Chapter 15: What Cannot Be Reclaimed

Sam lay quietly amid his mound of blankets, sealed in a pocket of warmth like a caterpillar in a cocoon.  The Fellowship could not have used all their blankets to wrap him up, but he felt as if they had.  Though all that warmth and weight might eventually become oppressive, for the moment he was content to luxuriate in the heat.  After all, the last few days had been very, very cold.

Sam swallowed carefully to test the soreness of his throat.   Whatever Strider had given him, it seemed to be working; swallowing did not hurt nearly as much as it had that morning, and his body did not ache so badly.  But he still felt congested, and he fought against the sudden urge to cough.  He didn’t really want to talk to anyone, not even Frodo, and pretending to sleep was a good way to avoid unwanted conversation.  Any sudden hacking would give him away, and he would have to fend the others off again.

Gandalf’s interview had left Sam feeling shaken.  He could understand why they all wanted to know what had happened to him, but he wished that he had not had to be the one to tell them – and that he had not had to reveal so much.  At least he had been able to keep some of the most painful details to himself.  Telling the others about Garan’s methods of questioning him would bring them no profit.  Anyway, Strider had looked him over quite thoroughly; some of his bruises were too fresh to have come from the flood, and his latest trip down the river was too recent to have left visible marks.  Strider had surely guessed.

Anger and shame heated Sam’s cheeks when he thought of how easily Garan had manhandled him.  The humiliation and pain had been bad enough; that all the Men had gloated over it did not help.  Worst of all was the knowledge that he had been utterly helpless in Garan’s hands.  He could not have stopped the violation of his mind any more than he could have put an end to the assaults on his body.  It wasn’t right that someone should be able to get into his head, and especially without his permission.  The intrusion had left him feeling contaminated, and that feeling had not yet gone away.

Sam was still preoccupied with the notion that Garan could have forced him to betray Frodo.  Gandalf seemed very certain that the sorcerer had not been able to read his thoughts, which was some consolation but not enough to put Sam at ease.  Even though Garan had only been able to frighten him, he had done the job very well, and who could say what he might have been able to do had he had more time to pry?  The whole experience reminded Sam of a mouse that he had once seen, trying to escape a cat.  The unfortunate creature had darted to and fro, terrified and shrieking, before the cat had finally tired of the game and broken its back.  Garan had certainly been tiring of his game; his final threats had been all too real.

What wouldn’t that mouse have given to save itself? said a small voice in Sam’s head.

Sam hated that snide little voice.  It had been niggling at him for some time now and his attempts to ignore it remained unsuccessful.  It would not let him forget the terror he had felt at the sight of Garan drawing his sword out of the fire.  In truth, he didn’t need the voice to remind him, for he would never forget that moment for as long as he lived.  Legolas had been right; he hadn’t understood that kind of fear.  He hadn’t been ready to face it.

You thought about giving Frodo up, said the voice.  You were ready to tell Garan whatever he wanted to hear.

Shut up! Sam thought viciously.  He hadn’t told; Garan had given him a choice, and he had refused even though the fear of doing so had overwhelmed him.  He had refused!

But you considered it.

Tears prickled behind Sam’s closed eyelids.  He kept them tightly shut, trying to prevent the tears from escaping, not wanting any of the others to see him weeping and know he was awake.  That voice was getting the better of him.  Yes, he had considered giving Frodo up, if only for a moment, and that was bad enough.  His loyalty to Frodo was supposed to be beyond questioning.  Legolas would never have dreamed of betraying Frodo.  Somehow, the thought of the Elf knowing frightened Sam almost as much as that of Frodo knowing.  What would Legolas think of him?

Heartsick as Sam was, thinking of Legolas was not the best thing to do.  He could not seem to focus on pleasant thoughts; he could only think of what had happened on the clifftop.  He had only to tighten his hand to feel a firm knife-hilt pressed into his palm.  Closing his eyes could not shut out the sight of the unsuspecting Men before him.  He tasted again the bitterness on his tongue, felt again the resistance that shivered through his arm as the blade sliced through flesh, muscle and bone.  In his memory, Jakov’s agonized howl rang loud and clear.

The moment he felt the jarring impact and heard that scream, Sam had known that what he had done could never be taken back.  And just like that his white-hot anger had vanished, swept away like dried leaves in a gale.  He had been so stunned by his own violent act that he had scarcely been able to help Legolas escape his bonds.

Now, as he had then, Sam wondered about what he had done.  Was it right or wrong?  It felt wrong.  That it had been Legolas who dealt the final blow did not matter much; Jakov would have eventually died of his wound if Legolas had not hastened his end.  Hobbits never killed one another; it was not in their nature to do so.  Sam would never have thought himself capable of stabbing a Man in the back, not in his wildest dreams.

But what would have happened if he hadn’t done it?  Legolas would have been maimed for starters, and possibly worse.  Sam doubted if Dorlic would have been able to restrain himself once he had drawn first blood, Garan’s stipulations notwithstanding.  And even if the Men hadn’t killed Legolas right then and there, it still would have been the end for both him and Sam.  Their torment would have only increased until they reached Isengard, and with Legolas’ abilities reduced, they would never have been able to escape.  What was more, Sam did not know how long he would have been able to hold his tongue if the Men had continued to hurt Legolas.  He would never know for certain now, but he wondered if Garan might not have succeeded in getting what he wanted that way.  They would have both wound up in the dungeons of Orthanc, and Legolas’ fate would have been worse than Sam’s own.  If Sam had not met an early death, in time he would have aged and died.  Elves, on the other hand – they could live forever.

Forever.

Tears slid down Sam’s face in spite of his attempt to stop them, and his throat tightened painfully with the effort of remaining silent.  Grief and nausea threatened to overwhelm him even though none of those terrible things had happened.  He and Legolas had so nearly been lost to the void that Sam could feel it still clinging to him, haunting him like a malevolent spirit.

Things would have been far worse for both of them had Sam not acted; this he knew for certain.  No matter how he turned matters over in his head, he could not think of any path that would have been better than the one he had taken... but even so, he could not reconcile his actions with what he had always known to be right and wrong.  He had never expected to have to ponder questions that seemingly had no right answers.  He had never wanted to know that he could be driven to kill someone, no matter what they had done.  But he knew it now, and he could not turn back the clock.  All he could do now was wish with all of his heart that none of it had ever happened.

Much good may wishing do you! said the voice.

No one seemed to have noticed Sam’s inner turmoil; if they had, they would have disturbed him.  Sam was grateful for the solitude.  Now was never going to be the right time to talk to anyone about what he had done.  When Legolas woke up, he would have to act quickly to be sure that the Elf told no one what had happened on the clifftop.  He would have to tell the Fellowship something – just not the whole truth.  There was no point at all in telling them; what was done was done, and knowing would only burden them with something they could do nothing about.

The strain required to keep such disquiet hidden was wearing.  Sam eventually drifted off into a real sleep despite his melancholy, but his dreams were jittery and dark.  After he woke for the third time in a feverish sweat, he began to wonder whether he would ever feel at peace again whether waking or sleeping.  Weary as he was, he felt that he could sleep for a week if only his heart were not so troubled.

Sam was closing his eyes again when he suddenly became aware that the quiet rhythm of life beneath the shelter had changed.  Something was different, but his drowsy mind was slow to identify it.  Someone was making a good deal of noise.  Why was that?  It was nighttime again; whoever it was ought to be quiet, or they could give the Fellowship’s position away.

“--all right,” said a voice.

Sam opened his eyes and blinked, trying to find his bearings.  What was going on?

“Come back, Merry,” said another voice, and the raucous sound rang out again.

Sam’s awareness was rapidly increasing.  That was not the voice of a creature that was capable of speech; it was a whinny.  Bill!

Abruptly, unaccountably, Sam felt a wave of cold wash over him.  Forgetting that he did not want to be noticed, he turned his face toward the Fellowship.  They were all clustered at one end of the shelter, looking out into the darkness beyond.  But that was no ordinary darkness; it seemed thick somehow, like a living smoke that had come to choke out the light of the fire.  A trickle of ice seemed to run down Sam’s spine, and he gasped aloud.  He did not know how he knew, but Garan was out there.  Garan was right there.

“Get back here, Merry!” cried a high voice.

How did they let Garan get so close? Sam wondered.  But he had no more time for thinking, for just then Bill screamed, a Man shouted, and someone else shrieked.  Metal clanged against the ground.

“Stop!” a familiar, hated voice called, and Sam’s insides twisted.  There was no denying now that Garan was there.  “Don’t move an inch, any of you, or I’ll break its neck!”

Sam’s heart was beating a rapid staccato against his breast.  Whose neck? he thought wildly.  Frodo!  Where is Frodo?  He could see Pippin but not his master.  Sam very nearly leapt to his feet right then and there – but common sense overrode his panic, and he kept still.  He was so wholly focused on locating Frodo that it took him a moment to realize that something was touching him.  Slowly – very slowly – Sam turned his head until he was looking straight ahead again, and nearly yelped when he found Legolas staring back at him.  The Elf was motionless, wrapped thoroughly in blankets and Boromir’s furry cloak, but one of his feet was sticking out where he had nudged Sam.  Tension radiated from him like heat from a furnace.  As they gazed at each other, Sam was sure that they were both wondering precisely the same thing: What are we going to do?

“Who are you?” demanded a deep, commanding voice.  “Why do you attack us?”

Gandalf, Sam thought.

“You have no need of my name,” said Garan’s voice, “and I do not care to hear yours!  There is no point in pretending that you do not know my business here.  You have been watching for me ever since we first saw each other.”

Sam slowly craned his neck until he could see the other end of the shelter.  Boromir and Gimli were clutching the hilts of their weapons, ready to leap into battle at the slightest provocation.  Gandalf was gripping Glamdring with one hand; his other hand was empty, but his staff lay on the ground next to him.  Of Strider there was no sign.  Pippin stood next to Gandalf, and….  Relief flooded through Sam when he realized that Frodo was there after all.  How he had missed him the first time, he could not imagine; Frodo was half-hidden from view behind Pippin, but he was there all the same.  Sam’s relief abruptly drained away when the implications of what he saw struck home.  If Pippin and Frodo were still with the Fellowship, then Merry was in the sorcerer’s clutches.  It could not be Strider that Garan had meant; he would never have called a Man it.

“Release our companion!” said Gandalf.  “You have no right to seize him!”

The voice barked out a laugh.  “You are far from the nearest magistrate, old man; I will do as I please.”  There was a pause, and then: “There are no more Elves among you?  So much the better.”

“Think you that mortals are more easily slain than Elves?” said Strider’s voice, slightly muffled to Sam’s ears.

“Elves are tricksome, and far more trouble than they are worth,” said Garan.  “But if you have not already guessed your companions’ fate, then know that they are dead, Elf and Halfling alike.”

“Aye, you can kill both with equal aptitude – when they are naught but fish in a barrel,” said Strider.

Sam’s eyes widened, and Legolas looked thoughtful.  So Garan did think they were dead.  And he did not seem to have seen them back by the fire – but then, the rest of the Fellowship likely screened them from Garan’s eyes.  What was more, Sam doubted that either of them would have looked like anything more than two large lumps of blankets to the casual observer.

“Killed with honor or without, the end result is the same,” said Garan, but Sam thought he detected a sour note in the Man’s voice.  “Perhaps I have no honor, but it makes no matter to me.”

Moving carefully, Legolas craned his neck as Sam had done and stared into the outer darkness.  It was difficult for Sam to be sure, but it seemed to him that Legolas had spotted something; the Elf’s eyes were darting back and forth between two patches of black.  What did he see, Sam wondered?  Could his eyes penetrate the unnatural fog that obscured Garan?

“What do you want with us?” Gandalf demanded.

“One of the Halflings carries an item of value.  Hand it over, and I will let this little rat live.”

Frodo’s right hand twitched.  No, sir! Sam thought furiously.  Don’t reach for it!

“We will not treat with someone we cannot see,” said Gandalf, making his voice as rich and sonorous as Sam had ever heard.  “Show yourself, and our friend, so we know that he is unharmed.”

“You can hear him well enough,” said Garan.  Merry suddenly yelped, and Bill let out a nervous bray in response.  “What is your answer?  I have no compunction against killing a few more of you should you refuse.”

“You are one; we are many more,” said Gandalf.  “Apart from the one you already hold, how many of us do you think you can slay?”

Pippin unsuccessfully tried to swallow a cry that bubbled out of his throat.  Sam felt as startled as Pippin sounded.  Surely Gandalf didn’t mean it; surely he wouldn’t let Merry die!  And yet he wondered in spite of himself.  What did Gandalf value more – secrecy, or Merry’s life?

“I am not alone!” Garan barked.  “There are arrows trained on the lot of you at this very moment!”

That was probably true, thought Sam; Garan did not seem like the type who would attack unless he was certain that he held the advantage.

Legolas chose that moment to recapture Sam’s attention with words breathed so softly that no one else could have heard him.  “The bow,” he said, and moved his chin in the general direction of Sam’s head.

Sam was surprised, but he looked where Legolas indicated, taking care to move his own head as gently as possible.  And then he saw it – Strider’s bow, protruding from beneath a discarded blanket.  It lay within reach of his hand, more or less, but it was too far for Legolas to take without significant movement.

There could only be one thing that an archer wanted a bow for, even a wounded archer.  The knowledge of what Legolas intended set Sam’s heart to racing.  As quickly as he dared, he stretched out one arm and reached for the weapon.  Thoughts flooded his mind as his hand closed on the smooth wood.  If Brund, Erich and Daerid had their bows drawn, then there was no way that Legolas could shoot them all before someone in the Fellowship was killed.  Or was Legolas planning to shoot Garan?  Sam desperately wanted to ask the Elf what he was thinking, but speaking was risky, even in a whisper.

“I do not know what it is that you want,” said Gandalf.  “We have little enough of value with us, save what we need to survive in the wilderness.”

“Don’t think you can play the fool with me!” said Garan.  “You do know what I seek, and it is neither your clothes nor your blankets!”

The bow slid soundlessly over the ground, cushioned by the cloth beneath it.  When Sam had moved it within Legolas’ reach, the Elf’s fingers suddenly appeared from beneath his covers and signaled stop.  He gestured with his chin again, and Sam looked back in the direction of the bow’s original resting place.  Strider’s quiver lay in a shadowed corner, much farther away than the bow had been.  Sam grasped a corner of the blanket and pulled, and the quiver slid toward him.

“Our weapons, then,” said Gandalf.

Sam’s heart nearly stopped when the blanket snagged on the ground and the arrows rattled against the hard leather of their case, but Garan chose just that moment to reply.  “I am not interested in your rusty swords!” he snapped.  Sam’s pulse was already racing, but it sped up at the sound of Garan’s obvious anger.  He knew perfectly well that Garan had reached the end of his patience; he had been robbed of victory almost two days ago, and he had been tired of waiting then.

Legolas held his fist out toward Sam.  It was only when Sam saw him mouthing the word arrows that he understood what Legolas wanted: for him to hold the missiles at the ready.  He still wished he knew the whole of Legolas’ plan, but there was no time for questions and no way to ask them even if there had been time, so Sam swallowed his doubts and reached for the arrows.

“If you cannot be specific, then I cannot satisfy you.  We have nothing else!”

“Do not trifle with me, old man!  I – will – cut – its – throat!”

There was no way to hide the arrows’ motion; Sam would simply have to take them and hope that no one saw.  With sweaty fingers, he grasped a handful and drew them toward him.  To his eyes, the pale shafts stood out against the dark blankets as plainly as white on black.  But he made no sound at all, and no one seemed to notice him – not Garan, not the Fellowship, not the other Men out in the darkness… if they were there at all.  It was with a profound feeling of relief that he clutched the fistful of feathered shafts against his chest.

Merry sucked in a high, whistling gasp, and Sam had a vision of the hobbit’s head being pulled back by the hair.

“Do something, Gandalf,” Pippin whispered.  “Please.”

“Hand it over at once,” Garan shouted, “or I will be searching all of your corpses!”

Legolas reached out and took one arrow from Sam’s fist, holding it loosely with his fingertips.  He drew a deep breath, fixed his eyes on something out in the darkness, and whispered, “Now.”

They reared up out of their blankets together, Sam holding the arrows while Legolas pulled the bow up with him.  No sooner had Legolas risen to his knees than he had fitted the arrow the string and drawn to anchor.  An instant later the shaft whistled through the air past Boromir’s right side, and a scream rang out in the night.

Later on, Sam would be able to say that he remembered everything from those next moments with perfect clarity, though only heartbeats passed before the others recovered from their shock.  Boromir, Gimli, Pippin and Frodo spun around to stare at Sam and Legolas, but Legolas paid them no mind; by the time the Fellowship had turned to face them, he had already plucked a second arrow from Sam’s fist and drawn again.  Pippin and Frodo were temporarily paralyzed by the sight of Legolas aiming at them, but Gandalf, who had not succumbed to surprise, seized the two hobbits and pulled them down to the ground with him.  The arrow streaked through the place where they had just been and vanished into the darkness.

Pandemonium erupted.  Frodo, Pippin, and Gandalf struggled to regain their feet, with the hobbits drawing their weapons and the wizard raising his staff.  An arrow struck the rock above Gimli’s head with a loud clack, sending a shower of dust raining down on him.  Boromir whirled to face forward as another arrow flew past him and into the shelter where it embedded itself in a discarded pack.  Boromir and the Dwarf bellowed a war-cry together and leapt away in search of the Men who had shot at them.  Pippin hoisted his Dagger of Westernesse, shouted inarticulately, and launched himself toward Merry and Garan.

Merry howled and Garan let out a shriek of pain.  Metal clashed from somewhere out among the trees, accompanied by shouts from both Man and Dwarf.  Legolas took a third arrow and drew, and Bill cried out in terror.

“Merry!  Pippin!” Frodo cried.

The half-spoken, half-screamed words that burst from Garan’s mouth took Sam completely by surprise.  Quick as thought, Gandalf flung up his staff, and Sam felt a sudden blast of pressure wash over him.  He wobbled on his knees with the force of the unseen blow while thuds, grunts and clatters sounded from several feet away.  Legolas leaned backwards as though he had been pushed at the shoulder, and Frodo was staggering, but Gandalf moved not an inch.

Sam drew a deep breath.  Next to him, Legolas retightened his grip on the bowstring.  The noise of Boromir’s and Gimli’s battles, which had faltered for a moment, returned at full volume.  But Sam was only thinking of one thing: what had happened to Merry, Pippin, and Strider?

“No!” Strider shouted, and a wordless yell from Garan sounded an instant before metal rang against metal.  Sam heard the solid thunk of something hard striking flesh, and Strider was suddenly coughing and wheezing.

“MERRYYY!”  Pippin’s wild shriek rang out in the darkness, followed by another roar of pain from Garan.  Legolas jerked his aim toward the source of the sound.  His arm was perfectly steady as he held the arrow at anchor, but his forehead had begun to glisten.

Sam had never seen an Elf sweat before.  “Don’t hold it like that, sir!” he cried, realizing that Legolas was pushing himself too far.

“Pippin!” Merry screamed.  A blade clanged against stone, and Garan bellowed like a wounded bear.

“Let it go!” Sam repeated.

Gandalf raised his staff again, and a light flashed so brightly that Sam was blinded.  To his left he heard the sharp twang of the bowstring as Legolas finally loosed the third arrow, and Garan’s furious shouts abruptly became a ragged wail of misery.

The scream rang in Sam’s ears.  Sweat broke out of every pore in his skin; his breathing suddenly came hard and fast, and yet he did not feel as if he could get enough breath into his body.  The sound seemed to go on and on, and Sam vaguely wondered how the Man had enough air in his lungs for such a protracted howl.  He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for the sound to stop, for someone to kill Garan and end it.  His stomach churned; he was going to sick up.  Stop! he thought desperately.  Please, stop!

Outside the shelter, Garan’s shriek ceased.

Sam kept his eyes tightly shut.  His body was slick with perspiration and he was trembling from head to foot.  He still felt sick, but the urge to empty his stomach was not so sharp anymore.  To his left, wood clacked against the hard ground.

“Merry?  Pippin!” Frodo called, sounding panicked.

There was a moment’s pause, and then Strider replied, “He… is dead!”

“Who is dead?” cried Frodo.

“Frodo, we’re all right!” Merry called.  There was a distinct tremor in his voice.  “We’re all right!”

“The Man, Frodo,” said Gandalf.  “The Man is dead.”

Sam let out a shuddering breath that he had not realized he was holding and gulped in large quantities of cold air.  Though he was preoccupied with his own distress, a corner of his mind wondered how Gandalf could sound so calm and collected.  His own brain was still racing at a dizzying speed.  It had all happened so fast!  Shouts sounded from out among the rocks and boulders again, and he realized that Boromir and Gimli were still battling a foe.

“Pippin, answer me,” Frodo demanded.

“I’m here too,” Pippin replied breathily.

Sam opened his eyes.  The light was gone, and though spots danced before him, he found that he could see again.  He had not realized until now that he was clutching the rest of the arrows against his chest.  And there in front of him was Aragorn’s bow, lying on the ground.  A sudden concern for Legolas made him forget his lingering sickness and he swung his head left, looking for the Elf.  With great alarm he found that Legolas was leaning forward with both hands on the ground.  Arrows clattered to the earth as Sam raised his hands in an effort to support his companion.  “Mr. Legolas!” he cried.  “Are you hurt?  Oh, help me, Mr. Frodo!”  He was gratified when Frodo immediately hurried over to stand on the other side of Legolas, but he did not miss the sight of his master’s hand unclenching from his collar as he came.

“Legolas?” Strider called.

“You’re hurt.  Lie down.”  Frodo’s voice was soft, but he still sounded rattled.

Sam could tell that Strider was rapidly approaching by the sound of his voice.  “What… what has he done?”

“Brund is running away!” said Legolas through clenched teeth.

“What’s happened?” came Pippin’s voice.  “Sam!  Are you well?”

“I’m all right,” said Sam.  His voice wobbled less than he had expected it to.

“Merry!” Frodo sighed when his eyes fell upon his cousin.  “You’re still in one piece!”

“Still in one piece,” Merry agreed shakily.  Sam’s eyes took in the sight of a thin red line across the other hobbit’s neck, and the memory of a razor-sharp blade against his own throat came floating to the surface of his mind.  But he had no time to dwell on it, for he was already surrounded by pale, nervous faces.  Hands reached out to ease a stiff but unresisting Legolas back to the ground.  “Carefully – carefully!” said Strider.

“Did you not hear me?” Legolas said sharply.  The tone of his voice confirmed Sam’s suspicion that he was in pain and trying to hide it.  “Our work is unfinished!”

“Boromir and Gimli might go after him,” said Gandalf, who remained at the edge of the overhang, keeping watch.  “They have not yet returned.”

“Are they alive?” Frodo exclaimed in alarm.

“Just moments ago, they were.  We must trust that they know what they are doing.”

“We cannot let Brund escape!” Legolas protested.  “If he reaches Saruman -!”

“It cannot be helped,” said Gandalf.  “Rest, Legolas; you have done more than your share.”   Legolas did not look as though he liked this answer at all, and Sam was certain that he was wishing he could leap up and chase Brund down himself.

Strider was already tugging gently at the white linen of Legolas’ bandage.  “No blood is seeping through,” he said roughly.  “Perhaps it has not torn open.” 

“Strider!” Frodo exclaimed.  “You are bleeding!”

“Am I?”

“Your neck!”

“Oh.”  Strider reached up to touch his skin with his fingertips.  “I had quite forgotten.  It is only a scratch; the blood is already drying.  It must look worse than it is.”

“But your voice is not itself,” Frodo protested.  “Are you sure that –”

“I am sure,” Strider interrupted.  His mouth twisted with distaste.  “Garan surprised me twice – first by nearly taking off my head, and again when he kicked me in the stomach.  For a moment I could not draw breath, and if Pippin had not been there, things might have gone ill for me.”

“How?” asked Frodo, turning to his cousin.  “What did you do?”

For the first time since waking, Sam took a good look at Merry and Pippin and at once was struck by their dazed expressions.  Pippin slowly looked down at the dagger he still clutched in one fist.  “I cut him,” he said, holding up the blade before him.  Drops of thick red blood slid down its edge toward his hand.

“So did I,” Merry said quietly.  Sam’s eyes slid to Merry’s knife and found that it was just as stained as Pippin’s.  Bile rose in his throat; his breath grew short and dizziness assailed him once more.  He tore his gaze away and kept his head down, hoping that no one would see.  A touch on his knee startled him, and when his vision stopped swimming, he saw Legolas watching him intently.

“Oh, my dears,” Frodo whispered.  He reached out to lay a hand on each of his cousins’ arms, but the gesture elicited little response from them.

“You both did what was necessary,” said Strider, shooting a quick glance in the hobbits’ direction.  “I thank you for your help, and for my life, Pippin, as you both should thank each other.  Better for Garan to die than for any of our company to fall.”  If Merry and Pippin were cheered by his words, they gave no sign of it.

“Garan did not harm you, Merry?” said Legolas.

Merry shook his head.  “I’ve a scratch on my neck; that’s all.”  He paused for a moment and then added, “I am glad that he is dead.”

“His last thought before dying may well have been ‘Impossible’!” Legolas said grimly.  “Death was too simple a punishment for the pains he visited upon us – and others, too, I expect – but it is as much satisfaction as I am going to have.  I shall be content with it.”

“He looks cold,” said Pippin, who was eyeing Legolas.  “Can’t we get Boromir’s cloak back around him?”

“Not until I have a look at the wound,” said Strider.  “Ah – here we are.”  Everyone leaned in for a closer look at Legolas’ back.  Despite what he had been told of Elven regeneration, Sam was unprepared for what he saw.  There was fresh blood to be seen, but he could tell that the puncture wound beneath it was smaller than it had been several hours ago.

The visible improvement was enough to shake even Merry and Pippin out of their stupor.  “I don’t believe it!” Merry gasped.

“Believe it,” said Strider, who was smiling.  “This is not as bad as I had feared it would be.”

“Gimli and Boromir are returning!” said Gandalf.  “Perhaps they will have news of your running Man.”

“Hoy, lads!” called Gimli as he ducked beneath the shelter, huffing and puffing.  “Merry!  Are you well?”

“Yes – yes, I’m all right.”

“And I see that Pippin is here, too,” said Boromir, who was following the Dwarf closely.  “Who does Aragorn tend, then?”

“It’s Legolas, sir,” said Sam.

“He has not been shot again, has he?  The arrow that missed me made its way in here, I believe.”

“He was not hit,” said Strider, “and his wound is much improved though it is bleeding again.”  Already he was replacing the bandage that he had disturbed.

“I am well enough,” Legolas said tersely, not seeming to like this roundabout discussion of his health.  “Are they all dead?”

“I regret to say that they are not,” said Gimli.  “There are two dead out among the trees – the first fellow that you shot, and a second that Boromir and I slew.  The third escaped into the darkness before we could stop him.  Who would have thought that a Man of his size could move so quickly?”

“His bulk was far more muscle than fat,” Legolas sighed.  “Alas that he has escaped!  I wonder if he knows how close he came to dying; he avoided one of my arrows at the last moment, worse luck.  Woe unto us if he finds Saruman.”

“I do not think we will catch him now, not unless he is so foolish as to come at us again,” said Gandalf.  “And it may be that he will not seek out Saruman, either.  The White Wizard has cast off kindness and mercy along with the rest of his virtues; this Man – Brund – may deem it wiser to simply disappear.”

“Perhaps,” Legolas said doubtfully.

“Garan is dead, is he not?” said Gimli.  “We have not seen his corpse, but we heard him silenced rather abruptly.”

“There can be no doubt that he is dead.  I put my blade through his heart,” said Strider.

Boromir leaned over Strider’s shoulder to look down at Legolas and Sam.  “The Elves do not cease to amaze.  Splendid shooting, Legolas!  I must say, it is very good to see you awake again.  We had not looked for help from you, not with your injury.  Neither did those wretched Men; they must have been surprised beyond knowing, for they thought you and Samwise both dead.”

“I thank you,” said Legolas, “but I confess I was not at my best.  I am very glad that Aragorn’s bow was at hand, for it would have been an ordeal to draw my own, had I had it.”

“You realize that this is the same bow you accused me of forming from the hoariest, most cross-grained tree I could find,” said Strider.

A smile tugged at the corners of Legolas’ mouth.  “Is it?  I suppose I may have exaggerated its faults.”

Sam knew well that Legolas never failed to jest whenever the invitation presented itself, but he could see that the Elf’s heart was not in it this time.  “He’s worn himself out,” he said, turning to face Strider.  “He needs more rest.”

“I am weary,” Legolas admitted.  “But you are in need of rest yourself, are you not, Sam?  You do not sound as though you are in the bloom of health.”

“I’ve got a cold, that’s all,” said Sam.  “I’ve been worse.”  The last words were punctuated with a rattling cough despite his best efforts to hold it in.  Sam’s shoulders slumped, knowing that such a sound would set the others to fretting over him for sure.

“We can make more tea and melt the rest of the broth,” said Strider, who was tugging the wrap around Legolas’ midsection tight again.  “Are you hungry, Legolas?”

Legolas shook his head.

“You should probably eat something, even if it is not much.  Such a quick recovery will have drained your strength.”

“Please, no,” said Legolas.  “I do not think that my stomach is amenable to food at present.  Let me rest a bit longer, and I promise to eat something when I wake again.”

“Very well,” said Strider.  He placed the back of one hand against Legolas’ skin and his eyebrows rose.  “Ah, you are cold!  Help me, Pippin.”

Sam bristled slightly at this.  No one had asked him whether he wanted to eat; they just assumed that he did.  Hobbit or no, food did not sound very appetizing at the moment.

“So what happens now?” Pippin asked quietly as he tucked his corner of the fur-lined cloak back around Legolas’ shoulders.

“We wait until Sam and Legolas are well enough to travel,” Gandalf replied.

“Let us not forget that there is still one Man at large,” said Gimli, “and there is no telling what he might do.”

“What if he comes back again?” said Merry.  “What if he shoots at us?”

“Perhaps we should be asking Sam and Legolas for their opinion,” said Boromir.  “They know far more about him than the rest of us do.”

Sam exchanged an uncertain glance with Legolas.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “Brund didn’t talk much.  He was….  I don’t know how to put it.”

“Stoic,” said Legolas.

Sam nodded.  “Yes, that’s about right.  But I think he’s cleverer than he lets on.”

“If I were a mercenary for the White Wizard and I failed him,” Legolas mused, “I would never set foot within a hundred leagues of Isengard again – but we cannot be sure that Brund will do the same.  I do not think that he is as easily intimidated or awed as the other Men were.  He will not be as chary of a wizard as they would have been, and he was not in a position of leadership.  Laying the blame for the failure squarely at Garan’s feet might work; Garan was arrogant enough for five Men.  And for all we know he might be compelled to return, for who can say what spells Saruman laid on him?  Saruman trusts no one.  No, I am not certain that Brund will stay away from him.”

“But will he stay away from us?” said Strider.

Sam saw his own doubt mirrored in the Elf’s eyes.  “It is difficult to say,” said Legolas.  “The Men were instructed to watch for hobbits, a fighter, and an old one; certainly Brund must know now that the old one is a wizard, and that Saruman knew as much beforehand – but did not warn his soldiers.  Now he is alone and Gandalf has revealed himself, which should give him great pause, but if he is planning to return to Isengard, he might try and attack us once more – from a safe distance, of course.  If he succeeds, he has earned great reward; if he fails, he can say with a clear conscience that he tried to do Saruman’s bidding to the end.”

Sam watched the rest of the group while Legolas spoke.  Merry, Pippin and Frodo looked unhappily at each other, and the Big Folk listened with flat expressions.

“I am sorry that my speculations are not more conclusive,” said Legolas, “but the combination of intelligence and reticence in a Man makes it difficult to guess his thoughts.  When we are underway again, it might be best if I take up the position of rearguard.  Any attack from Brund would come from behind or above.”

“And what is your plan – to shoot him before he shoots us?” asked Boromir.

“Yes.”

“If he has fled, we will be looking over our shoulders all the way to Mount Doom for naught,” said Gimli, “and you and Aragorn will spend a good deal of time backtracking.”

“Which will slow us down,” Boromir added.

Gandalf blew out his mustaches with an irritated harrumph.  “Speed or caution,” he muttered.  “We cannot have both.”

“Perhaps we will eventually determine that he has gone if he leaves no traces behind,” said Legolas.  “He may be quick, but he is too large and heavy to pass unnoticed.”

“Well, we have time yet to decide,” said Gandalf.  “Until then, we must remain on our guard.  I will take the watch tonight; we are in greater danger in the dark with the fire illuminating our backs.”

“Should we put it out?” Pippin asked.  Sam was surprised; Pippin had to be feeling very sober indeed to suggest such a thing.

Gandalf frowned at the low flames for a moment, thinking.  “What is your counsel?” he said at last, turning to Strider.

“I would like to leave it burning, if only for Sam’s sake,” said the Ranger.  “He will recover better with its warmth for aid.  Still, it is a beacon, and it spoils our night eyes.”

“I’ll be all right,” Sam said with every bit of conviction he could muster.  “Don’t leave it on my account.  If Brund came back tonight….  I don’t want that on my conscience.”  He swallowed the cough that was tickling his throat.

“Very well,” said Gandalf.  “The fire will go out.”

“After we have thawed the broth and made more tea,” said Strider.

“We might as well roast the quail, too,” said Gimli.  “We won’t be able to eat them otherwise.”  Sam looked where the Dwarf pointed and was surprised to see a handful of birds in the snow just outside, trussed up by their feet.  Someone had done more hunting while he had been asleep.

“And the quail,” Gandalf agreed.  “But that will be all.”

“Let’s get started, then,” said Gimli.  “The sooner begun, the sooner done.”

“I can help,” Sam said automatically.

“Not this time,” said Frodo.  He moved to Sam’s side and began wrapping blankets around him again.  “Lie down.  You must be tired.”

He was tired, Sam realized.  Perhaps it was the rush of excitement draining away, and perhaps it was his illness, but he was wearier than he would have expected to be after as much sleep as he had already had.  He did not protest as Frodo finished his work and helped him lie back down next to the fire.

“Stay warm,” Frodo ordered, giving Sam a companionable pat on the shoulder.  “I’ll help Gimli pluck.”

“And the two of you must clean your swords,” Boromir said to Merry and Pippin.  “Blood can ruin even such good steel as you have there.”

The two hobbits looked down at their red-stained daggers with oddly blank expressions.  “Yes.  You’ve mentioned that before,” said Merry.

“There is a first time for everything,” Boromir said kindly.  “Come; my blade needs cleaning as well.  You are warriors now, and must finish what you have begun.”  He sat down beside his bedroll, retrieved a set of rags from his pack and handed them to the hobbits.  Merry sat down beside the Man and grimly began wiping down his dagger, but Pippin hesitated, looking beyond the shelter into the night.  “What about those dead Men?” he asked softly.  “Are we just going to leave them out there?”

Boromir glanced at Strider and Gandalf, but when neither one replied, he answered Pippin’s query.  “For tonight at least.  We dare not venture out again until it is fully light, not even to retrieve Legolas’ arrows.”

“But tomorrow, even….  How will we bury them?  The ground is frozen solid.”

“I expect we will not be burying them, Pippin.”

Pippin blinked.  “We won’t?”

“As you say, the ground is frozen.  Even if it were not, it is likely too rocky to accept a proper grave.  We could have placed stones atop the bodies, but such work is time-consuming and would make us easy marks for an archer.  We may have to leave them.”

Pippin stared out into the darkness.  For a long moment he did not speak, but then he said: “At least the cold will keep decay from setting in.”

Sam looked around at the rest of the company.  Everyone was watching Pippin now.

“Foes they were, but we will arrange their bodies at the very least,” said Boromir.  “Sometimes even this cannot be done, but honor demands that we do what we can.”  He cut his eyes toward Strider and Gandalf again.

“That is so,” said Strider.

“I wonder if they would have done as much for us,” said Pippin.

“It is best not to wonder overmuch about such things,” Boromir said gently.  “We are all alive; think on that and be comforted.  Please – sit and look to your sword.”

Pippin sat and said no more.  Sam rolled over until he was facing Legolas, not wanting to watch them clean the congealing blood from their blades, and thought about the dead Men lying out in the night.  He thought about the next morning when Boromir, Gimli and Strider would collect the three stiff bodies, lay them side by side, and fold their arms across their breasts.  Were their eyes still open?  Sam was vaguely surprised to find that the images floating through his mind did not frighten him as much as he would have thought.  In fact, he felt a disturbing lack of pity for any of the Men that had perished in the last few days, even Jakov.  It was with a start that he realized, quite clearly, that his own role in Jakov’s end concerned him far more than the Man’s death itself.

“Sam,” Legolas said softly.

Sam looked up to find the Elf watching him with unblinking eyes.

“I could not have fought without you to aid me.”

Sam wondered what he meant.  Was he talking about what had happened just now, or what had happened on the clifftop?  Both, perhaps.  Legolas was looking at him with obvious gratitude and warmth, but Sam could muster only a small smile in return.  He did not feel as though he deserved thanks for what he had done, even knowing what would have happened if he hadn’t done it.  He was glad that Legolas was alive, but ‘glad’ was the strongest positive emotion he noted, and it did not seem adequate.  He wanted to feel overjoyed that they had escaped – but he didn’t.  He only felt hollow.

Legolas’ smile melted into something almost wistful, and Sam wondered if the Elf understood something of what he was feeling.  He had surely killed before this; after all, he was a warrior in his own country, and he had not hesitated to slay any of the Men.  Legolas watched him steadily, and a part of Sam suddenly yearned to speak, to tell him of his troubles.  His heart ached with the effort of keeping it all inside, and ached still more when he thought of what it would be like to lay down that burden – but something held him back.  He could not bear the thought of giving voice to his shame and confusion.

Legolas gazed sadly at him, and Sam’s heart thudded.  Perhaps Legolas really did understand; he looked as if he did.  If anyone could see through him, he would, because he had been there.  He had seen what Sam had done… and he did not seem to think any less of him.  A tiny flame of hope sputtered into life despite all Sam’s doubts.  Legolas did not look away from him, and the flame grew a little, but Sam dared not let it grow too large.  Legolas might know what it was like to kill, but surely he had never considered the betrayal of those he loved most dearly.

Sam sighed.  It would be a relief beyond measure to have someone to share his woes with.  If he did dare tell… maybe he could keep the worst part back.  He didn’t think he could endure Legolas’ disappointment – or Frodo’s – if they were to discover his weakness.  And yet… that weakness, those thoughts he’d had of saving himself at Frodo’s expense, those were what hurt him the most.  Without owning up to them, would he ever be able to feel at peace again?  Would Frodo forgive him?  Would Legolas?

No.  He was tired and disconsolate and in no condition to control such a conversation.  If he began confessing now, everything would spill from his mouth, and he was not sure that he was ready to bare his soul, not when there was still such darkness within it.  Maybe later, when he was in better control of himself… maybe then he’d be able to bring himself to do what Legolas seemed to be asking.  Just not yet.

Not yet.  But maybe.

Sam drifted off without realizing it, and when Frodo came around with a cup of Strider’s tea, he was fast asleep.