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A Perilous Journey to Lorien  by LadyJaina

A/N: I'm so sorry for the wait-this chapter was incredibly difficult to write. I hope its length makes up for its tardiness. Quotes are italicized (with the except of elvish and single words italicized for emphasis).

Chapter Thirteen

Dusk had come, enveloping the camp in gray twilight when Strider finally consented to rest, his body leaving him little recourse. Neither Merry nor Gimli made any move to interfere now as the knife was taken from his hand. The man had done all he could, even beyond his capacity during the unending day. The words being whispered into Strider's ear must have been effective, for the ranger at last sagged in surrender and was all but tucked into bed like a wayward child. He protested once more, but the answer seemed to satisfy him because he allowed his eyes to flutter closed.

Merry watched as one of the elves that had been assisting the ranger-he had promptly forgotten their names an instant after their hasty introduction-retrieved the tongs and squinted a bit before carefully dipping them into the wound a few times more. He seemed to be satisfied, for he gave a nod to his kinsman, who began heating the knife he had taken from Aragorn in the embers of their small fire.

When he looked back over at Gimli, he saw that the dwarf had nodded off again, and with the dwarf resting, Merry's ability to communicate was seriously hampered. He knew he should be resting himself now that things were quiet. Still, a curious hobbit found it hard to sleep and he crept over to watch as the small knife was heated until the metal began to emit a faint glow. The elf withdrew it from the flames and turned back to Legolas. His body hid his actions from view, but Merry instinctively knew what he was doing despite his inexperience. The smell of burning flesh soon caught his nose. He tried and failed not to think about the smell and what was happening to the elf's skin. The picture brought Merry's stomach to his throat and he found himself scrambling for a safe spot to deposit its meager contents. He returned to his spot next to Gimli, desperately wishing that Pip was here to distract him.

A soft wind began to blow as Merry studied the sleeping dwarf beside him. Gimli had nodded off where he sat, his chin tucked into his chest. He noted with relief that the dwarf's gruff features were no longer as pale and pinched as they had been at Merry's first alarming glimpse of him. The dwarf had dozed off and on all day after Orophin had stitched the gruesome gash to his left hand, in spite of his efforts to stay awake and his worry over Legolas. Blood loss and exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

With Strider asleep and Legolas as patched up as they could make him, the camp grew quiet. The galadhrim kept sentry on their little encampment and their charges, their watchful eyes missing nothing. With nothing left to distract him, weariness at last began to sink into his bones, and Merry found himself nodding off as the fire burned low, his chin on his hand.

A loud pop from the fire startled him awake again, and he winced at the pain in his neck. Stretching it a bit, he looked around. Aragorn had moved closer to Legolas. His head was on his pouch, but he'd fallen asleep again with his hand still wrapped around the elf's left wrist. Merry decided he must have slept longer than he'd thought if the man had already wakened to check on the elf. Strider had done the same many times after Frodo had been stabbed on Weathertop. Others attributed Frodo's survival to the stubbornness of hobbits, but Strider had certainly played a part. Merry thought he had an uncanny ability to sooth hurts of body and mind. He'd never seen the like.

"It's going to rain," he muttered to himself distractedly, rolling his shoulders and stretching again, but the elves, if they noticed, seemed unconcerned. He looked over to see that Gimli was still asleep and decided that, rather than prolong the crick in his neck, he would take advantage of the bedroll someone had rolled out beside him.

Once situated, he found to his annoyance that sleep eluded him. He lay awake for a long while, hands clasped behind his head, watching the stars as they came out. As the night deepened, the air began to smell of rain and the wind grew stronger. Still, it was a pleasant night. Brandybucks weren't overly bothered by a little water. As he began to relax, his mind wandered from the mines to dirt, to farms, to the Brandywine flowing across the gently rolling fields of the Shire, golden in the evening sun. Merry allowed himself to drift off at last.

Screaming. Someone was screaming-a hoarse high-pitched keen of utter terror. Merry's muddled mind struggled to solve the puzzle of this strange dream. Who was screaming? Why were they screaming? What reason in the Shire could their possibly be for such screaming.

Something about the raw, frantic quality of the screams at last roused him, and he jolted awake, thrashing about for a moment, disoriented and trying to free himself from whatever was holding him down. Just as he'd begun to panic, awareness came, and he realized he'd somehow become tangled in his bedding. Extricating himself, he propped an arm underneath himself and looked around for the source of the screams.

The fire had burned low, and the camp had plunged into a deep darkness that seemed to close in from every side. Squinting a bit, Merry could make out the shadows of the others as they tried to keep Legolas from hurting himself in his panic. The screams began again. Most of what he could hear was unintelligible, but it was punctuated by elvish words that sounded familiar.

The fire flared up suddenly, and Merry jumped, looking to his right to see Gimli poking and blowing at the orange tendrils. His injured hand was still tucked carefully against his chest, but otherwise, he looked a lot more like himself.

"The elf is dreaming," the dwarf told him, his voice still gravelly from sleep, "He is dreaming about the Balrog."

Another burst of words punctuated the night, though the elf seemed to be growing calmer.

"I suspect Aragorn has managed to force a sleeping draught down his throat by now." Gimli cleared his throat suspiciously before he was able to continue, "He says he isn't Glorfindel—that the evil burns him and he cannot fight it any longer. That he is tired. That it haunts him."

"How is he doing?" Merry asked, swallowing the lump of emotion that had risen in his throat. He crossed his legs and sat up the rest of the way.

"Who—Aragorn?" Gimli asked distractedly. He was listening carefully to something—Legolas, Merry supposed, though the elf had fallen silent.

Unbothered, Merry shrugged, "I don't know. Both of them, I guess."

Gimli didn't answer, instead his sharp eyes stared into the darkness that surrounded them. He seemed as tense as a bow string.

Legolas was still quiet, but Merry could hear the low tones of Strider's voice, soothing him in the Grey Tongue.

"The elf has a fever," the dwarf at last replied. It took Merry a moment to realize that Gimli had finally answered his question, for the dwarf was still staring fixedly into the darkness.

Merry's feeling of disquiet grew. It really was unnervingly quiet. He looked sidelong at Gimli again, then over at the elves. They paced watchfully. Even Aragorn was crouched beside Legolas instead of kneeling, as if at any moment he would need to spring to his feet. As if the plain was no longer safe.

At that thought, Merry's heart began to race and his hands began to tremble. Suddenly the very last thing he wanted to be doing was sitting, and he scrambled to his feet. Legolas was sensitive to the trees and the stones. Maybe it was his imagination, but Merry wondered if the elf was sensing something now—something that reminded him of the evil of the Balrog. He joined the others in gazing out at the darkened horizon.

Miles away, lightning flashed to reveal giant thunderclouds to the west. In the darkness, the wind teased his hair away from his face as he gazed up at the stars. The night was calm and beautiful, completely incongruous with the terror welling up inside him.

Then he heard it. A howl in the distance. It seemed to pierce to his very soul. A chill ran almost painfully down his spine as the sound faded.

"What was that?!"

"Ngaurhoth telir*" Orophin told him in a hissing whisper.

"And where the warg howls, there also the orc prowls," Gimli muttered grimly.

Cold fear turned Merry's stomach. Wargs. His breath hitched as the glowing eyes from the Company's last encounter rose up in his memory. They'd had a wizard with them then.

"They're still miles away—that's the first time I've been able to hear them," Gimli assured him. If Merry could have made his voice work, he would have told the dwarf that an eventuality of being attacked by wargs was not all that much less terrifying than if they were coming in a second or two.

"But you suspected they were there?" He managed at last.

"I suspected something approached. Elves aren't generally so tense around a campfire, even after the day we've had. I wish I could say there was a chance they won't find us tonight." The dwarf trailed off, but they both knew the answer.

They gathered at Legolas' side, where Orophin began to speak urgently, but quietly. Strider motioned for Merry and Gimli to come closer, "Tűron, Foendil, and Ain will scout out extra kindling outside the perimeter. We will need much more kindling to build up the fire and sustain it. Gimli, I need you to assemble a bonfire with the resources we have—both as a signal and a defense. Can you manage?"

The dwarf nodded gamely, though Merry suspected he'd never admit it if he couldn't manage.

"Merry, you'll assist him."

Merry nodded, "We can't have those fancy stitches ripping out." His attempt at humor was botched by his shaky voice.

Merry kept the elves in sight for as long as he could as they ventured out into the darkness. Another howl rent the air and he cringed. "Are you sure it wouldn't be better to hide?" The words just slipped out.

"Wargs love the fear they create. They can smell it—they're drawn to it, if the legends are to be believed," Strider answered, his voice grim with experience. "They would find us with ease."

"It's not the same was a wizard with a staff, but the fire will be advantageous to us,” Gimli explained.  “The wargs won't reveal themselves until the very second they attack. Without fire, they could sneak up and grab us one by one without anyone knowing."

Merry wasn't reassured.

A small flask was passed around, and when he had taken a sip, Merry realized the galadhrim had their own version of miruvor. Before handing it back to Orophin, Strider knelt next to Legolas and dropped a few drops into the elf's mouth, massaging his throat until he swallowed. The elf, swathed in blankets and cloaks, never stirred.

As the sounds of the wargs grew closer, the camp came alive with preparations. Cloaks were torn and soaked in wine, sacrificed to create makeshift torches. With Merry's help, Gimli began to construct the base of what would become a bigger fire. The fire burned very low as he and the dwarf rearranged the smoldering logs and dug into the glowing embers. They needed to conserve fuel, even with the others searching for some, there were no guarantees any would be found.

Orophin helped Strider drag Legolas so close to the fire that Merry was sure the elf would be burned. With his part in the preparations complete, Merry settled in next to him, frowning in concern at the damp locks plastered to a pale, sweaty forehead. The elf's breathing was raspy and his face drawn with pain. Merry shook his head. Had no one thought to get rid of the blankets? It seemed to him that the worst thing one could do for a fever was put him near the fire with such heavy covers.

Shrugging off his own coat, Merry didn't ask permission as he untucked the blanket and cloaks around the elf and flung them off. He looked up to gauge the others' reaction, relaxing a bit when Strider caught his eye and gave him a nod of approval. As a breeze blew over his bare torso, Legolas' brow smoothed and his lips parted a bit. Merry glanced nervously at his side and sighed in relief when he saw nothing to make him squeamish.

In the quiet, Merry could hear the nearby flowing of the Silverlode, and it gave him an idea. He wanted to soak the blankets to give Legolas a bit more protection from the fire, and to cool him off a bit. But was it safe? Aragorn's eyes met his again, and Merry cocked his head toward the river. The ranger looked piercingly into the darkness, considering, before he gave a small nod.

"A fine idea, Merry," he said as he came closer. "You'll need to be very quick."

Merry didn't need to be told twice. He gathered the large bundle in his arms, expecting to go alone, but was comforted as the ranger fell in step beside him. They continued southward into the shadows for several paces until the Silverlode appeared, glistening in the moonlight. A howl came again from somewhere a bit too close for comfort, and Merry hastened to dump the bundle of cloaks and blankets into the river.

Once they were saturated, they threatened to flow away and Merry almost splashed face first in after them. Strider gave a dry chuckle and helped him haul them in. Merry was grateful the man had come, for once soaked, the garments had become heavier than the weight of himself and Samwise Gamgee combined. The man helped him carry them back. By the time they arrived, they were both soaked in the freezing water.

"Makes me a bit grateful for the fire just now," Merry commented with a shrug.

"Put some under his arms, like this, and around his thighs—just try to keep the bandages dry," the ranger cautioned, a sense of urgency about him.

A howl came again. Even closer this time. Much closer. Gimli tensed, and Strider regained his feet.

Merry's fear must have been written all over his face, for Gimli clasped his good hand on the hobbit's shoulder and squeezed. "Steady now, Master Meriadoc, I've no desire to be a warg's dinner, so we must fight like Smaug himself has come to our camp."

Merry chuckled even his teeth began to chatter with nervousness. "I d-doubt dwarves are too tasty, anyway."

"No, but a hobbit would be," came the uncharacteristically candid retort from Aragorn. He didn't shield the hobbit from the bald truth, and in this moment, Merry wasn't certain whether he wanted the truth or false optimism. Ignoring a pointed glare from Gimli, who apparently preferred false optimism, the man continued, his voice severe and earnest, "That's why I want you to stay close to the fire. Defensive stance only. This is not a fight for heroics, no matter how brave you are."

For once, Merry couldn't find the ire to bristle at the order. He was too afraid, and the look in the man's eyes was too raw. He managed a small nod to show that he understood. He didn't know the first thing about how to defend himself from a creature so large and powerful. Orcs, for some reason, were less alarming. They walked on two legs like him—many of them were quite short. But wargs. He shuddered.

The others returned swiftly, the howls of the enemy on their heels. They left their foragings with Gimli and Merry before grabbing a torch each and immediately spreading out to make a defensive perimeter.

Gimli set to work, placing more branches on the structure he'd built over the fire and directing Merry to do the same. It did not escape Merry's notice that there remained precious few branches to burn.

"They're very close, my lad," the dwarf said with a low voice.

Helped along by a newly lit torch, the fire began to blaze upward, catching the crisscrossed mound of logs until it burned like a beacon on the plain. Its glow illuminated the circle of their camp and cast the long shadows of its occupants beyond the golden circle of light where the grasses faded to gray. Beyond this, it was pitch black. Another rumble of thunder sounded. On all sides of the perimeter, the four galadhrim crouched low, torches in one hand, knives ready in the other. The enemy was surely approaching, their numbers hidden by the darkness.

All traces of weariness were gone from Aragorn's face, replaced by the grim fierceness of a battle hardened warrior. Legolas' bow was gripped in his hand, and a quiver of galadhrim arrows was at his back as he took up a position on the southeastern perimeter near Merry, Gimli, and Legolas, where a gap could easily allow the enemy to slip through. Merry's heart sank as he counted three more gaps which would remain unguarded.

A growl rumbled, so low that Merry almost mistook it for thunder, and an eerie silence descended. No more thunder sounded, no more growls came. He couldn't even hear the sounds of the night insects. There was only the wind. At any moment, Merry expected the quiet to be broken, but it stretched on. On Legolas' other side, Gimli had his hatchet gripped tightly in his right hand. It was time.

"By the fire, now," Strider called over this shoulder, "Close as you can. Do not make yourself easy prey." Swallowing a lump in his throat, Merry drew his sword out of its scabbard. Its weight no longer assured him as it had when they had fended off the orcs. He wished desperately that they had a wizard to get them out of this mess again. Not for the first time since he'd set out, he felt out of place and overwhelmed by the foe. He'd thought he loved adventure—how wrong he had been. Once again, he was in a fight for his life beside seasoned warriors with no skills or strategies he could contribute. He felt like a liability.

Snarls rose suddenly in the night, punctuating the air until it seemed as if pack of ghost wolves surrounded them. As the minutes passed, the sounds increased to a fever pitch, encroaching from every angle. The wind carried the scent of something unwashed, and very foul, which mingled strangely with the scent of approaching rain.

Merry quirked an out of place smile. Taking a page from Pippin's book, he said lightly, "I think everything is going to be fine—Legolas, too." It felt like a lie, and a feeble one at that, but Gimli raised an eyebrow and seemed to recognize the offering for what it was.

"By Mahal, I hope you are right Meriadoc Brandybuck," the dwarf's voice was rough with emotion. "How strange are these times, that an injured elf's last defense should be a dwarf and a hobbit."

The cacophony felt like it went on for hours. The air felt heavy and warm as the storm began to move in with intensity, the sounds of the enemy continuing to crescendo until Merry thought he might go mad. He was sure that was their intention with his game, and it infuriated him. If the elves shared his feelings, they didn't show it. They never moved. His own nerves might be flayed, but they never even shifted their weight from one foot to the other. It was unnatural, their stillness. Even Aragorn had begun to show signs of restlessness, though his eyes never stopped scanning the darkness for any sign the inevitable attack had begun.

From one second to the next, a sudden silence descended. The hairs on Merry's neck stood on end, and he adjusted his clammy grip on his sword. With no warning, a volley of arrows emerged from the shadows. Merry dove to the ground, his eyes wide. This wasn't the kind of attack he'd expected. An arrow scored his sleeve, gouging his upper arm and making him yelp in surprise and flatten himself further against the ground.

"Merry?!" Gimli's boots appeared in his line of sight, and a moment later the dwarf was crouching down next to him, gruff and worried.

"I'm okay," he replied, getting ahold of himself and feeling embarrassed at the shake in his voice, "just a close call."

Scooting along on the ground, he quickly checked on Legolas before gazing out to make sure everyone else had been as lucky as he. No more arrows came. No night noises, no thunder, no more snarls. The eerie had silence returned. Merry wasn't sure he'd be able to hear anything anyway over his pounding heart, so he watched intently and waited.

Like a low encroaching fog, the shape of a wolf emerged from the shadows. It seemed a giant of a creature to Merry, gray and shaggy with dreadful glowing eyes that could surely see through to his soul. It felt as though it was looking straight at him.

At almost the same time, the elf nearest Merry's position cried, "Harad*!" Arrows began to fly. As the warg lunged up at him, the galadhrim held fast, resolute. The warg yelped suddenly and twisted in midair before beating a hasty and erratic retreat back into the shadows. Merry thought he saw two shafts piercing its shoulder. For just a moment, he allowed himself to feel hopeful.

"Forod*!" This time, Merry had to strain to look over his shoulder and around the fire to follow the sound. More arrows reigned. This warg had managed to creep closer, using the distraction caused by its comrade to the south.

An arrow from Strider it found its mark, but this time the warg was undeterred. Enraged, the great wolf shook its head, as if to shake the arrow off. Merry wanted to scream at Orophin to move—to do something. Why didn't he use his knife? He'd seen elves fight-what could he be waiting for? The warg lunged, and the marchwarden moved at last, lightning fast, but not backward, to Merry's shock. The elf leapt forward to meet it, the silver blade of knife in his hand flashed in the firelight and the torch sweeping toward the warg. Orophin deftly evaded the snapping teeth and slashed at the creature's neck. He made it look like a dance, so gracefully and deadly, as if he was reading the warg's mind and preempting its every move. Some optimism returned, and Merry felt a bit silly for his previous terror-he'd underestimated these elves. Clearly they could handle the wargs.

More arrows flew, and Merry ducked instinctively, not even sure until they landed whether they had come from friend of foe. At least one elf had dropped his torch onto the grass and switched to his bow, leaping behind the small grass fire. Merry looked southward to see another warg emerging, and drew back instinctively, almost singing his shirt. The warg leapt, snapping sharp white teeth that stood out below its glinting eyes. At almost the last possible second the galadhrim leapt backward, bringing his knife up to deflect the snapping teeth. Blood spurted, almost black in the firelight as the warg whined and fell limp.

Turning to his right, he saw a warg that had been wounded earlier snarl and leap to its feet, knocking an elf to the ground. Merry's jaw was clenched so hard he was surprised his teeth hadn't cracked. He felt the mad urge to do something, but he was paralyzed in the face of such a foe. The elf slashed with the torch and stabbed upward as more movement to his left caught Merry's eye, and he realized in horror that the scene in front of him was being repeated on the opposite side of the camp.

Just when he was certain they were about to be overrun, another yelp sounded and the camp grew silent again. Merry tore his eyes from the east and looked north to see Orophin regaining his feet. He gave a deep sigh of relief as he saw everyone dusting themselves off and retaking their earlier positions. He frantically looked everyone over, taking note of injuries, his head swiveling this way and that. It seemed they'd come through the first onslaught unscathed. Just a few torches lost and smoldering grass fires to be put out. That was good, right? He found Gimli's eyes and grinned.

The dwarf didn't return his smile. "They're testing us," Gimli told him grimly, tossing more kindling on the fire. "They won't retreat again, laddie. You need to be ready."

When the fire blazed up again, sure enough, Merry could see the wargs that had been encroaching on them in the darkness. Exposed by the light, some sprinted for the cover of darkness, but a few were close enough to lunge.

There was very little warning as the marchwardens again engaged the enemy. Lightning flashed from the approaching storm, and for an instant, Merry could see everything-a dozen or more wargs waited beyond the perimeter, some ridden. A platoon of orcs on foot was in position behind the orcs. Not nearly as many as the night before, though Merry wasn't sure it mattered. More arrows whistled as their party pressed the advantage the lightning had given. Darkness resumed, but the charge continued.

As the onslaught intensified, Merry's hand gripped his sword even tighter as Strider joined the fray. Arrows were no longer of any use, but the elves still didn't tighten the perimeter. It was to keep the fight away from Legolas, Merry realized, but it was only a matter of time before either orc or warg slipped through. He glanced sideways at Gimli. An injured dwarf and a hobbit were a pretty weak defense against giant wolves.

As soon as one warg was dealt with, another would emerge, sometimes two at once, and Merry found himself miserably wishing that he had not argued so adamantly to come. Why had he put up such a fuss? Gimli had been fine—the elves had treated him with more kindness than Merry could have imagined-and Boromir would have been much better equipped for this. If he'd just been content to stay with Pippin, there might be someone else here who could actually contribute to the fight, but he'd thought the danger had passed. How wrong he had been.

Lightning lit up the sky as Merry crouched beside Legolas. Each time the lightning flashed, he could see the skirmishes clearly, pushing farther and farther out from the original camp. The fire had burned low again, Merry realized suddenly and began looking around frantically for Gimli. What if something had happened to the dwarf? He spotted him at last, axe in hand in the middle of the fray. Their defenses were no longer holding, and Merry could see orcs breaking through now alongside wargs. Carcasses littered the camp, great hulking shadows on the flattened grasses.

He was on his own now, he and Legolas, as the others struggled to defend themselves from enemies on all sides. Desperately, Merry stepped over the elf and threw the last of the branches and kindling on the fire with trembling hands before retrieving his sword.

A low growl sounded close on his left, startling him, and Merry turned just in time to see the glowing eyes and gathering hindquarters of a warg that had crept up on him undetected. He wanted to screw his eyes shut and cover his head and pretend it was all a dream, except he couldn't. No one else was going to get him out of this one. The creature lunged, and Merry's heart quailed in terror, but the fear of being some foul creature's dinner did wonders for his willpower.

Gripping his sword in both hands, he did the only thing he could think to do and stood fast, stabbing upward as the warg landed. It struggled, its weight knocking him over and on top of Legolas, wrenching the sword from his hands and pinning him across the elf's legs. To his dismay—and relief—it panted strangely for a moment and then sagged and lay still, a dead weight across his chest. He wiggled beneath it, trying to get out from under the carcass, but the body of the giant creature held him fast. He could feel its hot blood soaking his clothes. It smelled awful and he found himself struggling not to gag. Great. Just great, he grumbled to himself, struggling to expand his lungs under its weight.

He could still hear the fight all around him. It had lost none of its fervor. He hoped that meant his companions were still holding their own. He'd be fine under here, he assured himself, though it was a bit harder to breath-but where was his sword? Blast it, he needed that sword. He could hear movement coming too near for comfort and here he was-literally defenseless. He had begun to feel around more frantically with his fingers when he felt a soft nudge against his head. It came again, and he turned his head to see Legolas' hunting knife, the blade resting underneath the elf's palm.

"Legolas?" He asked, gazing into piercing blue eyes, surprised to find the elf awake. There was no response. The elf almost seemed to stare right through him, his face ghost white in the light of the dying fire. Then there was a blink and the fingertips brushed once again across his brow. The hand moved just slightly, almost patting the knife.

The sound grew closer and Legolas' hand brushed jerkily at his face again, almost urgently, despite the action having no strength.

"Calm down," Merry whispered, "I understand, but I've got to get my hands out from under this mangy beast." The elf blinked, as though he lacked the strength to nod. Whoever or whatever was approaching was getting very close now as Merry pulled and wiggled, gritting his teeth. His left hand was caught fast, but his right arm finally gave, and he was able to slip it free. The blue eyes had already closed when Merry reached his right arm over, twisting and straining until his fingertips at last brushed the blade.

There was no time to murmur his thanks. He heard the creak of armor and frantically scooted the knife towards himself with his fingertips until he was able to grab it properly. It felt huge in his hands—bigger than the trusty barrow knife he'd claimed that night on the downs, but it was weighted evenly, and he was sure it was razor sharp. He tightened his grip on it and slid it out of sight while he waited, his eyes hooded. Yellow eyes appeared over the warg's body. He could smell the foul breath as the orc sniffed at him. He didn't dare breathe. Even dead, he might look too tempting. It drew back, but Merry's relief fled when he realized the orc had turned its attention to Legolas. No, no, no. No. His agitation drew the orc's attention back to himself, and it bared stained and pointed teeth in a grotesque smile.

"Steady, Merry…" He told himself, forcing himself to lie completely still until as it leaned over the warg to peer at him more closely. He had to look helpless, injured—a curiosity. He'd only have one shot at this. Just a bit closer. The creature's face was almost even with his own.

In one motion, Merry brought the knife up and slashed at the orc's exposed neck.

*Ngaurhoth telir=Wargs are coming. Technically, this is werewolves are coming, but Gandalf called them this in Sindarin, so I'm assuming the elves used the word interchangeably.



End note: Thank you all for your kind review and comments on this story-they keep me going! I love hearing your favorite parts and thoughts about my work!

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