The arrows whizzed randomly around the clout, but the man seemed not to notice as he drew and loosed, muttering curses under his breath that had naught to do with archery.

“Still not decided?” I asked, leaning against a tree trunk.

“I” – he loosed an arrow that went wide an inch to the right – “have not” – a second arrow followed into the scrub beyond – “been consulted.” His third arrow thwacked squarely into the clout. He turned to face me, anger clouding his expression. “Legolas, does nine seem a rather large number to proceed with stealth?”

“You and Mithrandir, Boromir, Gimli, Frodo, of course, and Sam. Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir are the names I have heard most frequently. It does not seem an unwieldy group to me.”

“My heart misgives me.” He carefully unstrung his bow. “Orcs stir in the mountains, and my brothers yearn to hunt them rather than follow Frodo to Mordor. Glorfindel’s weapon is the sword as is Boromir’s. I will have Andruil. Gimli, his axe.” A glint of humor came into his eyes as they guilelessly met mine. “We need an archer.”

“Me?”

“Legolas, Merry and Pippin.”

“Me? Aragorn!”

“Say, yes, and I will see it happens.”