Chapter Two

Elves do not suffer and die as do the Secondborn.  They do not sicken, do not grow old, and unless killed in battle or dying of loss, do not pass through the dark gateway of death.  Then why did he hurt so?  He must have made some sound or movement, for a moment later a small, warm hand cradled the side of his face, then stroked back his hair.  Such a familiarity would have insulted him another time, but now the gentle touch was something he could focus on beyond the shrieking agony in his left side and leg.

“Legolas?  Legolas?  Please wake up.  Please?”  He could not ignore that soft, pleading voice.  There were tears in that voice, and fear.  The voice sounded very young and he struggled though the dark grey fog roiling in his mind to place it.

He was not conscious of opening his eyes, but suddenly there was a fuzzy blur hovering over him.  He blinked and the blur resolved into an odd little face, pallid and strained, with two huge green-gold eyes that dripped warm salty droplets of water onto his face.  Seeing Legolas’ eyes open, the sharp little face split into a grin and the bronze head raised and looked at someone beyond him.  “Hoy, Frodo!  He opened his eyes!  He’s awake!”

The Elf heard the quick padding of bare feet, then another small figure was kneeling at his side.  Dark curls straggled into eyes of the most astonishing blue.  But it was not that pale face that recalled Legolas to himself, but the glint of a silver chain as it lay against alabaster skin about the little one’s neck and disappearing into the open collar of his shirt.  No hint of gold could be seen, for which Legolas was grateful.  

“Frodo,” Legolas heard his own voice say weakly. 

“Hush,” the Ring-bearer responded.  “You just rest, Legolas.  Sam and I are making a litter for you.  Merry’s run back to camp to fetch Aragorn.”  The hobbit leaned forward and peered anxiously into the Elf’s face, small hands gently rubbing Legolas’ shoulder.  Always touching, these hobbits, the Elf thought dazedly. 

“What...  What...”

“Hush, Legolas, be easy,” Frodo repeated in soothing tones.  “You fell out of the tree.”  The hands paused in their reassuring rubbing when the Elf made a small sound of protest.  “It wasn’t your fault.  The dead bark just slid off the tree and took you with it.”

Of course.  It wasn’t his fault.  Elves do not fall out of trees.  He struggled to focus on the little one’s words.  “Yes, I remember...  It was not such a great fall, Frodo … not even four times my own height,” Legolas said as confidently as he could while in agony and stretched out flat on his back with his head in a tweenaged hobbit’s lap.  They had seen to his ease, taking off his bow and sword and knives and laying them to the side.  “I heard...” he frowned and Pippin stroked his hair again, mistaking the grimace for a wave of pain.  “There was a creaking ... and the trees have been uneasy...”

Frodo edged closer and leaned over to stare directly into his eyes.  “Legolas, are you with us?  You’re rambling a bit.”  The somewhat dirty pair of hands left his arm and cupped his face, stroking his brow.  “You’ve got a big knot on the side of your head, in addition to the injuries to your leg and your side.  You must have hit your head against the trunk when you fell.”

The pain was subsiding somewhat.  Now he became aware of a tightness binding his ribs and leg.  Casting his eyes along his body, he saw that two of the hobbits’ cloaks were laid over him.  Frodo’s and Merry’s, by the colors.  But Merry’s cloak hadn’t had that dark crimson stain on it, right over his ribs.  “How badly hurt?” he whispered after a moment.

Frodo’s eyes had followed his and when the hobbit’s gaze met his again, Legolas saw fear in those bright blue orbs.  “I don’t know much about healing, Legolas.  You came down on a partially broken branch, and the puncture is deep.  I cleaned…”  Another time, Legolas would have been amused to see the hobbit’s face pale.  Frodo took a deep breath and steadied himself.  “I cleaned the wound and bound it.  But you bled quite a bit, and I don’t think a rotting tree is a good thing to imbed in a person’s body.”

Above Legolas, Pippin made a queer little gulping sound and both Legolas and Frodo looked at him in concern.  “Easy, Cousin,” murmured the older hobbit softly.  Then Frodo turned back to the Elf.  “Are you warm enough?  Is there anything we can do for you?”

The obvious concern of these small folk warmed the Elf more than the thick woolen cloaks spread upon him.  It was cold here in this unmapped place and these little ones felt the cold more than an Elf.  Despite the knowledge that they suffered more than he, Legolas would not insult them by returning the cloaks - they would not take them.  Even as he thought that, Pippin gently tucked in a stray corner, smoothing the cloth with kind hands.

“No,” murmured Legolas, belatedly realizing that the hobbits were waiting for an answer and that Frodo was now looking at him worriedly.  “No, I need nothing.  And I am quite warm enough.”  Pippin had resumed his comforting stroking and it was all too easy to drift and let his awareness slip away.  Which would never do.  He had sworn to protect these halflings, not be protected by them.

There was a rustling sound and Samwise came into his range of vision, rubbing his hands against his breeches.  Sam gave him a cordial nod that did not disguise the fright in his strained grey eyes.  “The litter’s done, Mr. Frodo.  At least some o’ those dead branches made themselves useful.  The frame’s tied up tight in me and Master Pip’s cloaks.”  Sam paused and looked at the Elf doubtfully.  “Are we ‘ta wait for Mr. Merry or try to carry him out ourselves?” 

Frodo rose to his feet and walked a few steps past Legolas, shading his eyes from the glare of the mid-morning sun.  “I don’t think we could manage to get him very far, Sam, not even if all three of us carried him.  And we would hurt him in trying.”  He lowered his hand and looked at his friend worriedly.  “What could be keeping Merry and Aragorn?”

* * * * *

“Take a deep breath, Master Hobbit,” Gimli rumbled as he patted Merry on the back.  Boromir alternated worried glances at them with keeping the watch; Merry had roared past the soldier without slowing and barreled into Gimli just as the dwarf struggled to his feet in alarm.  The collision knocked Merry down.  Gimli had not so much as staggered.  Reaching down, he had easily lifted Merry to his feet.  While Merry appreciated both the assistance up and the advice, he could not catch his breath when the dwarf kept driving the air out of his lungs with his heavy-handed concern.  He ducked Gimli’s final pat and tugged urgently on Aragorn’s cloak as the man sank to one knee before him.

“Legolas fell out of a tree and is hurt, Aragorn.  Will you please come?”

“Legolas fell out of a tree?” echoed the Ranger uncomprehendingly.

“Yes, yes.  He’s hurt, Strider!”

“Legolas fell out of a tree?” repeated Gandalf, joining them from where he had been sitting on the rocks.  He hastily tamped out his pipe and returned it to its resting place in his staff, staring at Merry all the while. 

Merry decided that the air must be thinner up there, if it affected Big Peoples’ hearing so.  “Just a few minutes ago!  The bark came loose and Legolas fell.  He needs help - please!”

The Big People looked at each other blankly.  “Legolas fell?” rumbled the wizard, his lowered brows bristling at Merry as if he thought the hobbit might be making it up.

Not the air, Merry thought.  The altitude must directly affect their brains.  He had suspected something of the sort for quite some time.  “Out of a tree!  A dead tree!  Just a few minutes ago!”

“We heard no great cracking and crash,” remarked Gimli.  “The fall of one of those great trees would sound like thunder.  We could not have failed to hear it.”  

Merry resisted the urge to stamp his foot.  “A few minutes ago,” he repeated evenly, as if by repetition he could make them understand and get moving.  “Legolas was climbing a tree.  The tree was dead.  It broke and caused him to slip and he fell out of it.  He is hurt!  Will you not come?”

Luckily for Merry’s patience, they did not question further.  Quickly Aragorn returned to his pack and dug out one of the Company’s medical kits.  As he conducted a hurried check of its contents, he fired off instructions to the others.  “Boromir, keep the watch, if you would.  Gimli, please stoke up the fire and put on one of Sam’s pots to heat water.  Gandalf -”

Gandalf shook his shaggy head, his gnarled hands moving quickly to fill a carry-pouch of necessities.  “I’m coming with you.  In addition to being my friend and a member of this Fellowship, Legolas is a Prince Royal of the elven realm of Mirkwood.”  His lined face tightened with worry.  “I have no wish to face King Thranduil should something ill befall his son.  I might be able to help.”  With Merry running ahead of them, the wizard and the Ranger followed.

* * * * *

Nearest to the edge of the clearing, Sam heard the rustling in the forest before his fellow hobbits or even Legolas.  After finishing the litter, Sam had sought to ease his concern while they waited by first collecting the mushrooms, then gathering up the pieces of bark and twigs that would make good tinder.  Busy hands keep idle thoughts away, his Gaffer always said.  He was more than nervous, Sam acknowledged to himself – he was frightened.  He had not realized that he had placed Legolas upon some pedestal that had precluded the Elf ever being wounded or injured.  Elves should be above such things.  He glanced over to where Pippin cradled the Elf’s head in his lap, singing to him softly while pressing a wetted cloth to Legolas’ brow.  Frodo was carefully giving the Elf a drink, then he took the cloth from Pippin to re-wet it and handed it back to the tweenager.

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam called softly.  Frodo’s head turned to him.  “They’re coming, sir.”  Frodo nodded and recapped the water skin, murmuring something to Legolas and Pippin that Sam couldn’t hear.   He patted the Elf’s shoulder gently then rose to join Sam.

The rustling and crashing grew louder.  The hobbits frowned at each other, appalled at the racket.  Then they stiffened.  Aragorn would never make such noise.  Had the whole Fellowship, pony included, come?  “Mr. Frodo,” Sam began hesitantly, “I don’t think -”

A tall form was half-glimpsed through the trees.  Frodo took a step forward then halted.  “Aragorn?” he called uncertainly.

The man broke through the brush and stopped before them, his hand on the pommel of his sword.  It wasn’t Aragorn and it wasn’t Boromir, and the hobbits stepped back as the man’s unshaven face drew up in a snarling grin.  “Well, well,” the stranger said softly, moving his hand to finger the knife at his belt.  “Three little halflings and a hurt Elf.  And what would you all be doing out here in this miserable forest, heh?”

The hobbits drew back, giving ground warily.  Frodo stepped back until he was stopped by the Elf’s supine form and drew his sword.  Sam glanced fearfully at his master and drew his own weapon.  Sunlight flashed on their iridescent razor-edges.  The man’s greedy eyes fastened on the beautiful, ancient blades and his lips pursed.  “Fine-looking knives, those.  Where did you get them, little masters?”

Frodo ignored the question.  “Our friend has been injured, good sir.  Will you help us?”

The man’s eyes flicked over to Legolas, then back at Frodo.  The Elf’s head had turned towards them, and he and Pippin had stilled.  With his far hand, hidden from the stranger’s sight by his body, Legolas groped for his sword.  He could not cast a knife or draw his bow lying flat.  Stealthily, Pippin slid the hilt of the blade into the Elf’s hand then drew one of Legolas’ knives to himself, tucking the bared blade under the edges of the improvised blankets that covered Legolas.

“Lando!  Billeh!”  The man’s shout startled the hobbits, and their eyes turned back to the trees involuntarily as more crashing sounded behind the first man.  Two more large forms emerged from behind the first man, one tall and fair and bearded and dirty and the other short and dark and bearded and dirty.  Dried blood encrusted their clothing and as the cold wind shifted, it brought to the hobbits the stench of pain and death.  Large, grime-covered knives were stuck in worn leather sheaths at their belts in addition to their swords.  The shorter one carried a wooden club over his shoulder, and the club and the hand that clenched it were filthy and stained with old blood.  The newcomers pulled even with the first man, their glittering eyes staring at the hobbits and Legolas.

“What’s wrong with the Elf?” asked the thin, blond man.

“He fell from a tree,” Frodo explained, lowering his sword but not sheathing it.  “Our friends are coming at any moment.  If you would help us carry him, we could get him to our healer all the quicker.”

The shorter, dark man ambled over to Pippin and Legolas, giving Frodo and Sam a wide berth.  Frodo stiffened, his eyes darting to the man, then back to the first one.  Sam pivoted to watch the new intruder, sword clenched tightly in his fist.  As the man approached, Pippin caught the edge of Frodo’s cloak, pulling it over Legolas’ hand, hiding the Elf’s grasp on his sword.  Legolas felt the halfling tense as the man came up to them.  “Easy, Pippin,” he whispered, his light voice pitched for the youngster’s ears alone, wishing the tweenager was more in control of his fright.  Legolas tried to ease himself up into a sitting position and stiffened with a gasp.

None of the men moved to assist.  The first one eyed them with interest then turned back to Frodo.  “And who might you be, heh?” he asked lackadaisically.

Frodo gave him a short, bobbing bow.  “Frodo … Underhill, at your service, good sir.”  Sam, knowing him so well, heard the masked impatience and apprehension in the well-bred voice.

“Underhill,” the man repeated vaguely.  ““One of the Bree Underhills, are you?  Don’t your folk live west of Bree-Under-the-Hill?”

Frodo shook his head, his eyes never leaving the leader.  “Hobbiton.”

The man’s gaze sharpened.  “In the Shire?”  At Frodo’s nod, he puckered his lips and emitted a soft, short whistle.  “I’ve taken some of my pelts to your markets, little master, back when I trapped game closer to home, but your high-and-mighty folk didn’t want them.  Said they weren’t well cured.  They sent me packing.”  Anger flashed across the man’s face, and he peered at the hobbit consideringly.  “You’re a long way from home, little master.  Who are the other little folk?” 

“This is my friend and servant, Samwise Gamgee,” Frodo responded with iron courtesy.  “And the lad -”

“Harlan!  Take a look at these!”  The shorter man’s eyes were glued to the Elf’s weapons.  He licked his lips, avarice gleaming in his eyes.  Then the man stared at him and Legolas felt those beady eyes examining his wound.  He gazed impassively back, implying that he could move if he chose – he simply did not choose.  He tried to impart the impression of insouciant lounging rather than injured immobility.  One corner of the man’s mouth quirked up in a half-snarl, half-laugh.

The first broke off his amused consideration of Frodo and Sam and walked past them to join the shorter man near the supine Elf.  “Your clothing is richly made, Elf,” the man said matter-of-factly.  “An elven bow and sword and long knife…”  The man crouched across from Pippin and stared over Legolas at the bow and blades.  “Beautiful … beautiful.  Look at the workmanship.  They must be worth a great amount of coin.”

“They’re Legolas’!” burst Pippin, before the Elf could restrain him.  “If you’re not going to help us, just go away!”

The man laughed, and his compatriots grinned.  “Those weapons and your little swords, halfling, are worth more than a year's harvest of snow-deer meat and pelts.  What else do you have that we might want, heh?”  The leader laughed, and the Elf tensed as he heard evil in that voice.  His gaze wandered over Pippin and then the Ring-bearer.  “Maybe we should just strip you and see, heh?”

“Leave us alone,” said Frodo softly.  Legolas turned his head to see the hobbit at his shoulder.  Sam stood just behind him, his round face set.  The Elf had not heard either of them approach, which spoke volumes of his incapacity.  Frodo’s face was pale but he held his sword at the ready, all hope of assistance from these Big Folk gone.  “The rest of our company, warriors all, will be here at any moment.   It would be best if you go - now - to avoid any misunderstandings.”

The man stared at Frodo and laughed again.  There was derision in his tone, contempt.  Condescension.  And something else.  Sam’s hand tightened on his sword and his grey eyes narrowed dangerously.  “We saw the smoke from your cook fire,” the man remarked.  “You’re a fair way from your camp.  How do we know that anyone is really coming, heh?”

“I say to you that one of our number has gone to fetch the others, and they come,” Legolas broke in softly.  He must stop this. This must not be allowed to continue.  The Ring-bearer must not be threatened.  And … strip them?  These rapacious men would certainly find and take what Frodo bore.  He had not liked how the leader’s eyes had appraised the Ring-bearer’s slender form.  There was more than simple greed in that gaze.   

The dark man regarded him suspiciously.  “Elves don’t lie, Harlan.  We don’t want to go up against no warriors.  Let’s just take their valuables and go.”

“Shut up, Billeh.” Harlan said it casually, but Billeh immediately fell silent, ducking his head in acceptance.  Men lead by inspiration or by fear, thought Legolas, and this one leads by fear.  “You,” the man continued, and Legolas re-focused on him.  But it was not him that the man’s sneering eyes were on.  Pippin shivered, and the Elf could feel the little one’s fear.

“You.  What did you say the Elf’s name was?”  Pippin looked up at him then down to Legolas, his hand tightening on the Elf’s arm.  He did not answer.  The man’s face tightened.  “Answer me, runt, or I’ll make you wish you did.”

Frodo’s eyes blazed and he stepped forward, but Legolas spoke before the hobbit could intervene.   “I am Legolas Greenleaf, of the Mirkwood Realm.  I possess nothing of value beyond what you see.” 

“Legolas Greenleaf,” the man muttered.  The man’s gaze narrowed upon him.  “Greenleaf … are you King Thranduil’s son?  The King of Northern Mirkwood?”

Ah, no.  Not that.  His royal position must not place the hobbits in danger.  “King Thranduil is my sire, yes,” Legolas replied cautiously.

The man shook his head.  “No half-truths, Elf.  I asked you if you were the son of the King.  Not if he is your lawful lord.  Now, answer me.”

Frodo was looking between him and the man, uncertain as to the direction of these questions.  Sam stayed at his master’s back, alert and watchful.  The man’s twisted smile became a snarl and he pulled his great dirty knife from the sheath.  Pippin made the faintest squeaking sound but did not move from cradling Legolas.  “Yes,” responded Legolas with unbecoming haste.  “Yes, Thranduil is my father.”

The man crouched down, then knelt on the leaves to better look at him.  The other two positioned themselves so as to trap Frodo and Sam between them.  Legolas held himself still as a dirty hand fingered the bloody wrappings over his ribs, then with sudden, brutal force, Harlan jabbed a finger into the wound.  Legolas jerked, unable to stifle a cry. 

“A prince!  A real, live prince.  Imagine that, lads…” the man muttered.  “I imagine your royal father would pay anything for your safe return, wouldn’t he, your Royal Highness?”

* TBC *