Author’s Note:  This story was written for Firnsarnien, who’s faithful and expressive reviews I cherish.  I gave her the choice of a humorous story or angst - of course, she chose angst, which is more work...  :)  This is my way of thanking her for the thought and effort she puts into her reviews, and also partially reimburse her for the medical ailments she accuses me of causing.  [I’ve lost count now, Firnsarnien … heart attacks, strokes, nervous twitches, numb extremities, hair loss, ragged fingernails…]  Primarily a “hobbit-writer,” I promised her a story about her beloved Elf.  My thanks to Shirebound for one of the plot lines; she mentioned she would like to see some of the elven ability to talk to trees.  This story takes place after “The Ruin of Men and Elves,” further on the road to Hollin but before “Some Nameless Place.”  The title refers to a beautiful and unsettling lithograph by camouflage artist Bev Doolittle, http://bevdoolittle.artifactsgallery.com/art.asp?!=W&ID=12810   Warning:  PG-13 for violence and nastiness in later chapters. 

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit.  This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.  My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://www.geocities.com/budgieloverfanfiction/index.html.  My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta.

The Forest Has Eyes

Chapter One

The Elf heard the stealthy approach long before its source became visible.  Even his keen hearing could pick up only the faintest rustle of displaced leaves, the almost inaudible creak of a branch being turned aside, and never, never a clue so obvious as the snap of a broken twig.  He continued skinning the rabbits his arrows had brought down, slender, deft hands moving quickly to separate fur from flesh.  Without making a motion that an observer could interpret as awareness, Legolas shifted his weight slightly and readied himself.

Aragorn sank into a crouch at his side, appearing from among the trees suddenly and without warning.  Legolas smiled to himself as the Man’s countenance fell at his friend’s lack of surprise.  If Aragorn had hoped that the failing night and the nearby stream would abet his stealthy approach, he had just learned otherwise.  Legolas did allow himself a slight smile.  He quartered the first rabbit and ran the roasting sticks through the pieces.  “You should have guessed that the swift rushing of the water would not mask your clumsy approach, my friend.”

Aragorn settled himself comfortably cross-legged on the ground, refusing to admit that he had hoped to catch the Elf unaware.  It was a game long played between them.  “Gimli has the watch.  Boromir and the hobbits are resting.  Gandalf and I have been discussing our route, now that the decision has been made to attempt the Pass of Caradhras.  I wish it were not so.  I mistrust this silent land.”   

Legolas handed three of the rabbits to Aragorn and the man drew his hunting knife and set to work.  Legolas finished his second rabbit and laid it aside, catching up another.  “I have detected nothing,” he replied in answer to Aragorn’s unspoken question.  After many years of friendship and travels together, the two did not always need words between them.  “No sign of orcs or Men or watchers of any sort, not since we left the ruins five leagues back.  Yet…” 

Aragorn laid one rabbit on its back and slit the small body from just underneath the throat to the tail, then lifted it and began slicing the small ligaments of pale tissue that connected the skin to the frame.  “The din of that battle would be heard for many miles.  And that unfortunate man’s  screams.”*  Aragorn fell silent, seeing in his mind’s eye the soldier’s horrible death.  He waited quietly for a moment, then prompted, “Yet?”

Legolas’ clear gaze fastened on him, and it seemed to Aragorn that the Elf was almost embarrassed.  “Yet... Yet I am uneasy.  The trees do not sleep peacefully here.”“Could it be the evidence of Men that we have found that worries you?”

“The hunting pits do not worry me,” replied the Elf with the faintest note of censure in his voice.  “But they do concern me.  It is a cruel way to hunt … to dig a pit and line the bottom with sharpened stakes, awaiting the fall of unwary prey.  A slow death by impalement, dying by inches in utter agony … it is a dishonorable method of hunting.”

Aragorn finished the first rabbit and wiped his blade on the sparse grass.  “The two pits we found still had evidence of snow-deer carcasses.  From the damage to the spikes and the dried blood, I would guess that the deer lived for a day or two on the spikes before the hunters came for them.”

Legolas shook his head.  “Cruel.  And unnecessary – an archer of any skill could have brought down a deer, as did we.  That they choose such an evil method suggests that either they did not have bows, or…”  The Elf paused, his fair brow knitting.  “Or they wished to inflict pain upon innocent creatures.”

The Ranger was silent, blue-grey eyes worriedly scanning the hushed forest that spread before them like a green smudge on the boots of the world.  Great conifers grew here, silent sentinels of the ages.  Their limbs were hoary with lichen and their great, needle-studded branches drooped to the ground in places.  It was under one of these that the halflings had taken refuge, visible only as small lumps in the rising light.  Legolas followed Aragorn’s gaze to the little ones, turning over in his mind his friend’s words.  Without seeking more, Legolas knew that Merry had taken the outside position on one side, with Sam on the other.  It has always been so, Aragorn had told him, since Weathertop.

Aragorn’s gaze followed his then those sharp eyes turned back to him.  “My thanks for your help in uprooting the spikes.  No more deer shall die in those pits, but there may be more, also hidden over with branches and leaves.  Once the pit is dug and staked, the hunters can return at their leisure to collect their prey.”  Aragorn returned the other two quartered rabbits and stood, sheathing his great knife.  “The hunters should not be far, yet we have seen no sign of their camp.  I would prefer that we pass through this land without being seen.”

Legolas nodded pensively.  “I have tried talking to the trees but they are not awake enough to respond.  None of the great Tree-herders have passed this way for millennia, and the trees are losing the voices that my people awoke in them.  They doze, but their roots tremble and their leaves rustle when there is no wind.”

Aragorn gathered up their breakfast, leaving Legolas to bury the offal.  “And?”

The Elf looked up from his work.  “And what?”

“What is it, my friend?”

Legolas sighed and a shadow of grief darkened his fine-boned face.  “I named these Men cruel not only in their treatment of innocent beasts.  The spikes themselves were greenwood, torn from living trees.  There are many fallen branches about – did they have to torture living trees to take what they needed?  Couldn’t they have fashioned their murderous stakes from wood already dead?”

Aragorn sank into a crouch and laid a hand on the Elf’s shoulder.  “I should have realized that such would be painful to a Wood-elf.  All the more reason to tear down their work, though that will not help the deer the pits have already claimed, nor the trees so tortured and maimed.  I am sorry, Legolas.”

“As am I.  It would please me greatly to meet these Men, these hunters.  Neither deer nor trees may defend themselves.  I would welcome the opportunity to repay some of the pain they have caused.”

Aragorn nodded in agreement as he rose again.  “As would I.  But we have no time for retribution, however just.”  The Ranger glanced towards the rising sun, sheltering his eyes with the flat of his hand.  “You will watch?”

Legolas nodded.  “I will.”

* * * * *

None of the Company had truly adjusted to the schedule of sleeping during the day and traveling the night, and the halflings woke after but a few hours of rest.  The wind continued to blow, cold and bitter, seeking out every gap in their clothing and chilling them.  Frodo sat up, pulling his blankets about himself, shivering.  Legolas kept amusement from his face as he watched them drag themselves from their blankets and wash and comb their hair (head and foot) and try to make themselves presentable, according to their fashion.  The two elder cousins were not having much luck with the youngest one, who was developing a limpet-like ability to cling to his blankets.  Legolas had to look away and pretend to study the horizon as Frodo and Merry finally pried Pippin from the bedding and forced him to wash his face in the icy stream.

Sam had taken the rabbits and several now roasted on a spit while more were chopped for stew.  Delectable smells were drifting from the cook fire.  The Elf sniffed appreciatively and reminded himself to praise the little halfling.  Sam’s reactions to gentle words from him amused the Elf - the hobbit would positively beam with joy.  Legolas had journeyed many times with little more than elven waybread as his staple, and was both surprised and gratified to discover that the hobbits had declared (adamantly and voraciously) that they could not march on such fare and Aragorn had backed them up.  Gandalf had thrown up his hands and retorted that this was not a “hobbit walking party.”  After a few further growls, the wizard had conceded the delay.  To Legolas, it did not seem that the wizard had protested overmuch.

After the Company ate and Boromir took the watch from Gimli, Legolas expected the hobbits to return to sleep.  Instead, they expressed a wish to explore.  Legolas’ keen gaze traveled over the distant trees that seemed to interest the halflings and looked at the Ring-bearer questioningly.  “These lands are so unlike the Shire,” Frodo explained earnestly.  “We would like to see a little more of them before we leave them behind.” 

“We have the Old Forest outside Buckland,” Merry contributed, “but nothing like this.”

Gandalf looked at the trees appraisingly.  “The land starts to rise here, here at the foot of Caradhras.  The great forests before us thrive on the snow-melt from the mountain.    The forests in their turn give way to rock and shale as the mountain grows.”  His gaze traveled back to the hobbits.  “There is no need to explore the forest now; you will see plenty of trees as we pass through them.”

Frodo and Merry glanced at each other, some unspoken communication passing between them.  “Yes, well…” Frodo said slowly.  “They look so interesting.  We could do some scouting and perhaps find an easier path.  Legolas has been showing us how to track, and we could use the practice.”  Frodo turned around and directed a hopeful smile towards the Elf.  Gandalf, smoking his pipe, lowered his brows and frowned at them.  The hobbits gazed innocently back.

Pippin had been helping Sam with the washing-up, and arrived just in time to hear that remark.  “If we could find a fallen tree, it might be stuffed with mushrooms!”

Legolas laughed then, for the expression on the other two’s faces more clearly than words explained their desire to investigate the forest.  It would only take a little time, he supposed, and would allow Aragorn and Gandalf to consult without the interference of hobbity curiosity.  Ever fair-handed, the Elf admitted to himself that it was not that the halflings were intrusive, but they were intensely curious about anything and everything in their path.  No doubt their leaders would appreciate being able to converse without small, pointed ears prinked in their direction.

“Mushrooms?” asked Samwise hopefully, wiping his hands dry on his breeches as he joined them.  “Who’s got mushrooms?”  He looked at the others eagerly.  “I’ve a nice piece of butter that’s going ‘ta go bad if not used.  There’s wild garlic about.  Mushrooms, sliced thin and sautéed in butter…”

The little folk were almost salivating.  Legolas looked up from their expectant faces to see Aragorn watching them, mirth sparkling in his deep-set eyes.  “Don’t be gone long,” he cautioned them.  “And stay alert.  Just because we have seen no spies since the crebain does not mean that our path goes unwatched.”

* * * * *

As Legolas trailed after the chattering hobbits, he wondered why the little ones had focused on him for their little expedition.  They did not seem much concerned with reading the trail sign they passed.  Perhaps they, like he, missed the sweet grass of Elrond’s lands under their feet, and the good will of the Elf-lord’s domain.  Not that the little folk were aware of the feelings of the trees, as was he.  As he walked, he would now and then trail a long hand appreciatively along a lichen-covered trunk or gently straighten a bent limb.  Involved in their discussion, the hobbits did not notice the green fronds that would descend to lightly embrace his shoulder.  The Wood-Elf would smile and stroke them gently before passing on.

As he walked, Legolas kept a wary eye on the surroundings, forgetting never that he was responsible for the hobbits’ safety.  For the Ring-bearer’s safety.  That brought to his mind a recent conversation with Aragorn, taking place not long after he had pledged his bow to the Ring-bearer at Elrond’s Council.  With an Elf’s perfect memory, he replayed that exchange in his mind.  He and Aragorn had been escorting the halflings about Rivendell, surreptitiously ensuring that the younger ones did not overtax the recovering invalid.  Sam and Pippin and Merry were so delighted that Frodo was up at last that Elrond feared they would overtire him.  Aragorn had requested Legolas’ company to accustom the hobbits to the Elf’s presence.  They were more comfortable with Men and even with the dwarf, Gimli, than Legolas.  Legolas was not offended.  Bilbo had taught his heir friendship with the dwarves of old, and the other three had met Gimli’s folk now and then.  With the exception of the Ring-bearer, Elves were a thing out of legend for them.  Legolas wondered briefly if their shyness was due to his royal birth, then dismissed the notion.  It was more likely they were simply in awe of him because he was of Elven-kind.

 “Legolas,” the Ranger had murmured to him on that not-so-distant day as they followed the halflings at a discreet distance.  “I should warn you about the hobbits.”

The Elf had lifted an elegant eyebrow, affixing an amused eye on his friend.  “Really, Aragorn,” Legolas replied, holding aside a tree branch so that their passage did not scrape it, “you have said something similar before, and I cannot see it.  They are an ingenious, amusing little folk, with no harm in them.”

Aragorn kept a cautious eye on the hobbits as he spoke, obviously concerned for the Ring-bearer.  Frodo was much stronger but he tired easily, and Legolas noted that Sam kept a hand at his master's back, and Merry and Pippin were never more than an arm’s length away.  He and Aragorn were in theory guiding them, but in fact they hung back, allowing the younger hobbits to show Frodo their discoveries.  After the attempt upon the hobbit’s life in his rooms**, Elrond had thought to assign guards to the Ring-bearer’s security, but Aragorn had volunteered to escort the hobbits.  Legolas volunteered with him, glad to renew their friendship while the little folk explored.

“No, not harm,” Aragorn returned, both agreeing and disagreeing, “not deliberate harm.  But -”

“I understand you have experienced a few unfortunate … uh, incidents with the little folk, which surely cannot be blamed upon them -”

“That’s just it,” interrupted the man seriously.  “It’s never their fault.  Somehow they end up covered in roses and I end up covered in manure.  I don’t know how they do it.”

Legolas was glad to see that the hobbits had chanced upon a bench and were carefully easing a visibly weary Frodo onto it.  The late morning sun was cold and the Elf wondered that the little ones’ unshod feet were not chilled.  The Elf’s keen eyes could detect a visible trembling of the Ring-bearer’s limbs and Frodo’s face was set and very pale.  Following Legolas’ gaze, Aragorn looked worried and started forward. 

He halted when Pippin hopped up onto the bench opposite Frodo, supporting his cousin’s back.  Sam took off his cloak and tucked it around the trembling shoulders, while Merry looped Frodo’s good arm over his shoulders and supported his side, tugging the cloak over Frodo and Pippin both.  The Elf’s clear eyes sparkled to see such care, then he returned his attention to the conversation.  

“I am sure it isn’t deliberate,” Legolas responded, sincerely trying not to smile. 

Aragorn groaned.  “I will ask you if you hold that opinion a month into our quest.”

Legolas laughed lightly.  “Really, my friend, you speak as if they are insidious, conniving, evil little monsters –“

 “No, no,” the Ranger had replied hurriedly.  “I did not mean to give you that impression.  During these past few weeks, I have learned to respect those small folk.  As well as grow fond of them.  It is just that … that they seem to have a tendency to fall into trouble, and somehow I am held responsible.  Not Frodo, of course – he has been too ill to be involved in the … incidents.  Most of the incidents.  But now that he is on his feet, I have this gnawing fear –“ Aragorn broke off and looked embarrassed.

Legolas would never be so discourteous as to laugh at his friend, but his lips did thin in a suppressed smile.  The Elf’s starry eyes sparkled at the memory.  It was now less than a month into their quest, and he had indeed revised his opinion of the four small beings that chattered and laughed quietly ahead of him.  He, too, was growing fond of them.  And he no longer disregarded Aragorn’s warning.

Legolas’ question of why the hobbits had chosen him for this little excursion was soon answered.  Some way into the forest, the hobbits gathered in a huddle in a small clearing beneath the blackened limb of a long-dead tree, intent eyes staring upward.  The tree leaned drunkenly against a neighbor, half-rotted, decaying and decrepit.  High above the hobbits, along a broken branch, protruded a thick shelf of golden-brown fungi. 

“Ohhh,” moaned Pippin.  “Butter-nuts.  Big, fat ones.  Enough for all of us.”

Merry licked his lips.  “Sliced thin, as Sam said.  Fried in butter and garlic...”

“Ohhhhhhh,” moaned the hobbits in unison.

Four sets of eyes judged the distance from the earth then up to their desire.  Ground, mushrooms.  Mushrooms, ground.  Legolas watched in amusement as four curly heads raised, swiveled, then lowered in unison.  It must seem a terribly long way to them, the Elf realized.

“Right,” Frodo said decisively, hands going to the fastening of his cloak.  “I’m for it.  I’ll toss them down and you lot can catch them.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” Merry returned just as quickly.  “You’re not to strain that shoulder.  I’ll do it.”“You’ll fall out in a trice,” retorted Pippin.  “You had to hold onto the railing when we went up the stairs at The Prancing Pony in Bree.  I’ll do it -”

“No!” yelped Frodo and Merry both.  “I’ll do it,” Frodo added firmly. Sam glanced at him worriedly and resumed staring at the leaf-strewn ground, too wise to involve himself in the cousins’ debate.

“No, I will!” Merry reached up to catch a branch, then gasped as a slash of pain tore through his healing hand. *  Unable to stifle a yip, he curled the fingers tight against his chest, cradling his injured hand with the other.

Frodo seized Merry’s hand and examined it closely, rubbing the back of Merry’s fingers soothingly before gently folding them shut and returning the hand to its owner.  “You will stay on the ground, Meriadoc,” Frodo ordered.  “I am climbing that tree.”

“Frodo’s right, Merry,” Pippin advised.  “Except that I will climb the tree.  My creaky cousins should be glad I am here,” he added cheerfully.

“Pippin-lad, you listen to me -”

“Frodo, I wobbled on the stairs because of the ale, not the height.  I am perfectly capable -”

“Merry, you’re lucky you didn’t fall down the stairs after drinking that Man-sized pint.  I, on the other hand, barely had a drink at all -”

“Only because of that ridiculous stunt you pulled with the Ring –““Pippin!”

At the receiving end of that tone from both his elder cousins, Pippin blanched.  Then his jaw firmed and the light of battle returned to his eye.  “It is true and you know it, Frodo.  Merry’s right – Lord Elrond said you weren’t to pull that shoulder.  I know it’s still hurting you.  Both of you are too old to be climbing trees anyway.”“Peregrin Took,” began Merry loudly, “I’ll have you know –“

“Gentlemen!”  And that was how Legolas found himself ascending the decaying tree, suspecting that he had been quite expertly manipulated but unsure as to how it had come about.

“Be careful, Legolas!” Frodo called up from the security of his place on the ground.  All four of them were staring up at him worriedly and calling out the most distracting warnings and instructions as to the best handholds and footholds.  Legolas nearly bit his tongue in vexation - a Wood-elf did not need such advice.  He tested his hold on the crumbling bark and pulled himself up another length.  He had been climbing trees before their grandparents had been a twinkle in their great-grandparents’ eyes.  Nevertheless, he forbore to reprimand them, as that would be beneath his dignity.  Let them think they were helping, if they wished.  Normally the tree itself would instruct him as the best way to climb it, but all he felt from this disintegrating shell was the mindless eating of the parasites and worms that consumed the dead.  And the slow life of the devouring fungi that grew on the wooden corpse.

At last he reached the mushrooms and steadied himself with a careful hand.  Long ago, lightening had blasted this tree and the trunk was almost hollow.  Pieces of bark came away in his hands as he eased himself into position.  Reaching out a long arm, he carefully broke off the first growth and looked down.

The hobbits were looking up at him eagerly.  Sam and Frodo had taken off their cloaks and spread them on the ground.  Sam stepped back from pulling them wide and called up, “Right there, if’n you would, sir.”

Legolas cast down the mushroom and Pippin darted forward eagerly to catch it up.  “No, you don’t!” ordered his eldest cousin, snatching it away with speed that Legolas thought would do credit to an Elf.  “We’ll share and share alike.  These go back to camp for supper.”  Crestfallen but obedient, Pippin retreated back to the edge of the cloaks.

The Elf harvested all of the growths he could reach, sending them unerringly onto the improvised ground cloths.  Just beyond the length of his arms was another mass of the fungi, larger than the first.  He inched towards it and a great piece of bark, larger than a hobbit’s head, tore loose from under his foot and plummeted to earth.  With commendable quickness, the halflings scattered as it shattered at the base of the tree. 

“Legolas, please come down,” Frodo called up as the others bent to collect the shards and toss them off the cloaks.  “We have enough.  I don’t like the look of that branch.”

Legolas tightened his hold then eyed the pile of mushrooms below him, and the remaining ones above him.  He had seen these little folk tuck away an astonishing amount of their favorite delicacies in Imladris, and what lay upon the cloaks would scarcely satisfy them.  He did not trust them to refrain from trying to return to collect the remaining mushrooms on their own.  They were too quick and silent-footed.  He would quickly notice their absence, of course, but the others…  Best to remove the temptation.   If he leaned forward and reached as far as he could...

So intent was he on his quarry that the first faint creaking did not truly register on his consciousness.  From the corner of his eye, he saw the halflings pause and straighten, passing among themselves looks of confusion.  Then the tree shivered.

Above Legolas, a loud crack! reverberated about the clearing.  Sam cried out, his round face whitening as a large branch snapped free and fell downward like a rock, tearing off smaller bits of the dead tree with it.  Pippin cast himself to the ground, sensibly curling up into a ball.  Merry followed a heartbeat later, throwing himself over his smaller cousin and covering his own head with both hands.  Sam and Frodo flung themselves out of the path of the descending debris.  Then Legolas had no more time for observation as the loose bark beneath his feet slipped and gave way.

The Elf made no sound as he fell.  His hands snatched at the crumbling tree but could find no hold.  Even if Legolas had cried out, Frodo’s loud shout of horror would have swallowed it.  His last thought, before he hit something solid and unbearable agony overwhelmed him, was that he hoped no one told the dwarf that he had fallen out of the tree.

* TBC *

* ”The Ruin of Men and Elves” by Budgielover

** “Intruder” by Budgielover

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What...  What...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

“Yes, yes.  He’s hurt, Strider!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* TBC *

Chapter Three

Legolas was silent, keeping the contempt from his face.  Frodo was not so circumspect.  Fury blazed from those blue eyes.  He ignored the men looming behind him and addressed the leader, the hand not holding Sting clenching tightly into a fist.  “Sir,” the hobbit said clearly, “I will ask you and your friends to leave.”

Harlan grinned at him.  “Oh, quite the cock-a-whoop, aren’t you, little master?”  Frodo went pale while Sam reddened, his grip tightening on his own sword, grey eyes narrowed.  The man laughed at them, a sneer curling on his lips.  He sheathed the dirty knife in a swift, practiced motion.  Then his gaze wandered to Pippin.  “I don’t think you introduced the lad there.  Who's the tweenager?”

Insulted and furious with himself for being afraid, Pippin opened his mouth.  “I am Peregrin To–"

“Tunneldown,” interjected Frodo suddenly.  “Peregrin Tunneldown.  A penniless young ward in my care.  I took him in when his parents died.”

Pippin gaped at his cousin.  “Frodo!  What are–"

“Pippin, be quiet,” said Frodo softly in a voice Pippin had never heard before from his gentle, indulgent cousin.

The man glanced again at the young hobbit and dismissed him.  His attention had already drifted back to Frodo, and he cocked his head and regarded the hobbit quizzically.  “There’s something about you, little master, that intrigues me.”  He nodded once, as if he had suddenly made a decision.  “You will come with us, too, I think.  Can’t see any use for the others, though.  Lads!”

Even if the hobbits had been prepared, they would have stood no chance against three vicious men nearly twice their size.  Sensing movement behind him, Sam whirled, his sword thrusting up to take the nearest man in the breastbone.  But Lando was already moving, and his reach was far longer than Sam’s.  His fist came down hard on Sam’s head with the impact of bone against bone.  Sam reeled, staggering into Frodo, knocking his master forward.  Frodo twisted lithely and tried to steady Sam with an arm around his shoulder, but that instinctive, protective gesture hindered him.  He slashed at Harlan, but the man was ready and the musical ring of Sting was drowned out by the dull clang of the much larger blade.  His hand numbed by the sheer force of the blow, Frodo dropped Sting and stumbled back, falling to the ground, pulling Sam down with him.  Harlan recovered the sword before the hobbits’ dazed eyes, angling it to admire the fine work of the blade and rosewood hilt.

Pippin had thrown himself backwards as the men rushed forward, tearing his blade out from its hiding place.  Had not Legolas anticipated the movement, the sudden removal of his support would have smashed his head to the ground.  With an inarticulate shriek of rage, Pippin leaped over Legolas and threw himself at the man who had struck Sam.  Legolas cried out, too, half in pain and half in alarm, as he tried to raise himself up to prevent the doomed attack.  But his injury slowed him and his hand closed uselessly on the trailing end of Pippin’s scarf.

Before Pippin’s feet struck the earth, Harlan swung at him from the side, turning the youngster’s blade easily.  He struck the tweenager down with the flat of his blade, knocking Pippin to the ground so violently that the young hobbit was thrown backwards and slid several feet along the leaf-strewn earth.  He lay there unmoving.

“Pippin!”  Legolas’ and Frodo’s cries rang out together.  Ignoring the men, Frodo scrambled past Harlan and stumbled to Pippin, sinking down to cradle his unconscious cousin’s head in his lap.  “Pippin-lad!  Speak to me!  Pippin!”

Stunned, Sam staggered to his feet and tried to interpose himself between the men and his master and Master Pippin, raising his sword dizzily.  Harlan looked at the weaving hobbit and laughed.  “Still got some fight in you, heh?”  The laughter died as the man’s face hardened.  “You are delaying us.  Take care of him, lads.”

Lando and Billeh circled around Sam, coming at him from opposite sides.  The stocky hobbit looked desperately between them, backing up to try to keep them before him.   One of the men feinted at him and Sam parried the blow, spinning to drive the other back.  Steel rang and sparks erupted from along the blades like tiny fireworks.  “Mr. Frodo,” he hissed, ”you run.  I’ll take care of Pip and Legolas.  Run, sir!”

Frodo tore his eyes from Pippin's still face and Sam saw tears glittering there.  His master shook his head.  “No, Sam.  I’m not leaving you.  We face this together.”

Sam fell back another step, frustration so loud in him he wanted to shout.  The two men grinned, enjoying themselves, obviously toying with him.  One lunged forward again then retreated when Sam twisted to meet him.  The movement made Sam’s head pound fit to burst.  This can’t go on, Sam thought.  I’ve got ‘ta make Mr. Frodo go!   “Sir, you got to!  You can’t let them take you!”  Frodo shook his head, his eyes on Pippin’s motionless face.  Frantic, Sam hissed, “Remember your promise, sir!”

Those words seemed to penetrate.  Frodo’s head came up.  He looked over at the unequal contest, at the men idly toying with Sam, and his face twisted in pain.  Unconsciously, his hand clutched at the base of his throat.   “Ahhhh,” he groaned.  Then his eyes lowered again to his unmoving cousin, “No.  No.  Put your sword down, Sam.”  Frodo drew in a great breath then his enraged gaze turned to Harlan.  “We will not resist you, sir.  But we stay together.  All of us.”

Grinding his teeth in fury and frustration, Sam obeyed.  But Frodo hadn’t ordered him to sheath his weapon, and he did not.  Harlan nodded.  “Very well.   Back off, lads.  Lando, get the horses.  And we’ll take those bright shiny knives, little masters.”

“Mr. Frodo!”

“No, Sam.  We can’t fight them.”  Frodo gently unwrapped Pippin’s limp fingers from the hilt of Legolas’ knife and laid the blade carefully to the side.   “Give him your sword.”  Still Sam hesitated, caught between loyalty and what seemed to him to be common sense.  “Sam,” Frodo said softly.  “I won’t have you being hurt, too.  Do it.”

If looks could kill…  Sam devoutly wishing there was truth to that old saying, for these Men would neverdraw another breath.  Grey eyes furious, he unclamped his hand from the hilt and offered it reluctantly to the nearest man.  Billeh took the sword and swung it carelessly, admiring the weight and balance.  “Lovely,” he murmured.  “Never seen its like.  Bring a good price, this will.”  He moved past Sam to collect Legolas’ knife and with a warning glance at Frodo, knelt to pull Pippin’s sword from its sheath.  These he brought to Harlan, who handed him Sting.  Then Billeh walked over to Legolas and pulled off one of the cloaks, wrapping the swords securely in the cushioning cloth.

Legolas, too, fought to order his tongue and his expression.  To lie helpless on the ground while the hobbits were overcome!   He forced himself not to react as Billeh bent and retrieved his bow and quiver, his sword and the other long, bone-handled knife.  He hated the man’s filthy touch profaning his weapons.  The man was watching him closely, wary, careful not to come too close.  If he moved quickly enough, he might be able to catch up his knife and kill the man standing over him, but that would not help the hobbits.  They would surely suffer for his actions, and he himself would be killed.  Much good his sworn protection would be to the Ring-bearer then…  His hands dug into the soft earth and he forced them to relax and stared back at the men with a cool, considering gaze.

“Can you walk, Elf?”

“No,” replied Legolas coolly.  “My friends have constructed a litter for me.  If you wish to take me, you will have to carry me.”

Harlan had already spied the improvised litter.  He ambled over to it and inspected it, then grinned and deliberately slammed his foot through the frame.  Wood crunched and splintered.  He shook the shattered wood and cloth off his foot derisively.  “Carry you?  Sod that.  You’ll walk, Elf.  Or we’ll drag you.”

Frodo carefully slid Pippin’s head from his lap and laid it gently on the ground, pushing the curls out of the closed eyes with tender fingers.  He stood.  “Legolas is hurt.  He cannot walk.  Let us carry him, if you will not.  Will one of you carry the lad?”

Harlan smiled at Frodo and Sam’s heart quailed.  No, he thought.  Oh, no.  Oh, Frodo –  He realized he had lost track of the second man.  The faintest rustle to the side alerted him.  Sam swung around but Lando was already too near, and Sam was still slowed by the first blow.  The man’s fist caught him across the cheek, snapping his head to the side.  Sam was lifted off his feet and came down in a broken, unmoving heap.

“Sam!”  Frodo was running towards the crumpled figure but Harlan reached out and seized him, twisting his arms behind him, pulling the kicking hobbit against his body.  Sam’s last clear memory before the darkness took him was of the man laughing, Frodo imprisoned before him, and the other two forcing the Elf to his feet.

* * * * *

Aragorn reached out and lifted Merry from his feet before the hobbit could charge into the clearing, placing one hand over the hobbit’s mouth.  Already filling his lungs for a hail, Merry choked and looked up at the Ranger in astonishment.  “Never shout before looking, Merry,” Aragorn admonished softly in the hobbit’s ear, removing his hand.  After a moment Merry nodded, drawing in great gasps of air as he fought to quiet his breathing.

Aragorn set the hobbit down but kept a hand on his shoulder.  Both Ranger and wizard had kept the pace to the place where Merry had left the others, running with surprising silence.  They could easily have outpaced the hobbit but would not risk mistaking the trail in their hurry.  Ahead of the other two and struggling against the increasing burning of his lungs, Merry did not see the Ranger lightly touch the wizard’s arm and point to the side, at the trampled earth which led along the tree line.  Gandalf nodded tightly, long grey beard jutting fiercely.  Neither made any mention of it, saving their breath for running.  When they came to edge of the clearing and Merry had wheezed out their arrival, Aragorn made a small motion with his hand and Merry watched as Gandalf bent double, his hands on his knees for a moment, fighting to control his breathing.  Wiping the perspiration from his face, Gandalf nodded and drifted off to the right, silent, one hand on his staff and the other resting on the hilt of his great sword.

“Stay here, Merry.  Let me go first.  I will call you if it is safe.“

“But Legolas–"

“Will survive another few minutes.  Stay here.”  Aragorn waited until he had the hobbit’s nod of agreement before releasing Merry’s shoulder.  Then he was gone, no more than a rustle of wind passing between the trees. 

“Aragorn!”  Gandalf’s shout rocked Merry back on his heels.  Deciding that a shout from the wizard was as good as one from the Ranger, Merry darted into the clearing.  And froze.  Gandalf was on his knees beside a still figure, his staff and sword lying discarded as he gathered up the small body.  Pippin.  So stunned was Merry that for a moment, nothing else registered.  Then he realized that Frodo and Legolas were nowhere to be seen, and Sam was lying face-down on the turf, like a discarded doll.

Aragorn emerged from the trees on the other side of the small clearing, taking in the scenario at a glance.  His face was very grim and his sword was in his hand.  While Gandalf cradled Pippin, he ran to Sam and laid his hands carefully on the hobbit’s head and body.  Sam groaned and struck blindly at the air with one fist. 

That pain-filled sound released Merry from his shock.  In a flash, he was across the clearing and tugging desperately at Gandalf’s arms.  “Merry!” reprimanded the wizard.  “Be at ease.  He is only unconscious.  He has been struck.”

Gandalf’s reassurance only increased Merry’s agitation.  “Struck?  Struck?  Let me see him!”  Cradled in Gandalf’s arms, Pippin whimpered and Gandalf shifted him so that the tweenager lay against his chest, head lolling.  A red mark was rising on the side of his temple, swelling angrily against the paleness of his skin.  Merry had received enough unintentional bruises from Boromir during arms practice to recognize a sword-weal.  Merry caught his little cousin’s face in his hands.  “Pippin?  Are you all right, dear heart?”

Pippin’s eyelids fluttered and he moaned, his curled hands plucking aimlessly at the coarse cloth of Gandalf’s sleeves.  Merry was peripherally aware of movement at his side as Aragorn sank down by them, Samclaspedin his arms.  “He’s got a nasty welt on his head,” the Ranger informed them.  “Looks like a blow.  He’s lucky it didn’t snap his neck.”

Not releasing his hold on Pippin, Merry tried to peer into Sam’s face.  “Sam,” he called softly.  “Wake up, Sam!”  Sam groaned again, his face pinching with pain.  Merry met Aragorn’s eyes for a moment then leaned closer and whispered directly into Sam’s ear,  “Samwise!  Is the bathwater hot?”

Sam set bolt upright in Aragorn’s arms, causing the Ranger to tighten his hold around the hobbit to steady him.  “Mr. Merry, sir!  No, sir, it isn’t!”  He listed to the side and Aragorn hastened to support him.  Sam looked up at the Ranger blurrily, struggling to orient himself.  Then he shuddered and the sharp eyes snapped into focus.  “They took Mr. Frodo and Legolas!  They took them!”

“Who took them, Sam?  What happened?”  Gandalf pushed his water-skin into the Ranger’s hands and Aragorn unstoppered it and handed it to Sam.  Sam held it up to his mouth with trembling hands and took a quick drink, then raised it and squirted more directly into his face.  He handed it back with a shake of his head, droplets of water flying off his sandy hair.

“Three Men,” he said concisely despite blurring eyes.  “Great big brutes – hunters.  The leader said they were after snow-deer.  Mr. Frodo asked them ‘ta help us with Legolas but they wouldn’t.”  Sam paused and bit down on voicing his opinion of their attackers.  “They just wanted our swords, and Legolas’ knives and bow.”  Aragorn put his fingers on Sam’s wrist, feeling the pulse race.  “Then they found out that Legolas was King Thranduil’s son.”  Sudden rage flared in the little gardener’s eyes.  “They said Master Pippin an’ me weren’t no use to them.  One hit the lad right hard with the flat of his sword, and another hit me.  Is Master Pip all right?”

Pippin had been wiggling feebly during this angry recitation, and had opened his eyes for the last of it.   He looked up into Gandalf’s face, then over at Sam and Aragorn and lastly, at Merry.  Merry gave a stifled sob and released him, sitting back on the cold earth.  Pippin frowned at him in confusion, then his gaze darted suddenly around the clearing.  “Where are Frodo and Legolas?”  No one answered him.  Pippin reared up in Gandalf’s arms, staring at his cousin, a wince crossing his face as the movement hurt.  “Where are they?  Where are they, Merry?”

“We will find them them, Pippin,” Aragorn said softly.  “Sam, can you sit?”  At the hobbit’s shaky nod, Aragorn eased the hobbit down against Gandalf and stood up, keen eyes already scanning the surrounding ground.  “There!”  Quickly he walked a few steps to the scuffed ground and knelt beside the disturbed earth, laying one hand lightly on the soil.  As he leaned forward to peer at the ground, the others fell silent, watching him anxiously.  Pippin scrubbed at his eyes, sniffling, but was determinedly quiet, his gilded eyes both frightened and furious.  Gandalf rubbed his back comfortingly and Merry slid an arm around the trembling shoulders.

Aragorn looked up from the track, tracing it into the forest with his eyes.  “It looks like they got Legolas up and made him walk.   Ah, no…” the Ranger was silent for a moment, then continued.  “There is blood on the ground.”  His gaze travelled to the broken tree.  “That is the tree you said Legolas fell from, Merry?”

Wordlessly, Merry nodded and looked away from the dark stain coating the rotted bark with a shudder.   Aragorn’s keen eyes narrowed and his face tightened.  “Legolas’ blood, then.”

Still cradled in Gandalf’s lap, Pippin felt the wizard’s arms tighten about him, and he looked up into the angry face above him.  Sensing the movement, Gandalf looked down, and his face softened.  He raised a hand to gently tug at the lobe of the young hobbit’s ear, and Pippin smiled tremulously.   “Here are two sets of boots,” Aragorn continued quietly, ignoring for the moment the impact of his words upon the others.  He rose and moved towards the trees a few steps, kneeling again.  “And in between them the light print of Legolas’ shoes.  No … there is only one full print of his, and the other only a toe-print.  He must have been limping, supported by a man on each side of him.”

“We made a litter,” put in Sam, climbing unsteadily to his feet.  His seeking eyes settled on the destroyed contraption.  “Why did they break it?  Why didn’t they use it?”

Aragorn was following the trail, eyes on the ground.  Almost to the trees he halted and turned back to them, his expression sorrowful.  “There was no need.  Legolas would not have had to walk far.  They had horses.”

“Horses?” echoed Merry with a sinking heart.  “We’ll never catch them, then.  Aragorn, what are we going to do?”

* TBC *

Chapter Four

If this had not been a hunting party, Legolas thought, their abduction might have turned out quite differently.  Unfortunately, the men had several extra mounts, brought along to pack out the meat and hides, and the extra horses meant that all the party was mounted.  The extra beasts trailed behind the riders on a lead-line, shaking their heads and shuddering in distaste at the bloody burdens they were forced to bear.  Snow-deer carcasses, butchered and only half bled-out, were tied across their backs.  Blood ran down the horses’ legs, drying in their coats and attracting hordes of biting flies.  Riding was a misery exacerbating the agony of his wounds.

It was the horses that would make all the difference.  A man – or in the Fellowship’s case, two men, a wizard, a dwarf and three halflings, two of those hurt he knew not how badly – might outpace a horse in the short distance.   But in the long, four legs will always out speed two.  A rider all of his long life, the Elf compared how much distance four legs would win over two, and felt his heart sink.

“Hurry up, there,” Harlan called, twisting in the saddle to glare at the Elf and the men that rode behind him.   Lando lashed his reins cruelly against Legolas’ horse’s rump, and the animal leaped forward, frightened.  Fresh blood blossomed on Legolas’ side, the sudden jolt ripping anew flesh that had already began to heal.  The Elf refused to acknowledge its presence, keeping his back straight and his seat easy and the effort it cost him from his face. 

Harlan saw, though, and his mouth curved up in a sneering laugh.  “Your blood don’t look blue to me, Elf.  Looks as red as my own.”  Bringing up the rear, the other man laughed, coarse and cruel.  Legolas abandoned his clandestine efforts to slow the mount, easing his grip around its barrel as one tied hand stroked its mane, sending comfort and apology to the trembling horse through his gentle touch.

The hunters had tied he and Frodo both, the hobbit mounted before Harlan, then roped their hands to the saddle pommels before them to deny them escape by casting themselves to the ground and fleeing.  To deny him escape, Legolas thought, as the fall from the horse’s high back to the ground would certainly injure the Ring-bearer, even if Frodo had the opportunity to run.  Legolas knew that that option was not open to him; his side and leg throbbed and burned with unrelenting agony.  His head, too, was sending sharp slashes of pain through his entire body each time the wretched beast upon which he rode stumbled.  Each misstep caused his vision to blur into a white fog, and all the world seemed to withdraw.  It was becoming increasing difficult to keep his head up and his expression serene.

But he could not permit himself the luxury of retreating into unconsciousness.  He could not leave the Ring-bearer alone with these men.  Frodo must have been worried for him, too, for he saw a dark, curly head lean sideways past the leader and try to peer back at him.  Frodo could not turn enough to see him, and after a moment was jerked roughly back before the man, a coarse laugh drifting back.  Separate from the snarling laugh was the hobbit’s soft gasp of pain.  The Elf’s heart burned with slow, immortal anger.  He allowed his head to drop to his breast as the horse lurched into a stiff-legged trot, conserving his strength as best he could, while behind his lidded gaze his mind churned frantically.

* * * * *

“Merry,” Aragorn was saying, “I swear, you are as stubborn as Frodo.  There is no way that you can keep up with us.”

Merry folded his arms and glared up at the Ranger, refusing to concede the point.  “Then I’ll follow after.  Pip and Sam can make it safely back to camp by themselves.”

“That they can or cannot is not at issue.  Though there should be one unhurt person with them.  The issue is that you cannot keep the pace with Gandalf and I, and someone must tell the others what has occurred here.”  Aragorn took a deep breath against his rising temper, and glanced at Gandalf for help.

The wizard had not involved himself in the argument, standing still and silent, leaning on his staff.  While Aragorn washed and cleaned Sam’s and Pippin’s hurts, he lifted his head and raised his face to the wind, eyes closed and face intent.  The Ranger was certain that he was searching for their taken ones in some wizardly manner.

“They have stopped,” Gandalf announced, his voice soft but ringing.  He opened those bright blue orbs and narrowed them at Merry.  “Meriadoc Brandybuck, I charge you with the care of young Pippin and Samwise.  You are responsible for them.  You will take them safely back to camp and there you will report what has happened and see that the camp is struck.  Then you will follow after us as quickly as you may.”

Merry opened his mouth, and seated leaning against his cousin’s legs, Pippin’s heart sank.  Brandybucks had nothing on Bagginses for pure hard-headedness, all their teasing of their elder cousin aside.  The tweenager slipped a hand into his cousin’s and did his best to look pathetic - which wasn’t terribly difficult; his head ached abominably.  “Merry,” he whispered, “I don’t feel well.  I don’t think I can walk back to camp without your help.  And Sam is hurt too.”

Merry stared down at him, caught between loyalties and loves.  Then he knelt and hugged Pippin carefully.  “All right, lad,” he murmured softly into Pippin’s hair.  “We’ll go back.”  Looking past Merry’s head, Pippin saw Gandalf nod at him approvingly, and Sam smiled in relief.

“Just you find them right quick,” Merry ordered, ignoring the glint of humour in the Big People’s eyes.  He eased Pippin to his feet while Sam untied his and Pippin’s cloaks from the shattered remains of the litter.  Handing the burgundy cloak to Pippin, Sam knelt to pile the mushrooms into his and tie the ends into a knot like a huge kerchief.

“The horses will not be able to go so quickly through these woods,” offered the Ranger as the three stood forlorn.  “The trees will slow them.  Two swift runners have a chance of catching them.  Boromir has enough trail experience to lead you to us.  You will follow his orders until we are reunited.”

Merry looked mutinous but nodded reluctantly.  The hobbits watched as the two figures disappeared silently into the trees.

* * * * *

Lando kicked his horse in the ribs and forced the sweating animal up to ride abreast of Harlan and his captive.  “We’re hungry, Harlan.  We didn’t get no lunch, coming up on this rubbish like we did.”

The leader pushed Frodo forward onto the pommel and scratched his belly.  Harlan looked up and squinted through the trees, trying to estimate the angle of the sun.  “What do you say, little master?  Shall we stop and have a bite?”

“I should like to stop, yes,” responded Frodo stiffly, ignoring the burn of the coarse rope abrading his wrists and the man’s humiliating handling.  “May I speak to my friend, please?  And may we have some water?”

Harlan pulled the horse to a halt with a brutal jerk on the bit.  The animal lowered its head, reddish foam dripping from its lips.  He turned in the saddle to look consideringly at the Elf.  “He don’t look so good, heh?  We stop.  Billeh, Lando, stake the horses.  Get the Elf down.” The man swung off and after a moment, lifted the hobbit and set Frodo on his feet.  Legs numb from being stretched out on the back of a horse too large for him, Frodo staggered and would have fallen if the man hadn’t caught him under the arm and pulled him upright.  “I know the weight your folk give to promises, halfling.  Give me your word that you won’t try to run and I won’t tie you.”

“I will not run,” promised Frodo resignedly, wondering just where the Man thought he would go in this unfamiliar forest, far from friends and help.  “May I speak with my friend, please?”

The man nodded then leaned down to slice through the bonds Frodo held up to him.  Harlan untied the water skin from his saddle and tossed it to the hobbit.  Frodo caught it with numb hands, shaking his wrists to restore life to his fingers.  Billeh and Lando untied Legolas’ bonds from the pommel but left his hands roped, hauling him down cruelly.  Finding the Elf unable to walk at all, they dragged him to the foot of a nearby tree and dropped him there, obviously hoping to elicit a cry of pain from him.  Legolas was silent.

A low murmuring whisper ran through the forest, more than a sudden breeze stirring the heavy boughs of the trees about them.  Angry almost-words impinged on the Elf’s consciousness.  Ignoring the slashing agony that ran through him like fire, Legolas raised his head and looked at the trees in alarm.  Did none of the mortals hear it?  Suddenly the air seemed dark and close and the Elf found it difficult to breathe. 

Legolas looked over dizzily as Frodo knelt by his side and slid an arm under his head, lifting him to ease him upright against the tree.  Using the excuse of giving the Elf a drink, Frodo dipped his head close to the Elf’s ear, unwilling to have their captors overhear.  “How are you, Legolas?”

“Frodo … Frodo – you must not be near this man…”

“He keeps touching me, Legolas.”

“The … what you bear calls to him, though he does not know it.  Men are easily corrupted.  Make sure he does not see it, Frodo.”

Frodo nodded, keeping his anger at his own helplessness hidden from the Elf.  When Legolas shook his head at the offer of a second drink, the hobbit took one himself then lowered the skin.  His back to the men, he pulled his shirt collar higher over the silver chain.  Then he shivered and examined the Elf with concern.  “Are you cold, Legolas?  Let me spread my jacket over you.”

The Elf smiled at the hobbit.  “No, Frodo, thank you.  I am all right.”

“Just while we halt, then.”  Ignoring the Elf’s protests, Frodo shrugged out of his jacket and laid it gently over Legolas’ upper body.  “I’d be grateful if you would refrain from bleeding on it,” the hobbit teased gently with a ghost of a smile.

“I will do my best,” Legolas replied with equal, if strained, levity.  “But if you could use of this water to cleanse the wound…”  Frodo’s hands were already pushing up his tunic and gingerly peeling off the blood-soaked bandage.  When it pulled his flesh, Legolas fell silent and closed his eyes and Frodo glanced anxiously at him before taking a deep breath and as carefully as possible, easing off the bloodied cloth. 

Legolas reflected that the hobbit’s face was as pale as his own must be.  Poor little halfling, he thought.  How far you are from home.  He waited stoically while Frodo washed the wound, trying to avoid squirting water directly into the gash.  But there were no bandages.  Frodo looked at the discarded ones in the hopes of using them again, but knew that such was unwise.  “I will ask the Men,” Frodo said quietly but Legolas caught his arm.

“No!  Ask them for nothing, Frodo.  I will do well enough without.”

“And people call me stubborn,” Frodo muttered under his breath, but Legolas heard him anyway.  Before he could take issue with the hobbit, Frodo spoke more loudly, “Legolas, you are still bleeding a little.  That wound must be wrapped.  I will ask –“

“No!  Frodo, stay away from them!“

The hobbit sank back on his knees and stared at him in frustration.  Then his face lightened and before Legolas could stop him, he had taken his sleeve in one hand and with a great pull, tore it from his shirt at the shoulder.  He grinned at the Elf, pleased with his own ingenuity.  Legolas resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the hobbit.  Ignoring the Elf, Frodo carefully wrapped the linen around the wound and doubled the cloth, securing it in place under Legolas’ tunic. Once it was positioned to cushion and protect the injury as best it could, Frodo looked up into the Elf’s face.  “It looks better,” the hobbit said hesitantly, “but I can’t truly tell until it’s washed and cleaned properly.  Does it hurt very much?”

It does indeed, thought the Elf.  Legolas only smiled and said aloud, “Not as much as it did.  Elves heal very quickly, Frodo.  We are blessed with the Grace of the Valar.  Do not be concerned about me.”

The hobbit sat back on his haunches and regarded the Elf doubtfully.  “Nice trick, that,” he responded.  “I would ask to borrow a little of that Grace, with everything that seems to happen to me.”  This time Legolas’ smile was genuine, and after a moment, Frodo grinned in return, his eyes sparkling.  Then he leaned closer to the Elf’s ear and made a show of adjusting his jacket over Legolas’ chest.  “How long to you think before the others –“

The rest of his whispered question was lost as the patched boots of one of the men – Billeh, Legolas saw as he looked up - intruded upon them and tossed down two pieces of hard bread, a mouldy piece of cheese and some strips of dried meat.  They fell silent.  The man sneered at them in an impersonal, malevolent way then crouched down by Frodo.  The hobbit stiffened and edged back slightly.  Billeh ignored him as beneath his notice.  Foolish man, thought the Elf.

“You really a prince?” Billeh asked.

Perhaps if he answered, Legolas thought, the man would go away and let them be.  He was aware of Frodo drifting from his side, behind the man, gathering up the food.  The hobbit was trying to brush dirt and mould from the cheese while stuffing the meat into his pockets.  But his eyes were on the two Big Folk before him, watching.  “I am,” Legolas responded neutrally.  “Though I am a younger son, and will likely never inherit my father’s throne.”

“A prince,” the man breathed in awe.  He shuffled nearer and from the corner of his eye, Legolas saw Frodo abandon the food and tense.  Still kneeling, Frodo groped along the ground and unobtrusively caught up several small stones from the ground.  His other hand disappeared into a pocket and emerged closed tight around his sling.  No, Frodo, the Elf thought.  Don’t.  He had seen and been amazed by the little ones’ ability with these small weapons.  Several times their slings had contributed as much meat to the cook-pot as his arrows.  Those little slings, appearing no more than a child’s toy to uninformed eyes, were deadly in practiced hobbit-hands.  At such range, it could even kill.  He tried to shake his head at the hobbit, but Frodo’s eyes were on the man between them and the hobbit did not see his action.

“What’s it like?” Billeh asked, avarice and curiosity warring on his stubbled face.  The Elf fought not to recoil from the man’s breath.  “Do you eat off golden plates?  Can you take any woman you want?”

The Elf kept his disgust from his features.  Behind the man, Frodo had risen soundlessly to his feet and retreated several steps back, sling at the ready should the man make any move to harm Legolas.  The hobbit’s back was to the rest of the camp, shielding his actions from the sight of their captors.  Elves could speak mind to mind, but only the greatest among his folk could extend that ability to other races.  Legolas could not hope to communicate with the hobbit that way.  I must control this conversation, Legolas thought.  I must keep the man from alarming Frodo.  If Frodo killed or seriously injured one of them, the leader might well have them both murdered.  “No,” he replied, ignoring the disappointed expression on the mortal’s face.  “I rarely attend my father’s Court.  My duties take me far from my father’s halls.  I am a guard and a scout, and a messenger for my father.  If you wish a ransom, it would have been better if you had taken one of my elder brothers.”

The man hawked and spat amicably.  “Well, I’m sure your da will pay plenty for you.  I’ll buy my own women and golden plates with my share.”  The man rose to his feet, never aware of how close he had been to death.  By the time he had swung around to return to the others, the deadly sling was no longer in Frodo’s hands and the hobbit’s arms contained only the food the man had brought.  He waited until the man was gone then crept back to Legolas’ side.

“Frodo,” the Elf whispered urgently, “you must do nothing impetuous.  They will kill us, do not doubt it.  And above all, above my safety or yours, you must not allow what you bear to fall into their hands.”

The hobbit broke the cheese and handed the larger part to the Elf, along with half the meat and bread.  “I am not going to stand by and let them hurt you,” the hobbit said quietly.  “No matter the outcome.  Do not ask it of me, Legolas.”

“I do ask it.  Frodo, I ask it.”  The Elf saw that the hobbit’s hands were trembling, and he sorrowed at the grief he was causing.  But his life mattered little when weighed against the fate of the world.  Against the burden that this little one bore.  “When I swore to you at Elrond’s Council, I meant more than just the protection of my bow.  I will gladly give my life to keep you safe.”

Frodo raised his head and the Elf was started by the anger he saw in those brilliant eyes.  “I don’t want you to do that, Legolas.  I don’t want you to have to do that.  The … this thing I bear has done enough evil.  I won’t allow it to take your life, too.”

“Frodo –“

Their whispered, escalating argument was interrupted by Harlan’s rough voice.  The leader was looking over at them, frowning.  “Aren’t you two going to eat, heh?  You said you wanted to stop, little master.  Best you eat up now.  We’ll be moving on in a few minutes.”

“Yes, all right,” Frodo called back.  He settled at Legolas’ side and bit determinedly into the meat.  He grimaced and forced himself to swallow.  “Nasty stuff, this.  You would think hunters would know how to dry meat better.”

“Frodo –“

“Eat, Legolas.  You need the strength.”

Defeated by a mortal halfling not half his size, the Elf sighed and reluctantly took a bite of the half-rancid cheese.  I hope Aragorn finds us quickly, he thought.  My royal father would have much to say to me about being ordered around by a hobbit. 

* TBC *

Chapter Five

It took the three hobbits a very long time (by Merry’s reckoning) to retrace their steps and return to camp. Merry placed himself between Pippin and Sam and slung their arms over his shoulders. Both of them needed his help to stay on their feet. Pippin’s features were scrunched up in pain and Sam was having trouble keeping his balance. Seeing the hurting on their faces, both so dear to him, Merry regretted his obstinate demand to go with the others after Frodo and Legolas. He supported his friends as well as he could, repeating his reassurances that they were almost there.

Gimli saw them before they cleared the trees, and both the dwarf and Boromir ran to them. Boromir dropped to his knees before Pippin and gathered up the stumbling tweenager with surprising tenderness. As Boromir lifted him, Pippin threw his arms around the man’s neck and hid his face against the embroidered surcoat for a moment, trembling. Gimli steadied Sam with an armored shoulder under his arm and half-carried the protesting hobbit into camp. Merry trudged after them, more tired than he cared to admit.

Boromir set Pippin gently down near the fire and poured each of them a mug of hot tea. Gimli guided Sam to a place next to Pippin and wrapped a blanket around him the moment he was settled. Merry sank down on the end and found another blanket wrapped around him. "Not a word until you catch your breath and drink your tea," Boromir ordered, looking worriedly into their pale faces. Merry realized he was shivering. He was so exhausted from exertion and tension that he could barely hold his mug; the tea sloshed out and burned his hand. Gritting his teeth against the curse that rose to his lips (which would surely have earned him a reprimand from Frodo), he shook his hand frantically and blew on the burn. He forgot the pain when Sam started coughing so violently that Gimli pounded him solicitously on the back.

"All right there, Master Samwise?" Unable to reply to Gimli’s concerned query, Sam nodded, tears standing in his eyes. When the dwarf turned away to check on Pippin, Sam grimaced at his mug and shook his head at Merry, then seized Gimli’s moment of distraction to hastily pour his tea out onto the ground. Forewarned, Merry took one cautious sip, choked, then surreptitiously followed suit.

"Aggghhh!" Pippin hadn’t been as quick as Merry to follow Sam’s example. "Who brewed this tea?"

"I did, Master Pippin," the dwarf replied. "I have never made tea by myself before. Is it all right?"

"It is… It’s…" Pippin seemed to be having trouble finding the right words. With his elder cousin and friend staring at him, he could hardly prevaricate. "I’ve never tasted anything like it," he finally pronounced truthfully.

Gimli beamed. "Master Boromir said I put in too much tea, but I said what use would it be if it were too weak? Strong tea puts hair on your chest."

"Don’t want hair on my chest," muttered Sam, below the level of the Big Peoples’ hearing. Merry nodded in agreement but kept his face straight when Gimli turned back to him.

"Now," Boromir said, "what news of Frodo and Legolas? Why are Gandalf and Aragorn not with you?"

Sam and Pippin both looked at Merry. In terse, concise words, the young hobbit spelled out what had occurred when they had arrived at the clearing, and Aragorn’s instructions to them. Boromir and Gimli listened in silence, then looked at each other and without a word, began to break camp.

* * * * *

Merry had recovered his strength by the time Bill was loaded and the remaining Company ready to move out. He was able to lead them back to the small clearing. He should be able to, the hobbit reflected - he had been here twice today. Boromir was able to pick up the trail of those who had gone ahead of them – not Aragorn and Gandalf’s track, but the careless step of large men, and further on, the hoof-prints of many horses. Among the scuffling boot-marks and shuffle of hooves, the light step of the Ranger hardly registered, and scarcely was there any more sign of Gandalf’s boots.

Boromir, Gimli at his side, went immediately to the fallen tree, stepping over the splintered bark that crackled under their boots. Against the black and brown of the dead tree, a dried crimson smear still glistened on the snapped stub of the broken branch that had injured Legolas. Gimli looked at how far the red stain flowed down the trunk and shook his head, murmuring something to himself in his own language.

"I am not Aragorn’s equal at reading trail sign," Boromir said after examining the ground, "so it is well that the trail is so clear. They have a good lead on us and we cannot hope to draw even with them, burdened as we are and bringing the pack-pony. I suggest that perhaps two of the hobbits stay with Bill and our gear, and the others continue on." He looked anxiously at Pippin and Sam as he spoke, obviously uncertain of their ability to keep the pace.

"Mr. Strider said we were ‘ta stay together," Sam reminded him, rubbing his head. When he saw Boromir frowning at him, he realized what he was doing and abruptly stopped, returning the soldier’s gaze level-eyed. "I’m not staying here. Mr. Frodo needs me." When Boromir would have pursued the subject, Sam turned his back on him and began to determinedly unlace the fastenings of Bill’s panniers.

"I’m not staying either," Pippin put in resolutely. "I’m all right. Merry, I’m all right." The last was directed towards his cousin, who had just opened his mouth to second Boromir’s suggestion. Slowly Merry closed it and nodded, but his face was strained and worried.

"We follow, then," Boromir agreed. "Pippin, Samwise – you must tell me if you feel ill. We can always unburden the pony and you may ride."

"I’m fine," Pippin asserted stubbornly.

"So am I," agreed Sam. "And if you’ll just let me pack these mushrooms on Bill, we can be on our way." Piled in his arms were the butter-nuts, his emptied cloak trailing the ground. "I’m not leaving these behind," he said in reply to their raised eyebrows. "Not after Mr. Legolas got hurt getting them for us." Their faces somber now, Merry and Pippin hurried to help him stuff the bounty into Bill’s packs.

* * * * *

Gandalf leaned against a tree and gasped, holding himself upright with both hands on his staff. Perspiration ran in rivulets down his bearded face, merging with the dark grey stains at the throat and chest of his robes and under his arms. He waved away Aragorn’s offer of support with an annoyed air and the Ranger went back to examining the deserted campsite. Drawing in a great gulp of air, the wizard released it in a gust.

"Time was," Gandalf growled, "when I could have run all day with the fleetness of an Elf. Time was…" He blotted his face with a sleeve, still muttering under his breath. When he had recovered somewhat, he looked up at the silently waiting Ranger. "Well? How far ahead are they now?"

Wisely, Aragorn limited himself to responding only to Gandalf’s question. "They did not build a fire nor take the time to more than eat and water the horses. From the freshness of the horses’ droppings … I put them at no more than two hours before us. They must go single-file through these trees, and that slows them."

Gandalf nodded, his deep eyes on the surrounding Wilds. "There is a change in the mood of the forest. Do you feel it?"

The Ranger looked about them warily. "I feel it. I was hoping it was my imagination. There is a sullen anger in the air. Revenge … the desire for blood. I think the trees are waking up, my friend."

The wizard made a soft sound of agreement and his hands tightened on his staff. "Let us hope that when they do, they remember that we are their friends, my friend."

* * * * *

Ahead of the two that followed like hounds on their trail, Legolas also was aware of the change in the woods. He felt their fury like a heaviness in the air, like the pressure of a thunderstorm before the first lightning bolt strikes. Trees are slow to anger but they harbor their rage for eons until like their sap, it flows through them and becomes a part of them as does the rain and the soil. Now the trees were becoming aware that one of the revered folk, one of those who had gifted them with thought and voice, was captive and injured in their midst. And those that had hurt him rode among them, unaware and unwary.

Fueling their anger too was the evil the smallest one carried at his breast. While the forest recognized that this small one was also a prisoner of the wicked men, the black evil he bore sang to them of burning and destroying and hatred of all the living things. The trees whispered among themselves, rubbing their spiny limbs along each other’s trunks, remembering and hating. In accord, the trees joined their wills and exerted their power. Slowly, without any of the men noticing, they began to alter the path the riders followed.

If he concentrated, Legolas could almost catch the hissing, slurring words that passed among the trees, sounds that would register on mortal ears as the wind passing through piney boughs. Revenge, the woods whispered. Retribution. These killed our kin and desecrated their bodies, fashioning from their limbs stakes to maim and kill. Now they hurt one of the Wakeners. No more. No more. There must be justice…

A half-hour later, Harlan pulled his tired horse to a halt. "This isn’t right," Frodo heard him mutter. The hobbit stiffened as the man turned in the saddle, glaring about them at the woods. "We should have reached the tree line by now." The other two drew up their mounts, Legolas between them.

"Harlan," Lando began. "I don’t recognize none of this place. Are we lost?"

"Shut up," the leader replied.

Frodo took advantage of their hesitation. "May we get down? I wish to see to Legolas."

Harlan glanced at him in irritation then one-handed, seized the hobbit painfully under an arm and swung him to the ground. Frodo gritted his teeth against a cry of pain, then stood rubbing his shoulder while Lando and Billeh helped Legolas dismount. Before they could drop the Elf, Frodo instigated himself against Legolas’ good side and was able to guide him down to a resting position against the base of a tree. They waited in tense silence until the men stomped away to join the leader in voracious discussion of their route.

Legolas winced as their increasingly loud shouts pained his ears. The hunters were arguing amongst themselves, disagreeing over the direction they should be bearing. As if it would matter, Legolas thought. The trees are waking, foolish mortals, and all your plans will come to naught. He just hoped that Aragorn would find them before the forest attacked.

"Frodo," whispered Legolas, "can you reach inside my cloak? Take out for me the snow-deer antlers in my pouch. The ones from the deer we shot for the cookpot. And find for me a rock. Shale or quartz … any stone that will carry an edge."

The hobbit made no response but Legolas saw instant understanding in the blue eyes. While the men argued, snarling at each other like beasts, Frodo crouched at Legolas side and shielded the Elf’s actions with his body. Using his cloak to muffle the sound as much as possible, Legolas set stone to bone and began to sharpen the tips into a dagger.

* * * * *

The forest took little notice of the two that pursued the focus of their attention, other than to register the wizard’s presence. The man they ignored completely. He was, Aragorn thought, quite content to be ignored by the waking wood. Even as that conviction crossed his mind, Gandalf touched his sleeve and pointed ahead of them.

The two heard angry shouting in the distance, foolish warning to any that had ears. They were too far away to make out words, only blurred phrases that sounded harsh and shrill. Then there was an enormous crash and the earth quaked beneath them. Aragorn and Gandalf halted and dropped to the forest floor. When no further tumult ensued, they resumed their advance more cautiously, ghosting forward on silent feet. Touching the bark of the great forest behemoths in passing, the two felt the rage burning deep within. Aragorn looked at Gandalf, and saw fear mirrored there on the lined face.

* * * * *

The hunters had made the mistake of gathering underneath one of the great giants of the forest, a hoary old spruce so ancient that many of the lower branches were bare and dead. The mounts were tied to smaller trees with the pack animals behind them. Any horseman, Legolas thought with contempt, would have known something was wrong by the animals’ head-tossing and jerking at their leads. The first and only warning they had was a creak. Harlan, involved in shouting imprecations at his men, glared about them blankly. Then, with careful precision, the spruce dropped a branch longer and larger than a man.

Harlan broke off his profanation between one syllable and the next and threw himself to the side. Lando made the mistake of looking up. He had only a moment to scream. His cry was abruptly cut short, ending in a snapping crunch that ceased before the shocked bystanders could register what had just happened.

Frodo reacted instinctively, leaping his to feet in preparation for fleeing. But Legolas’ hand clamped around the hobbit’s arm. "Be very still, Ring-bearer," the Elf commanded quietly. "Do not draw their attention to you. Either our captors or the trees." The downed man cried out again, a choking wail that ended in a bubbling cough. Frodo sank down by Legolas’ side and buried his head against the Elf’s shoulder.

Harlan swore, a foul exclamation that amused Legolas immensely. Billeh stared in dumbfounded disbelief at the single dirty boot that extended out from under the enormous limb. Nothing else of Lando could be seen, but the soil began to darken beneath the branch.

"Get the Elf up, Billeh," ordered Harlan. He strode over to Legolas and snatched up Frodo, swinging the hobbit aboard his trembling horse. Frodo almost lost his balance and went over the other side, but the man caught him cruelly by the shoulder and jerked him upright. Leaving Frodo on the mount, he returned to help Billeh none-too-gently get Legolas back on his horse. Eyes white-rimmed with senses more accurate than the men’s, the horse shook its head and Harlan clouted it brutally on the forehead. The animal shied and half-reared, tearing the reins out of Billeh’s hands. Legolas seized his opportunity and kicked with all his strength into the horse’s ribs. Terrified and overwrought, the animal leaped forward, forcing Harlan to duck aside or be trampled.

"Frodo! Noro lim!" shouted Legolas. "Ride!"

Frodo tried, snatching up the reins and lashing them against the horse’s neck. With speed that Legolas scarcely would have credited the man, Harlan leaped forward and caught the animal’s ear, forcing its head down. The poor beast squealed, an equine shriek of pain that set the Elf’s teeth on edge. Harlan’s other hand reached for Frodo to drag him from the saddle.

Frodo sawed on the rein, pulling the animal sideways. Harlan snarled an inarticulate oath and moved closer, both hands extended. With every ounce of his strength, Frodo kicked him. The hobbit’s heel caught Harlan under the chin and the man’s head snapped back on his neck. His arms flew up and he stumbled back, falling. Frodo yowled triumphantly and urged the horse towards Legolas.

Then the hobbit was dragged backwards off the mount, the sudden terror on his face catapulting Legolas forward. For a moment the two horses tangled, kicking legs and slashing hooves, then the riderless horse bolted. Intending to use his horse the ride the man down, Legolas kneed it forward.

"Hold, Elf! Hold or I’ll cut his throat!"

Frodo dangled stiffly in Billeh’s grasp, the hobbit’s hands locked around one of the man’s arms imprisoning him around the waist while the man’s other hand held a knife to his neck. Legolas froze, hands automatically sending his wishes to the horse. It halted, shaking violently, white froth dripping from its jaws.

Frodo’s shirt had been torn in the tussle, and the Ring gleamed on the end of its chain in full view. Legolas gasped. Put it away, Frodo, he mentally urged the hobbit. Hide it! Hide it! Frodo’s eyes widened, and as if the hobbit heard his silent plea, his small hand moved carefully to his throat and sought the silver chain. With the slightest of movements, he slid the Ring around and dropped it down the back of his shirt.

"All right! I surrender!" Legolas called, ignoring the silent denial in Frodo’s eyes. The hobbit held very still but the message of those great blue eyes was clear. Legolas ignored him and very slowly raised his hands, hiding the pain the movement cost him. He slid one leg across the horse’s back and dropped to the ground, using the animal to support himself.

Harlan was still on the ground, groaning feebly. The man dragged himself up on his elbows, and the look he directed the Ring-bearer was pure murder. Despite the knife at his throat, Frodo stared back, equal fury in his eyes.

"Why, you little bastard," whispered the man. He felt his chin gingerly, then worked his jaw side to side.

"Harlan?" Billeh was panting, the knife quivering dangerously at Frodo’s throat. "You all right?"

With an obvious effort, Harlan sat up. "I forgot about those hobbit-feet," he responded casually. "Stupid as they look, they can be right dangerous." The man coughed, then grimaced as he spat out a tooth. "You’ll pay for that, little master."

The man struggled to his feet but he did not move towards the hobbit. Instead, he turned to Legolas. "You," he said to the Elf. "Get back on that horse. Good to know you can do it yourself, heh? Always have heard that Elves heal quick." Rage burned unabated in his eyes as he swung back to Frodo. "I think Billeh-boy and I will have some fun finding out if that’s true of hobbits, as well.

"Tie the halfling’s hands and put him on the Elf’s horse," Harlan ordered, glancing at the other man. "Rope them both to the saddle. We ride hard, now." The leader looked once more at the fallen tree and the darkening earth beneath it, and shuddered. He turned to the pack-horses, his expression grim. "And cut the other nags loose. We don’t need them - not with the price this pretty prince’s father will pay."

"The pelts -" Billeh objected.

"Aren’t worth a Shire penny against the gold King Thranduil will give us. They’re slowing us. Cast them off."

"You cannot mean to release the horses with the skins and meat still tied to them," Legolas said softly. "Such will attract every predator within leagues. The poor beasts cannot defend themselves. At least relieve them of their burdens."

Harlan swung himself up on his horse. "Be glad I don’t tie the halfling on top of one of them. How would you like that, Mr. Underhill?" The man’s malevolent gaze moved to Frodo, who stared back expressionlessly. "There are wolves hereabouts. Maybe a cave-bear down from Caradhras’ slopes. Worse things, too." The man snarled, then winced. "Gag you and tie you, and it might make up for my hurtin’ jaw."

It took but moments for the second man to tie Frodo before Legolas. Then Billeh freed the horses. He slashed their leads, leaving the harnesses on their heads and the bits in their mouths. And their bloody burdens on their backs. Legolas’ heart was wrung for them but he could do nothing. Then Billeh shouted, clapping his hands and stamping his feet, spooking the already-frightened horses into bolting.

Harlan nodded shortly. "Billeh, take the Elf’s reins. We’re not stopping again till we’re out of this cursed forest." With a final glare at the two prisoners, Harlan kicked his horse into a walk without another glance at the dead man.

Behind them, the trees watched.

* TBC *

Chapter Six

"It’s no good, Mr. Boromir," Sam puffed. "We’ll never catch up with them this way. Poor Bill isn’t made for running, an’ neither are hobbits."

"And Dwarves are natural sprinters," Gimli put in, huffing equally as hard as the gardener. "Not … made for long-distance running." Gimli’s massive chest was heaving to the point of straining his chain-mail. No one had dared suggest to the dwarf that he remove his armor for running, and it certainly did not occur to Gimli.

As Merry had feared, Pippin had not made it far. Seeing the tweenager stumble again, Boromir had ordered a halt just long enough to settle Pippin atop the baggage, where the poor lad clutched Bill’s panniers for dear life. Merry was frightened by Pip’s pale face, but he himself could hardly keep the pace. He was simply exhausted, having already run leagues before their reduced Company set out in pursuit of Gandalf and Aragorn. His legs quivered and his lungs burned, and only sheer determination kept him on his feet.

Suddenly Bill lifted his sagging head and his soft, black nostrils distended. Before Sam could stop him, the pony neighed loudly. "Sam!" hissed Boromir, "silence him!" Sam was already pulling the pony’s head down and cradling Bill’s nose in the crook of his arm, but it was too late. An answering neigh came from ahead of them, then a whinny from the side. A third horse answered a moment later.

A sweat-streaked head peered at them doubtfully from behind a tree. Overcoming his initial surprise, Boromir whistled softly to it and the furry ears tipped forward. "Here, boy," the soldier cajoled softly in the age-old sing-song of horsemen, "what a pretty boy. Such a handsome boy – oh, girl. Excuse me, lady. Pretty lady, come here now. Bring your friends… that’s a good girl." Step by step, Boromir’s gentle coaxing voice drew the horses from the woods.

"No one move," he instructed the others. "Let them scent the pony."

"And this," Sam whispered. Moving only his arm, Sam held out a handful of lumpy white sugar. The first horse whickered eagerly, desire for the treat overcoming her fear. She moved forward and the other two followed, crowding around the hobbit. "All right, all right," Sam murmured to them, reaching up to pat foam-covered necks, "enough for everyone, there is. You too, Bill. Ah, poor things… They’ve been cruelly treated."

Pippin, perched precariously on top of Bill’s baggage, stared at them in wonder. "Where did they come from?"

Boromir rubbed the mare’s nose and pulled at her lower lip. The horse whickered and thrust her head into his hands. "Merry, do you recognize these animals?"

Merry shook his head. "I didn’t see their horses, Boromir. I did not know the hunters had them until Aragorn said so." Merry drew his small, sharp dagger and carefully cut the ropes that held the ill-cured pelts to the mare. The mare turned her head to watch but did not shy from him. The stinking pile of pelts slid to the ground and she stepped away from them, the skin on her withers shuddering in relief. "Poor lass," Merry cooed to her, "poor little lass." Boromir almost laughed at this – the size disparity between the hobbit and the large pack-horse was ludicrous. But as Merry reached up to gently stroke the foamed coat, the Gondorian recognized another horseman-born and remembered that horses care not about the size of the rider, only about a gentle, guiding voice and kind hands, and his urge to chuckle subsided.

Merry turned back to the others. "But who else could they belong to, out here in the Wild?" He and Sam cut the other two horses free – both geldings – murmuring to them softly. Then Sam caught up a handful of the stiff grasses, twisted them around his hand, and began to curry the nearest.

"They still wear their harnesses," Boromir murmured in wonder. He stroked one of the geldings and it inched nearer, eyes closing in bliss as the man scratched its forehead. Catching up the slashed reins, his face darkened as he realized the animals had been cast off to fend for themselves. "We will ride," Boromir decided. "We can fold our blankets and use the most pliable pelts as padding. The lack of saddles will be as uncomfortable for the poor beasts as for us, but we will be able to move much faster."

Gimli had been eyeing the horses apprehensively. "Dwarves do not ride," he rumbled. "I would slow you. I will stay with the pony." He paused, and with obvious reluctance continued, "It would be best if young Pippin stayed with me."

"I want to go!" Pippin yelped, teetering uncertainly on the bundles. "I feel much better now! Merry!"

Merry moved over to Bill and stared up at his cousin’s eyes. "Pip, please stay. Please. Gimli’s right." He rose high on his toes, pulling himself up on the straps, and Pippin leaned down to hear. "We can’t leave Gimli alone with these horses, Pip – his people don’t know anything about horses."Pippin darted a look a look at Gimli just in time to see the dwarf step back when one of the geldings stretched out his head, hoping for a nose-rub."And our Bill is near done in," Merry continued. "All of them need a good curry and watering and you could give the poor things a handful of Bill’s oats."

Pippin, too, came of a horse-loving folk and Merry knew that his cousin’s generous heart would not willingly leave these mistreated animals in such straits. To say nothing of Gimli, who was watching the nearest horse apprehensively under lowered brows. One of the geldings snorted when Sam encountered a knot of hair, and the dwarf jumped noticeably.

"All right!" Pippin gave in with ill-grace, allowing Boromir to lift him down. On the ground, the tweenager followed Sam’s example, pulling up a wad of dried grass to curry the other gelding, talking to it softly under his breath.

Improvising riding gear proved difficult; a blanket under a pelt to shield the horse and one atop the pelt to shield the rider, and it was agreed that was the best they could contrive. Boromir picked Merry up and sat him on one of the gelding’s back, handing him the cut reins. Sam was lifted up behind him, and he grasped Merry’s waist so tightly that Merry gasped. "Sorry, sir!" Sam whispered in Merry’s ear. "Long way to the ground, isn’t it?"

The mare Boromir chose for himself, swinging up easily onto the shaggy back. "Easy, easy, my lady," he murmured to her and walked her in a circle, feeling muscles bunch then loosen under him as she remembered her training.

Pippin watched them mournfully, tears in his eyes. As they moved out, Merry looked back over his shoulder and Pippin waved frantically. The youngster stood for a moment, watching as the riders were lost among the trees, then turned resolutely to Gimli. "Would you like me to teach you how to curry a horse, Gimli? Just let me lead this lad to that rock over there, so I can climb up… I curry my father’s ponies all the time. I usually get curry-duty as punishment for whatever I’ve done. You can do Bill, if you like. You start on the neck…" Pippin’s voice faded from Merry’s hearing as they moved quickly deeper into the wood.

* * * * *

Aragorn rose from a crouching position, careful that the seeping blood did not stain his boots. The slanting light from the westering sun made it difficult to see. "A bad death," he commented quietly. "I can tell no more without moving the branch, and it would take ten men to do that."

Gandalf leaned on his staff, brows bristling as he glowered at the dirty boot. "How long ago?"

Aragorn touched the damp soil and rolled a small muddy ball of it between his fingers. A red-brown smear remained on his hand when he dropped it. Distastefully, he scrubbed his fingers clean on the ground. "Not more than an hour, I’d say."

The wizard nodded shortly. "They are moving faster now. Then so must we."

* * * * *

Harlan swore, then rose up in the saddle to glare about him. Billeh pulled his horse to a halt behind him, crowding close to the lead horse. When Harlan said nothing, Billeh spoke up. "I remember this place. We dug a spear-pit, over there – see – Lando and me cleared all the saplings ‘round here for the stakes. The tree branches covering the pit don’t look broke… Don’t look like it got anything. Not that we need any more pelts," he added hastily when Harlan turned around to scowl at him.

"I didn’t intend to come this way," Harlan snarled under his breath. The man leaned forward and spat, then scrubbed at the blood staining his chin. He turned to glare at Frodo as he sat before Legolas, the seething anger in his eyes promising revenge for the hobbit’s kick when circumstances permitted. "We should have been out of here by now," Harlan muttered. "I wish this damned forest was burnt to the ground…" Legolas heard him, and from the sudden increase in the brooding rage he felt in the air, he thought the trees had too.

The man leaned back and tried to look at the sun, but the trees were close here and blocked out a clear view of the sky. "Tie the Elf’s horse to that tree," Harlan snapped. "Let me think a minute."

Legolas tried to unobtrusively catch Frodo’s attention as Billeh tugged their tired mount over to a low branch and looped the reins around it. Looking down, the Elf could see only a mop of dark curls, quite in need of a wash. Frodo’s head was turning from side to side and the small body was tense. He feels it, the Elf thought. The Ring-bearer does not understand the danger, but he feels the forest’s anger. "Frodo," Legolas breathed. The hobbit nodded his head; soft as Legolas’ voice was, Frodo could hear him. "Stay close to me."

Frodo nodded again with a shrug of his shoulders. Legolas understood – if the men chose to separate them, there was little he or the hobbit could do to stop them. The two hunters were arguing loudly now, oblivious to their prisoners. Billeh was pointing to the hunting pit, then back the way they had come. Harlan sneered at him and gestured to the side.

The air seemed hard to breathe here, cloying in the lungs, thick with anger and old, remembered grievances. Legolas wished his arms were tied around the hobbit, that the trees might know he protected the little one. This one is harmless, the Elf thought towards the surrounding trees. No - not harmless. But he does not deserve your hate. What he bears he bears towards its end, that all might breathe the free air and drink the sweet rain. He could not tell if the trees heard or understood him. The seething, brooding rage he felt did not abate.

Legolas was not one of those who had first walked the new-made world to lay his hands upon the trunks of the sleeping trees and sing them into awareness. He was a young Elf, not yet three millennia old, and had not perhaps been as studious as his royal father would have liked. He knew he could not hope to command these ancient giants; he feared that even his vouchsafe of Frodo would not protect the hobbit. There had to be some way to prove to the trees that Frodo did not deserve their fury. His attention was returned to the dispute before them when Harlan abruptly drew a knife. His knife, Legolas saw with a surge of anger that did not reflect upon his serene face. The bone handle glinted in the diffuse light. Billeh drew back, startlement and anger on his face. Then he shouted an obscenity at the other man, turned his horse and attempted to plunge back into the forest.

Legolas felt a surge of wrath run through the trees. Roots snaked out to snatch at the horse’s hooves. The man’s mount shrieked and reared, unseating its rider. Before either man could stop it, the mount ran unhindered into the forest. Billeh stumbled to his feet and staggered after it, passing under the limbs of a great pine. He did not see the massive tree suddenly tremble as if caught in a great wind. It seemed to lean down, reaching. A massive spiny branch caught the man across the chest, hurling him off his feet and into the air.

Legolas did not need to see the man’s fall through the air, where he landed. The crunch of bone and the spurt of blood told him more surely than the man’s scream a heartbeat later. Absurdly, he wished he could cover the hobbit’s ears and eyes. Frodo struggled wildly against his chest for a moment, jerking against his bonds, then froze. Hearing him give a soft sound of horror, Legolas sorrowfully raised his eyes.

Harlan sat shocked, his eyes on the horrendous scene before him. His horse was plunging under him but the man controlled it with a pitiless hand. Billeh was writhing, the burbling cries that emerged from his throat escaping around a great wooden spike set into the soft earth of the pit. The man was impaled through the back, almost upright, the stake emerging from his torso between the lower ribs. He made a weak, whimpering sob as the blood ran down to drip from his boots into the pit. Then he convulsed once and mercifully died.

All were silent in dismay. Then Harlan kicked his frenzied horse and drew along side Legolas, one hand wrapping around their mount’s reins while the other reached above the hobbit’s head to grasp the Elf’s tunic. He dragged Legolas forward, squashing Frodo into the pommel. "Call them off!’ the man hissed. "You’re a tree-Elf, aren’t you? Call them off, or I’ll kill you both right now!"

"I have no control over the Living Forest," Legolas responded with as much dignity as he was able to summon, half-dragged over a trembling hobbit. "If you wish them to withdraw, you must free us."

Harlan released him, throwing him back violently in the saddle. "Blast you!" he snarled. "I’d cut your throat right now, ransom or not, if I thought I could walk out of here. A dead man can’t spend your father’s gold." The man ground his teeth in frustration, his face darkened by fury and the rough bristles of his unshaven beard. Then he pulled his horse back and stared at them, and Legolas’ heart sank.

"I can’t harm you, not with your friends watching. That’s clear enough. I’m not stupid enough to kill you and think I could outrun miles of murderous trees. But maybe I could do something to ensure my safety."

Sunlight flashed on Legolas’ knife. With reflexes faster than any mortal’s, Legolas kneed his horse and the animal responded instantly, trying to turn away from the man. But Harlan’s fist clamped tight on its reins, preventing it. The knife slashed then Harland was pulling Frodo from Legolas’ horse, bodily hauling the hobbit onto his. Legolas tried to tear his hands free, disregarding the burns that bit into the tender skin of his wrists, but the rope to the saddle held. Still stunned and horrified by Billeh’s death, Frodo reacted too slowly. A second later he was mounted before Harlan as the man backed his horse away from Legolas.

"You seem to be fond of the little master here," Harlan said conversationally. "He is a pretty little lad, isn’t he?" Still holding the Elf’s knife, the man ran the tip gently over the hobbit’s cheek, leaving a hairline trace of red. Frodo choked, revulsion and outrage blazing from his eyes. "Maybe you could convince the trees to let me pass with him, heh?" The man was silent, thinking. "Then, if you want him back, you talk to your da and have him pay for your little friend here. Maybe I’ll be tired of him by then."

Harlan laughed, his eyes glinting proudly with his own cleverness. "It’s simple enough, Elf. You and I both ride out of here, in different directions. I keep the halfling with me. If you try to follow, I’ll kill him. You go to your royal sire and get the ransom. I’ll meet you in one month, under the same moon." The man laughed, still toying with the knife. It brushed a curl away from Frodo’s face, traced the curve of a delicately pointed ear. "Not here, though! I’ll send you a letter with the place." The man’s arm tightened around the hobbit and Frodo gasped, tugging ineffectually at the muscled arm constricting his chest.

"Hold still, you! I owe you for that kick, hobbit. I intend to collect on that … with interest." The knife ran down the side of the hobbit’s face, then followed the curve of the pointed chin to the small hollow of Frodo’s throat. There it stopped.

Harlan frowned, then risked a glance away from the tied Elf. The tip of the knife was caught in the links of a silver chain around the halfling’s neck. He jerked the blade but the finely wrought links held. Frodo stopped struggling, abruptly going still. His enormous eyes sought Legolas’, and the Elf read terror there. Not for himself, but for what he carried.

"What’s this, then?" the man mumbled. "A pretty silver necklace, heh?" He pushed Frodo sideways, holding the knife so close that Frodo’s throat brushed against it with each breath. "Something on it, heh? What are you hiding there, halfling?" The man’s free hand delved into Frodo’s shirt, further ripping the cloth. A button popped as he forced his hand down the hobbit’s back. Frodo did not move but his eyes never left Legolas’, and the plea in them was unmistakable.

"Ah, here we go." Still pushing Frodo forward and to the side, Harlan groped the hobbit’s clothing, a puzzled expression on his face. "What are you wearing under there, little master?" Then his hand closed on something that burned with cold and he withdrew his clenched fist. "What a pretty gold ring." The man held it up, pulling the chain against Frodo’s neck. "A pretty gold … pretty…" Harlan’s voice trailed off as his eyes widened. "Pretty…" he repeated stupidly, his voice slowing to a crawl. The Ring reflected in his eyes, glowing like metal heated in a forge, shimmering in the dark pupils. "So … pretty…"

Legolas saw the hobbit clench his eyes shut, his face suddenly a rictus of pain. As Legolas watched, astounded, the hobbit’s lips drew back over bared teeth and when his eyes opened, something like the seeds of madness glimmered there. With a shock, Legolas realized that Frodo was going to attack the man. He could not permit that. He could not allow the Ring-bearer to throw away his life in a doomed attempt. Gathering his breath, the Elf shouted loudly to distract them both. With speed no mortal could hope to match, he leaned forward in the saddle and spurred his horse into the man’s mount. Startled, the animal leaped forward, crashing into the other horse, knocking it off its feet. One of the horses screamed. All of them went down in a thrashing tangle of kicking hooves and snapping bones.

* TBC *

Chapter Seven

The impact of their mounts’ collision did what Legolas’ efforts could not – as the horses went down, the Elf felt the rope tear free of the pommel, leaving him bound only at the wrists. He leaped from his horse’s back before it could roll and crush him, landing on his feet with elven agility. But his damaged body betrayed him. His injured leg crumbled under him and Legolas fell. Pain tore through him but foremost in his awareness was that his wrists were tied before him and his knife lay but feet away. In the blink of an eye, he had thrust his hands across his own blade and the knife parted the rough rope as if it had been waiting for the opportunity.

Shaking the strands from his wrists, Legolas snatched up the knife, ducked a lashing hoof and sought Frodo. By the grace of the Valar, the halfling had been thrown clear; he was raising himself up on his arms, shaking his head dizzily. With Frodo’s head down, Legolas could not see if the Ring still hung safe around his neck. One of the horses lay with its own neck at odds with its body, blood coating its mouth and the light already fading from its eyes. Then something heavy hit his back and Legolas fell to the earth with the weight of an enraged man crushing him into the earth.

The knife flew from his grasp. The injury in his side ripped agony through him, slowing him and weakening his defense. The man outweighed him by several stone, and rage and fear and something less human impelled him. Legolas twisted free and rolled, cloth ripping, trying to reach his knife. But the man was closer to the blade and caught it up, staring at the Elf with a maniacal grin. The man’s eyes were swallowed by darkness. Legolas stared into dark pits in which another will ruled, and felt his entire soul recoil in horror. To the Elf’s disbelief, Harlan sneered at him in contempt and tossed the razor-sharp elven knife aside. Then he threw himself upon Legolas, his hands seeking the Elf’s throat with the brute strength of a maddened beast.

Legolas tried to twist sideways but the man’s grip on him was like iron. Thrashing, he rolled over and over, pulling the man with him. Each roll on his injured side felt like a sword-thrust, weakening him and taking his breath. Frodo’s shrill cry of warning alerted him to the nearness of the edge of the hunting pit. Another few rolls and perhaps he could force Harlan into it. The man seemed to be aware of nothing beyond his need to kill. Legolas hoped he could leap to safety, the horrific image of Billeh’s impaled body flashing through his mind. But if he could not, at least the Ring-bearer would be safe.

The man was possessed, driven beyond reason, very strong, and his fury lent him even more strength. Legolas could not tear the callused fingers from his throat. He tried to twist sideways, to buck his attacker off, but unrelenting bands of iron dug into his throat. Elves have many gifts over mortal folk, but even they must breathe. Abandoning the effort to pry the man’s hands from his throat, Legolas tried to capture the smallest finger of each hand and force them back, break them if possible. The man grunted in agony, pain at last registering through the Ring-induced blackness in his mind. Some measure of reason returned to the black pits of his eyes. And with reason, some measure of strategy. Suddenly releasing Legolas’ throat, Harlan seized the Elf by the hair and slammed his head back against the rocky earth. Unprepared for that, Legolas could not stop him. Again his head was smashed to the ground. And again. Then the man released him with a dreadful smile. Stunned and half-paralyzed, Legolas could do nothing as Harlan drew back his knee, then drove it hard into the open wound in the Elf’s side.

Legolas’ world went dark. Spots crawled across his vision, black tails trailing after them like the after-images of the meteors his people gathered to watch in the autumn. The anguish was so great that he could not even cry out. His last conscious thought was of regret – in failing the Ring-bearer, he had failed the trust of the Fellowship, his father, and all of Middle-earth.

* * * * *

Merry heard Sam grunt when their horse cantered over a rough patch of earth, and bit down hard on his own exclamation. The mounts they rode were pack-horses, not saddle-horses, and their rough gait and improvised tack combined to make riding a miserable and painful experience. He and Sam had the worst of it, their legs too short to raise themselves in the saddle like Boromir, and give occasional relief to tender body parts. Merry devoutly hoped he would still be able to father children after this experience.

Ahead of them, Boromir rode with the grace of long training and experience, controlling his mount easily. Twice he had dismounted and knelt on the earth, seeking signs of Aragorn and Gandalf. Had it not been for the churned ground, broken branches and horse-apples that bespoke the passage of many horses, Merry did not think Boromir could have trailed the Ranger and the wizard. When they came to the dead man, Boromir could find no sign of Aragorn and Gandalf at all. With a shudder, Merry forced his mind from the image of that single pitiful boot.

"All right, Mr. Merry?" Sam asked in his ear, his friend’s breath warm on the back of his neck.

Merry smiled reassuringly then remembered that seated behind him, Sam couldn’t see it. "All right, Sam. Except for this ride, that is."

He could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when the gardener replied. "Aye, sir. I understand. Hard on the family jools, if you take my meaning. But they can’t be too far ahead o’ us now."

"I hope you’re right, Sam," Merry replied grimly. He took one hand from the reins and loosened his sword in its sheath, and felt a shifting behind him accompanied by the rattle of small stones as Sam loaded his sling, the only weapon he had left.

* * * * *

"Look, Gimli," Pippin was saying earnestly, "we don’t have to ride them. We can lead them. That’s what the headstalls are for. You pull on the rein and the horse follows. Nothing could be simpler."

The dwarf crossed his thick arms and regarded the earnest young hobbit. Pippin’s eyes were wide and guileless, his face hopeful and open. In the dwarf’s admittedly brief experience with hobbits, that meant trouble. "Boromir did not tell us to follow, young Peregrin. He is expecting us to wait here."

"He didn’t tell us not to follow, either," Pippin rejoined. "And Gandalf did tell Merry to strike camp and come after them. I think everyone would be grateful that they didn’t have to come back so far for us. They’ll be hot and hungry and tired, and they would be happy if they didn’t have to backtrack so far. Wouldn’t you?"

Gimli had to confess that, if such were the case, he would indeed be glad to be spared the walk. When a little voice in his mind whispered that he hadn’t been so hard to convince after all, the dwarf resolutely ignored it. He was tired of waiting and lessons in horse-care had quickly lost whatever allure they might have held. He was not so unfamiliar with equine-kind as Pippin thought - Dwarves used pack-ponies much as hobbits did. It was only the overwhelmingly tall horses of Men that made him wish to keep his feet on the ground.

Gimli ran a hand across Bill’s newly curried flank, and the pony nickered and nudged him with his soft nose, hoping for another taste of sugar. The dwarf patted the velvet muzzle. "All right," he said to the youngling. "Give me the pony’s lead. You take the horse." With a delighted little crow, Pippin scrambled to obey.

* * * * *

Aragorn and Gandalf froze at the sound of a horse’s piercing death-scream. It shattered the relative quiet of the deep forest, silencing the twittering birds and faint rustling noises that had accompanied their entire pursuit. Even the trees seemed to lean forward to listen.

"An animal," the Ranger breathed. "Horse, or pony. Not hobbit or elven."

Gandalf wiped the perspiration from his face. His grey robe was damp with it, and several more rips and frays had been added to its already disreputable appearance. A branch had knocked off his hat early in the pursuit and the wizard had ceased trying to wear it, allowing it to dangle at his back. "Close," Gandalf panted, lacking the breath to say more.

Aragorn nodded and drew his great killing sword. "One last dash, my friend." A note like chiming music rang behind him as Gandalf held up Glamdring, thelateafternoon sun glinting off the blade.

* * * * *

Legolas would have chosen death over failure. In some removed part of his consciousness, his mind laughingly reminded him that he now had both. Pity there was pain after death. That confused him momentarily. He had always been taught that death was but a door to a far shining land, where no pain or sorrow gained entrance. So then, as he hurt … he could not be dead.

Sound intruded on his dark world before sight. "Legolas!" A shrill voice cried, high-pitched in terror and strain. He knew that voice, even if he could not immediately place it. "Legolas!"

Sensation returned next. Someone had hold of the front of his tunic and was shaking him. It hurt. It hurt, but the pain returned him to himself. The Elf forced open his eyes. The shaking stopped and something astonishingly swift leaped before his vision. Legolas blinked and the object resolved into a hobbit. Frodo was backing away from him, facing Harlan. The man was stalking him, going after the hobbit with arms outstretched and fury on his face. Harlan leaped forward and Frodo jumped to the side with the quickness of a rabbit, just barely out of the man’s reach. Legolas realized that Frodo was taunting the man, trying to lure him away from the Elf. Trying to lure him into the trees, he suddenly realized. No, Frodo, stay in the clearing, Legolas thought fuzzily, the trees are as likely to harm you as him.

Harlan lunged again, and this time Frodo was a heartbeat too slow. He had allowed the man to get too close, not knowing how far Men could leap. The man caught the halfling about the waist and bore him to the ground. Frodo snapped his knees up to his chest and kicked, landing a solid blow to the man’s stomach. Harlan let out his breath in a whuff but he did not give way. Instead, the man forced Frodo flat. Once down, Harlan pinned the hobbit easily, one hand holding the hobbit’s wrists above the little one’s head. He crushed the small wrists cruelly, delighting in the pain he was causing. The hobbit’s eyes stared up into his, wide and terrified.

"Bloody little sod," the man snarled. "I want that pretty ring! You give me that ring!" He took his hand from Frodo’s heaving chest but kept the hobbit pinned with his body. His hand delved again into the hobbit’s shirt. The Ring had somehow returned to its usual position on the end of its chain at Frodo’s breast. Frodo’s panicked breathing escalated as the man’s hand found the silver chain and tightened his fingers down it, tracing it to the end of its length. Harlan raised up the golden thing, his lips pursing as his eyes went to drowning pools of black.

The man closed his fist over the burning metal band. He sighed, an oddly gluttonous sound. "Oh, pretty," he murmured. "Who would have thought you carried such a treasure, heh, little master?" The other hand released Frodo’s wrists and stroked along the side of his face. Frodo flinched away from the rough caress, horror and disgust in his eyes. The man laughed. "Though you’re a treasure also, little master. Never seen such a pretty face. I think I’ll keep you, too."

Frodo writhed, but he had as much chance of throwing the man off as Lando had had of avoiding the great limb that had ended his life. "Oh, lively one, aren’t you?" Harlan whispered. "I like that. Go on, little master – fight. Makes it more fun."

Instead, the hobbit went still, his eyes locked on something over the man’s shoulder. The man tensed, than laughed in the hobbit’s face. "Oh no, you don’t fool –"

Legolas drove the sharpened antler-tip deep into the side of the man’s neck. Blood spurted up over his hand, over his torn tunic. He had angled it to tear the great artery in the throat. Harlan released Frodo and clamped his hands around his own neck, trying to hold in his life’s blood. Blood fountained over his hands, ran down them to drip on Frodo’s chest and face.

That was the sight that greeted Aragorn and Gandalf as they burst into the little clearing; Legolas swaying unsteadily over a corpse, a dripping snow-deer antler in his hand. Frodo covered in blood as tried to drag himself out from under the body of a man. As they rushed forward in horror, Legolas collapsed.

Aragorn flew to his friend while Gandalf rolled the corpse off Frodo. The hobbit could seem to find no words; one hand was fisted tight around the chain at his throat and he stared up at the wizard as if he did not know his old friend. Then Frodo’s face contorted and he scrambled sideways, choking as he jerked up handfuls of grass to rub the man’s blood from him.

"Frodo," Gandalf said gently, keeping his voice soft and unthreatening, "are you all right?" Moving very slowly, he sheathed his sword and sank to his knees beside the hobbit.

Frodo nodded, having no words. He threw the bloodied grass from him with a shudder and tore up more, wiping the blood from him frantically. Then he swallowed and forced his voice to work. "Legolas?"

"Unconscious," murmured Aragorn. Gentle hands rolled the Elf onto his uninjured side, loosening his clothing. "What is this bandage – your shirtsleeve, Frodo? Ah, Legolas … you will be sore for a while, my friend." Even as the Ranger spoke, he had brought forth his medical kit and began working over the Elf.

Legolas groaned. Frodo left Gandalf to crouch across from Aragorn at his side. He took the Elf’s hand in his, rubbing it warmingly.

Harlan’s mount still stood by its fallen companion, reluctant to leave the only familiar thing it knew. Gandalf called to it softly then held out his hands, careful that no blood stained them. Trembling, the horse came forward, allowing the wizard to grasp its bridle. The wizard whispered in its ear and rubbed the bony ridge of its eye sockets. Slowly the animal calmed and it stopped shivering.

Gandalf looked at the nearest tree then shook his head almost imperceptibly. Carefully he tied the reins to his staff, then levered the gnarled length of wood into the hard earth, taking his leave of the horse with a comforting pat. The horse whickered forlornly and tried to follow, but the staff held it in place. Gandalf moved to the crouching hobbit and gently laid his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. "Frodo?" Frodo jumped and pulled away, then relaxed. "Frodo, let me see if you are hurt." Gandalf began to rub his back, knowing well the importance of a reassuring touch to hobbit-kind.

"I’m not hurt, Gandalf. He didn’t have time." The wizard took in the hobbit’s torn clothing and disheveled appearance, the bruises darkening on his wrists, and his touch faltered. Frodo felt it. He looked up into his friend’s angry face and repeated softly, "He didn’t hurt me, Gandalf. Truly." After a moment, the wizard nodded, cradling the hobbit against him for a moment.

Frodo relaxed against the dirty grey robes with a sigh. Then his gaze fastened on the watching wood. "Why didn’t the trees help us?" the hobbit wondered. "They killed the first Man, and the second. Couldn’t they have intervened?"

Gandalf looked about the small clearing. "There are none close enough to strike, Frodo. Trees may drop a branch or move a limb, but rarely do they move from where the Valar put them. A good thing, for us, I think."

"I tried to lead the Man into the woods," Frodo whispered. "But he would not follow. Then he caught me…"

"It is a good thing that you did not succeed," Gandalf told him firmly. "The trees are not friendly to us. They have not hindered us but now they have seen one of the Awakeners hurt, and they do not know if we are friend or foe."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed. "They do not understand we are Legolas’ friends." He paused in his work, looking at the forest. Wrath and watchfulness pounded through the trees, heavy on the air. "They will not let us pass with him, Gandalf."

"Wake him," Gandalf decided. "There is no other way. He must speak to them."

Legolas raised his head groggily. Aragorn hastened to raise him to a sitting position, supporting his uninjured side. Frodo darted around to his back, helping to steady him. "I am awake," the Elf told them, his voice slurring very slightly. "Help me to the greatest of the trees about this clearing. I will speak for us."

"Are you certain -" Aragorn began, concerned.

Legolas smiled at him, a glint of humor in the starry eyes. "You are welcome to speak in my stead, my friend. But I do not think they will hear you."

With Aragorn and Gandalf on either side of him, Legolas stumbled to the chosen tree. The others drew back as he placed his hands on the lichen-covered trunk of the largest spruce, slender fingers spreading to encompass as much of the bark as he could. The Elf leaned his head against the trunk, closed his eyes, and was still.

After perhaps a half-hour, Frodo tugged on Gandalf’s robe. The wizard glanced down at him, and Frodo slid under his arm. The hobbit had cleaned himself up as best he could but dark, damp stains still marred the warm brown velvet of his waistcoat and jacket. Frodo brushed at them distastefully as he stood watching Legolas. "Is he all right?" Frodo asked.

"He is speaking with the trees," Gandalf whispered back.

Frodo glanced around at the towering behemoths. The tangible anger in the air had lessened, but still the trees watched, wary and unforgiving. "Are they awake enough to listen?"

Gandalf’s hand tightened protectively on the hobbit’s shoulder. "After what took place here, can you doubt it?"

The wizard’s gaze travelled around the cleared space of forest, the young trees murdered to fashion the stakes of the despicable hunting pit. He looked unwillingly into the pit before turning his eyes away. While Legolas communicated with the forest, he and Aragorn had rolled Harlan in his cloak then pushed the body in the pit. Frodo had collected all of the hunters’ belongings with two exceptions, and thrown them in after the corpse. One exception, at Aragorn’s request, was a blanket from the gear of the dead horse. The Ranger tied the corners with stones then stood at the edge of the pit and whirled it over his head, releasing his cast expertly so that it fell over the pitiful body of the other man.They could do nothing more for either of the dead.

The second exception was the blanket-wrapped bundle that contained the hobbits’ swords and Legolas’ weapons. Frodo withdrew his Sting and examined it carefully, then buckled the sword belt around his waist. Sam and Pippin’s swords he wrapped up again until they could be returned to their owners. Legolas’ weapons he laid reverently upon the grass, not daring to interrupt the Elf’s communion with the wood to return them.

Aragorn was standing by the dead horse, his face worried. The body was already beginning to smell. The odor of fresh death would draw predators from leagues away. It would not be long before something followed that scent.Wolves or bears, the Ranger thought grimly, or something even less manageable. "We cannot linger," he murmured under his breath. But they dared not try to leave with Legolas until the Elf could convince the trees that they meant him no harm. "Hurry, my friend," he whispered.

With another glance at the motionless Elf, Aragorn began to pace the perimeter of the little clearing, awarding the surviving horse a pat as he passed. The animal raised its head from its grazing, but not in response to the kindness. Instead the shaggy ears tipped forward, listening, and its muzzle lifted into the air, scenting. Aragorn’s heart clenched within him. "Gandalf!" he called, his voice low. His sword rang as he drew it.

The wizard left off his murmured conversation with Frodo and ran to him, Glamdring unsheathed and ready in his hand. Frodo followed hesitantly, his face pale. Something was coming towards them. Something large. Frodo drew his sword and took his place beside the Ranger and the wizard.

* TBC *

Chapter Eight

The last rays of the fading sun flashed on metal, the source hidden amongst the great boles of the trees for tense moments. Then Boromir rode out into the clearing, his sword drawn, and behind him were Merry and Sam. After the cries and explanations and reassurances and hugs (especially among the hobbits) that followed, Boromir strode over to the pit and looked in. Blood had pooled at the bottom of the stake, appearing almost black in the failing light. The battle-hardened soldier shivered and turned his gaze to where Legolas leaned silently against the tree. When Aragorn quietly explained what was taking place, Boromir merely shook his head, no longer fazed by elven peculiarities.

Darkness was falling now, the first pin-prinks of stars sparkling through the veil of dusk. Night seemed to fall more quickly in the forest than on the open plains – already the ground lay deep in shadow. The horses had been staked to graze, their dinner supplemented by many armfuls of grass the hobbits pulled for them. Watching them, Frodo rubbed his stomach. "I’m hungry," he said wistfully. "Does anyone have anything to eat? I’ve only some very nasty-tasting strips of dried meat."

"Here, sir," Sam replied, pushing a fat brown butter-nut into his master’s hands. Frodo stared at the fungi in surprise. "I’ve just the one, and I didn’t bring my fry pan, nor butter or garlic, but those mushrooms are tasty cooked or not. "

"You left the rest with Pippin?" Merry exclaimed in horror.

"Couldn’t be helped," Sam said mournfully. "Maybe the lad will leave us a couple." He did not sound hopeful.

Several apples from Merry’s pockets and half a small wheel of cheese and some bread from Sam’s, and the hobbits stared at what was, for hobbits, a very unsatisfactory supper. They had canvassed the Big Folk but none of them had thought to bring food. Merry shook his head disapprovingly, his opinion of Big People’s priorities dropping a notch. When all of the Big People declined a share of the mushroom, Frodo broke it into three pieces and handed them around. "I don’t think we should even consider building a fire," he commented quietly. His gaze travelled around the brooding clearing. The trees seemed to be leaning in, watching them and listening to every word.

They looked at Legolas but the Elf’s position had not changed; still he inclined against the largest tree on the outskirts of the clearing, fingers splayed against the bark, forehead touching the trunk. The hobbits sank down on the turf to eat, huddling together against the approaching chill of evening.

Gandalf, too, was watching the Elf as he and Aragorn and Boromir conversed in low tones. The men were grooming the horses, working out the knots in their manes and doing what they could for the poor beasts’ hurts. Gandalf sat on a log, wishing he dared light his pipe. "We held this discussion in Rivendell, my friends." The wizard shook his head. "It was decided then to trust our own feet rather than the needs imposed upon us in caring for mounts. The hobbits and Gimli are not comfortable on horses. And these poor half-starved beasts could not take us far. Better to release them."

"There are wolves in these woods, Gandalf," the Ranger replied. "Other predators, also."

"I will put a word of protection upon them," the wizard said kindly. "Perhaps they will come, in time, to Imladris and seek out one of the retired herds of elven steeds. Elrond can read in them of the service they have done us. He will provide for them." Boromir sighed and gently stroked the nose of the mare that had borne him hence.

The hobbits dropped off to sleep while waiting for Legolas to finish his communion; Frodo first, followed by Merry. Sam surrendered last, still fighting against his weariness and a lingering headache. Boromir laid his great furred cloak over them all and volunteered the guard, watching the trees with wariness and trying not to dwell on the knowledge that he was being watched back.

"Well?" Gandalf asked as Legolas at last pushed himself away from the tree. The pattern of the wood he had leaned against had imprinted itself into the Elf’s palms, and the center of his forehead bore a bright red circle where he had rested it against the bark. Legolas rubbed the mark reflectively then stretched, for a moment resembling a tree himself, a slender sapling, as he strained his long limbs upwards. The Elf’s face seemed eased of much weariness and pain and instead of appearing tired, Legolas seemed invigorated. The wizard thought that must be the trees’ doing, their gift to the Wood-elf.

Legolas joined them with much of his accustomed grace and dropped into a cross-legged position, accepting the waterskin Aragorn handed him. "They will let us pass," he assured them to a chorus of soft sighs of relief. "They were angry at first and did not wish to listen. The taste of blood soaking their roots was sweet to them. But at last they heard my words and have granted us – all of us - safe-passage out of this place."

The Elf lowered his voice and glanced at the sleeping bundle of halflings. "They did not wish the Ring-bearer to pass. It was difficult to make them understand that he and what he carries is the reason for our Quest." Legolas paused and looked keenly at Gandalf, his face somber. "It would be best if we did not tarry in this forest, especially as we leave these trees behind us. Others beyond these may not feel bound to respect their wishes."

"If we go now," the wizard said quietly, "will you be all right?"

The Elf nodded nonchalantly and pressed his fingers into his side, testing for pain. Finding only a sharp twinge, he disregarded it and continued, "Do not fear for me, Mithrandir. The forest was generous with its strength. I need only a night of rest … which I would prefer to take far away from this place of death." Legolas began examining his weapons, the lack of light no impediment to elven sight. He sheathed his knives then rose to his feet and returned his sword to its rune-covered scabbard, sheathing it one-handed over his back without looking. "I will wake the little folk."

"We have lost a full day’s march," Gandalf said quietly to Aragorn and Boromir as Legolas drifted silently to the sleeping hobbits. "And will lose more time returning to our path. We have no more days to lose. It is already too late in the season to attempt the Redhorn Pass."

Aragorn nodded, worry and resignation on his tired face.

* * * * *

Legolas went first into the trees, trailing his hands along every trunk and branch that he could reach. It seemed to those who followed that many reached out to touch the Elf as he passed, and there was respect and even affection in the brush of branches along his chest and face. Gandalf followed, then the hobbits with Aragorn and Boromir as rear-guard. They moved swiftly through the deep wood for some time, Legolas leading them, his clear voice drifting back to warn them of obstacles their mortal eyes could not discern.

For the last half-league, the Company had been growing aware that the mood of the forest was changing. Legolas still touched every tree within reach of their passage, but no longer did he feel in them tolerance of the mortals’ presence. Word of the safe-passage granted them was failing, fading, diminishing as they went farther and farther from the clearing. The trees they were passing through now were not bound by promises given by others. The feeling of weight was back in the air, anger and old resentments. Legolas urged the others closer together, and asked the Ring-bearer to walk with him at his side, his hand resting on the hobbit’s shoulder.

"They don’t like us," Merry whispered to Sam. "This feels like the worst part of Buckland’s Old Forest. "

"Mr. Legolas will keep them from doing anything bad," Sam whispered back.

"To us," Merry murmured. "I wish Pip and Gimli were here." Legolas glanced back at them and shook his head, and the hobbits fell silent.

* * * * *

"I could cut some branches and light torches," Gimli said doubtfully.

"No, no, no!" Pippin squeaked. "Gimli, keep your voice down, please!" The young hobbit’s vivid imagination saw the trees looming over them, bare and spiny branches tensed to reach for them. Knotholes formed glaring eyes, broken branches became noses, breaks in the bark looked like jagged teeth. Pippin stared at the indistinct ground under his feet and tried to walk faster, hoping his fear did not show.

"My folk see well in the dark, Master Peregrin, but you do not," Gimli rumbled, deftly steering the tweenager around a rock that would have stubbed a hairy toe most painfully. "It is too dark to travel safely." He shifted his great axe to his other shoulder, feeling as if unseen eyes followed his every movement with anger and suspicion. "We could lose our way. We cannot be sure that we are still on the trail of the others."

"What stinks?" asked Pippin, wrinkling his nose.

Gimli paused, sniffing. He knew that smell, had smelled it before on battlefields and in the charnel-pits of orcs. "Come here, lad," he said quietly.

Pippin tugged on the horse’s rein and obeyed, rubbing his nose. Bill shook his head and Gimli tightened his grip on the pony’s lead.

Ahead of them the trees opened into a small clearing. A great tree-limb lay near to the edge, the smell of sap faint in the air. Stronger, much stronger, was the sweet-sick smell of recent death. Knowing what to look for, Gimli’s cavern-bred eyes sought for the source of the smell of rotting flesh.

"Something’s dead," Pippin said distastefully, then he gasped and his voice sank in sudden trepidation. "Gimli… What is it? Can you see anything?" Behind him, the horse plunged its head, its eyes white-rimmed. Pippin stopped and turned to it, rubbing its withers comfortingly. "Easy there, my lad."

The dwarf’s dark-accustomed eyes located the single boot that protruded from beneath the enormous fallen branch, and in an instant identified it as belonging to none of the Fellowship. Relieved, he tugged on the pony’s lead and the little beast moved forward, its body shielding the grisly sight from the young hobbit’s eyes. "No business of ours," the dwarf commented gruffly. "Come on, laddie."

Pippin tried to get the horse moving but it tossed its head, shying. To Gimli’s surprise, Bill began to whinny and pull on his rein. "What’s the matter, Bill?" Pippin asked the pony, reaching over to pat the animal’s soft nose. But the pony did not calm – instead Bill squealed, his shaggy ears laid flat against his head. The horse Pippin was holding suddenly shook its head roughly and balked, tearing the reins from the young hobbit’s hands. "No!" cried Pippin. "Come here, lad. Here, boy! Easy, now!"

Pippin snatched for the reins but the horse reared, hooves lashing in its terror. "Pippin!" Gimli roared. Pippin ignored him, dashing under the horse to catch at the flailing reins. Gimli leaped after him and caught the tweenager around the waist, pulling him back as the great hooves slashed within inches of Pippin’s face. The horse neighed shrilly and bolted into the night. Bill took a step after it, then trembling, crowded close to those he knew.

"Are you mad, youngling?" Gimli growled, giving the tweenager a shake for good measure. "You could have been killed!"

"The horse, Gimli!" Pippin cried, struggling against the dwarf’s arms. "It might get hurt!"

"It is gone, Pippin," Gimli said more gently, setting the hobbit down. "Now we must -"

A low snarl interrupted his words, a deep rumbling growl emanating from somewhere in the trees. Others echoed it. Pippin stilled, frightened eyes sweeping the darkness. "Gimli?" he whispered, pressing back against the dwarf.

There were shadows under the trees. Shadows that moved with fluid grace, the brush of tails and thick fur soundless against the forest wall. There was just enough moonlight to reflect from many slitted eyes and glint on ivory fangs.

* * * * *

Ahead of them, Merry saw Legolas pause and freeze into stillness, his head tilted. Then the Elf glanced back at them, his fair face tense. Gandalf and Aragorn went to him immediately and soft words were exchanged. Boromir moved closer to them, his hand on his sword and his gaze sweeping the darkness.

"Go," Merry heard Aragorn say. "I will follow." The Elf turned and ran into the forest, Aragorn on his heels.

"What is happening?" Frodo asked tensely.

"Legolas heard something which alarmed him," Gandalf answered. "He and Aragorn have gone to investigate. It is probably nothing."

The wizard’s easy words did not fool Frodo, or Merry. Sam said nothing but he loosened his sword in its scabbard. Boromir had already drawn his, and brought his great shield up into guard position.

"We must travel faster now," Gandalf ordered. "Come!"

* * * * *

Legolas drew his sword and ran into the clearing just as the first wolf broke from the cover of the trees. He had far outdistanced Aragorn, and could not wait for the man. There was no time to wait. "Stop!" he called aloud, willing the forest to hear. "Do not do this!"

Before him, he saw Gimli standing before a great grey wolf, the dwarf’s expression grim but unafraid. The dwarf’s legs were planted like pillars and his great battle-axe raised and ready. Gimli half-turned towards Legolas, confused by the shout, then swung back to face the pack. Pippin stood behind him, the trembling pony’s reins wrapped around his forearm while his hands fumbled to fit a stone to his sling.

Distracted by the sudden arrival of this interloper, the pack-leader paused, freezing into a hunter’s stance. Others slunk behind it, yellow eyes narrowed, growling and snapping at each other. A low sighing moan seemed to pass among the trees and they stirred, though no wind moved through their branches. Several limbs reached down to stroke the animals’ backs.

"Legolas!" cried Pippin, trying to dart past Gimli. He yelped as he was pulled up short, hampered by the pony’s lead. Frozen with terror, Bill stood stiff-legged foam forming on his shaggy coat. An instant later, Gimli’s hand clapped over Pippin’s mouth. The wolves reacted to the anxiety in the tweenager’s voice, ears flattening, muzzles drawing back over deadly, shining teeth.

"Be quiet, Pippin," Gimli said softly.

Mine, the Elf thought at the forest. Daring greatly, he ignored the snarling fangs and sheathed his sword, pressing his hands against the trunks of the two trees nearest him. These will do you no harm. They are my friends. Into his mind came an image of Gimli, or rather a squat, ambiguous figure carrying a great axe, dripping with the blood of trees. Anger pounded through the air. No, Legolas thought, gliding forward to place his hands against the bark of the largest spruce, not a tree-killer. I pledge you the axe is for orcs and evil-doers, not for hewing wood. Listen to me, please…

The wolves slunk along the edges of the clearing, tails low and curled under their bodies. Suddenly bereft of the guiding will that had summoned them, the pack was bewildered and apprehensive. They whined and sniffed the air, the smell of death and an easy meal quickening their hunger. Even better was the scent of fresh meat, four-legged and two-legged, which had not even the sense to run. The pack-leader snarled and Bill reared, whinnying wildly. Pippin was lifted near off his feet, still hanging stubbornly onto the rein. Gimli reached over Pippin’s head and caught the rein, pulling the pony’s head down before the halfling’s arms could be dislocated. The momentary clanging of the pans tied to Bill’s packs disconcerted the pack and the leader drew back, crouching to the ground. Muscles rippled under the furred coat as it gathered itself to leap.

A great tree limb swung down, barring its way. The wolf snarled, slavering, then tried to lunge over the branch. Quick as thought, the branch lashed the animal across its sensitive nose. The wolves felt the command to halt, to wait, laid upon them. The pack-leader shook his head, wanting to ignore the order, but the trees held him.

For long moments, Legolas leaned against the largest tree, forehead pressed against its bark. Then one of its great branches swayed and dipped, brushing gently along the Elf’s injured side and leg. Gimli and Pippin saw Legolas shake his head adamantly, his face pale with concentration. A rustling wove through the tree’s spiny branches. Then Legolas relaxed and stepped away from the trunk. As if a strong wind pushed through its branches, the great tree bowed in obeisance towards the Elf. But there was no wind. Gimli’s hands tightened on the axe, dark eyes nervous, but Pippin looked from tree to tree, a wide grin breaking out on his sharp face.

The wolves whined and raised their heads. Then they obeyed the silent command given them and reluctantly melted back into the shadows. Only the Elf’s ears could track their progress as they turned at the edge of clearing and settled down with little whimpers of eagerness, told to wait to claim their reward until the clearing was empty of all but the dead.

"I knew you could send them away!" Pippin crowed, thrusting Bill’s lead into Gimli’s hands. He ran to the Elf and wrapped his arms about Legolas’ waist to hug him tightly. "Oh, I am sorry! Did I hurt you, Legolas?"

The Elf gently disentangled himself from the hobbit. "No, Pippin. The trees have given of their strength to me, and I am almost healed. How are you?"

"Fine, fine," Pippin said dismissively. "Is Frodo all right? And have you seen Strider and Gandalf? And Merry and Sam? And Boromir?"

"Yes," Legolas responded, rather overwhelmed by the number and speed of the young hobbit’s questions. "All await us further on. Let us go to them."

"Come on, then!" Pippin called over his shoulder, already at the far edge of the clearing. Then he squeaked loudly as he was lifted into the air and into Aragorn’s arms. "Hullo, Strider!" Pippin cried, giving the Ranger a hug. "Where have you been? Did you see the wolves? One growled at us! But Legolas made him go away. Did you know he can talk to trees? Legolas, not the wolf - " Smiling, Aragorn set the hobbit down but Pippin continued to rattle on, holding tight to the Ranger’s hand.

Ignoring them for the moment, Gimli and Legolas looked at each, then the dwarf gestured toward the source of the foul stench. "Bad business, this," Gimli said.

"The forest is still angry," Legolas replied softly. "We must return to the others quickly." Gimli nodded and tugged the pony’s reins, the two following the chattering hobbit and the silent man from the clearing. Legolas glanced back over his shoulder, his elven eyes just able to discern the flashes of black and grey that marked the pack rising to its feet. Behind them, the wolves moved eagerly to their promised feast.

* * * * *

The hobbits, led by Gandalf and followed by Boromir, listened intently as they hurried after the Elf and the Ranger. But their efforts to hear were negated by a loud gurgle from Sam’s stomach. "Sorry! Sorry, sirs!" whispered the mortified gardener.

Merry’s stomach took up the duet. Gandalf turned around to glower at him but Merry could only shrug helplessly. "Do you think Pippin might have left us any of those mushrooms?" he whispered to Frodo.

"It would serve you right if I did not!" broke in a light voice, shaking slightly with excitement. Pippin emerged from the dark shadows between the trees, fair quivering with accomplishment. Aragorn followed and Legolas came next, amusement sparkling in his starry eyes. He had heardthe tread of boots and the gurgles and whispers from afar and exchanged a grin with the tweenager as Pippin released Aragorn’s hand and crept ahead of them, silent-footed and intent. Aragorn and Gimli looked surprised, but Legolas reassured them with a smile and a graceful wave of his hand. Pippin had so wanted to surprise his elders. "My lazy cousins and friends run off and leave poor Gimli and I all alone -"

"With all the food and blankets and cooking gear!" Frodo said, rushing to embrace his little cousin. Pippin flung himself into his arms and buried his head against his chest for a moment. "Where is Gimli?" Frodo asked, dropping a kiss on his young cousin’s head.

"Bringing Bill," Pippin returned breathlessly. "I heard you before he did. He’ll be here in a moment." Pippin puffed up his thin chest. "I could never have snuck up on you if he were along. He rattles and clinks with every step."

"I seem to recall telling you to all stay together, Peregrin Took," Gandalf said, summoning as severe an expression as he was able when faced with a beaming, jubilant tweenager. Legolas looked away, smiling, when the wizard glared at him.

"Well, I don’t remember you saying that," Pippin replied shamelessly, grinning up at him. "Leave off, Frodo, I’m all right." This to his cousin, who was running his hands through Pippin’s matted hair with an anxious expression. "Ah, here’s Gimli - with Bill! And our food and blankets and cooking gear."

Merry laughed, then rubbed his face wearily as Gimli appeared, the tired pony trailing behind him. "Well, we are all together again."

"Good!" Pippin proclaimed. "May we stop and rest now? I’m hungry!"

"We haven’t eaten either," Merry informed him. "Well, not really," he said in defense to Gandalf’s raised eyebrow. "Nasty dried-out meat, crusts and a bite of cheese and mushroom and a few apples aren’t food. I’m about to drop from starvation."

"As good a place as any," Aragorn said, looking about them.

Sam patted Bill’s nose then reached up to open the panniers and untie his favorite pan. "Oi! Where are all the mushrooms?"

* * * * *

When Gimli sat himself by Legolas’ side after they had eaten, the Elf accepted it with resignation and prepared himself to be clumsily teased about falling out of the tree. Surely this was too great an opportunity for the dwarf to let pass. Determined to bear it with grace, Legolas gave the dwarf a cordial nod as Gimli dropped to the earth with a grunt.

"That was well done," Gimli commented gruffly.

Legolas looked at him in surprise. Gimli glanced at him out of the corner of his eye then jerked his head towards the hobbits. "Keeping the Ring-bearer safe."

"We kept each other safe," Legolas replied after a moment’s consideration. Surely the dwarf was about to comment on his mishap?

"It was well done," Gimli repeated. "Bravely done. Are you certain you are recovered?"

Legolas nodded. "I will take your turn at watch," Gimli declared without discussion. When Legolas would have protested, the dwarf’s voice softened. "I am honored to travel in your company, Master Elf. Permit me to show my regard by this small favor." Legolas watched in amazement as the stumpy figure rose and went to assist the hobbits in clearing a sleeping space for their bedrolls.

Later, as Gimli took the watch, Aragorn sank down by Legolas’ side before rolling himself in his blankets. "Are you certain you are well, my friend?" the Ranger asked, his voice no more than a breath.

"Estel," Legolas whispered back, music in his soft voice, "I am an Elf. I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary. Already my wounds close. In a day or two I will be completely myself."

Aragorn grinned at him, both for the use of his childhood name and the slight condescension in the Elf’s tone. "That is a relief. I could not possibly hunt enough to feed those hungry hobbits by myself."

Legolas laughed, then sobered as he looked over at the sleeping halflings. "I remember what you told me, that day we escorted Frodo about Imladris as he recovered from his wound. You were right."

Aragorn followed the Elf’s gaze then looked back at him, arching an eyebrow in silent question.

Legolas nodded. "When we were captive, never for a moment did the Ring-bearer succumb to despair or show cowardice. If any could achieve the goal of this Fellowship, it will be Frodo." The luminescent eyes traveled over the sleeping hobbits, Frodo and Pippin bracketed as always by Sam and Merry. Sam slept with one hand wrapped in Frodo’s cloak and Pippin had managed to loop one of his legs over his cousin’s, effectively pinning Frodo in place. "You said I would grow fond of him, of all of them. I learned today that I have grown even more fond of them than I knew."

"I think they are fortunate to have you in our Company," Aragorn said softly.

Legolas smiled at his friend, the stars reflecting in his eyes. "Go to your rest. At least we may travel by day tomorrow, hidden by the trees as we return to our road. Your mortal eyes will need the extra light."

"Insufferable Elf," Aragorn said.

"Arrogant Man," Legolas returned easily. Aragorn reached out and gently squeezed the Elf’s shoulder, and Legolas laid his hand over the Ranger’s for a moment. "Rest well, my friend," the Elf said quietly. "The trees will shelter us from unfriendly eyes." Aragorn nodded and went to his bedroll. Around them, the trees kept silent guard.

The End