Chapter 7: For the Sake of Friendship

When the first dog came into view, a part of Legolas wanted to step further back into the shadows.  Behind him, Sam was doing his best to control his fear.  The hobbit was managing himself very well, in Legolas’ opinion; he could scarcely hear his breathing, and he was as motionless as the cliffs around them.  If they were discovered, it would not be because of Sam.

From his place in the dark of the crevice, Legolas studied the group that passed swiftly by.  The shorthaired dog was of middling size with pointed ears and a long tail.  It did not look like a particularly fierce breed, but that meant little; most often dogs took after the dispositions of their masters.  After the dog came a Man, quickly followed by another, a second dog, and another Man.

The Men were arrayed as if for a long journey, in leather jerkins and heavy boots.  Some wore cloaks to help ward off the cold, but not all.  Each carried a sword at his hip, at least one dagger in his belt, and a short bow across his back.  Legolas would not have been surprised to learn that they carried more daggers in the tops of their boots as well.  Heavily armed even for Men, he thought.  Only Aragorn carries near so much weaponry, but he has cause.

The Men were surely not hunters of game despite the fact that they seemed to know their way around their weapons.  They kept their sword hilts clear of their cloaks as they walked, ready to draw at any moment.  Legolas noted that their bows were unstrung.  An untutored archer might leave his bow strung for long periods of time, but a more experienced one knew that prolonged tension and damp would ruin both string and bow.

The Men were unshaven and dark of hair, but there was nothing unusual in that.  From his long friendship with Aragorn, Legolas already knew that humans who wandered long in the wilderness often sported stubble.  As for the hair, golden locks were only really common among the Rohirrim and the Elves – and possibly hobbits, Legolas supposed, if the mass of curls on Merry’s head was any indication.   Rather than any of this, it was the smell that clung to the Men that Legolas noted most of all.  It was not the odor of sweat that made his nose crinkle; it was an acrid scent that was very similar to one that he had come across many times before.

These Men smelled almost like orcs.

Legolas tensed as his mind connected the scent with that of the Elves’ long-time foes.  He knew it all too well now; it was the smell of wrongness, of malice, of ill intent.  Orcs were always rank with it though they smelled bad enough without it; they cared nothing for cleanliness.  Legolas’ fist tightened around the the hilt of his knife.  The odor had not been strong enough at the Men’s old campsite for him to discern what it was, and now it was too late.  Sam had been right.  These Men were of the worst sort if he could smell their evil.  Legolas wondered if it would have been better for him to have tried to cross the river after all, even though he doubtless would have been shot at.  With every Man holding a bow and all of them looking as if they knew what they were about, at least one of their arrows might have struck home, but that might have been preferable to taking the chance that he now knew he was taking.

All of this and more Legolas pondered as the Men marched quickly by.  Three dogs passed near the front of the group, and there were many more Men than dogs, walking in single file.  None of them spoke to each other, though the dogs would occasionally let out a snuffle or a whine.

The Men were passing the crevice, with never a glance to the side.  Legolas had wedged both himself and Sam as far back into the shadows as possible, but if any of the strangers really looked, they might see the dim shape of someone within.  Legolas could hardly allow himself to hope that his ruse had worked – that the dogs would follow the trail downriver, never suspecting that he and Sam were somewhere in the middle of that trail, and not at either end.  Keep walking, Legolas silently urged them.  There is nothing here for you to find.  Follow the scent and be away.

Seven… eight… nine Men passed.  If there were more, they would not be many; from the traces they had left at their campsite, there could not have been more than a dozen of them.

A tenth Man passed in front of the hiding place – and stopped.  Legolas did not move, but his heart beat a little faster and he drew a deep, silent breath to calm himself.  If he and Sam were about to be found, he could not afford to show anxiety.  His life, and Sam’s, might depend on it.

The Man stepped backwards and peered into the gloom of the crevice.

Legolas was deeply dismayed, but he gazed levelly into the Man’s eyes nonetheless.  That the fellow did not flinch was surprising.  There were few Men who could lock eyes for long with an Elf without looking away, especially an Elf whose blood was up.  Legolas knew that he must have looked displeased at the very least, for he hated the Man on sight.

A casual observer would not have been able to see what had stirred up such dislike on Legolas’ part.  In fact, most Men would have said that there was nothing remarkable about this one member of their race, save that he looked like a person who was used to rough living.  His hair was long, lank, and brown, like his companions’, and his clothes were stained from encounters with water and dirt.  His frame was solidly built, and he wore the sword at his side with confidence.  Legolas noted all of this and filed it away, focusing his attention on the one aspect of the Man that any Elf would see immediately: his eyes, glittering dark and cold in the afternoon light.  When those eyes fell upon Legolas back in the crevice, a small, satisfied smile appeared on the Man’s face, but it touched no more than his lips.  And all the while a stench of malice rolled off him so strongly that Legolas wondered why he was not gagging on it.

“Well, what have we here?” said the Man, and there was mockery in his voice.

Legolas felt Sam stiffen.

“Ho, Dorlic!  Jakov!” the Man called.  “Strangers!”

Boots scuffed on the path outside.  Two more Men joined the one at the opening of the crevice, one whose bulk seemed to be entirely made of muscle, and a thinner Man with a jaundiced hue to his skin.  They were followed by others, and in short order the entire group of Men had assembled itself outside the crack in the cliff.  The three dogs pushed their way through the small forest of legs and halted at the front of the group, snarling fiercely.  One of them let loose several barks which echoed around the interior of the crevice.  Legolas managed not to cringe though the sound was painful in his ears.  Sam twitched behind him but otherwise remained still.

“This is a strange sight,” said the Man.  His tone was almost conversational, though he could not have helped but notice Legolas’ discomfiture.  “Not only do I find an Elf out in the wilds, but he is wedged into a hole as well.”  Those around him smiled as if he had made a fine joke, several of them showing yellow teeth.  “Pray come out, Master Elf.  We are but simple hunters, and mean you no harm.”

This one is their leader, then, thought Legolas.  Only the leader of the group would call the others to him, or be the one to address him.  And he is false.  Never in his life had he been more certain of anything than that this Man was lying through his teeth.

Reluctantly Legolas let his hand fall away from his knife.  He would have felt better holding on to it, but if he did so, he would not have even the smallest chance of being able to bluff his way out of the situation.  Not that he thought that was very likely – the leader was clearly as pleased as a cat with a jug of cream – but for the moment, he had to play along.  He wished he had more time to think. “I could more readily believe you, did you not crowd me so,” he said quietly.

The leader’s smile widened.  “So we do, so we do,” he said.  He spread his hands slowly as if he were trying to make himself look innocuous, but he made no move to step away.  “You need have no fear of us, and your friend will be quite safe as well.”

It required a great effort for Legolas to keep his face still.  Perhaps he has seen Sam’s feet behind me, he thought.  Aloud he said, “Forgive my reluctance, but he is my charge, and you and I are strangers to one another.  Few travel this way in these dangerous days.”

“Small your companion seems to my eyes,” said the Man.  “A child, perhaps?”

Legolas’ heart sank even as it burned with loathing for the Man’s oily speech.  That knowing smile spoke volumes; he knew that it was no elfling back in the darkness.  At that moment, any hope Legolas had harbored of being able to talk himself and Sam to freedom vanished.  It was as he had feared; this group had been searching for the Fellowship, and now they had found a piece of it.  How else could this one Man have known to expect a hobbit?  And what other reason could he have for being so very pleased with himself?  There could be no other explanation.

The leader’s smile became a smirk.  Disdain bubbled inside Legolas.  He could tell that the Man knew that he had been perfectly understood, and yet he wanted to continue this farce of polite questions and answers.  Legolas had no choice but to continue to play.  He might end up dead if he did not, and he would be no good to Sam then.

Legolas hated to confirm for the leader what he already knew – it was humiliating to be caught in the position he was in – but the Man was waiting for an answer, and Sam was still huddled behind him.  He could not lie, and so he was forced to tell the truth, though the words were bitter on his tongue.

“My companion is what you humans would call a hobbit.”

“A Halfling?” the Man said in tones of false wonder.  “A strange sight is one of the little folk in this part of the world!”

Legolas’ mouth tightened.  If the Men were going to try to seize them by force, he wished they would get on with it.  He was ready for an attack, perfectly aware of the location of each of the knives at his belt, and he would have the advantage if the Men lunged at him in anger.  The leader seemed to think that he would be able to talk Legolas out of the crevice, but he was sorely mistaken.  He would have to work to take what he wanted.  But if he wanted to talk, then Legolas would talk – though not all on the Man’s terms.  He wanted answers of his own, even if they were lies.  “What do you do in this gorge?” he said, evading the leader’s tangible but unvoiced question.

A flash of irritation crossed the Man’s face, but it vanished as quickly as it had come.  “We hunt game, Master Elf.”

“It seems you have been unlucky thus far,” said Legolas.  “I fear that this is not a good place to find deer, especially not after the rains that we have had.  What is more, the gorge runs for miles in both directions, and is difficult to climb out of.”

“Do you suggest we hunt our game elsewhere, then?” said the Man.

“You might have better fortune if you do.”

The smile returned.  “We will certainly go elsewhere when we find a way out of this canyon, but as you say, it is difficult to escape.  For now we will keep on as we are.”

Legolas’ contempt grew – did the Man really think he would have missed the double meaning? – but he also filed away a potentially useful piece of information.  This Man was overconfident, or he would not have been so brash with his hints.  Those who were overconfident often had a weakness that they overlooked in their arrogance; Legolas would have wagered both his knives that this smirking Man had one.  Given time, he might be able to find out what it was.  “And where are you bound?” he said, keeping his scorn hidden.  Just because his opponent chose to lay his emotions bare was no reason for him to do the same.

“We are Men of Dunland.  We will return home when we have found what we seek.”

Legolas opened his mouth, but the Man gestured to two of his companions before he could speak.  “You two, gather wood for a fire.  We will camp here tonight.”  The Men that he had indicated stepped out of sight.  The leader turned his glittering eyes upon Legolas again.  “Will you stay and talk with us, strangers?  I would not miss the opportunity to speak with an Elf… and a Halfling.  Your kinds seldom cross paths with those of Men.”

Legolas fairly vibrated with readiness.  He was aware of every hair on his head, every vein in his body; his knives seemed to hum like living things at his side, just waiting to be drawn and used.  They were coming nearer to the point now.  He had to try refusing first, of course, but what happened after depended on just how long the leader wanted to keep up the masquerade.

“Nay, I thank you,” said Legolas.  “We have a long way to go, my companion and I.  There is light enough for us to cover a good distance yet today.”

“And where may you be heading?” said the Man.

“Imladris,” Legolas replied promptly.

“Surely you do not hail from that land.  You are far too fair of coloring.”

Legolas’ eyes narrowed slightly in spite of himself.  Most Men were wholly ignorant of the differences between the Elves of Imladris, Lothlórien, and his own home – or so he had been raised to believe.  Legolas knew very few Men save Aragorn, and Aragorn was hardly typical.  He knew much more of the history of the Elves than most, for he had been raised in Lord Elrond’s house and had a destiny unlike that of most Men.  That this Man should be even somewhat familiar with the Elves of Imladris, even if it was merely with their coloring, only further convinced Legolas that he was dealing with a knowledgeable foe rather than a swaggering buffoon.  He would much rather have dealt with the latter than the former.  Fighting a group of unlearned, undisciplined Men would have been like fighting orcs, whose power lay in their sheer numbers and single-mindedness.  Legolas was accustomed to fighting those sorts of battles – against orcs, spiders, and the other evil things that infested his homeland like a contagious disease.  Battles with weapons were easier to fight than those done with slippery words, like the one he now found himself engaged in.  And he had lost that battle before he had even begun.

“I come from Emyn Galen, which many now call Mirkwood,” said Legolas.  On an impulse, he decided to strip away a layer of the half-truths the Man was spouting.  “Hobbits, as you well know, hail from the Shire.”

“Indeed,” said the Man, and his eyes flashed.

One of the other Men suddenly pushed his way forward.  “I don’t like this, Garan,” he said roughly, addressing the leader.  “All this careful talk!  Why don’t they just come out?”

“It’s insulting is what it is,” said another.  “Why don’t you want to share our fire, Elf?  Are we not good enough for the likes of you?”

“Peace, Erich,” said Garan, but he neither looked nor sounded as if he meant it.  “A little caution may go a long way to keeping a Man alive.  As the Elf has said, these are dangerous times.”  His eyes remained on Legolas’ face.  “I suggest you come out, good sir.  You and I may be content to speak for hours in this fashion, but I fear that my companions are less patient.  I will not be able to stop them from attacking if they fear you harbor ill intentions.  Come and have a drink at our fire; it really will be much better that way.”

Legolas was surprised that Garan still thought there was anything he could say that would get him to come out.  The façade would be dropped the moment he stepped into the open, and he and Sam would find themselves prisoners, if one of them was not killed outright.  It was far better to make a stand where he was than go as a lamb to the slaughter.  Though the rock walls around him would constrain his movement, they would also restrict the Men’s access to him; only two of them would be able to attack him at once.  But if he was going to fight, he would have to attack first, and soon.  The Men could begin stringing their bows at any moment, and he would have no chance against arrows at such close range.  His left hand, concealed beneath his cloak, drifted toward one of his knives.  Legolas hoped Sam would have the good sense to run; he would rather his death was not wholly in vain.  He did not think that Sam was in any real danger of being killed unless it were by accident, for Sauron surely wanted any captive hobbits brought to him alive.

“We cannot linger with you,” Legolas said evenly, “but once again, I thank you for the offer.  We must be moving on.”  His hand inched closer to the hilt.

“I fear I must insist,” Garan said softly.  The eager smile on his face stripped all pretenses away.  The Men behind him leered at Legolas’ shadowed form and reached for their own swords.

Sam suddenly pushed past Legolas’ right side and came into full view of the Men.  “There’s no need for this!” he cried.  “Just let us go on, and –”

“Take them!” Garan bellowed, and all the Men seemed to leap forward at once.

Legolas was already moving.  He caught one leaping dog with the vambrace on his forearm, sending it flying backwards with a squeal.  He brought the same arm down to push Sam to the side and simultaneously drew a knife with his other hand.  The blade swept out from under his cloak in an arc, ready to end the life of the nearest Man, a fellow with crooked, yellowing teeth.

Legolas grunted when his arm was smashed against the wall of the crevice.  He had managed keep hold of his blade, though, and he fought to push his attacker’s body away.  Dogs snarled and innumerable hands snatched at him.  The smell of evil permeated everything, turning his stomach.  From somewhere near the ground, Sam yelped in pain.  Legolas lashed out with one foot and landed a solid, satisfying kick in someone’s gut.  The Man who had been struck fell backwards, bowling some of his fellows over.  The rest rushed to fill the gap.

Legolas’ arm was free again.  The Men were struggling to reach him, pushing each other in their bloodlust.  One of them suddenly staggered forward with a look of surprise on his face, jostled to the front of the fight before he was prepared.  Legolas spared no thought or pity for him as he swung his knife around to impale him through the heart; he did not even notice the Man’s look of shock as the blade struck home.  He would be dead before he hit the ground.  Already Legolas’ mind was on the others before him.  As he whirled to strike again, he wondered distantly where Sam was.

Enraged by their companion’s fall, two of the Men threw themselves bodily at Legolas.  In the confined space of the crevice he could not get out of their way in time, and the three of them toppled backwards.  Legolas felt a sharp, glancing blow to the side of his head, and his back collided with something.  Spots danced before his eyes, but important messages were still getting through to his brain.  He was on the ground; he was down.  Where was Sam?

Legolas heard a snarl in front of him and instinctively kicked out with both feet.  He was rewarded with a crack and two howls – one from a Man and the other from a dog – but at the same moment, his knife-hand was smashed against the floor again.  This time he could not hold onto his weapon, but a snap of one limb sent the Man who had disarmed him thudding into the cliff wall.  He twisted and leapt to his feet in time to see the Man’s eyes roll back in his head.  He fell, only to be replaced by someone else with a dagger in his hand.

There was no time for Legolas to draw his second knife.  The Man was already stabbing forward with a look of triumph on his face, and in that moment, Legolas’ own hand shot out to grasp him about the neck.  His momentum carried his attacker backwards into the other wall of the crevice, and the Man’s hands flew up to Legolas’ grip, frantically trying to free himself.  His dagger clattered to the ground.  Legolas paid no mind to the Man’s wide, frightened eyes or scrabbling fingers and squeezed harder.

A sharp, wordless cry was all that stopped Legolas from crushing the brigand’s windpipe right then and there.  Even amid the din of the fight he knew that voice for Sam’s.

“Stop!” Garan bellowed.  Everyone froze where they were, except for the Man that Legolas had pinned against the rock.  Legolas did not tighten his grip, but neither did he loosen it, and the Man continued to pluck desperately at his fingers.  His face was turning red.

“Let him go!” Garan shouted, and Legolas’ eyes darted sideways to see him clutching Sam against his legs.  Garan had one hand tangled in the hobbit’s hair, and he was using it to pull Sam’s head back.  His naked sword lay against Sam’s neck.  The hobbit’s eyes glistened with unshed tears of pain.  The Dagger of Westernesse lay on the ground at his feet.

“Let him go, I say, or your friend dies!” Garan ordered.

The Man beneath his fingers was making a rattling noise in his throat, but Legolas never took his eyes off of Sam.  The hobbit wheezed, trying not to breathe too deeply.

At Legolas’ hesitation Garan snarled silently and pulled his blade tighter against Sam’s throat.  A drop of blood ran down the hobbit’s neck, and Sam let out a thin, reedy gasp.

Legolas opened his hand.  The Man he had been holding collapsed to the earth, clutching at his neck with both hands and sucking in ragged gulps of air.

Garan did not take the pressure off of his blade, and so Legolas made no move to stop the jaundiced Man who strode forward and put the tip of his sword to his throat.  Its point dug into his flesh, just a breath away from breaking the skin.  “Shall I kill him, then?” the Man rasped.  The look in his eyes said that he very much wanted to.  Two of the dogs slunk around his feet, growling.

“No,” Garan said sharply.  “Not yet.”

Legolas allowed his eyes to roam over the group of Men, but he moved no other part of his body lest the sallow-faced man strike home.  Four were down: the one who sat gasping by the wall, the one that had been rendered unconscious, and a third who sat several feet away on the ground, holding his leg.  Every now and then he would groan through tightly clamped teeth.  The fourth Man lay unmoving at Legolas’ feet, his eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.

“I told you that Elves were hellions in battle,” said the sallow-faced Man.  His eyes caught Legolas’ own.  “Let me kill him.  He is not what we came for.”

“He is worth more alive than dead,” Garan replied.

Legolas’ captor grimaced in response and tightened his grip on his sword hilt.

“Slay the Elf and you shall be the one to explain to our master how it happened,” said Garan.

The Man’s grimace became a snarl, but he lessened the pressure on his blade.  Legolas inhaled deeply when the point was taken away.

“Hold him,” Garan said, nodding to two of the other Men.  They approached cautiously, but when Legolas made no move to resist, they seized his arms and forced them behind his back.  One of them, who Garan had earlier called Erich, plucked Legolas’ second knife from his belt.  He had its twin in his hands already.  Another Man with a narrow, pinched face felt about Legolas’ tunic for any knives that might be concealed there.  When he was satisfied that there was nothing to be found, he produced a length of cord and wound it many times about Legolas’ hands, though he did not tie a knot.  Someone’s hands closed over Legolas’ wrists.

Garan studied Legolas with an unreadable expression while his men worked.  At length he asked, “What is the Halfling’s name?”

Legolas did not reply.  Garan was still holding Sam’s head back at a painful angle, and he had not eased the pressure on his blade.  Doubt crept into Legolas’ mind – perhaps the Man really would cut Sam’s throat – but there was nothing he could do, and it terrified him.

“His name!” Garan demanded.  The jaundiced Man stepped forward and backhanded Legolas across the face.

Legolas staggered slightly with the blow but otherwise held his face still.  “He is called Sam,” he said, never taking his eyes off the hobbit, who had squeezed his own eyelids tightly shut.

“Sam what?”

“Sam Underhill.”

“Underhill,” Garan muttered, and to Legolas’ great relief, he finally eased his sword.  Sam gulped as his head was brought back down to its normal position.

“And how are you called?” Garan continued.

“I am Legolas,” said Legolas, noting that though the immediate danger to Sam had passed, Garan had not lowered his blade.  Its gleaming edge still rested gently against Sam’s skin.  “Legolas Ilantharion,” he added, not wanting the leader to think that he was being impertinent by holding back.  From the way Garan had behaved so far, recalcitrance from him would likely buy pain for Sam.

“Ilantharion!  That’s a mouthful,” one of the Men laughed.  Garan narrowed his eyes, but no flicker of recognition passed across his face.

Legolas felt a loosening in his chest at Garan’s lack of suspicion.  He had not expected the Man to recognize his name, even if he did know a thing or two about Elves, for the Elves of his homeland had little to do with the affairs of humans save those who lived in Dale.  The word Thranduillion, though, he would not dare say; his father’s name was known throughout much of Middle-earth, and he was famous for his quick temper.  Ilanthar was a soldier of Eryn Galen and a friend of Legolas’.  There was no chance that any of these Men would have heard of him, not even the more learned among them.  Ilanthar would find the use of his name as a shield amusing, Legolas thought, though perhaps not if he were in my shoes.

“Legolas Ilantharion and Sam Underhill, you are now my prisoners,” Garan intoned.  “By rights I should slay you, Elf, for the damage you have done to my company.  At present you are more valuable to me alive, but be assured that I will have no compunction against killing you should you make trouble for me of any kind.”

“What do you want with us?” Sam stammered.

Legolas shot a sharp look at the hobbit.  No, Sam!  Do not draw attention to yourself! he thought furiously.

Garan smiled down at Sam, still holding the sword against his neck.  “That is none of your concern, stunted one,” he said.  Sam’s mouth tightened at the insult .  “You are both suspicious persons, and it is my business to take an interest in suspicious persons here.”

The Man holding his leg groaned again, louder this time.  The sallow-faced Man glanced at him before turning his eyes upon the leader.  “Whit’s leg is likely broken,” he said.

“Splint it,” said Garan.  “I will decide what is to be done with him once we climb out of this gorge.”

Legolas frowned.  Climb out of the gorge?  Here?  There was only one Man among the group who looked like he might be able to manage it, a thin and wiry fellow, but at present he was lying unconscious upon the ground.

“You can’t leave me out here,” Whit moaned.

Garan sneered.  “I have heard you boasting that you once survived for a week in the woods with nothing but a knife, some twine, and your cloak.”

“I might have exaggerated a little,” Whit admitted through gritted teeth.  “And I did not have a broken leg then!”

“Then pray it mends fast,” said Garan, “or put me into a generous mood.”  He turned to the sallow-faced Man.  “Cut some branches for Whit, Dorlic.”  Whit scowled but said no more.  Dorlic gave a short nod of his head to Garan and a contemptuous look to Whit, and after spitting on the ground near Whit’s foot, he headed for the nearest pine tree.

Legolas tried not to listen as Dorlic chopped at a living branch with a small hatchet pulled from his pack.  It was not as if there was a lack of dead wood scattered about the ground; the flood had deposited all manner of debris along the riverbanks.  Yet he was not surprised that these Men would do such a thing, Garan especially.  He had been sure that Garan relished destruction only moments after setting eyes on him.

“Brund, wake Hoddis,” said Garan, addressing an extremely large Man with arms like a blacksmith’s.  “We will be moving out soon.”

“Don’t think Hoddis will be up for any climbing soon,” Brund rumbled as he stomped over to the unconscious Man’s side.  “He’ll have a pounding headache when he wakes.”

“Luckily for him, he won’t have to do the climbing,” said Garan.

Several of the Men frowned at their leader, but only Brund asked the obvious question.  “Then who’ll be doing it?  There’s no one else here’s willing to take the risk.”

“Any one of you would do it if I said you would,” Garan said softly, and suddenly his companions were looking anywhere but at him.  “But fear not.  The Elf is going to climb the cliff for us.”

This time, everyone turned to gape at Garan – everyone except Legolas, who thought he knew how Garan was going to get him to do such a thing without fear that he would escape.  Dread washed over him when Garan met his eyes.

“He’ll run as soon as he gets to the top!” said one of the Men at Legolas’ back.  “He’ll go straight to Rivendell, mark my words, and return with an army of Elves!”

“Don’t be a fool, Vannil,” said Garan.  “I would not let him climb if I thought he would dare escape.”  He wound his fingers into Sam’s hair again and tugged sharply.  Sam winced, but to his credit, he did not make a sound.  “The Elf will climb the cliff, taking a rope along with him, and when he is done he will hoist us up one by one.  If he runs when he reaches the top, he will hear the Halfling’s most earnest screams pursuing him all the way back to Rivendell.”

Legolas met Sam’s eyes.  Fear shone there, fear and what looked like apology.  There is no need for guilt, Sam, Legolas thought sadly.  That is the way of these things.  They will continue to play one of us against the other.  They will succeed, for I promised I would not leave you, and I do not think you will be willing to leave me, though you must flee from these Men as soon as may be.

“Hoist us all up?” Vannil said in disbelief.  He had a thin, nasal voice that matched well with his narrow, ratlike face.  “He’ll not have the strength.”

“You are as ignorant as you are ugly,” said Garan, “which is why I am the leader of this group and you are not.”

Vannil muttered something crude under his breath.  Legolas had no trouble hearing it as the Man was right behind him, but Garan seemed to have missed it.  Legolas thought that Vannil was lucky for that.

“Elves are strong,” said Garan.  “He killed Paet and wounded three more of you, one with his bare hands.”  Several of the Men glanced at the fellow who Legolas had nearly strangled.  He was still massaging his neck, and he threw Legolas a heated, frightened glare.

“What about Paet?” said Brund.  “I’ve no mind to dig a grave in this hard earth.”

“We have no time for him.  Leave him for the carrion or throw him in the river.”

The bulky, muscular Man that had appeared with Garan outside the crevice, stepped away from Legolas’ back.  He and Brund bent down over their dead companion and began stripping him of his belongings, and Legolas felt one of the other two Men’s hands close over his wrists.

Legolas knew that Garan had them nicely snared in the net now.  If Sam had not been there, he would not have hesitated to crush that Man’s throat, and he would have kept fighting afterwards.  He still did not think that he would have lived through the confrontation, but he was sure that he could have wounded several of his foes before dying, and perhaps killed two more.  There was little point in dwelling upon such what ifs – what was, was – but it rankled him still.  Garan would not be so complacent without his hostage! Legolas thought.  The leader of the Men was probably a coward at heart; he had not even participated in the fighting that Legolas had seen.  I would have him face me upright, Man to Elf, and then we would see who gained the upper hand!

Dorlic re-entered the group, dragging two freshly-cut pine branches with him.  He made as if to dump them unceremoniously beside Whit, but Garan ordered him to help the injured man splint his leg.  Doric scowled but squatted down beside Whit and began rummaging around in his pack for bandages.

“The hour grows late,” said Garan.  “We must begin our ascent quickly, or we will not all reach the top of the cliff by nightfall.  Free the Elf’s hands and let him have the rope.”

Legolas felt hesitant movements behind him, but Vannil did not let go.

“He will attempt nothing while I have his friend,” said Garan.  “Release him.”

The bonds around Legolas’ wrists uncoiled and fell away.  Legolas turned to face Erich and Vannil, both of whom were looking at him as if they expected to be strangled with the very rope that they were holding out to him.  But Legolas was all too conscious of Sam with the blade at his throat, and he took the cord from the Men without a word.  They had not taken the trouble to bundle it up properly, so he began making neat coils of it.  It would not do to have the rope become tangled in his legs as he climbed.

When Legolas finished his work he tucked the rope under his belt and turned to face Garan and Sam.  The hobbit’s eyes were wide and Legolas could see his pulse in his throat, but he seemed to be well enough otherwise.  The trickle of blood on his neck had dried a deep reddish-brown.

“Time to begin your task, then,” said Garan.  His eyes gleamed in his unwashed face.  “And do not forget – if you run, your friend will pay the price three times over.”

Legolas did not doubt him.  Garan had not killed Sam yet, and so he did not think that he ultimately would – at least not until he had learned what he wanted from him.  But he would not hesitate to visit pain upon him, and Legolas was determined to prevent that if it was possible to do so.  The longer they could stay together and unhurt, the better.  At least he would have some time to formulate a plan.  He did not reply to Garan, but simply turned toward the cliff and began to study it.

The span of rock that faced him was mostly smooth, broken here and there by a thin fissure or small outcropping.  It would have been daunting for any Man, even Aragorn, and Legolas understood why Brund had said that no one was willing to take the risk of climbing it.  He wondered if Hoddis, gangly as he was, could have managed it – but he knew that he himself could, alone.  He would start inside the crevice where there were more handholds and footholds than on the outer cliff wall.  And he would do it barefoot; he could tell that he would need his toes.  His boots, pliable though they were, would only get in the way.

Legolas quickly unlaced and removed his boots before stepping just inside the crevice.  He did not go far in lest Garan think that he was readying himself for a fight again.  After only a brief study, he reached up to seize a knob of rock and stepped up with one foot.

Climbing in the crevice was easy, and in moments Legolas was six feet off the ground.  Reach and step, reach and step, always making certain that three of his limbs were securely placed before moving the fourth; that was the way.  He briefly considered slowing his pace – if Garan suspected that he was too strong, he might do something to permanently weaken him before the night was over – but he immediately rejected the idea.  He had nine Men, three dogs, and one hobbit to pull up once he reached the top, and he needed to conserve his strength.  That meant that he had to climb quickly.  What was more, the wound on his leg was bleeding again.  He had not noticed it during the fight, but he could feel it now.

The crevice began to narrow as Legolas climbed, and for a time he was able to press his back against one wall while keeping his hands and feet on the other.  Eventually the crevice would become too narrow for him to continue to remain inside; it tapered off to a mere crack in the rock halfway up the cliff.  When his arms and legs began to feel cramped by the small space, Legolas reached out with his left hand and began feeling across the smooth outer face for something to hold on to.

Legolas found his handhold, although he could barely fit his fingertips into the fissure.  Cautiously he turned his body until his right palm and foot were bracing him against the right-hand wall of the crevice from which he was trying to escape.  Gasps sounded below him when he stuck out his left foot and wedged his toes into a wider, horizontal crack.  From the sound of things, every single Man on the ground was watching his climb, but he did not look down.

“Climbs like a spider, he does!” one of them said.  “I never saw anything like it!”

Legolas rolled his eyes.  Him, like a spider?  The Man hardly knew the irony of what he said.

It was not as easy climbing on the outer face of the cliff as it had been in the crevice, for there were far fewer hand and footholds there, but Legolas’ fingers and toes found cracks and lumps of stone that would not have been support enough for even the nimblest Man.  He heard more thrilled gasps as he continued to climb, especially when he made it past one particularly difficult spot.  For a full minute he had been stuck with both hands wedged into the same fissure and the toes of one foot clinging to a knob of rock that barely deserved the name.  He had been off-balance and in danger of falling, and he had not had time to carefully prepare himself for moving one hand from the fissure to another handhold off to his right.  It had been a risky move, but he had been lucky, and his fingers had found the handhold they sought just as his left foot had begun to slip.

At long last, near the top of the cliff, the rock became more forgiving.  The holds grew larger, and Legolas gratefully used them.  He moved much more quickly as his footing grew secure, and when he finally threw an arm up over the edge of the cliff, a few cheers actually sounded far below him.

Legolas pulled himself up atop the cliff with both arms, and for a moment he simply knelt there at the edge to catch his breath.  Then he sat down and turned to peer down the face of the rock.

He was at least seventy feet off the ground.  The Men looked small beneath him, all of them gazing up at him with a variety of expressions on their faces.  Most looked admiring, but Dorlic was scowling darkly, and Garan was wearing his smug smile again.  Sam’s face was white; he looked relieved.  Someone must have retrieved his leaf-shaped dagger from the ground, for it no longer lay at his feet.

“There is no time for delay,” Garan called.  “Throw the rope down.  You go first, Dorlic.”  He pressed his sword ever so slightly against Sam’s neck in case Legolas had forgotten his threats.

“A moment,” Legolas called back.  “I must anchor myself to something, or your weight will pull me over the edge.”  There was a tough, low pine tree not six feet from where he stood.

“No trickery, Elf!” Garan called when Legolas disappeared from the cliff’s edge.  “Take too long and your friend will suffer the consequences!”

Legolas crouched before the stubby pine tree, pulled the rope from his belt, and began wrapping one end about the gnarled trunk.  He scowled as he worked, loathing Garan and his cruelty, hating that he was being put to work like a pack animal.  It galled him to help the Men in this way, but what choice did he have?  For the sake of friendship as well as his vow, he would not abandon Sam.

Legolas worked quickly, and soon he was looking down at the ground while looping the rope around his waist.  Garan relaxed visibly when he reappeared.  When he had secured himself, Legolas tossed the free end of the rope down to the ground.  Dorlic glared up at him, but he picked up his end of the rope and swiftly tied it into a makeshift harness about his waist and legs.  Let his knots be well-made, thought Legolas.  He did not like to think what would happen to Sam if one of the Men fell to their death, even if it were their own fault for lack of proper caution.  He decided that Dorlic deserved no warning from him, so as soon as the sallow-faced Man had finished his knots and looked up, Legolas set his feet and pulled.

Dorlic gave an indignant squawk as his feet were hoisted off the ground.  Legolas ignored him.  Quick work was the key, as it had been with the climbing; if he took too long, his strength would be sapped before time.  Hand over hand he pulled and the rope slowly piled up beside him.  The end that was wrapped around his waist was held tight by its anchor point on the pine scrub.

A hand appeared at the edge of the cliff, followed by a head.  Legolas stopped pulling when Dorlic got both arms atop the rock, letting the Man haul himself the rest of the way up.  Dorlic scowled when Legolas let the rope go slack, but he had no breath to waste.  A few grunts later he was on his feet and hurrying away from the cliff’s edge, looking rather pale.

Dorlic untied his makeshift harness, tossed it back over the cliff, and dropped Legolas’ soft boots on the ground, which he had borne up with him.  Legolas gratefully put them back on while another Man tied himself to the far end of the rope, and soon he was pulling again.  He did not much care which Man he was hoisting unless it were Garan or Sam.  He made no effort to spare the passenger bumps and scrapes; whatever bruises they accrued on the way up, they more than merited.

Garan chose to take his turn when four of the other Men had already been lifted, including Hoddis, who had been successfully roused, and Whit, whose leg had been roughly splinted.  Garan sheathed his sword and let one of his fellows guard Sam while he tied the rope about himself.  When he was done, Brund lifted Sam off the ground and thrust him into Garan’s arms.  Sam struggled for a moment, but he subsided when he saw Dorlic put the tip of his sword to Legolas’ neck again.  Legolas felt a flash of anger when he realized that Garan was not going to secure Sam with anything more than his arms.  The Man smiled up at him as if daring him to say something about it, and it cost Legolas a great effort to hold his tongue.  He was beginning to think that Garan was far too clever for his own good; by bearing Sam with him, he had just ensured that Legolas would not decide to drop him when he was halfway up the cliff.

That passage was the worst yet.  Sam and Garan together made a heavy burden, and Legolas’ pack was now on Sam’s back, too.  Legolas’ hands were beginning to burn from holding the taut rope and his leg ached, but he took his time with Garan and was careful not to jostle him.  He would have been more than happy to give Garan a few bruises, but he would not risk injuring Sam; the hobbit had already taken a beating from the trip downriver.  Legolas was immensely relieved when Sam appeared at the top, safe and whole.  Garan was the only Man that he pulled fully over the edge himself, for above all, he did not want Sam to fall.  Sam and Legolas locked eyes for a moment while Garan untied himself, but the moment the Man was free, his sword was out and at the hobbit’s neck again.  Sam looked frightened, but Legolas did not think that he was afraid for himself.

A loud splash below announced the disposal of Paet’s body in the river.  His weapons, cloak, and boots had been removed.  The leather jerkin remained, as it now contained one very clean but bloody cut over Paet’s stilled heart.  Legolas sighed internally when he thought of that corpse rotting in the water while caught on some branch.  He reserved none of his pity for the dead Man.

Each Man that Legolas lifted after Garan felt progressively heavier even though one of them was Vannil, who was almost as skinny as Hoddis.  Even the three dogs, who did not like being hauled up on a rope one bit, felt larger than they ought.  He was exceedingly weary by the time he pulled up the Man that he had nearly strangled; whatever his name was, he glared weakly at Legolas when he appeared, but Legolas barely noticed.  There was only one Man still on the ground below, and he felt a new rush of bitterness when he realized that the last passenger would be Brund, the largest Man in the group.  He avoided glancing in Garan’s direction, who had surely arranged the circumstances out of spite.  He did not think he could look at the Man’s self-satisfied face for much longer without attacking him.

Lifting Brund proved to be a punishment.  Legolas’ arms and back howled at him when Brund’s feet left the ground; his shoulders begged him to stop.  The sun had set and twilight was deepening, but he was impervious to the increasing cold.  Exertion warmed him, and the strain borne by his muscles banished every other feeling.  None of the other Men made the slightest move to help him, and Legolas did not ask for any assistance.  Brund moved upwards, seeming to merely inch along, and Legolas kept his eyes on the rope in his hands, taut as a drawn bowstring.  Hand over hand.  Hand over hand.  Over and over he repeated the litany, and after what seemed like hours, the big Man’s head appeared at the edge of the cliff.  Legolas gave one last, long tug as Brund struggled to pull himself over; it would not do to let him fall, here at the end, and have his efforts be all for naught.  After all, he had done it for Sam, and not for Garan.  That was what he told himself.

With stiff arms, Legolas unwrapped the rope from about his waist and let it drop.  His legs wanted to give way beneath him, but he stubbornly refused to let them fold.  Warm blood was trickling down his thigh again.

“Well done,” said Garan.  Legolas could see him clearly despite the gathering dusk, still holding Sam at knifepoint.  For once, his smirk was gone.  He even looked impressed.  Sam was beaming, and the unabashed pride on his face was enough to help Legolas stand up a little bit straighter.

“Give them bread and water,” said Garan.  “I don’t want them dropping from exhaustion tomorrow.”

Vannil held out half of a loaf of bread to him along with a waterskin.  A part of Legolas wanted to refuse the offerings, but prudence told him to take it.  It would be foolish to remain weak simply out of pride.  How could he engineer an escape if he starved himself?

Legolas ate quickly while the Men set up camp.  Garan was the only uninjured person in the party who did not work.  He stood more than ten feet away from Legolas, guarding Sam as the hobbit hungrily wolfed down his own meal.  A small fire was built, and Legolas supposed that Garan did not fear meeting anyone so far from civilization.  Again he wondered how much the Man knew of the Fellowship, and whether he thought Sam was the real prize he sought.  Garan had seemed disappointed by the name ‘Underhill’, and he had not yet tried to search either him or Sam.

As soon as Sam and Legolas had downed their bread and water, they found themselves bound hand and foot and dropped on the ground a long way from the warmth of the fire, back to back.  The ground was cold and hard beneath Legolas’ cheek, but it felt good to be off his feet at last, even tied as he was.  The wound on his thigh throbbed angrily.  In the darkness, none of the Men seemed to see the blood.

“I don’t like leaving them together,” said the muscular Man, who by now Legolas had heard called Jakov.  If Brund had not been a member of the company, he would have been the biggest Man there.  “They might try to escape.”

“They will not try,” Garan said confidently, but he set a guard to watch them from a distance all the same.  Legolas thought that the Man could probably afford to be confident, at least that night; he was surely too weary to attempt anything, and Garan knew it.

The Men all retreated to the fire, leaving Sam and Legolas alone on the ground.  Erich, the first Man on guard, alternated between glancing suspiciously at them and looking at the fire off to his right.  One of the dogs curled up by his feet while the other two basked in the warmth of the flames.  For a few minutes, neither Sam nor Legolas said a word, but when it began to look like they would not be disturbed, Sam whispered into the darkness.

“Legolas?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“Are you all right?”

“I think I am as well as I can be,” Legolas replied, “but I am very tired.”

“It was amazing, what you did,” said Sam.  “If it hadn’t been under such terrible circumstances, I should write a song about it.”

Legolas smiled.  He wished he could see the hobbit’s face.  “Are you all right?  Did Garan cause you any hurt?”

“He cut my neck a little, but that’s all.  I was more frightened than hurt.”

“That is well.  I was sure that he would not kill you – he made his interest in hobbits plain enough – but for a moment I doubted, and I feared for your life.”

“Could you really have strangled that Man?” Sam asked in hushed tones.

“I daresay I could have, but I ran out of time.”

Silence fell between them after that.  Legolas was too weary to want to talk much.  He could feel his heartbeat slowing as he lay there on the ground; sleep could not be far off.  Slowly he turned his head so he could see the sky above the horizon.  Many of the clouds had vanished, and the stars were coming out.  They twinkled softly like shining jewels on the deepest purple velvet.

“What are we going to do?” Sam whispered suddenly.  Legolas blinked at the feel of a smaller hand groping blindly for his.  He reached back, and his long fingers found Sam’s hand without causing any strain on his bonds.

“We will think of something,” Legolas replied, wishing he had more assurances to give.  But he had none, and they both knew it.

Legolas gazed the stars, taking rest in their never-ending song that only the Elves could really hear.  They were ever a comfort to him; their unchanging pattern made a map in the heavens that he knew as well as he knew his father’s face.  At any time of year, at any time of night, he could look up at the stars and find his bearings.  The seasons changed and the years passed him by unmarked, but he never ceased to marvel at their distant beauty.

With Sam’s warm hand nestled in his palm and the song of the heavens in his ears, Legolas failed to notice when his mind shook off the woes of his body and stepped into a dream.