Chapter Seven

The impact of their mounts’ collision did what Legolas’ efforts could not – as the horses went down, the Elf felt the rope tear free of the pommel, leaving him bound only at the wrists. He leaped from his horse’s back before it could roll and crush him, landing on his feet with elven agility. But his damaged body betrayed him. His injured leg crumbled under him and Legolas fell. Pain tore through him but foremost in his awareness was that his wrists were tied before him and his knife lay but feet away. In the blink of an eye, he had thrust his hands across his own blade and the knife parted the rough rope as if it had been waiting for the opportunity.

Shaking the strands from his wrists, Legolas snatched up the knife, ducked a lashing hoof and sought Frodo. By the grace of the Valar, the halfling had been thrown clear; he was raising himself up on his arms, shaking his head dizzily. With Frodo’s head down, Legolas could not see if the Ring still hung safe around his neck. One of the horses lay with its own neck at odds with its body, blood coating its mouth and the light already fading from its eyes. Then something heavy hit his back and Legolas fell to the earth with the weight of an enraged man crushing him into the earth.

The knife flew from his grasp. The injury in his side ripped agony through him, slowing him and weakening his defense. The man outweighed him by several stone, and rage and fear and something less human impelled him. Legolas twisted free and rolled, cloth ripping, trying to reach his knife. But the man was closer to the blade and caught it up, staring at the Elf with a maniacal grin. The man’s eyes were swallowed by darkness. Legolas stared into dark pits in which another will ruled, and felt his entire soul recoil in horror. To the Elf’s disbelief, Harlan sneered at him in contempt and tossed the razor-sharp elven knife aside. Then he threw himself upon Legolas, his hands seeking the Elf’s throat with the brute strength of a maddened beast.

Legolas tried to twist sideways but the man’s grip on him was like iron. Thrashing, he rolled over and over, pulling the man with him. Each roll on his injured side felt like a sword-thrust, weakening him and taking his breath. Frodo’s shrill cry of warning alerted him to the nearness of the edge of the hunting pit. Another few rolls and perhaps he could force Harlan into it. The man seemed to be aware of nothing beyond his need to kill. Legolas hoped he could leap to safety, the horrific image of Billeh’s impaled body flashing through his mind. But if he could not, at least the Ring-bearer would be safe.

The man was possessed, driven beyond reason, very strong, and his fury lent him even more strength. Legolas could not tear the callused fingers from his throat. He tried to twist sideways, to buck his attacker off, but unrelenting bands of iron dug into his throat. Elves have many gifts over mortal folk, but even they must breathe. Abandoning the effort to pry the man’s hands from his throat, Legolas tried to capture the smallest finger of each hand and force them back, break them if possible. The man grunted in agony, pain at last registering through the Ring-induced blackness in his mind. Some measure of reason returned to the black pits of his eyes. And with reason, some measure of strategy. Suddenly releasing Legolas’ throat, Harlan seized the Elf by the hair and slammed his head back against the rocky earth. Unprepared for that, Legolas could not stop him. Again his head was smashed to the ground. And again. Then the man released him with a dreadful smile. Stunned and half-paralyzed, Legolas could do nothing as Harlan drew back his knee, then drove it hard into the open wound in the Elf’s side.

Legolas’ world went dark. Spots crawled across his vision, black tails trailing after them like the after-images of the meteors his people gathered to watch in the autumn. The anguish was so great that he could not even cry out. His last conscious thought was of regret – in failing the Ring-bearer, he had failed the trust of the Fellowship, his father, and all of Middle-earth.

* * * * *

Merry heard Sam grunt when their horse cantered over a rough patch of earth, and bit down hard on his own exclamation. The mounts they rode were pack-horses, not saddle-horses, and their rough gait and improvised tack combined to make riding a miserable and painful experience. He and Sam had the worst of it, their legs too short to raise themselves in the saddle like Boromir, and give occasional relief to tender body parts. Merry devoutly hoped he would still be able to father children after this experience.

Ahead of them, Boromir rode with the grace of long training and experience, controlling his mount easily. Twice he had dismounted and knelt on the earth, seeking signs of Aragorn and Gandalf. Had it not been for the churned ground, broken branches and horse-apples that bespoke the passage of many horses, Merry did not think Boromir could have trailed the Ranger and the wizard. When they came to the dead man, Boromir could find no sign of Aragorn and Gandalf at all. With a shudder, Merry forced his mind from the image of that single pitiful boot.

"All right, Mr. Merry?" Sam asked in his ear, his friend’s breath warm on the back of his neck.

Merry smiled reassuringly then remembered that seated behind him, Sam couldn’t see it. "All right, Sam. Except for this ride, that is."

He could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when the gardener replied. "Aye, sir. I understand. Hard on the family jools, if you take my meaning. But they can’t be too far ahead o’ us now."

"I hope you’re right, Sam," Merry replied grimly. He took one hand from the reins and loosened his sword in its sheath, and felt a shifting behind him accompanied by the rattle of small stones as Sam loaded his sling, the only weapon he had left.

* * * * *

"Look, Gimli," Pippin was saying earnestly, "we don’t have to ride them. We can lead them. That’s what the headstalls are for. You pull on the rein and the horse follows. Nothing could be simpler."

The dwarf crossed his thick arms and regarded the earnest young hobbit. Pippin’s eyes were wide and guileless, his face hopeful and open. In the dwarf’s admittedly brief experience with hobbits, that meant trouble. "Boromir did not tell us to follow, young Peregrin. He is expecting us to wait here."

"He didn’t tell us not to follow, either," Pippin rejoined. "And Gandalf did tell Merry to strike camp and come after them. I think everyone would be grateful that they didn’t have to come back so far for us. They’ll be hot and hungry and tired, and they would be happy if they didn’t have to backtrack so far. Wouldn’t you?"

Gimli had to confess that, if such were the case, he would indeed be glad to be spared the walk. When a little voice in his mind whispered that he hadn’t been so hard to convince after all, the dwarf resolutely ignored it. He was tired of waiting and lessons in horse-care had quickly lost whatever allure they might have held. He was not so unfamiliar with equine-kind as Pippin thought - Dwarves used pack-ponies much as hobbits did. It was only the overwhelmingly tall horses of Men that made him wish to keep his feet on the ground.

Gimli ran a hand across Bill’s newly curried flank, and the pony nickered and nudged him with his soft nose, hoping for another taste of sugar. The dwarf patted the velvet muzzle. "All right," he said to the youngling. "Give me the pony’s lead. You take the horse." With a delighted little crow, Pippin scrambled to obey.

* * * * *

Aragorn and Gandalf froze at the sound of a horse’s piercing death-scream. It shattered the relative quiet of the deep forest, silencing the twittering birds and faint rustling noises that had accompanied their entire pursuit. Even the trees seemed to lean forward to listen.

"An animal," the Ranger breathed. "Horse, or pony. Not hobbit or elven."

Gandalf wiped the perspiration from his face. His grey robe was damp with it, and several more rips and frays had been added to its already disreputable appearance. A branch had knocked off his hat early in the pursuit and the wizard had ceased trying to wear it, allowing it to dangle at his back. "Close," Gandalf panted, lacking the breath to say more.

Aragorn nodded and drew his great killing sword. "One last dash, my friend." A note like chiming music rang behind him as Gandalf held up Glamdring, thelateafternoon sun glinting off the blade.

* * * * *

Legolas would have chosen death over failure. In some removed part of his consciousness, his mind laughingly reminded him that he now had both. Pity there was pain after death. That confused him momentarily. He had always been taught that death was but a door to a far shining land, where no pain or sorrow gained entrance. So then, as he hurt … he could not be dead.

Sound intruded on his dark world before sight. "Legolas!" A shrill voice cried, high-pitched in terror and strain. He knew that voice, even if he could not immediately place it. "Legolas!"

Sensation returned next. Someone had hold of the front of his tunic and was shaking him. It hurt. It hurt, but the pain returned him to himself. The Elf forced open his eyes. The shaking stopped and something astonishingly swift leaped before his vision. Legolas blinked and the object resolved into a hobbit. Frodo was backing away from him, facing Harlan. The man was stalking him, going after the hobbit with arms outstretched and fury on his face. Harlan leaped forward and Frodo jumped to the side with the quickness of a rabbit, just barely out of the man’s reach. Legolas realized that Frodo was taunting the man, trying to lure him away from the Elf. Trying to lure him into the trees, he suddenly realized. No, Frodo, stay in the clearing, Legolas thought fuzzily, the trees are as likely to harm you as him.

Harlan lunged again, and this time Frodo was a heartbeat too slow. He had allowed the man to get too close, not knowing how far Men could leap. The man caught the halfling about the waist and bore him to the ground. Frodo snapped his knees up to his chest and kicked, landing a solid blow to the man’s stomach. Harlan let out his breath in a whuff but he did not give way. Instead, the man forced Frodo flat. Once down, Harlan pinned the hobbit easily, one hand holding the hobbit’s wrists above the little one’s head. He crushed the small wrists cruelly, delighting in the pain he was causing. The hobbit’s eyes stared up into his, wide and terrified.

"Bloody little sod," the man snarled. "I want that pretty ring! You give me that ring!" He took his hand from Frodo’s heaving chest but kept the hobbit pinned with his body. His hand delved again into the hobbit’s shirt. The Ring had somehow returned to its usual position on the end of its chain at Frodo’s breast. Frodo’s panicked breathing escalated as the man’s hand found the silver chain and tightened his fingers down it, tracing it to the end of its length. Harlan raised up the golden thing, his lips pursing as his eyes went to drowning pools of black.

The man closed his fist over the burning metal band. He sighed, an oddly gluttonous sound. "Oh, pretty," he murmured. "Who would have thought you carried such a treasure, heh, little master?" The other hand released Frodo’s wrists and stroked along the side of his face. Frodo flinched away from the rough caress, horror and disgust in his eyes. The man laughed. "Though you’re a treasure also, little master. Never seen such a pretty face. I think I’ll keep you, too."

Frodo writhed, but he had as much chance of throwing the man off as Lando had had of avoiding the great limb that had ended his life. "Oh, lively one, aren’t you?" Harlan whispered. "I like that. Go on, little master – fight. Makes it more fun."

Instead, the hobbit went still, his eyes locked on something over the man’s shoulder. The man tensed, than laughed in the hobbit’s face. "Oh no, you don’t fool –"

Legolas drove the sharpened antler-tip deep into the side of the man’s neck. Blood spurted up over his hand, over his torn tunic. He had angled it to tear the great artery in the throat. Harlan released Frodo and clamped his hands around his own neck, trying to hold in his life’s blood. Blood fountained over his hands, ran down them to drip on Frodo’s chest and face.

That was the sight that greeted Aragorn and Gandalf as they burst into the little clearing; Legolas swaying unsteadily over a corpse, a dripping snow-deer antler in his hand. Frodo covered in blood as tried to drag himself out from under the body of a man. As they rushed forward in horror, Legolas collapsed.

Aragorn flew to his friend while Gandalf rolled the corpse off Frodo. The hobbit could seem to find no words; one hand was fisted tight around the chain at his throat and he stared up at the wizard as if he did not know his old friend. Then Frodo’s face contorted and he scrambled sideways, choking as he jerked up handfuls of grass to rub the man’s blood from him.

"Frodo," Gandalf said gently, keeping his voice soft and unthreatening, "are you all right?" Moving very slowly, he sheathed his sword and sank to his knees beside the hobbit.

Frodo nodded, having no words. He threw the bloodied grass from him with a shudder and tore up more, wiping the blood from him frantically. Then he swallowed and forced his voice to work. "Legolas?"

"Unconscious," murmured Aragorn. Gentle hands rolled the Elf onto his uninjured side, loosening his clothing. "What is this bandage – your shirtsleeve, Frodo? Ah, Legolas … you will be sore for a while, my friend." Even as the Ranger spoke, he had brought forth his medical kit and began working over the Elf.

Legolas groaned. Frodo left Gandalf to crouch across from Aragorn at his side. He took the Elf’s hand in his, rubbing it warmingly.

Harlan’s mount still stood by its fallen companion, reluctant to leave the only familiar thing it knew. Gandalf called to it softly then held out his hands, careful that no blood stained them. Trembling, the horse came forward, allowing the wizard to grasp its bridle. The wizard whispered in its ear and rubbed the bony ridge of its eye sockets. Slowly the animal calmed and it stopped shivering.

Gandalf looked at the nearest tree then shook his head almost imperceptibly. Carefully he tied the reins to his staff, then levered the gnarled length of wood into the hard earth, taking his leave of the horse with a comforting pat. The horse whickered forlornly and tried to follow, but the staff held it in place. Gandalf moved to the crouching hobbit and gently laid his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. "Frodo?" Frodo jumped and pulled away, then relaxed. "Frodo, let me see if you are hurt." Gandalf began to rub his back, knowing well the importance of a reassuring touch to hobbit-kind.

"I’m not hurt, Gandalf. He didn’t have time." The wizard took in the hobbit’s torn clothing and disheveled appearance, the bruises darkening on his wrists, and his touch faltered. Frodo felt it. He looked up into his friend’s angry face and repeated softly, "He didn’t hurt me, Gandalf. Truly." After a moment, the wizard nodded, cradling the hobbit against him for a moment.

Frodo relaxed against the dirty grey robes with a sigh. Then his gaze fastened on the watching wood. "Why didn’t the trees help us?" the hobbit wondered. "They killed the first Man, and the second. Couldn’t they have intervened?"

Gandalf looked about the small clearing. "There are none close enough to strike, Frodo. Trees may drop a branch or move a limb, but rarely do they move from where the Valar put them. A good thing, for us, I think."

"I tried to lead the Man into the woods," Frodo whispered. "But he would not follow. Then he caught me…"

"It is a good thing that you did not succeed," Gandalf told him firmly. "The trees are not friendly to us. They have not hindered us but now they have seen one of the Awakeners hurt, and they do not know if we are friend or foe."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed. "They do not understand we are Legolas’ friends." He paused in his work, looking at the forest. Wrath and watchfulness pounded through the trees, heavy on the air. "They will not let us pass with him, Gandalf."

"Wake him," Gandalf decided. "There is no other way. He must speak to them."

Legolas raised his head groggily. Aragorn hastened to raise him to a sitting position, supporting his uninjured side. Frodo darted around to his back, helping to steady him. "I am awake," the Elf told them, his voice slurring very slightly. "Help me to the greatest of the trees about this clearing. I will speak for us."

"Are you certain -" Aragorn began, concerned.

Legolas smiled at him, a glint of humor in the starry eyes. "You are welcome to speak in my stead, my friend. But I do not think they will hear you."

With Aragorn and Gandalf on either side of him, Legolas stumbled to the chosen tree. The others drew back as he placed his hands on the lichen-covered trunk of the largest spruce, slender fingers spreading to encompass as much of the bark as he could. The Elf leaned his head against the trunk, closed his eyes, and was still.

After perhaps a half-hour, Frodo tugged on Gandalf’s robe. The wizard glanced down at him, and Frodo slid under his arm. The hobbit had cleaned himself up as best he could but dark, damp stains still marred the warm brown velvet of his waistcoat and jacket. Frodo brushed at them distastefully as he stood watching Legolas. "Is he all right?" Frodo asked.

"He is speaking with the trees," Gandalf whispered back.

Frodo glanced around at the towering behemoths. The tangible anger in the air had lessened, but still the trees watched, wary and unforgiving. "Are they awake enough to listen?"

Gandalf’s hand tightened protectively on the hobbit’s shoulder. "After what took place here, can you doubt it?"

The wizard’s gaze travelled around the cleared space of forest, the young trees murdered to fashion the stakes of the despicable hunting pit. He looked unwillingly into the pit before turning his eyes away. While Legolas communicated with the forest, he and Aragorn had rolled Harlan in his cloak then pushed the body in the pit. Frodo had collected all of the hunters’ belongings with two exceptions, and thrown them in after the corpse. One exception, at Aragorn’s request, was a blanket from the gear of the dead horse. The Ranger tied the corners with stones then stood at the edge of the pit and whirled it over his head, releasing his cast expertly so that it fell over the pitiful body of the other man.They could do nothing more for either of the dead.

The second exception was the blanket-wrapped bundle that contained the hobbits’ swords and Legolas’ weapons. Frodo withdrew his Sting and examined it carefully, then buckled the sword belt around his waist. Sam and Pippin’s swords he wrapped up again until they could be returned to their owners. Legolas’ weapons he laid reverently upon the grass, not daring to interrupt the Elf’s communion with the wood to return them.

Aragorn was standing by the dead horse, his face worried. The body was already beginning to smell. The odor of fresh death would draw predators from leagues away. It would not be long before something followed that scent.Wolves or bears, the Ranger thought grimly, or something even less manageable. "We cannot linger," he murmured under his breath. But they dared not try to leave with Legolas until the Elf could convince the trees that they meant him no harm. "Hurry, my friend," he whispered.

With another glance at the motionless Elf, Aragorn began to pace the perimeter of the little clearing, awarding the surviving horse a pat as he passed. The animal raised its head from its grazing, but not in response to the kindness. Instead the shaggy ears tipped forward, listening, and its muzzle lifted into the air, scenting. Aragorn’s heart clenched within him. "Gandalf!" he called, his voice low. His sword rang as he drew it.

The wizard left off his murmured conversation with Frodo and ran to him, Glamdring unsheathed and ready in his hand. Frodo followed hesitantly, his face pale. Something was coming towards them. Something large. Frodo drew his sword and took his place beside the Ranger and the wizard.

* TBC *