members ~

Barin- Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain

Orimhedil-  Elf warrior from Rivendell

Glorfindel

Glóin

Gimli

Legolas

~  Others ~

Calengaladh-  Mirkwood group commander.  Thranduil’s 2^nd son

Mallos-  Thranduil’s 3^rd son

Othon- Mirkwood archer. 

************************************************************************

~ Chapter 28:  Off of the Mountain and Into the Woods ~

********************************************************

Powdered snow parted before the charging bear like sea foam.  Mentally sizing up the massive foe, Legolas concluded it would take far more than a single arrow to even slow the beast—much less slay it.  He and Orimhedil possessed but four arrows between them. 

He pulled back his bowstring, wincing as the movement aggravated his injured shoulder.  ‘I fear we shall meet a most painful end.’  Perhaps they would be able to slow the bear, but it would still tear them to pieces once they were within range of its paws.  Axes, knives, and even swords would be useless.

‘And its minions follow close behind!’  Legolas’ heart sank.  He had no desire to be taken hostage, knowing all too well what tortures would follow.  He hoped the bear would show no mercy.

And yet…The Elf squinted, daring his eyes to betray him.  He felt a tug of recognition at the sight of a golden-haired figure sprinting near the head of the charging party.  Legolas’ heart skipped a beat. 

“Calengaladh?”

The golden-haired figure waved an arm in reply.  A dark-haired Elf at his side, whom Legolas immediately recognized as Mallos, cupped a hand to his mouth and called back.

“Legolas!”

Legolas breathed a ragged sigh of relief.  He heard Orimhedil’s breath catch as the Rivendell Elf recognized their pursuers as friends.  “Calengaladh!  Mallos!”  Never mind he was acting like an overexcited elfling.  “Over here!”

Calengaladh’s sharp reply immediately deflated him.  “Of course you are over there!  Now lower your weapons before you shoot someone.”

“Let none accuse you of lacking tact, dear brother,” Mallos dryly remarked.  Calengaladh shot him a look of warning, but let the comment slide.  His primary concern rested with Legolas at the moment.

Legolas hastily bade the others to lower their weapons.  All did so, with the exception of Gimli—who was not about to take orders from the son of Thranduil.  Not to mention lowering one’s axe in the face of an oncoming bear charge struck him as downright stupid.

He was rather surprised when the great bear blew past them, leaving a whirlwind of glittering snow in his wake.  The Carrock made straight for the giant pile obstructing the Pass and began digging like a madbeast.  Gimli tossed aside his axe and made move to join the Carrock in his efforts.  He still did not trust the bear, but as it had made no move to harm them as of yet, perhaps it was not a creature of Sauron. 

‘And should the beast even think of devouring Father, he shall first have to pass through me.’

Gimli snarled as a chunk of snow, dislodged by Grimbeorn’s paws, flew into his chest and knocked him flat.

Before Legolas could join in the rescue of Glorfindel and Glóin, he found himself wrapped in Mallos’ heartfelt embrace.  He returned it, squirming slightly as his brother unknowingly pressed his sore shoulder. 

Mallos heaved a sigh of relief.  “We have been greatly worried.  It gladdens my heart to see you.”

Grimbeorn’s roaring laugher tumbled over the cliffs.  “Look what the mountain spit up!  An Elf and a Dwarf!”  He promptly seized Glorfindel by the collar of his tunic, grinning as the coughing and greatly disoriented Elf lord swore and attempted to fight him off.

Mallos drew back and held Legolas at arm’s length, a smile of relief shining upon his fair face. 

Calengaladh stepped forth and gave his youngest brother a stiff pat on the back.  His grey eyes took a decidedly icy turn as he took note of Legolas’ appearance.  Legolas cringed inwardly.

Mallos’ smile melted into a frown.  “Legolas, there are burns upon your face.  And your eyebrows…”

“Perhaps you slept too near the campfire?”  Calengaladh leaned forward and made move to take his youngest brother’s chin between his hands.  Legolas narrowed his eyes and jerked back his head, hobbling as his weight shifted onto his injured leg.

Mallos’ eyes widened.  “What,” he quietly demanded, “have you done to your leg?”

Legolas drew himself upright and squared his shoulders.  “I was shot.”  His face darkened as he recalled the incident.  “By the—“  He paused, suddenly envisioning his brothers’ reaction should he admit to have been shot with his own bow and arrow.  And by a Dwarf, no less.  Eternity would first end before they allowed him to forget it.

And what would Thranduil say? 

“By the what?”  Calengaladh impatiently cocked his head to one side and raised a golden eyebrow.

Legolas sighed.  Saving face took priority over revenge—for now.  “By a Warg rider.”  Curse the Dwarf for making him speak lies.  “We were attacked just before reaching the Pass, and one of the arrows found its mark.” 

Mallos’ jaw tightened in disapproval.  “Before you enter the High Pass, you say?  I have no doubt your ride through only served to anger the wound.  Sit, and I shall tend to it.”  His eyes darted to Legolas’ shoulder.  “As well as the one on your shoulder.”

“Nay,” replied Legolas with a shake of his head, “I need no tending to.  I am well enough at present, thank you.”

Calengaladh’s face darkened into a scowl.  “Sit.  Or I will make you do so.”  His tone brooked no argument.  It was Legolas’ fault they had been camped at the mountain foot for two miserable weeks; indulging in soothing the bruised ego of his baby brother was dead last on Calengaladh’s list of priorities. 

“I shall not sit.”  Legolas folded his arms across his chest and lifted his chin, an act that never failed to draw Calengaladh’s ire.  “I am hale, and have no wish to sit upon wet snow.”

Fire glinted in Calengaladh’s eyes.  He too folded his arms across his chest.

Mallos released a frustrated sigh.  He wished Thranduil had sent Lhûn upon this errand instead of Calengaladh.  At least Legolas obeyed Lhûn. 

Between Calengaladh’s incessant need to prove his leadership abilities, and Legolas’ obsession to prove himself a capable warrior, the two could not help but engage in futile power struggles.  Mallos didn’t understand it in the least; he supposed it had something to do with his brothers’ birth order.  Calengaladh’s leadership capabilities were renowned, and Legolas had demonstrated his battle prowess on more than one occasion.  Still, Calengaladh would ever be the son just below Mirkwood’s Heir, and Legolas would ever be the youngest child. 

Mallos was secretly thankful for his position as middle child.  Though it was somewhat irksome to be constantly overlooked, he had to admit his quiet nature also contributed to the fact.  And at least he did not possess the ridiculous complexes of his siblings. 

“Unhand me at once, Calengaladh!” 

Calengaladh had a secure grip on Legolas’ forearm, and looked as though considering whether or not to kick the younger Elf’s feet out from under him.  Legolas glowered, only years of proper etiquette keeping him from forcefully wrenching his arm away.

Mallos decided it wise to intervene, lest tempers burned out of control and the two made spectacles of themselves.  He loudly cleared his throat, steeling himself for the simultaneous glares he knew would be quick to follow.

“What?” the two snapped in unison.

Thranduil’s third son furrowed his brow, fighting down his own rising irritation.  ‘One day I shall not be here to watch over them; then what damages would they inflict upon each other?’ 

He chose his words carefully.  “Calengaladh, I am sure Grimbeorn and the Woodsmen chief will require your counsel in regards to our company’s next course of action.  And you, Legolas,” he turned to the defiant younger Elf, expression schooled with years of practiced serenity.  “We cannot have your injuries hampering our descent.  Please, do not make yourself a burden to the rest of us.”

*

Grimbeorn carried the disgruntled Elven lord in his teeth, much as a hound transporting her pup.  Glorfindel groaned as he was roughly deposited on the ground.  Sitting upright proved most difficult.  Why must earth spin so quickly? 

“You’ve got a nasty head wound,” said the talking bear.  “Don’t move.”  Its pearly fangs gleamed dangerously.  Glorfindel closed his eyes and willed himself not to be ill. 

…Talking bear?

He opened his eyes, groaning as sunlight reflected off snow with blinding white intensity.  His stomach somersaulted.  The bear was conversing with a man—or was it three men?  As Glorfindel’s vision kept doubling and tripling, it was impossible to tell.  And since when had bears and men been on speaking terms?

The bear transformed into a man before his very eyes.  Glorfindel balled his fists in the snow, attempting to grasp some reality.  He was a methodical thinker, priding himself on logical thought.  Unfortunately, any logic appeared to have been left buried in the avalanche.  He gritted his teeth as the ground begin to tip.  Or was that him?  Well, no matter.  One of them was about to fall over.

“Steady yourself, my Lord.  You are in the presence of friends.”  Gentle yet firm hands grasped him by the shoulders.  Glorfindel immediately recognized the Silvan inflections of the voice and placed it as that of a Mirkwood native.  “Legolas?”  He turned to the Elf in dazed confusion, growing even more disturbed when an unfamiliar face looked back at him.  Thranduil’s folk were on the mountain.  Why?

Where was the rest of his company?  Had they been buried as well?

“Be at ease, Lord Glorfindel.”  The strange Elf restrained him as he lurched forward.  “The others are safe.”

The golden-haired Elf lord closed his eyes in concentration and licked his lips.  Speaking in full sentences was going to require a bit of concentration.  “Where… Where happened the… Mirkwood… bear?

There was an awkward pause.  The captain of Imladris could feel the other’s scrutinizing stare.  Glorfindel didn’t blame the Elf.  How four individual questions became lumped into one even he was at a loss to say.

The Mirkwood Elf lifted a hand from Glorfindel’s shoulder.  “My lord?  How many fingers do I hold before you?”

Glorfindel sighed in resignation.  “Two,” he replied, not even bothering to open his eyes.

The Mirkwood Elf Othon started, peering first at Glorfindel and then at the two fingers he held forth.  Amazing.  “How did you—“

Glorfindel grimaced and gingerly rubbed his aching head.  “Because… because they always hold up two fingers when… have been…hit on head.”

*          *            *

“I am unsure whether or not his refusal to ride alongside us was insulting.”  To those who did not know Mirkwood’s second prince, Calengaladh’s face and stiff posture indicated skillfully restrained anger.  Mallos, however, was well-acquainted with the nature of his brother.  The mischievous gleam in the other’s eyes was not lost upon him.

“Indeed,” answered the dark-haired prince, guiding his steed around a rocky outcrop.  “And I suppose your suggestion he ride with both legs to the side in the manner of a gowned maiden had nothing to do with his shun?”

Calengaladh scowled, not quite managing to cover up his smirk in the process.  “I merely spoke out of concern for his injured leg.”

Ignoring Mallos’ exasperated sigh, Calengaladh allowed his gaze to slide forward and rest on Legolas.  The younger Elf was riding alongside Othon and a rather dazed Glorfindel.  Judging from the redness of Othon’s face, and the barely perceptible smile on Legolas’ lips, Legolas had probably asked the archer if he had proposed to Tuilë yet.

Calengaladh was secretly as relieved as Mallos by Legolas’ return.  For all his antagonism towards the younger Elf, an aggressive protectiveness lie beneath it.  Legolas’ injuries irked him.  Only he was allowed to torment his brother.  All others were severely punished should they even touch a single hair on Legolas’ head.

Unfortunately, Legolas had never been one to thrive under the protection of his betters.  ‘And in doing so,’ Calengaladh mused, ‘he only makes a greater mess of things.’

“What make you of those Naugrim?” Mallos quietly asked.

“Hmm?”  Calengaladh, startled from his revere, blinked and turned to his brother.  Mallos was watching the three Dwarves somewhat pensively. 

Calengaladh snorted and curled his lip in disdain.  “They are Dwarves, what more is there to make?”  He frowned as the eldest Dwarf shook a fist at the mountain peaks and bellowed something about surviving giants who topple every mountain in Arda.  “Though it does appear someone attempted to roast them.  Not,” he added in afterthought, “that I find any fault with the idea.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Mallos’ mouth in spite of himself, and several snickers were emitted from the Elven members of their party who were within hearing distance.

Any inquiries as to what had transpired to leave the scouting party in such a singed state had been brushed aside.  Granted, Legolas and Orimhedil were the only two Calengaladh had questioned; Glorfindel could barely remember his own name, and speaking to a Dwarf about any subject was preposterous.

Calengaladh shifted his weight back as his steed began to descend a particularly steep dip in the trail.  “Of course,” he muttered, more to himself than to Mallos, “it would be only Legolas who receives injury at the hands of the Warg riders.  And in such a peculiar spot.  Mayhap the arrow was intended for a Dwarf, and the creature ducked.” 

“If it is as Legolas says,” Mallos responded dismissively, grey eyes scanning the approaching autumn-draped forest.

Calengaladh turned to the dark-haired Elf with raised eyebrows.  “Why would it not be?”

Mallos remained silent for a few moments, pretending not to notice his brother’s growing impatience.  “Do you recall the arrow I took to the shoulder, several seasons ago?”

Calengaladh’s face darkened at the memory.  “Yes.  As I recall, Legolas and that ridiculous Dúnadan—“

“—The arrow was barbed and filthy,” Mallos smoothly interrupted, “as all weapons of the Enemy tend to be.”

Calengaladh frowned.  “That is understandable.  Why do you speak of it now?” 

“Legolas’ wound was clean, and the tissue not torn in the manner of a barbed arrow.”

Calengaladh was rendered thoughtfully silent, an event Mallos decided noteworthy in its own right.

“I think,” the golden-haired Elf finally spoke, “we shall have to have a talk with our precious Gift of Sauron.”*

*          *            *

Mysian rocked back on her heels and sighed.  “You should be on your feet shortly.  Old Niram’s poultice is marvelous stuff.”  She lifted the damp cloth.  “You are extremely lucky the fall did not snap your neck.”

“Did you—why—how—?”  Boromir’s voice rasped painfully.  His mind reeled in confusion, yet remained as dim and muted as the Fenadoch stables.  What was she doing? 

Mysian sniffed.  “Yes I cut you down.  I do not know who you truly are, Borofara.  But I do not think you one of the Nazgûl.”

“Perhaps you might have mentioned this before I was hung?”

The pretty maiden shrugged, her skirts rustling in the straw.  “I was angry with you.  You had no right to kiss me.”  She scowled.  “Did it ever occur to you I may be betrothed, or that my heart belongs to another?”

Boromir suddenly felt immensely ashamed of himself.  He should not have kissed her.  Such actions were lewd and far below his code of conduct.  And if Mysian was already claimed by another… 

But was it not she whom began flirting with him in the tavern?  Now it was Boromir’s turn to scowl.  “Have you already given your heart to another?  As I recall, you seemed quite interested in me while my friends and I dined.”

“That is beside the point,” the maiden snapped, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks.  Her green eyes glinted dangerously in the dim lantern light.  Boromir again raised his hands to protect his nose.

Where on Middle-earth was the irresistible Steward of Gondor Charm when he needed it?  Perhaps he had lost it in Rivendell.  His shoulder twitched at the thought.  Boromir growled.  Thankfully, Mysian did not notice.      

“Thorald has gone to fetch some of your things,” said the maiden.  “I released your horse some time ago; if it is an intelligent beast it will undoubtedly find its way back to you.”  She rose to her feet, brushing away the pale yellow straw clinging to her skirts.  “In the meantime, you may ride old Nelav.  She is not much, but she will deliver you from the village without suspicion.”

Looking at the horse in question, Boromir decided “not much” was an understatement.  The old nag was sway-backed with droopy lips and pink-rimmed eyes.  Boromir was not sure if ugly was an actual color, but found it did quite fit the molted creature before him.  He could hear the mare breathing, and did not doubt any attempt to escape at speeds greater than that of a walk would prove disastrous. 

Boromir blinked.  Wait a minute, what had Mysian said?  “Pardon me, my lady.  You are going to free me?”   

Mysian tried to look as though the matter held little importance.  “Well… yes.” 

Boromir gaped.  He could not believe his ears.  “Even though we kidnapped you?”

Mysian furrowed her brow and nodded.

“And burned down the tavern?” 

The maiden fidgeted with her braid and nodded once again.

“Despite the fact you believe us to be the Black Riders?  Destroyers of the Last Bridge?  Harbingers of evil and—“

“Do not make me regret my decision,” the fair maiden snapped, blushing furiously.

“Yes, Milady.”

An awkward silence settled between the two. 

Mysian’s eyes darted furtively about the stable, flitting past everything but Boromir.  She shuffled her boots in the brittle straw.

Boromir adjusted his belt and sniffed.

A horse nickered and swished its tail in some far-off stall.

The silence stretched longer.

‘Charm of Gondor, charm of Gondor, charm of Gondor,’ Boromir repeated furiously.  Valar this was embarrassing.  He could almost hear his heart beating.

The silence threatened to suffocate.

Borormir cleared his throat, the unexpected noise causing Mysian to jump.  A barn cat, one paw flicking in annoyance as though it had accidentally stepped into a puddle, paused its stalking and glared at the man before resuming the hunt.

 “So,” he began tentatively.  “You, ah, serve at the Singing Mûmak?”  Of course she did, but at this point he was willing to say just about anything if it would end the silence.

Mysian nodded vigorously, apparently as glad of the break as Boromir.  “Yes.  Well, I used to serve at the tavern.  Before it was burned down.”  She mentally kicked herself as Boromir cringed.

“Yes…  That had…  That had momentarily slipped my mind.” 

‘Especially considering you are partially responsible for its demise,’ Boromir’s mind felt gleefully compelled to remind him.  He almost wished she would punch him again.

His mind raced for any topic.  “Ah, how did the ‘Singing Mûmak come by such a name?”  Still on the tavern, but slightly veered away from the topic of fires.  Boromir supposed it would do for the time being.

Mysian responded with gusto, leading Boromir to believe he may have struck the correct nerve for a change.  “Actually, it is a deviation from the tavern’s original name: ‘Spring and Music.’  It was known for its spring-drawn baths and a favorite place of rest for traveling minstrels.  In days past, when most could not read, word of the tavern was spread by mouth.  The ‘Spring and Music’ eventually became jumbled to the ‘Singing Mûmak,’ and the name has remained ever since.”

“Truly?” asked Boromir, slightly intrigued.

Mysian shook her head in affirmation.  “Oh yes.  It is a quite common occurrence.  I know of a tavern named ‘The Hog’s Head,’ and its original title was ‘Board and Bed.’”

“Indeed,” Boromir mused, stroking his chin.  He could not help but wonder if the same sort of thing happened to people.  Many years from now would he be known as the Great Bormadeer or some title of that nature?  ‘With my luck,’ he concluded, ‘it shall most likely be Borofara.’

The initial flood of conversation ebbed once more.  Heavy silence draped over the stable yet again.

‘Do not look at him.  Do not look at him…’  Mysian glanced at Boromir.  He had a rather noble chin.  And intelligent grey eyes.  They probably crinkled when he smiled. 

His eyes met hers and he gave her a lopsided smile.  The corners of his eyes crinkled.

‘Oh help,’ she thought, stomach fluttering.   

Somewhere between his admiring glances of the rosy cheeked, green-eyed maiden with the thick braid of honeyed hair, and the realization they were alone, Boromir’s Charm of Gondor returned in full-fledged chivalry.

And one serving maiden of the former Singing Mûmak, upon suddenly finding herself wrapped within two very capable arms and an equally capable mouth, decided perhaps Borofara would not end up on the receiving end of her fist, after all.

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 “Gift of Sauron.”   --Legolas’ endearing nickname from his brothers. 

Fear not, Halbarad lovers!  The noble and benevolent PuterPatty has kindly offered to care for him between chapters.  He too, following in the footsteps of Legolas, Boromir, and Glorfindel, has found a good home.  :) 

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