A/N: This story is a gap-filler, containing a “side adventure” before the Fellowship reaches Hollin. The River Feinduin is my own creation; it runs from the Misty Mountains to the Bruinen, and lies between Rivendell and Hollin.

Chapter 1: To the Crossing

“Not much farther, my friends.  We are nearly there.”

Frodo smiled at Gandalf, thankful for the encouragement.  He wiped sweat from his brow and took a long drink from his waterskin.  It was Afteryule and very cold, but the day’s march had made Frodo warm, and he began sweating every time he stopped moving.  He wasn’t the only member of the Fellowship who was suffering from too much body heat; the other hobbits were puffing and blowing, and Boromir and Gandalf seemed to be growing uncomfortable, though neither made any mention of it.

Nine long days had passed since the Fellowship left Rivendell.  Gandalf set them a brisk pace, desiring to reach the pass over the mountains before winter storms blocked the way.  Frodo, who had not yet fully recovered from the wound he had received on Weathertop, was tired and footsore.  So were the rest of his kindred; Frodo could tell by the way they walked, with feet dragging and heads down.  All of them had grown hardier since leaving the Shire, but they had become reacquainted with comfort in Rivendell, and comfort had made all of them a little soft.

Frodo hoped that Gandalf had the right frame of reference in mind when he said that they were ‘almost’ to the river.  ‘Almost’ to one of the taller folk was ‘twice almost’ to the hobbits, since they had to take two steps for every one of their larger companions’.  It was well past midday already, and Frodo could hear Merry and Pippin muttering about afternoon tea.  He wished they wouldn’t, for they would not be getting it, and talking about what they couldn’t have only made the march seem longer.  Even more troublesome was his wearied body.  The forest floor was cluttered with leaves and fallen branches, and his legs ached from high-stepping over them.  He feared that it was only a matter of time before he failed to clear one and….

“Ho, Master Baggins!” said Gimli, catching Frodo’s arm as he stumbled over a tree root and nearly fell.

“Oh!” sighed Frodo.  “Thank you.”

“Not at all.”  The dwarf lowered his voice and rumbled, “You look as tired as I feel.  If I were in any other company I might be tripping over roots myself, but the elf’s presence has a marvelous way of keeping me on my feet.”

Frodo glanced up to the head of the line where Legolas was walking.  He thought that Legolas might be able to hear Gimli despite his efforts – elves had excellent hearing – but he refrained from saying so.  If Legolas hadn’t heard them yet, then Frodo wasn’t going to give him more chances to do so by continuing in this vein of conversation.  At first elf and dwarf had studiously avoided each other, but as the days passed they had begun to prick one another with jibes and insults.  The last thing anyone wanted was for them to start up again.

“I wonder how deep the river will be,” said Frodo, changing the subject.  “I’ve only ever crossed two rivers in my life: the Brandywine and the Bruinen, and neither on foot.”

“I know not,” said Gimli.  “It is possible that it will be too deep for you hobbits to walk across, but no doubt the taller folk could carry you with little difficulty.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out,” Frodo said hurriedly.  Gimli was not much taller than the hobbits himself, and it was a short jump from talk of the hobbits being carried to talk of a dwarf being carried, which would sorely wound Gimli’s pride.  “In fact….  Does anyone else hear that?”

“Hear what?” said Gimli.

“Water, I think.”

The Fellowship stopped walking and listened.  “I hear it too,” Merry said.

“And I,” said Pippin.

“I do not; but if there is anything to hear, no doubt your ears have caught it, Legolas,” said Boromir.

Legolas nodded.  “The hobbits are correct.  The river is near.”

There were murmurs of delight and smiles all around at this news.  With their goal finally at hand, the company walked a little faster.  Sam held his head higher, too, though Frodo knew that he must be dreading the upcoming crossing.  Sam had no trouble with rivers so long as he wasn’t in them.

The group had scarcely walked for five minutes more when the ground began to slope beneath their feet.  What started as a gentle downgrade quickly became a steep decline, and the Fellowship moved from tree to tree with great care.  Gandalf had taken the lead and was furthest down the forested hillside.  Legolas, Aragorn, and Boromir followed Gimli’s example and each chose a hobbit to walk beside.

“It’s kind of you to stay with me, Strider,” Merry said abruptly, “but I don’t need your assistance.  This hill’s really not so bad.”

Aragorn smiled.  “Ah, but that is not why I have chosen to walk with you.”

“No?”

“I was hoping you might catch me should I stumble.”

Merry laughed.  “Me catch you?”

“I am quite serious!  You hobbits have an advantage over we taller folk on this hillside; you are steadier on your feet, being closer to the ground.”

“We’ve always got the advantage, then,” said Pippin from behind.  “We’re always closer to the ground, whether we’re going down a hill or not.”

“Feinduin – the White River!” Gandalf called from below.  “We have reached it.”

The rest of the company clambered down the hill to join him.  The wizard pointed, and Frodo looked out to see a wide, gray expanse of water before him.

“It’s below us!” said Sam.

“We are standing atop a cliff,” said Gandalf.

Sam paled and backed up several feet.

“We are quite safe where we are,” Gandalf chuckled.  “The edge is some distance away yet.  Do you see the cliffs on the other side?  A gorge begins here, carved out by the Feinduin over many centuries.”

“I don’t see it,” said Merry.

“That’s because Strider is standing in front of you, you ninny,” said Pippin.  “Come closer to the edge and you’ll see.”

“Pippin!”  Frodo cried out in alarm when the young hobbit hurried forward.

“Don’t be such a worrywart,” Pippin snorted.  “See, I’ll stop at this tree.”

Frodo and Merry glanced uneasily at each other.  The tree in question was right at the edge of the outcropping on which they stood.

“Please don’t be doing that,” said Sam, who was still pale.  “It makes me feel sick – no, don’t lean over!”

“It’s only about thirty feet down,” said Pippin.  “Maybe forty.  I’m not too good with distances.”

“Forty feet?” said Sam, going even whiter.

“Pray come back, Peregrin, and put our hearts at ease,” said Gandalf.  His tone was light, but his brow was etched with worry.  Frodo wholeheartedly agreed with him.  Pippin’s intentions were always for the best, but he was impetuous and too often heedless of danger.  There was never any telling when he would get into trouble next, and Frodo didn’t want that next time to be now, at the edge of a cliff.

“Oh, all right,” said Pippin, coming back to stand beside Boromir.

“How are we going to get down?” said Merry.  “Not over the cliff, I hope!”

“There is a crevice in the rock just to our left,” said Gandalf, pointing with one gnarled hand.

“Crevice?” Sam croaked.

Gandalf smiled.  “The way is not as difficult as it sounds.  You will see.”

When he reached the path that led to the riverbed below, Frodo saw that Gandalf was right.  The slope was hardly gentle, but the rocky ground was solid and almost step-like in places.  The walls of the crevice were close enough together that the hobbits could keep a hand on each one as they climbed to steady themselves. 

Sam’s fears diminished when Gimli pronounced the passage to be both safe and easy, but he soon developed a new concern for Bill.  The pony was reluctant to try the path, and much of his baggage had to be removed before he could even fit into the gap.  The company climbed down one by one, each bearing a portion of the pony’s packs, until only Sam, Bill, and Legolas remained.  It took a good bit of coaxing from both Sam and Legolas to convince poor Bill to take the first step.  The going was slow, but Bill took heart as he descended and the three of them reached the ground in safety.

Frodo looked around with great interest while Gimli and Boromir burdened the pony again.  The Fellowship was standing on a rocky shore with the crevice behind them; water lapped at the stones just a few steps ahead.  The surface was agitated, indicating a shallow spot in the river, and Frodo wondered if they were standing at the crossing itself.  At the place where they stood the Feinduin looked to be half as wide again as the Brandywine, but it narrowed as it passed through the gorge.  The high rock walls on either side magnified the sound of running water.

“Why is it called the White River?” asked Merry.

 “It is so named because it is fed by mountain snows,” Aragorn replied.  “Now it is calm, but it can be deep and wild in the spring when the snow is melting.”

“This isn’t where we’re going across, is it?” said Pippin with some uneasiness.

“It is,” said Aragorn.  “There are few crossings on the Feinduin; the next is many miles downstream, and it is not so easy a path to walk.”

“Easy path my foot,” Pippin murmured, sharing a dark look with Sam.  “That water will be nearly to my waist, or I’m an orc.”

Frodo shook his head.  Pippin was not quite as afraid of deep water as Sam was, but like most hobbits, he was leery of it and could not swim.

“We will all cross safely,” said Aragorn, “but the water will be very cold.  We must make camp somewhere on the other side and dry ourselves.”

“Yes, we must,” said Gandalf.  “I am familiar with this region, and if memory serves, there is a recess in one of the cliff walls not far away.”

“A cave?” Gimli asked eagerly.

“Not a cave,” said Gandalf.  “The recess only extends a short way into the rock, but it is large enough to shelter us all for the night.  I think it would be safe enough to build a small fire there.  We could all do with some warming up after the past few days.”

“A fire?” cried Merry.

“That would be most welcome,” said Boromir.  “I confess I feel that my very bones are chilled through.”

“We could have some hot food,” said Sam, and Frodo smiled to hear the excitement in his voice.  Sam dearly loved to cook, especially knowing that his efforts brought so much pleasure to everyone else.  “Maybe some rabbit with herbs.  I found some parsley growing wild not far back.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly bound bunch of frilly green leaves.

“Parsley?  You are a marvel, Sam!” laughed Aragorn.

Frodo, who had still been looking about during the conversation, smiled as a splendid idea sprang into his head.  “How about fish for dinner?  There’s a good-sized ledge just down the bank – I can see it from here.  I’ll wager there are trout hiding beneath it.”

“Roasted trout!”  Gimli smacked his lips.  “That would be a princely meal!  How will you catch them?  We Dwarves use poles, line, and hooks, but we do not have those here.”

“Hobbits use those, too,” said Frodo.  “I suppose we could try to make them, but it would be much easier to make spears.  Does anyone have a small blade?”

As it turned out, Boromir and Aragorn each had daggers concealed in their boots.  Frodo retrieved two straight, dry branches from the earth that were long enough to serve as hobbit-spears.  The men cut a cleft in the wood at the bottom of each stick and wedged the slim handles of their knives in.  Twine from Sam’s pack was wrapped about the joined pieces, and thus were two fishing-spears made.

“How far is it to this shelter, Gandalf?” Frodo asked when they had finished.

“It should be very close,” the wizard replied.  “I suppose you would like to stay and fish while we continue?”

“Well, it is getting late, and I can’t fish in the dark.”

“I will stay and keep watch if you wish,” Legolas volunteered.  “Perhaps one of the rest of you can return to tell us the way.”

“I will,” Gimli said gruffly.  “I want to set some rabbit-snares before evening sets in, so I will be on my feet anyway.  If we really are heading for Caradhras, then my gloves ought to be repaired.  They need mending and some new lining.”  He caught sight of the look on the hobbits’ faces and feigned outrage.  “What?  Don’t look at me like that!  Dwarves know how to set a rabbit-snare as well as any Hobbit, Man, or Elf.”

Frodo glanced at Legolas.  This was exactly the sort of opening that the elf lived for.  Any moment now he would be challenging Gimli to some sort of contest that might or might not involve rabbits, and insulting the dwarf’s prickly sense of honor while he was at it.  The corners of his mouth were already twitching.

“And we look forward to enjoying your catch,” said Aragorn, casting a stern look in Legolas’ direction.  Legolas merely raised one eyebrow and smiled, catlike, in return.

“Well!” said Frodo.  “Who is going to fish with me?”

“I’ll stay, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam.

Frodo smiled.  I knew you would, he thought.  You never leave me unwatched.  “What about you, cousin?” he said, turning to Pippin.

“In this frozen stream?  Certainly not,” said Pippin.  “I’d much rather see if there are any chestnuts left under that tree yonder.”

“Chestnuts?” Merry cried.  “What tree?  Where?”

“You must have left your wits behind you in Rivendell if you can’t recognize a chestnut leaf anymore,” said Pippin.  “Look – the edge of the river is choked with them.  There is the tree, beyond the far bank.”

“Why, so it is, bless me!” said Sam.  He exchanged smiles with Frodo.  Merry would not be staying either, not when there were such treats to be found.

“It’s a little late in the year,” said Merry, “but if we’re lucky, maybe the squirrels haven’t made off with them all yet.”

“Roasted chestnuts…” sighed Pippin.

“…will go nicely with trout, so Sam and I had best begin,” said Frodo.  Now that he had come to it, he found that he could scarcely wait to get started.  It felt like ages since he’d had the chance to just sit and fish, and he had certainly not thought to do it on this journey.

“And we’ll gather those chestnuts,” Pippin said to Merry.

“After we reach the shelter and dry ourselves,” Gandalf corrected them.  “And either Aragorn or Boromir will go with you.”

“Then I suppose the two of us must quarrel over the remaining tasks – gathering wood or chaperoning two hobbits bent on harvesting food,” said Boromir with a twinkle in his eye.

“You would rather go with the hobbits,” Aragorn guessed.

“Of course.  Wouldn’t you?”

“Who would not rather go on a hobbit walking-party than do chores?” said Aragorn, who was also smiling.  “How shall we settle this argument?”

“Do you know of Rock, Parchment, Dagger?  It is a child’s game in Gondor.  There are two players –”

“Rock, Parchment, Dagger?” said Merry.  “A game of Gondor?  Heavens!  We know it in the Shire – but I can’t guess how it might have gone from one place to the other.  There haven’t been any Men inside our country for years.”

“Maybe they know it in Bree,” said Pippin.  “That’s about as close as hobbits ever get to Big Folk.”

“These are strange revelations,” said Gimli.  “The Dwarves also know this game well.  I played it under the Lonely Mountain when I was just a lad, whenever my cousins and I were arguing over the last of the tarts.  I had always assumed it to be of Dwarf-make.  I never knew that other races had heard tell of it.”

“But clearly, they have,” said Legolas.  “And I can add another race to the list.  The children of the Firstborn were playing this game long before any of your kind walked Middle-earth.”

“And I say to all of you that it is a ridiculous game.  I wish Radagast had never dreamt up the dratted thing,” Gandalf said gruffly.  Frodo did not miss the glint in his eye, but it seemed that Pippin had.

“It’s a wizard’s game?  Did Radagast really….  Are you being serious, Gandalf?”

“We should find our shelter,” chuckled Gandalf.  “Then you can seek your chestnut tree.”

And so the Fellowship divided in two.  Frodo, Sam, and Legolas stood on the bank and watched with amusement as the others gingerly waded into the crossing.

“Aieee!” Pippin yelped.  “That is… that is….”

“That is the coldest water I’ve ever felt!” Merry cried.  “Oooh, it’s like ice!”  He and Pippin flapped their arms and danced about, splashing a good deal of water on the rest of the company in the process.

“Durin’s beard!  Stop that!” Gimli roared as the spray struck him in the face.  “Wet me again, and I shall dunk you both!”

“The sooner you start walking, the sooner you will be out of the river,” said Gandalf, already well into the crossing.

“Well, it’s easy enough for you,” said Pippin, wading out after the wizard.  He gave a little shriek as he stepped into deeper water.  “I’m hip deep already, and you won’t even get your knees wet!”  He looked up imploringly at Aragorn.

“I am not going to carry you,” the Ranger laughed.  “Think of it this way – you won’t have to bathe later.”

“And you do need a bath,” said Merry, waving a hand in front of his nose.  Pippin rewarded him with a splash of water in the face.

“I’m not thinking Radagast really invented Rock, Parchment, Dagger,” said Sam as he watched the others wade off, Merry and Pippin squabbling playfully the whole way.

“No, I don’t think he did – but Pippin doesn’t seem to suspect, does he?” said Frodo, laughing softly.  The prospect of a fire, hot food, and a good night’s rest had made him as cheerful as the rest of the company.  “It’s almost unfair of Gandalf to tease him like that.  Pippin believes everything he says.”

“Were you being serious, Mr. Legolas?” said Sam.  “Do elflings really play it, too?”

“I may be the only elf from the Greenwood who knows the game,” Legolas said mischievously.  “And that is only because I have seen Aragorn play it with others of the Dúnedain – but Aragorn does not know that.”

“You’re an awful bad teaser, Mr. Legolas,” Sam laughed.  “You and Gandalf both!”

Legolas grinned back, and Frodo’s heart felt warmer than it had since he had left Rivendell.  “Come on, Sam!  Let’s find some trout.”

The ledge proved to be an ideal spot for fishing.  It hung over a little pool on the edge of the river, which existed only because a large boulder upstream diverted much of the oncoming flow.  The surface of the pool was calmer than that of the swiftly flowing river, and several dark shapes could be seen drifting languorously near its bottom.

“You’ve a right keen eye for fishing-holes, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said admiringly.

“That’s what comes from spending your summers at the Brandywine,” Frodo replied.

The two hobbits stepped carefully out onto the ledge.  They stood motionless, holding their spears at the ready while their eyes watched the lazy trout below.  “Good thing our shadows are falling behind us,” said Frodo.  “The fish won’t notice us at all.”

“Oh, there’s a big one on your left, sir,” Sam said softly.

“I see it.”  Frodo slowly shifted his grip, careful not to make any sudden movements.  Carefully he moved his arms until his spear was right above the fish.  He paused, checked that his aim was true, and then –

“Good catch, Mr. Frodo!” cried Sam as Frodo pulled his spear from the water.  One flopping, silvery fish was impaled on the dagger.

“A skilled fisher, indeed!” Legolas said approvingly.  “My people have used spears to fish at need, but we prefer to use nets – or our own hands.”

“Oh, yes!  Tickling fish is great fun,” said Frodo.

“Is that what your folk call it?” said Legolas, amused.

“If you mean, do we let our fingers dangle in the water until a fish comes by, then yes.”

“Aye – that is what we Elves do.”

“It’s far too cold to use our hands at this time of year,” said Frodo.  “I suppose elves might not notice, but that’s the sort of thing that hobbits only want to try in the summertime.”

“And it takes too long,” Sam added.  “I don’t want to be lying on my belly on this cold rock for as long as that would take, thank you.”

“Look, here is the Naugrim!” said Legolas, pointing to the far bank.  “He returns sooner than I had expected.”

Frodo looked and saw Gimli wading back into the river.  “He ought to have let Aragorn or Boromir come back,” he said, frowning.  “If the water’s as cold as Merry and Pippin said, then he’ll have a harder time of it than the men would.  The water is as high on him as it will be on us.”

“He’s wearing that mail shirt, too,” said Sam.  “It must be heavy.”

“And it may rust.  He’ll have to oil it again.”

“You are right,” said Legolas.  “If the dwarf should slip and fall, it will be difficult for him to swim, burdened as he is.  I will go to the crossing and meet him halfway.”

Legolas was beginning to smile in a predatory way that Frodo knew all too well.  He wasn’t at all certain that Legolas meant to help Gimli; in fact, considering how Legolas generally behaved around Gimli, Frodo felt sure that any meeting in the center of the river would culminate in one very wet and irate dwarf.  He felt a pang when he thought of their first restful evening since Rivendell being ruined by flaring tempers, and he cried out, “Oh, please don’t do anything to him!”

Legolas turned, surprise replacing the guile on his face.  For a moment he stared at Frodo, but then his features softened.  “I see you have tired of our sparring,” he said quietly.  “Very well, then – I give you my word.  I shall not antagonize him.”

Frodo blushed.  He hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but he wasn’t sorry.  He was tired of the elf and dwarf bickering all the time.  “Thank you,” he said.  Legolas nodded solemnly and strode away, and Frodo and Sam turned back to the pool.

By the time Legolas returned, Sam had landed his first fish and was poised atop the ledge, ready to strike at another.  “Well,” said Legolas, “Mithrandir was correct.  The shelter he sought is very near to the crossing and will be no trouble for us to find.”  He looked down at the two trout flopping on the bank.  “How many of those do you mean to take?”

“A few more, at least,” said Frodo.  “They may be big, but there are nine of us – and four of us are hobbits!”

“You don’t mind waiting a bit, do you, Mr. Legolas?” Sam asked hopefully.

“No,” said Legolas, “but I will not sit idly by and watch you hunt.  I will scout this side of the river while you continue.”

“Why?  We’ve only just come from there.  You’d think someone was already following us, the way you’re always backtracking.”

Legolas’ expression grew solemn.  “I have seen no signs of pursuit,” he said, “but that does not mean that no one is there.  I think we are safe enough at present – enough to be light of heart tonight – but we must be ever on our guard.”

The words “safe enough at present” seemed to be reassurance enough for Sam.  He nodded and turned back to the pool, eager to resume fishing.  The words that rang in Frodo’s mind, however, were “ever on our guard”, and his good mood slipped a little.  Always reality will catch up with me, he thought.  The Enemy knows I was in Rivendell, and what I bore.  The Ringwraiths will have reported my passage into that land; Gandalf said that the flood could not destroy them, only their horses.  And what of Sauron’s other spies?  Elrond warned us that they are everywhere.

“Pray, catch some more fish,” Legolas said suddenly.  “I am looking forward to tasting them.  And think of the fire that awaits us on the other side of the river.  We shall be enjoying its warmth soon enough.”  He turned and began to vanish into the trees that lined the riverbank.  “I will be close.  Call me if you have need!”

Frodo wondered if Legolas had noticed his sudden change of mood and was trying to cheer him up.  He stared at the spot where the elf had been, unable to completely banish his nagging worries.  The Fellowship might be watchful, but watchfulness probably couldn’t prevent the servants of Sauron from catching up with them.  What would happen if this came to pass, he couldn’t guess.  They were only nine, and their enemies were many.

“How does he do that, I wonder?” said Sam at Frodo’s back.  “Disappear among the trees, I mean.”

“He’s a Wood-Elf,” said Frodo, unable to give any further explanation.  “You’ll have to ask him – but I doubt he’ll tell you any more than that.”

“Oh – another big one!” Sam gasped, and a loud splash and a shout followed.  “Ha!” he cried, holding his spear aloft triumphantly.  “You’d best hurry unless you want to be beaten at your own game, Mr. Frodo.  I’ve got two to your one!”

Frodo’s eyes flashed at the challenge.  He had been fishing since he had been able to grasp a pole, and if Sam thought that he could best him at it, he was sorely mistaken.  “By the time Legolas gets back, I’ll have four to your two.  Let me show you how it’s done!”

After that, Frodo and Sam both worked much faster.  It didn’t take Sam long to forget about the original purpose of the game, but Frodo didn’t care.  The challenge seemed to have evolved from seeing who could land more fish to seeing who could bring them up the fastest.  Frodo completely forgot about Legolas, Ringwraiths, and being on guard as his shining eyes scoured the pool for trout.  He lost track of time in laughter and movement, noticing only that he and Sam were both growing progressively damper from all their splashing about.  It wasn’t until Sam suddenly paused and looked around him that Frodo wondered how long they had been at it.

“Look,” said Sam, pointing.

Frodo looked.  The sky to the east had darkened with black, heavy clouds.  “It’s raining somewhere out there,” said Sam.  “And judging by the smell of things, I’d say we’re in for some of that later tonight.”

Frodo nodded.  Now that he thought about it, it did smell like rain, but he had been paying too much attention to the fish to notice.  “It’s too far away to bother us yet,” he said.  “And we’ll be under Gandalf’s shelter, too.  I don’t think it will keep us from having that fire.”

“Do you think Mr. Legolas has noticed?”

“If he hasn’t, then he will when it starts to rain.  Let’s keep at it.  We’ve not got nearly enough fish yet.”

“That’s because we’re making such a mess of the water.  We’re scaring them off.”

“Come on.  Just a few more and we’ll be eating like kings!”

“After we get them all cleaned, you mean,” laughed Sam.  “Hoy!  I felt a raindrop, and a big one it was, too.”  He pulled his hood up, and Frodo did likewise.

What began as a drizzle soon became a light rain.  It was enough to make it hard to see the fish, what with the steady plop of raindrops blurring the surface of the pool.  Frodo was unfazed by a little bit of wet, especially when he was about to cross a river anyway.  He was determined to have at least one fish for everybody and Sam didn’t seem to be bothered by the rain, so they kept on.

When they had at last caught a ninth fish, Sam suggested that it was time to stop, and Frodo had to agree.  The rainstorm was well on its way to becoming a downpour and the surface of the pool was hopelessly restless, making it nearly impossible to see any more.  They neatly impaled the fish on their two spears, and their minds turned at last to Legolas, who had still not returned.

“Now what, Mr. Frodo?” said Sam.  “Even he must know it’s time to go.  It won’t be light for too much longer.”

“No, it won’t,” Frodo agreed.  “I wonder what’s keeping him?”

“I don’t like the looks of that crossing, and that’s the truth,” said Sam, eyeing the water with distaste.  “I think the rain’s playing tricks on my eyes; I could almost say that the river looks different.”

Something in Sam’s words triggered a cold feeling in Frodo’s chest.  He wasn’t sure why, but Bilbo’s face came floating up in his mind.  It was a very vague memory, and the dear old hobbit was saying something in it, but Frodo could not recall the exact words.  Something about rain… and rivers.

And then it came to him.  Alarmed, Frodo’s eyes sought the nearby boulder that had helped to shelter the pool from the current.  There had been a distinctive patch of yellowish-green lichen clinging to it just above the surface of the water.  He had noticed it not only because of its color, but because it had been oddly shaped.

The lichen was gone.

“The river is rising, Sam,” Frodo said quietly.  “Not much yet, I think, but it is rising.”  He wondered if the water might have been moving faster, too, but he couldn’t be sure of it, and he kept the thought to himself.

Sam’s face paled.  “Oughtn’t we to get to the other side, then?  I mean, I don’t want to walk through when it’s… when it’s….”

Frodo understood.  Sam was like most hobbits: he had never swum in his life and was terrified by the very idea of it.  Sam didn’t feel safe crossing any creek, stream, or river where the water rose any higher than his waist, and it looked like the Feinduin had already passed that point.  “You’re right,” said Frodo.  “We ought to go on.”  He was glad that he hadn’t voiced his thoughts on the river’s speed.  He didn’t want to frighten Sam; already there was a good chance that he would be too nervous to cross without being carried by one of the taller folk.

“Should we wait for Mr. Legolas to come back?”

“I don’t think so,” said Frodo.  “The river won’t rise fast enough to be of any bother to him, but I’d rather get across before it becomes a bother to us.  It’s not far, and we can walk quickly.”

“I wonder if something’s happened to him,” Sam said unhappily.  “Legolas!”  They waited for a few moments, and when the elf did not appear, Sam called again.  “Legolas!”

There was no answer.

“I don’t think anything has happened,” said Frodo, trying to reassure both Sam and himself.  “Maybe he found a creature worth hunting, or some such.  We ought to leave a sign for him so he doesn’t worry about us when he returns.”  He bent down, picked up a handful of smooth stones, and placed them in a neat line pointing toward the river.  “There.  He won’t miss that.”

There was no other reason to delay.  Frodo and Sam hurried to the crossing, bearing their fish and spears before them.  “We can use the spears like walking-sticks!” said Frodo, placing the butt of his weapon firmly in the riverbed.  He took one step in and gasped.  “Oh, we shouldn’t have laughed at Merry and Pippin – they were right!  This is the coldest water I’ve ever felt!”  He looked back at Sam and laughed.  “Oh, come on, Sam – just walk in.  There’s nothing else for it.”

Sam looked miserable, but he didn’t want to be far from Frodo, so he had no choice but to follow as his master waded in.  Frodo heard him suck in a breath as he took his first steps into the crossing, but he said nothing until he was in deep enough for the water to reach his knees.

“Dancing dragons!  Never had a bath like this before!  Brrr!”

Frodo smiled.  Dear Sam!  You never really complain, not even now.

It wasn’t long before Frodo realized that they would not be crossing the river as quickly as he’d hoped.  The river bottom was treacherous and the water was moving swiftly.  His spear saved him from falling more than once, and he wondered how the rest of the company had made it look so easy.  Merry and Pippin hadn’t stumbled that he could recall.

A loud splash sounded behind him.  Frodo looked back.  Sam had slipped on a rock underfoot and was leaning heavily on his spear.  His wide, frightened eyes locked with Frodo’s.

“Not far now!” Frodo said bracingly.  “We’re almost halfway!”  And I hope this river doesn’t get any deeper before then, he thought to himself.  At this rate, the water will be up to our chests ere we get there!

Frodo had only taken a few more steps when he suddenly stopped again.  A strange sound had reached his ears, a low rumbling that had started at the edge of hearing but was quickly growing louder.  “What is that?” he said.

“I don’t know, and I don’t like it!” cried Sam.  “We ought to get out of this river!”

They pressed forward as quickly as they could, which was not very fast.  The current was strong, and Frodo felt that it was trying to pull his feet out from under him.  The rumbling became a dull roar.  It was swiftly growing in volume, very swiftly, and Frodo was now quite sure that it was coming from upstream.  Something enormous was heading their way.  He pushed on.  They were now in the middle of the river, and it was just as well to go on as it was to go back.  The splatter of rain and the now pounding noise of the oncoming something filled his ears.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam shouted.

Frodo did not need Sam’s warning to know that whatever it was, it had arrived.  The ground shook beneath his feet as he turned his eyes upstream.  What looked like a wall of water was rushing toward him, frothing white as it came.  A dim memory came floating back to him of witnessing this sort of thing before at the Ford of Rivendell; then it had seemed as if a whole herd of horses had come plunging around the riverbend.  But there was no control in the water now, only shapeless fury, and he was not watching safely from the side – he was directly in its path.

Frodo was rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the incredible power of the oncoming river.  He could hear nothing save the roaring in his ears.  Sam was tugging frantically at his sleeve, but he knew there was no point in even trying to get out of the way.  They couldn’t run, for they were up to their waists in the water, and the flood was moving with impossible speed.  Already it was almost upon them.  A wordless cry of desperation from Sam blended with the thunder in the air.

Frodo unexpectedly felt himself lifted out of the river, caught up in one strong arm.  An instant later the arm’s owner slammed into him from behind and white water was everywhere.

Chapter 2: Swept Away

“Come on, Mr. Frodo!”  Sam tugged hard on his master’s sleeve in a vain attempt to free him of his paralysis.  “Come on!”  Frodo didn’t move; he didn’t even seem to hear.  Sam looked upstream where the water was pounding toward them and felt his heart grow cold.  A true nightmare was bearing down on them, and they couldn’t get out of its way.

“Mr. Frodo!”

Frodo’s eyes were wide with fear, but he remained frozen where he was.

Sam let out a strangled cry of wrath and terror.  He could scarcely hear his own voice any more in the roar of the oncoming flood.

There was a sudden blur of movement beside them, and Sam found himself lifted off the ground in someone’s arms.  There was no more time for words or escape.  The next thing Sam knew, he was being hurled through the air.  White spray was all he could see.  He was thrown down into the river so hard, he felt that a mountain had been dropped on him.  Over and over he tumbled until he no longer knew which way was up; water as cold as snowmelt was all around him, stealing his breath.  Panic set his nerves on fire.  He was deathly afraid of water any deeper than that found in a bathtub, and he could not even tell if he was still in the arms of his would-be rescuer, so violent was the river’s fury.

It wasn’t until the tumbling abruptly stopped that Sam realized that his anchor was still there.  Whoever was holding him hadn’t let go, impossible as it seemed.  He felt a tug around his middle, and then his head suddenly burst above the surface.  He opened his mouth and noisily sucked in air.

Someone next to him was coughing and spluttering.  “Frodo!” Sam exclaimed joyously, though it came out as more of a croak; the cold of the water had nearly robbed him of his voice.  Frodo looked at him with wide eyes and his mouth worked soundlessly.

At last Sam’s thoughts turned fully to his rescuer.  He looked down at the hand that was gripping him close and saw long, pale fingers knotted into his shirt.

Mr. Legolas, thought Sam.  Of course.  There was little time to dwell on it.  The river was swollen and wrathful, and the three of them were rapidly moving downstream.  The relief Sam had felt upon seeing Frodo safe and whole was evaporating like mist under the sun.

“Frodo!” Legolas shouted above the noise of the driving rain.  “Can you swim?”

“Y-yes!”

“Samwise?”

The question flabbergasted Sam.  Me, swim?  In this?  He shook his head, unable to speak, and clutched Legolas’ side with both arms.

“I need the use of one arm to pull us to shore!” said Legolas, who had Frodo secured by the hand that was not holding Sam.  “You must stay next to me, Sam, or you will not stay afloat!  Frodo, hang on to him and keep your head up!”

Frodo nodded and reached out toward Sam with one arm.

Sam felt Legolas’ arm tighten about his middle.  “I have you!” said the Elf.  “You must release me and help Frodo.  I will not let you go!”

It was one of the hardest things that Sam had ever been asked to do.  He wanted nothing more than to cling to Legolas for dear life, but he saw the truth of the situation: Legolas couldn’t swim without at least one arm free, not in a raging river.  Frodo would be depending on him; if Sam let go, his master would be lost.  Frodo wouldn’t survive without someone to help him, whether he had grown up swimming in the Bywater or no.

Then there’s nothing else for it.  You’d better do what needs doing, whether you like it or not! Sam said to himself.  He drew a deep breath, placed his trust entirely in Legolas, and let go.

It was terrifying.  He was anchored to Legolas now only in one location and the river immediately threatened to drag him under.

“I have you!” Legolas repeated, and Sam felt just a little less fear.  “Frodo, I will hold you until Sam has secured you!”

Frodo nodded again.  With eyes as wide as saucers, he too let go of Legolas’ side.  Legolas carefully steered him toward Sam, who seized his master with both arms as soon as he was within reach.

“Sam?”

“I’ve got him, sir!” cried Sam as Frodo wrapped his arms tightly around his body.  At once Legolas let go of Frodo and began using his free arm to try and pull them through the water.

The precarious nature of the situation quickly became clear to Sam.  Even if he’d had both arms free and no hobbits weighing him down, Legolas would still have had a difficult time swimming to either shore.  The water was churning furiously and the current was swift.  But they had had some luck – they were drifting toward the left bank, the side of the river that they had been trying to reach on foot.  Legolas pulled at the water, and they drifted a little faster.

“Look, Sam!” Frodo suddenly cried, pointing at the left bank of the river.

Sam looked, and saw nothing.  Then he turned his eyes upstream, and his heart leapt within him when he saw, moving with all speed along the river’s edge, the rest of the Fellowship.  Even Gandalf was running, holding his robes away from his feet with one hand.

Sam swiveled his head to share a smile with Frodo, but it slipped from his face when he saw what was waiting for them a short way downstream.

“Oh, no,” Frodo gasped.

There was a bend up ahead in the river.  Dark rocks jutted out of roiling white water, and Sam couldn’t see where the dangerous passage ended.  “Mr. Legolas!” he cried.

“I see it,” Legolas replied, and redoubled his efforts.

They were still several feet from the bank, but there was a great deal of debris sticking out into the water.  Fallen trees, gnarled nests of roots, and old branches littered the edge.  It was one of these that Sam realized Legolas was trying to reach, but he was having little luck.  The wood was wet and slippery, and the strong current gave him little time to snatch at it as he passed by.  He HAS to catch something, thought Sam as Legolas grasped at a tree trunk, only to be pulled away by the river.  Those rocks are getting close!

The rapids loomed very close when fortune finally smiled upon them.  A thick and curiously bent branch was jutting out into the rushing water, and Legolas managed to seize it.  When he stopped moving the two hobbits were nearly torn from his arms, but he kept his grip on Sam, and Sam managed to hold on to Frodo.

The river wanted to rip them all away.  Water gushed up and over the branch, which was being pressed underwater by their weight.  Sam could feel a savage undertow tugging at Legolas’ feet, threatening to take them all back to the center of the river – and the rapids ahead.  Seeing their peril, Legolas wrapped his left arm completely around the branch and held tight.  “We must wait until the others come,” he said, sounding somewhat winded.  “I do not think that the two of you can pull yourselves out without aid.”

“I d-don’t think so, either,” said Frodo.  “I’m so c-cold!”

“They are not far,” said Legolas, craning his neck to look upstream.  “Take heart – we will soon be out of this river.”

They didn’t have to wait long, for the company was coming as quickly as they were able.  Aragorn and Boromir were in the lead, aided by their long legs; behind them came Merry and Pippin, and last came Gimli and Gandalf, both huffing and puffing.

“Legolas!  Are all of you well?” Aragorn cried as he came running up.

“Well enough for the moment,” Legolas replied, “but you must retrieve the hobbits quickly.  The water is icy cold!”

Boromir threw himself on the ground at the edge of the bank and stretched out his arm, but Gandalf was alarmed.  “No!” he exclaimed.  “You could be pulled in as well.  It is too far!”

“A branch, then,” said Gimli.

“Aye – a long, sturdy one!” said Aragorn.

No one needed any further instructions.  The hobbits dashed off into the undergrowth, followed closely by Gimli and Aragorn.  Only Gandalf and Boromir stayed.  The Man remained stretched out on the ground, whether to prepare himself to extend the branch when it came or to seize them if aught should happen, Sam did not know.

“How is your grip?” Boromir asked Legolas.  Legolas nodded curtly, and Boromir’s eyebrows climbed.  “You had better hurry!” he called after the others.

Yes – hurry! Sam thought.  Frodo was beginning to shake uncontrollably.

Mere moments passed before they heard Merry call out, “We have one!”  Gimli and Aragorn came running back to the bank with a great tree limb in tow, and the hobbits followed behind.

“Meriadoc, Peregrin, be ready to get your blankets out of your packs,” said Gandalf.  “Don’t do it yet!  Keep them dry until they are needed.”

Aragorn stretched himself out on the ground beside Boromir, as near to the edge of the rushing river as he dared to come.  Together the two Men pushed the limb, thick as Boromir’s arm, out over the water.  Gimli acted as anchor, bracing his feet against a tree behind them and holding the other end.

“Right,” said Aragorn.  “You first, Frodo.”

“W-what?” said Frodo through his chattering teeth.  “No!  Sam g-goes first!”

“Go on, Mr. Frodo!” cried Sam, shocked to his toes that Frodo could even entertain such an idea.

“You c-can’t swim!  If s-something happens –”

“No!  You’ve got to go first, Mr. Frodo!  You’re to keep It safe!”

“Sam -!”

“Go, Frodo!” Legolas shouted.  There was no mistaking it for the command that it was.  Frodo gave up the argument and stretched out one arm, but the branch was still too far away.

“A little closer, Gimli,” said Aragorn.  The Dwarf stepped forward a pace, and the branch came within reach.  Frodo reached out and grasped a bit of tree root that was trailing in the water to steady himself.  With his other hand he reached for the branch.

“Careful!” said Boromir as Frodo grasped the lifeline.  “Don’t let go of him yet, Sam!”

“Don’t worry,” Sam said through gritted teeth.  “I won’t be doing that.”

Frodo shifted his grip on the branch until he got both hands around a large knot.  “I think… I think I’ve g-got it,” he said.

“Time to let go, Sam,” said Aragorn.

Behind him, Sam heard Legolas exhale sharply.  He wanted to wait longer, to be sure that Frodo was really secure, but he knew that there was no time to delay.  Carefully, he let his arms fall from his master’s side, and Boromir and Aragorn began to draw Frodo toward the bank.

“Steady now,” said Gimli.

Sam held his breath.  Frodo’s hold didn’t look as secure as he would have liked, and the river was still buffeting him fiercely.  If he couldn’t hang on…!

But to Sam’s relief, none of his fears came to pass.  The moment Frodo was close enough, Boromir reached out with one long arm and hauled him ashore.  Merry, Pippin, and Gandalf swarmed around him, wrapping him in woolen blankets and oiled cloth to keep him from being soaked anew by the rain.  Soon only Frodo’s shivering face was showing.

“Your turn, Sam!” said Aragorn.  He and Boromir were extending the limb again.

Sam looked at the wet wood.  Now it looked even less safe than it had when Frodo had taken it.

“Grasp that b-bit of root in the water,” said Frodo.  “It’ll keep you st-steady!”

“As will I,” said Legolas in Sam’s ear.  “Take the root first and the branch second.”

Sam nodded.  Tentatively, he reached out and gripped the tree root with his left hand.

“Good!” said Boromir.  “Now the other!”

Sam stared at the span of water between himself and the bank as if it were the deepest of chasms.  “You won’t let go, Mr. Legolas?”

“Not until I can no longer reach,” said Legolas.  “I cannot move until you are safely ashore.”

This wasn’t entirely to Sam’s liking, but there was nothing to be done about it.  “All right,” he said.  His heart was in his throat.  “I’m coming.”

Legolas kept one hand clamped around Sam’s left arm as he reached for the branch with his right hand.  It was cold and slippery to the touch, but his fingers found the knot that Frodo had clung to, and once he had his left hand around it, too, he felt somewhat secure. 

“Watch out, Samwise!” Gimli shouted.

Sam looked up.  His eyes scarcely had time to widen before a new, furious rush of water was upon him, flinging him back into Legolas.  It was only because of a warning shout from Gandalf that Men and Dwarf were able to let go of the limb before they were all hurled over the bank.  The branch was tossed out into the river like a matchstick and was quickly borne away.

“It is raining even harder!” Aragorn shouted.  “This flood is only going to worsen!”

“Now what?” said Boromir, just as loudly.  “Another branch?”

“No!” Legolas called, and everyone turned to look at him.  “There is no time!  This water-limb will not secure us for much longer – I can feel it weakening!”

“You must reach Sam with your arms!” said Gandalf.

“Aye!” said Boromir.  “Aragorn, hold my legs – I will try to stretch a little further!”

Aragorn quickly moved to comply.  He wrapped both arms around Boromir’s legs, and Boromir pushed himself out over the bank as far as he could go without toppling.  One hand he braced against the tree roots in the water to support himself; the other he stretched out to Sam.

Sam was horrified.  The extended branch had been bad enough; this seemed as madness to him.  If Boromir fell in the river, their situation would be ten times worse than it was now.

“Come on, Sam!” Boromir urged.

“We are not close enough,” said Legolas.  “I will push you forward!”  Sam felt pressure on his left arm where the Elf was still gripping it.  “Grasp the root again!  Pull yourself toward the bank!”

Sam felt around with his left hand and closed his fingers around another snarl of roots beneath the surface of the water.  Legolas pushed, and he pulled forward as hard as he could, flinging out his right arm toward Boromir.  His muscles were weak from the cold and exertion, and his effort fell half a foot short.

“Reach, Sam!” Boromir bellowed.  “Reach!  I nearly have you!”

Behind Boromir, the others were shouting encouragement, Frodo loudest of all despite his chattering teeth.  “Come on, Sam!  Reach!”

Sam looked up at Boromir, who was stretching his arm as far as he possibly could.  He was so close, and yet those last few inches seemed so far to go.  The water pulled relentlessly at him, trying to force him downstream, and he was tired.  He was no match for such power.

“Don’t give up!” Aragorn shouted from his place beside Boromir.  “You can make it, Sam!”

“Come on, Sam!” the hobbits shouted.  “Come on!”

The faces of the company were filled with desperation.  They’re frightened for me, Sam thought sluggishly, for me and Legolas.  He was very cold; it was becoming difficult to hold his thoughts together.  His left hand on the gnarled root was going numb.  Got to try again, Samwise.  Can’t leave your master here without you; he needs looking after!

“Once more, Sam,” came Legolas’ strained voice at his back, echoing his thoughts.  “You must try once more!”

Sam lifted his arm and reached with all his might.  With his other hand he clung to the tree root, trying to pull himself within reach of Boromir’s hand.  He inched toward the bank.

“That’s it!” Aragorn shouted.  “That’s it, Sam!”

The hobbits continued yelling; their voices rose in pitch as Sam neared his goal.  Even Gimli and Gandalf were caught up in the moment and were shouting along with them.

“Almost there,” Boromir grunted.

Without warning, the tree root gave.  Sam felt it ripped wetly from his hand, and immediately the river sought to fling him away.

Sam’s body abruptly stopped moving.  Legolas had caught him with one hand; his other hand still anchored them to the fallen branch.  The two of them were stretched out in a line, in danger of being sucked into the middle of the river.  On the bank beyond Legolas, the others were white with fright.  The hobbits had been terrified into silence and were staring with wide eyes and open mouths.  Aragorn, Boromir, and Gimli were scrambling to try and extend themselves further so that Legolas could catch one of their hands.

CRACK!

Sam felt a shudder pass through Legolas and into him.

“It’s giving way!” Gimli roared.

Legolas turned his head to look back at Sam.  The Elf’s wide, frightened eyes said more than any words could say.

CRACK!  Another jerk rocked Elf and hobbit in the river.

“Legolas!” Aragorn shouted.  Boromir desperately reached for them.

Sam felt the muscles in Legolas’ arm tighten as he struggled one last time to pull them to safety.

One final, shattering crack rent the air, and the tension in Legolas’ arm vanished as his lifeline snapped.

“NO!” the hobbits shrieked.

Sam stared at the receding faces of the company, all of them gaping in horror and disbelief as he and Legolas were swept away.  His eyes sought Frodo’s face, but no sooner had he found it than he began to sink into the icy water.  As his head dipped beneath the churning surface, his friends vanished from sight.  A dull throbbing filled his ears.  He flailed desperately but he couldn’t make himself rise.  His mouth worked in soundless panic, and he swallowed a mouthful of water so cold that it seemed to burn.

Suddenly Sam felt a tug on his arm and his head broke the surface.  Coughing and spluttering, he felt his face being pressed against Legolas’ chest as the Elf’s arms wrapped tightly around his back.  “Hold on!” Sam heard him shout.  “Keep your head down!”

Sam turned his head so that he could see more than just Legolas’ tunic.  They were bobbing along so swiftly that Sam knew they would soon be around the riverbend and out of sight of the rest of the Fellowship.  The water churned white, and now and then a great black rock jutted above the surface.  Utterly terrified, Sam clung to Legolas.  They were going to be dashed to pieces!

With his head turned to the side, Sam’s ear was pressed against Legolas’ chest; and so it was that when the Elf’s back made contact with the first rock, he heard his sharp exhalation of breath and felt a jolt pass through him.  They stopped in their motion for the briefest of moments, and then the unceasing force of the water pushed them onward.

They struck another rock, sideways this time, so that both their shoulders took the impact.  They were turning as they rushed along, and Sam suddenly realized what Legolas feared – that he would strike his head.  But there was nothing he could do; the water carried them how it would, and his head was barely above the surface as it was.

The rocks grew more numerous.  Sam kept his jaws clamped tightly shut as he was buffeted from side to side, determined not to make a sound though his body was aching from the many impacts.  Can’t let the river know it’s getting the best of me, he thought, even though he knew it was irrational.  Won’t let it beat me.  Got to get back to Mr. Frodo!

One of Legolas’ hands was suddenly at the back of Sam’s head, fingers splayed out to cover as much surface area as possible.  Sam knew that they were about to strike another rock, and this time, he would be taking the brunt of it.  Legolas was as tense as a coiled spring.

They hit, and Sam could not stop his lips from opening to let forth a cry of pain, but no noise came out except a soft gasp.  It was as if he had no energy left for sound at all.

And so they rushed along, of no more consequence to the river than two fallen leaves.  They struck rocks and were sometimes pushed under only to break the surface again, whether due to the whim of the water’s flow or Legolas’ furious struggles, Sam could not tell.

Sam was aware that minutes were passing, but he was disoriented and out of his reckoning.  He didn’t know how long they had really been in the river, but it felt like hours.  He was actually growing sleepy, as odd as that seemed to him.  He could no longer feel Legolas’ tunic beneath his hands, and the pounding noise of the river was fading to a droning command.  Let go.  Go to sleep.  You are lost.  Let go.  Go to sleep.  You are lost.  Let go….

“Samwise!” said Legolas in an odd, breathy voice.  “You must… hang on!”

“C-c-can’t,” Sam stammered.

No mortal could have heard such a soft reply amid such an angry river, but Legolas’ ears caught it.  “No,” he said.  “Wake up!”

“Can’t get out,” Sam mumbled.

“I cannot… hold… dead weight!” said Legolas, still in that funny voice.

Hard for him to talk, Sam’s brain buzzed.

“Think… of Frodo!” Legolas urged.  “He needs you!”

He needs you.  Frodo.  Can’t leave your master alone – he’s got a job to do!

That did it.  Sam shook himself and threaded his fingers into the laces of Legolas’ tunic.  He was exhausted, but he could still raise his head enough to look at his companion’s face.  Legolas was looking back down at him, and Sam noted with some concern that the Elf looked as weary as he felt.

“Rapids mostly passed,” Legolas said shortly.  “Will try… and get out soon.”

Sam nodded sluggishly and looked around, trying to keep himself awake.  It seemed that Legolas was right about the rapids.  Their pace had not slowed much, but there were fewer rocks to be seen and the surface of the water was smoother.

Despite his best efforts, Sam was unable to hold his head up for very long, and soon he was resting against Legolas’ chest again.  Now that he was no longer fighting to cling to Legolas against the fierceness of the river, he could not stop a wave of drowsiness from washing over him.  Dimly he realized that he was no longer feeling cold; in fact, warmth seemed to be spreading through his numbed arms and legs.  As if from a great distance he could hear Legolas’ breathing, quick and shallow.

Sam’s face was suddenly dunked into the water.  Immediately it was pulled out again, and he spluttered incoherently.

“Am sorry,” Legolas panted.  “Trying to swim.”  Sam realized that Legolas was only holding onto him with one arm now; the other he was using to try and sidestroke his way to shore.  But it seemed that even his strength was finally giving out, and with every forward pull, Sam was dunked.

After only a few strokes, Legolas gave up and wrapped his arm around Sam again.  “I cannot,” he managed breathily.  “Will drown you.”  For a long moment they simply floated down the river.  Legolas seemed to be resting, and Sam struggled to stay awake.

After a few more minutes, Sam was roused by the sound of rushing water.  He opened his eyes and saw that the river was beginning to churn white in places once more.  “No,” he moaned into Legolas’ tunic.

“Sam,” said Legolas.  “My back.  You must… hold onto my neck.”

Sam thought for a moment, and was roused even further when he realized what Legolas meant.  “No,” he said.  “Can’t l-let g-go.”

“You cannot climb me,” said Legolas.  “It is… only way.”

“I’ll s-sink –”

“You will not,” said Legolas.  His voice gained strength and a note of urgency as he went on.  “I will not… allow it!”

Sam couldn’t help himself; he laughed against Legolas’ chest at their impossible predicament, though it only came out as wheezing.  “C-c-can’t… move arms….”

“Sam!”  There was real fear in Legolas’ voice now.  “You must try!  Rapids… don’t want to… face another.”

“Y-yes,” Sam stammered.  He couldn’t make his lips form any other words.  “Yes.”

Legolas seemed to understand him.  “Will go under… come up beneath you.”

“Yes.”

“You can rest… on the pack.”

Sam nodded.  His heart thudded painfully in his chest.

“Ready?”

“Yes!”

“Let go!”

Sam opened his fingers.  Legolas slid away, down into the choppy water.

There was nothing there.  There was nothing beneath him, nothing to hold him up.  Sam was too tired to even struggle now, and he quickly began to sink.  A panic took him as his head was submerged.  Legolas wasn’t there.  He was drowning, and he couldn’t get back to the surface….

Something solid suddenly came up beneath his chest, and Sam reflexively snapped his arms around it.  An instant later his head broke the surface, and he heaved in a hoarse breath of air.  There before him was a mass of wet hair.  He was looking at the back of Legolas’ head, and he was resting on the traveler’s pack that was strapped to the Elf’s back.

“Hold on,” Legolas gasped.  He reached out into the water with his arms and pulled them back toward him, one after the other, and Sam felt that they were moving sideways.  He turned his head and looked downstream with eyes that did not focus well; the rocks were closer now, and the noise of the river was louder.

Faster, Sam thought as Legolas swam.  Their speed downstream was increasing, and if Legolas couldn’t reach the bank before they came to the rapids….

Legolas was making sounds of weariness with every stroke.  His head dipped in and out of the water as he rose and fell under Sam’s weight.  Sam had no idea how close they were to safety; he was too tired to lift his head and see.  He could only watch the rocks drift closer and listen as Legolas fought to beat the current.

Faster! Sam thought desperately.  The rapids were very near now.  Legolas’ breaths were coming with a painful sound.

And just when Sam was beginning to despair, Legolas stopped.  Sam stopped with him.  Water rushed by their motionless forms.

“We have… reached the bank,” Legolas gasped.  Relief flooded through Sam, and he sighed into Legolas’ wet hair.

“Can you move?”

Sam tried to shake his head, but his body no longer responded to his will.

Legolas did not ask the question again.  Sam heard him draw a few deep breaths and felt his body tense.  Then they were moving forward with short, jerky movements, and Sam knew that Legolas was pulling himself out of the river.  He opened his eyes and saw a tangle of great white tree roots in the water.  One of Legolas’ shaking hands was clutching them in a death grip.  They jolted up and forward together, one handhold at a time.

And then it was over.  Legolas’ knees struck ground and Sam finally let go, rolling off the Elf’s back and coming to rest facedown on the wet earth.  His fingertips weakly scratched at the mud, familiar and comforting.  He could scarcely believe that he had escaped the river, but he was out – really out.  He hadn’t drowned after all.  Hot tears of joy leaked down his frozen face.

Sam heard a scraping sound beside him and opened his eyes to see Legolas straightening up where he knelt.  He was moving with obvious difficulty, and his face tightened as if he were in pain.

Legolas, Sam thought dully.  Is he hurt?  He couldn’t keep the thought in his head for long; sleep was coming on, and he didn’t think he could hold it at bay this time.

Cold hands turned him over.  Sam blinked at Legolas’ face above him, swimming in and out of focus.

“Sam,” said Legolas, still breathing heavily, “we cannot stay here.”

Sam closed his eyes, unable to respond.  Legolas muttered something that he couldn’t make out.  Elvish? he wondered thickly.  He heard more scraping sounds and felt himself being grasped around the middle.  With a groan of exertion, Legolas lifted him off the ground.  A moment later Sam’s head was lolling helplessly on the Elf’s shoulder as he walked away from the river.

Sam wanted to open his eyes.  He wanted to speak to Legolas, to tell him he was sorry for all this trouble, but he hadn’t the strength.  The only sounds were Legolas’ strained breathing and the whisper of his boots on wet, rotting leaves.  In mere moments the rhythmic footfalls had proved too much for Sam, and at last he succumbed to sleep.

Chapter 3: The Searchers

CRACK!

Aragorn’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of the branch breaking.  Legolas’ eyes went wide and he turned his head to look back at Sam, trailing behind him in the water.

CRACK!

“Legolas!” Aragorn shouted.  In front of him, Boromir threw caution to the winds and flung out his arm as far as he could.  Aragorn longed to do the same, but he could not reach for his friends, or Boromir would fall into the river himself.

Legolas turned away from Sam and looked back at his fellows on the bank.  When his eyes caught Aragorn’s, the Ranger saw surprise and fear.  Legolas was no fool; he knew what awaited them downstream.  His hand sought a better grip and his face tightened as he tried to pull himself and Sam to safety against the murderous force of the river.

But even as Legolas set his jaw and pulled, the cracking sound came again, and the branch was wrenched in two.  Aragorn felt his heart falter.  Behind him on the bank, the hobbits were crying out in dismay.  He and Boromir stared, dumbstruck, as their companions were pulled beyond any help they could give.

Sam gazed back at the receding bank in utter shock, looking as if he could not quite believe what was happening to him.  In mere moments he began to sink, and the hobbits shouted in terror.  Seeing Sam’s distress, Legolas abandoned a lingering gaze at the Fellowship and heaved the hobbit above water again.  He pulled Sam around until they were facing each other and wrapped his arms protectively around Sam’s back.

Already the river was bearing them away; they were nearly to the riverbend where the treacherous rapids began.  The remains of the Fellowship could only watch as the water turned to white froth around Sam and Legolas.  Just before they passed around the bend, Elf and hobbit bumped against a standing stone and turned sideways.

And then they were gone.

“They are striking the rocks,” said Boromir in a hoarse voice.

The hobbits were weeping softly.  Gimli murmured under his breath in his native language – a prayer to Aulë, perhaps.

Aragorn felt almost ill with disbelief.  So close!  Sam had been so close to safety, and the river had ripped it away.  His heart was urging him to stand and give chase until Sam and Legolas were found, but his numbed body did not want to move.

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo sobbed.

“We should not stay here,” said Gandalf.  Aragorn recognized the wizard’s old trick of hiding his wounds behind an even gruffer voice than usual.

“But – where are we going?” said Pippin through his tears.  “Aren’t we even going to look for them?”

“Yes, we will look for them,” said Gandalf, “but we cannot do it now.”

“Why not?” cried Merry.  “What if they can’t get out?  What if they hit their heads on those rocks and –”  He stopped abruptly and bit his lip.

No one needed Merry to finish his thought.  And drown.

Gandalf heaved a great sigh.  To Aragorn’s ears, he sounded older than ever.  “If the worst comes to pass,” he said carefully, “then there will be nothing more that we can do for them.  And if they do make it out of the river, we will not be able to find them today.  It is getting dark, and the river may carry them many miles downstream.  At present we must look to the health of the Ring-bearer.”

“But I am all right,” said Frodo.  “Just let me warm up a b-bit, and –”

“No, Frodo,” said Gandalf.  “I can hear your teeth chattering from here!  Your strength is gone, and though you may not know it yet, you will feel it shortly.  We have lingered here too long; we must seek shelter and tend to you.  We have been shouting heedlessly in the middle of a stone-walled gorge.  Let us hope that we have not revealed ourselves to any of the Dark Lord’s spies!”

“But Sam!” Frodo said miserably.  “I can’t just leave him – he needs looking after!”

Aragorn closed his eyes and drew a deep breath in an effort to compose himself.  As much as he hated to admit it, Gandalf was right; they could not look for Sam and Legolas in the dark, and Frodo needed dry clothes.  Many others of the Fellowship were nearly wet through as well, even though they had not been dunked in the Feinduin.  Aragorn was one of them himself, and so was Boromir; they had each run off without a cloak upon hearing Gimli’s frantic shouts.

The hobbits looked terrible.  Frodo was soaked to the skin and shaking like a leaf.  Merry and Pippin’s faces were streaked with sweat and tears.  All three of them were cut to the heart by the loss of their friends, and they were looking for direction, whether they knew it or not.

Aragorn knew very well that in times like these, it helped to have someone else making the important decisions.  Such circumstances left one free to deal with one’s grief.  There was nothing Aragorn wanted more than to follow his own impulse to take off running down the riverbank; long had he and Legolas been friends, and Sam had grown very dear to him.  But he did not have the luxury of feeling the full weight of his own sorrow at present.  The hobbits trusted him implicitly and deferred to his judgment after Gandalf’s, and so it fell to him to support the wizard and reassure them.  It was his duty.

“Legolas is looking after Sam now,” said Aragorn, finding his voice at last.  It was stronger than he had dared to hope it would be.  “And you may believe me when I say that if anyone has a chance of surviving this river, it is he.”

“Do you think so?” asked Pippin, wiping his eyes.

“I know so.  Elves can withstand the elements better than any mortal, and they are strong and agile.  Legolas will have reserves of strength long after Sam’s have given out.”

Pippin looked just a little less doubtful.

“But Sam can’t stand the cold like Legolas can,” said Merry.  “Look how Frodo shivers!  And Sam is still in the water!”

Aragorn wished there was something more that he could say.  “Legolas has walked Middle-earth for far longer than any of you.  He will do everything he can to keep Sam alive and hale.  And Sam is made of sterner stuff than we give him credit for; he will not give in without a fight.”

The hobbits looked as if they wanted to argue but could not find any other argument to make.

“Back to the shelter, before Frodo catches his death of cold,” Gandalf said softly.

With heavy hearts, the Fellowship turned away from the river and headed back upstream.  Gandalf walked in the lead as always, followed by Gimli, who remained solemn and thoughtful.  The hobbits trailed behind the Dwarf; Merry and Pippin walked on either side of Frodo, each holding one of his arms.  The Ring-bearer’s head was bowed with sorrow.  Boromir and Aragorn brought up the rear.  Aragorn sensed that the other man wished to speak privately with him, and he slowed his pace to let a gap form between themselves and the hobbits.

“I must ask,” Boromir began, “whether you were being entirely truthful with the hobbits regarding Sam’s and Legolas’ chances.  Do you really think they will escape this fell river?”

Aragorn schooled his face to stillness.  Boromir had seen more of his true feelings than he had thought he would.  He wondered what the Steward’s son wanted.  Did he seek reassurance himself, or did he wish to be taken into Aragorn’s confidence?

Aragorn did not fully trust Boromir.  He had made his desire to bring the Ring to Minas Tirith more than plain at the Council, and Aragorn did not think he had entirely reconciled himself to his defeat.  That Boromir was a brave man who intended to hold to his vow, he had no doubt.  But the Ring had a strange way of whispering in the corners of one’s mind, as Aragorn knew all too well, and Boromir was not skilled at hiding what it tempted him with.  Only time would tell how well he resisted its call. 

But there is no reason not to take him into my confidence in this matter, thought Aragorn.  He is an honest man, and honest men are not immune to temptation.  I do not wish to tip the scales in the Ring’s favor by keeping him at arm’s length.  And it would ease my heart to have someone to share my burden with.

That was enough to help him decide.  He would be candid with Boromir as he could not be with the hobbits, at least where their lost friends were concerned.  “I do not know,” he said truthfully.  “I did not exaggerate the resilience of the Elves.  Legolas can be as stubborn as a stone, and he will be all the more determined to reach the shore because Sam is with him.  Yet he was already beginning to tire when we pulled Frodo from the river, and that I cannot ignore.  He has the rapids to face now.”

The sound of their small companions’ voices drifted back to them.  Merry and Pippin were trying to comfort Frodo, who was lamenting the loss of Sam with many bitter tears.

“The hobbits are not as concerned for Legolas as they are for their own,” Boromir observed.

“They honor him with their confidence,” said Aragorn.  “They have not been traveling with him long enough to lose their awe of him.  Perhaps my words have had more effect than I thought, and they hope as I do – that Legolas’ abilities will allow him to prevail, and with him, Sam.”

“But you share not their reverence,” Boromir said softly.  “Elves have their limits.  How long can Legolas be submerged in such cold before his muscles cease to function?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I do not know.  At least he will be moving, which will keep him somewhat warm.  I find that I can hardly begin to guess at his odds.”

Boromir paused thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.  “I am unable to be very optimistic.  I felt the cold power of that stream with my own hands!  But I will try not to despair; at least they have a chance of survival.  Neither you nor I would have lasted long in such water.”

“No, we would not,” Aragorn agreed.  “We must take courage.  Tomorrow we will search for our companions, and mayhap we will discover that they are still alive.”

“If they have pulled themselves out, will you be able to read the signs?  I have learned to respect your skills as a tracker, but surely this rain will hamper even you.”

“It will,” said Aragorn, “but consider this: Sam will not be able to climb up a riverbank, so Legolas will have to carry him.  A weary Elf burdened with extra weight should move with something less than his usual grace; he should be unable to stop himself from leaving traces that I can read.  If we are very fortunate, then Legolas will have the presence of mind to deliberately leave signs for me.”

Boromir suddenly laughed.  “Truly did the Elves name you Estel!  I find I am taking heart in spite of myself.”

Aragorn smiled grimly.  If Boromir’s hopes were higher, then he had indeed done his duty well – better than he had meant to.  He had told his fellow Man the truth, and it had somehow looked hopeful even though his own heart was heavy with doubt.  If Boromir and the hobbits could feel easier about Legolas and worry mainly for Sam, it was no loss to him.  He would surely do enough worrying on Legolas’ behalf for the entire group.  Legolas was far too old a friend for him to be able to feel anything less.

The remains of the Fellowship returned to Gandalf’s shelter and the fire that they had already built.  The trout had been lost, but Gimli’s rabbit traps had been successful and Merry and Pippin had discovered a good many chestnuts, so there was still a hot, substantial meal to be had.  No one spoke while supper was being readied.  Sam usually volunteered to help with the cooking even when he was not appointed to do so, and his absence was keenly felt.

Night had fallen by the time the food was prepared.  The meal was eaten with little conversation.  No one felt like talking and there was nothing to say.  The food tasted like ashes in Aragorn’s mouth.  One glance around the fire showed him a series of folk who were chewing mechanically.  Only Gandalf met his eyes, and his weathered face was as somber as Aragorn knew he himself must look.

Aragorn volunteered for the night’s first watch and did not object when Boromir did likewise.  The hobbits professed not to be tired, but Gandalf insisted they lie down in their blankets, and the little folk were soon asleep in spite of themselves.  Once Gandalf and Gimli had agreed upon their respective watches, they each rolled themselves in their own blankets.  In mere minutes the only sounds in the camp were the snores of wizard and Dwarf and the gentle crackling of the burning logs.

Aragorn took a seat at the edge of the firelight, facing away from the flames.  A chill wind blew through the evergreens with a lonesome sound.  He thought of Legolas and Sam, somewhere out in the biting cold night if they hadn’t drowned hours ago.  Everything depended on their ability to find shelter.  If they had not, then they had already frozen.  The fire gave a particularly loud pop as a pocket of sap inside one of the logs exploded.

Aragorn had no idea how long he had been staring out at the surrounding rocks when a voice spoke.  “You are weary.  Why do you not take to your own blankets?”

Boromir’s approach had taken Aragorn completely by surprise, and he jumped.  To Boromir’s credit, he did not comment even though it was the first time that he had successfully caught Aragorn with his guard down.

“We are all weary,” Aragorn said evasively.

“None more so than you and the hobbits,” said Boromir.  “The slump of your shoulders belies your earlier words to me.”

Aragorn straightened his back, but he did not attempt to deny the truth.  “Yes, I am tired – in body and in spirit.  But I do not wish to lie down just yet.  I would not be able to sleep.”

“Neither would I,” said Boromir.  “Hope often lingers while the sun is shining, only to flee in the dead of night.  Out in the wilderness, desperate prayers are sometimes all we have.”  He paused, and then added: “It is pointless to feel guilty, but I cannot but regret that I was unable to catch hold of Sam’s hand.  He was so very near.”

“You reached as far as you could.  I saw your face.”

“Aye – but that does not make it any more palatable.”

Aragorn made no reply.  None was needed.  He understood how Boromir felt, and Boromir knew that he understood.

“You knew Legolas before the Council, I take it,” said Boromir.  “You have never spoken of it, but you have not tried to hide your familiarity with him.”

“I did,” said Aragorn.  The wind picked up again, and he shivered and pulled his cloak more closely about himself.  “Living in the house of Elrond, I crossed paths with other Elven lords.  I met Legolas years ago when he and some of his kin came to Rivendell.  We took a liking to each other.”

“I sometimes forget that he is the son of a king,” said Boromir, who was still watching the other side of the camp.  “He does not behave as I would have expected him to.”  Aragorn suddenly felt the other man’s eyes on his back, but Boromir did not say what he was likely thinking.  I forget that you are of a royal lineage, too.

“He is not Thranduil’s oldest child,” said Aragorn.  “Being a younger son has given him freedoms that his elder siblings could not enjoy.  He has often been away from home, scouting or acting as an emissary, but that does not mean he would not be well qualified to lead his people.  He has been trained for it since birth.”

“I know full well the responsibilities that come with being the eldest son of a ruler,” Boromir murmured.  “At times I envy my own brother, who has fewer obligations.  And yet… not all of his burdens are lighter than my own.”

Aragorn glanced up at Boromir, who did not seem to be aware that he had fallen silent.  The distant look on his face indicated that his mind was wandering down other paths.  Aragorn did not disturb him.  He needed no more details of the situation of Faramir, second son of the Steward.  During his many travels he had heard rumors of the dynamic between the Lord Denethor and his two sons.  The tales were many and varied, but they all agreed on one point: Denethor did not show his love to his sons with equal fervor.  He knew much of the Steward from Gandalf and Lord Elrond, and what they had to say of him, of his pride and strong will, didn’t make the stories difficult to believe.

Boromir did not stay lost in thought for long.  He was soon sweeping the boulders and trees with his eyes instead of staring at nothing, but he did not resume the conversation.  Aragorn was content to let the silence remain.  He had no wish to wake the others with unnecessary noise, and he did not really want to speak aloud of their missing companions any more – at least, not that night.

There were many questions that Aragorn wanted answers to but couldn’t get until the morrow.  If Sam and Legolas had survived the river, were they injured or hale?  Had they found shelter for the night?  Would they be able to dry themselves without freezing to death?  Which side where they on?  If they were on the wrong side, would he be able read the signs from that far away?

“Your eyes are not seeing what they are looking at,” Boromir said suddenly.

Aragorn blinked.  He realized that Boromir was right; he had been staring into the darkness without seeing it at all, which was hardly watchful behavior.  He was surprised to find that his eyelids were heavy in spite of his worries.  It seemed that sleep would claim him after all.

“Take some rest,” Boromir urged.  “We will all need our strength tomorrow.”

“You are alert enough to manage the watch on your own?”

“Aye.  I will wake Gimli when his turn has come.”

“You have my thanks.”

Boromir smiled.  “Sometimes even a Ranger must be told to go to bed.”  He stepped away from the low-burning fire to watch the camp’s perimeter.

Aragorn took his blankets from his pack, wrapped himself up, and lay down in an empty place on the ground near Frodo.  The Ring-bearer still looked worried, even in sleep.  Aragorn felt a surge of protectiveness rise within him.  We will find them if it can possibly be done, Frodo, he thought.  The Valar send that they are alive when we do, or I do not know what you will do.

I do not know what I will do.

------------------------------------

 “Strider.”

Aragorn stirred at the feel of a hand shaking his shoulder.  Why was he being disturbed?  Surely he had closed his eyes only a moment ago.  And he was in the middle of a dream; everyone knew how difficult it was to wake up in the middle of a dream.

“Wake up, Strider.  It’s morning.”

“Yes, and we need you.  We’ve got to find Sam and Legolas.”

Sam.  Legolas.  The names were like a splash of cold water in the face.  Weariness and the dream fled together, and Aragorn opened his eyes fully and looked around.  He was surprised to see the rest of the Fellowship breaking camp.  Gimli was hiding all traces of the fire, Gandalf was rolling his blankets, and Boromir was loading baggage onto Bill.  Frodo, Merry, and Pippin were all sitting very close to Aragorn and watching him expectantly.

“Why did you not wake me sooner?” said Aragorn, sitting up.  He was amazed that he had slept through both the morning light and all the company’s preparations.

“Gandalf said to let you sleep,” said Merry.  “Here.  We’ve got your breakfast for you.”  He held out a slice of bread with jam and a wedge of cheese.

Aragorn’s stomach rumbled at the sight of the food, but breakfast would have to wait.  Now that daylight had come, he was eager to begin the search.  “Keep it a while longer,” he said.  “I can eat while we walk.”

This seemed to be just the sort of thing that the hobbits wanted to hear.  Their eyes brightened fiercely at his words.  “We’re almost ready to leave,” Pippin said in a businesslike manner.  “Stand up and fix your boots, and I’ll roll up your blankets for you.”

Aragorn did as he was asked.  He stood up, stretched his muscles, adjusted his sword-belt and laced his boots while Pippin and Merry shook out his blanket and rolled it into a tight bundle with practiced precision.

“Here,” Frodo said gravely.  He was holding out Andúril in its scabbard with both hands.  “I hope you don’t mind, but I cleaned it for you.  After all the wet yesterday, it seemed like the right thing to do.”

“It was the right thing to do,” said Aragorn, touched by Frodo’s thoughtfulness in the midst of his own loss.  “Rust is ever a concern out in the wild.”  He looked the Ring-bearer over as he buckled the sword to his belt.  “You look well.  Do you feel any ill effects from yesterday?”

“No,” said Frodo.  “I’ve not caught so much as a cold.”  He fixed Aragorn with a solemn gaze.  “I hope you can find them.”

“If either one of them has left the smallest trace on this side of the river, I will find it.”

“And if they are not on this side of the river?”

Aragorn exhaled slowly.  “I will do everything that I can no matter where they are.  But take heart; if they are alive and well, then they will be looking for us, too.”

“And as you said yesterday, there’s a good chance of that,” Merry said stoutly.  “Go and fill your waterskin, Strider!  The chores are almost finished.”

“And don’t dawdle,” said Pippin, “or we shan’t wait for you.”

Aragorn strode away from the campsite at a brisk pace.  It was but a short distance from the campsite to the river, and presently he was overlooking the ill-fated crossing.  The Feinduin was high and swift after all the rain.  Its currents were brown with mud that had been churned from the banks.  Debris flowed freely amid the waters – branches and leaves and even whole tree trunks.  The river was not as wrathful as it had been yesterday, but it was still angry.  Aragorn hoped that they would not find Sam and Legolas on the wrong side of the river, for there would be no safe crossing anywhere until the water level receded.

The others were ready to leave when Aragorn returned to the camp.  Gandalf was in the midst of delegating tasks to the hobbits.  “Frodo, look about the path with me as we walk.  Meriadoc and Peregrin, you both keep an eye on the far bank; your eyes are younger and sharper than ours.  There is no telling which side of the river they may be on.”

“What are we looking for?” asked Merry.

“Footprints, although the rain will likely have erased them,” said Aragorn, joining the circle.  “Ground that has been trampled, bent branches, damaged plants – anything to tell you that someone has passed that way.”

“What will you be looking at?” said Pippin.

“Both sides of the river,” said Aragorn, “but the far bank will require most of my attention.  If Boromir and Gimli will watch this side, it will speed our journey.  Boromir, I know, has some experience in tracking.”

“I am not your equal,” said Boromir, “but I know what to watch for.”

“And I am no Ranger, but I am not wholly inexperienced,” Gimli added.

“Good,” said Aragorn.  “All of you, alert me to anything you see!  Most signs may be false, but if Sam and Legolas have left any trail, I do not want to miss it.”

The rest of the company agreed wholeheartedly, and with that they set off, heading downstream along the riverbank.  Boromir and Gimli took the lead.  Merry and Pippin followed, their eyes fixed so firmly upon the far bank that Aragorn feared they would trip and fall over the tree roots underfoot.  Gandalf walked behind them with Frodo, who was leading Bill.  They were looking for anything that Boromir and Gimli might have missed, and warned the oblivious younger hobbits when large obstacles presented themselves in the path ahead.

Aragorn took up the rear.  He was not worried about the Fellowship trampling any signs on the path that they were walking; Boromir would not miss anything that was that close to hand.  He mostly kept his eyes trained on the far bank, looking for gaps in the foliage although there would likely be nothing to see until they had passed the rapids.  He doubted Legolas could have swum to either bank with rocks and white water all around.  Occasionally he looked at the forest around the company, searching for a branch wedged in a cleft stick, a small pile of stones, or any one of a number of trail signs that Legolas knew.

There was little conversation as they walked.  The sky was iron gray, and although it was not raining, it was very cold.  Now and then a sharp-toothed breeze would come along and the company would pull their cloaks closer about themselves, but the wind could not break the solemn concentration of Men, Dwarf, hobbits or wizard as they cast their eyes in every direction.

There were a few false alarms early in the morning.  The hobbits gasped in anticipation when Gimli announced a path of trampled undergrowth that led away from the river’s edge, but Aragorn’s heart barely gave a murmur within his breast.  They were still passing the frothing rapids, and he was not surprised when the path turned out to lead nowhere.  Then Frodo thought he saw a gap in the thicket on the far bank, and hopes were again raised until Aragorn pronounced it to be a deer track.  Boromir discovered some broken branches that looked promising until Aragorn discovered that they had fallen from a nearby tree, most likely during the previous night’s storm.

Even with seven people on the lookout, the pace was slower than Aragorn would have liked.  He grew frustrated as midday approached and they still could not see the end of the rapids.  He had found no sign that any two-legged creature had passed that way for some time.  Logically, he knew this was hardly cause for worry; Legolas and Sam had traveled much more quickly in the river than the Fellowship could afford to do while keeping such a close watch on the surroundings, but he could not explain the shadow that was growing in his heart.  Something was urging him to find Sam and Legolas, and find them quickly.  Aragorn supposed it was merely his own sorrow and anxiety getting the better of him, but he had learned not to ignore his instincts, and so he could not dismiss the feeling as nothing.

Aragorn was just about to suggest a brief stop for the midday meal when Merry suddenly said, “What’s that?”

Everyone looked where he pointed.  At first all Aragorn saw was a tangle of roots and branches in the water, choked with debris.  But no – something else was caught there, something bulky and brown and too big to be a mass of leaves or sticks.

A pack.

The hobbits gasped.  Boromir’s jaw dropped.  For all his experience in the wilderness Aragorn was just as surprised as the others and stood stock-still where he was.

It was Gimli who recovered first.  With a speed not hinted at by his stout frame, he ran to the edge of the river and unsheathed his axe.  By the time the others had hurried over, Gimli had caught one strap on his half-moon blade and was dragging it up the bank.

“That is too small to be Legolas’ pack,” said Boromir.

“And too heavy, too,” Gimli said gravely.  “I predict we’ll find Sam’s beloved pots inside.”  He drew the little pack onto the rocky path.  Aragorn knelt beside it and undid the fastenings, and sure enough, Sam’s pots were revealed.

It was too much for the three hobbits, who had poured their whole hearts into the morning’s search.  Aragorn’s heart was wrung with pity as they began to weep anew.

“He wouldn’t ever have parted with that saucepan,” lamented Merry.

“Not even in a rushing river?” said Gandalf.  “No, Sam had plenty of plain hobbit-sense, as you call it.  He might have cast off his pack to keep himself and Legolas afloat.”

“He might have,” Aragorn said softly, fingering the pack.  “Look at the right strap.”  He held it up for them to see.

“It’s broken,” said Pippin.

“Does that mean…?” Merry said fearfully.

“He might not have wanted to lose it,” Aragorn admitted.  “But that does not mean that he sank.”

“Well,” said Gimli, “this pack tells us nothing, except that Sam lost it somehow.  We can take neither hope nor despair from it.”

“Wisely spoken,” said Gandalf.  “All we can do now is keep it.”

The company took a brief respite for lunch beside the river.  Dried meat and cheese were passed around, and the hobbits sat and ate in silence.  Boromir busied himself in strapping Sam’s sodden pack to Bill, who accepted it without complaint.

“The poor beast looks forlorn,” said Boromir as he tightened a strap.  “And well he might; he has lost the only two among us who really understood him.”

Aragorn looked at Bill.  The pony’s eyes did indeed seem sad, and he showed none of the usual spirit that he had had while walking alongside Sam.  If Legolas had been there, he would have stroked Bill’s ears and spoken words of comfort to him.  Elves had a wondrous way with all horses and the like.

Aragorn abandoned his rocky seat on the ground and rummaged around in Bill’s saddlebags until he found Sam’s stash of sugar.  “Here you are,” he said, drawing out a single lump.  “Sam would not wish you to be neglected.”  He held his palm out beneath the pony’s nose.  Bill sniffed the air, decided the treat was a fair one, and carefully took it.

“That’s a good lad.”  Bill’s tongue tickled Aragorn’s hand, and he reached up to scratch behind the pony’s ears.  After receiving this gentle treatment Bill’s spirits seemed to rise, and Aragorn found himself envying the pony.  If only it took no more than some sugar and a scratch at the ears to soothe his own troubled soul!

For once, the hobbits did not protest the brevity of their lunch.  They were still visibly shaken by the discovery of Sam’s pack without Sam still attached, but they still held out hope of finding something beyond the rapids.  For his part, Aragorn hoped they did not find any more of Sam’s or Legolas’ belongings in the river.  He had not said so in front of the hobbits, but the pack’s broken strap troubled him.  It was unlikely that Sam could have torn it himself, on purpose; he had been tiring quickly when the river had carried him off.  Nor was it likely that the strap had already been frayed, for Sam kept a close eye on his possessions and mended rips and tears as soon as he found them.  Legolas might have ripped the strap if he thought the pack was dragging him down, but Aragorn doubted it had happened that way.  Surely Legolas had been too focused on keeping himself and Sam from being killed by the rocks for anything else.  And if the strap had not been torn by design….  Aragorn feared that Sam had either been smashed against the rocks or caught on something in midstream, and both scenarios were too terrifying to linger on for long.

To Aragorn’s alarm, they found more evidence of Sam and Legolas no more than a quarter of an hour after starting forward again.  This time it was Frodo who spied it first.  His voice was subdued as he spoke.

“Look there, on those roots up ahead.  I think I see Legolas’ bow.”

Icy fingers of fear clutched Aragorn’s stomach at Frodo’s words.  What?  No!  Let him be mistaken!  But even as he thought those desperate words, his own eyes told him that the Ring-bearer had not erred.  There, caught on the spreading roots of a fallen tree, was Legolas’ treasured weapon – snapped in two.

For a moment, the company could do nothing but stare at the thing bobbing gently up and down with the flow of the water.  Aragorn felt as if all the breath had been knocked from his body.  The discovery was more dreadful than Sam’s pack had been, for Legolas had been even more attached to his bow than Sam had been to his pots.  Aragorn had never known him to be without it.

When no one else moved, Gandalf strode forward, bent over the riverbank, and took the two halves tenderly in his hands.  Water dripped from the bowstring that still connected the pieces.  Gandalf’s eyes locked with Aragorn’s, and though his thoughts were sluggish, the Ranger saw that the wizard was deeply concerned by this turn of events.

“What now?” Gimli asked quietly.

“We keep searching,” said Gandalf.  “This find tells us no more about Legolas’ fate than Sam’s pack told us about his.”  His voice was firm, but he did not quite meet anyone’s gaze.  “We must press on!”

The faces of the company were filled with dismay.  Boromir and Gimli looked thoughtful and sad; they were plainly measuring Sam’s and Legolas’ odds and finding them long indeed.  Gandalf’s jaw was set in a hard line, and he stalked along the path, thrusting his staff against the rocks with more force than was necessary.  The hobbits staggered forward with unfocused eyes.  They had placed much faith in Legolas, and to find such grave tidings of him was a sore blow.  While they had had hope that he lived, they had had hope for Sam as well.

Aragorn walked forward with lifeless, automatic motions.  His eyes sought the far bank, which he could barely see for the fog of shocked disbelief that clouded his mind.  Legolas’ bow, broken?  It was madness!  He would never have willingly relinquished it.  Aragorn knew it was not necessarily so, but he could not help but feel that if Legolas had been unable to hold on to his bow, then he must have been in dire straits indeed.  And if the river had claimed his life, then that meant Sam….

Despite his fervent wishes to the contrary, Aragorn now doubted Sam and Legolas were still alive.

Chapter 4: Forward or Back

Legolas was only vaguely aware that he was waking up.  He was not accustomed to being half-aware of anything; Elves were always conscious of their surroundings, waking or sleeping, unless they were sorely hurt or exhausted.  And Legolas was certainly exhausted.  The last time he had slept dreamlessly had been many years ago, after his last serious injury.  The long gash on his leg ached, bringing him nearer to wakefulness.

At length Legolas revived enough to realize that sunlight was penetrating the gloom of his shelter.  He inhaled deeply of the cold air, taking refreshment in the smell of trees and wet earth – the smell of life.  The rocky floor of the tiny cave irritated his shoulder, and he almost moved before he remembered the hobbit next to him.

Samwise Gamgee was still sound asleep with his sandy hair tousled and his mouth slack.  Legolas considered the temperature of the hobbit’s skin against his own with satisfaction.  Sam was blessedly warm, warm as Legolas had feared he would never be again after such a lengthy stay in the river.  It had been a near thing for Sam, who had been motionless when Legolas staggered into the cave the night before.  It had been imperative to warm him quickly, or he would have died.

Legolas stared at the rock that surrounded him, remembering that last hour.  He’d had only his supplies as Sam had lost his pack somewhere in the river.  Sam’s still, pale form frightened Legolas so that he nearly tore his bag in his haste to reach a blanket.  He always took extra care when packing, especially with blankets, which he rolled in oilskin to keep them dry.  Even the greenest soldier of the Greenwood knew that when the unexpected occurred, a dry covering could mean the difference between life and death.   With no small amount of relief Legolas discovered that the blankets were not the least bit wet, and thereupon lost no time in stripping Sam of his soaked garments, save for his smallclothes.  The work was maddening in its slowness.  Legolas’ own muscles were seizing up by then, and his whole body was trembling violently, to say nothing of his hands.  But he succeeded at last, and after removing his own tunic he gathered Sam in his arms and wrapped the blankets around them both as snugly as he could.

I had not meant to fall asleep, thought Legolas, though there is little else I could have done had I stayed awake.  At first he had anxiously watched Sam for signs of improvement, but eventually his own fatigue had overcome him.  It had required much of him to swim to the riverbank.  The cold had nearly frozen his blood, and Sam had weighed him down terribly, although Legolas had previously found hobbits to be light burdens.

Everything had turned out well thus far, considering how bleak the situation had been.  But Legolas was still concerned for Sam, who could have internal injuries from their brutal trip through the rapids.  There had been no time to worry about that last night, and even if there had been, Sam could not have been roused for any sort of examination.  Legolas knew of no way to check him for such injuries unless he was awake to tell if he felt any pain when touched.

Well, he will surely feel pain when he awakens, thought Legolas.  He must be as black and blue as I am.  He had done his best to keep Sam from striking the rocks by shielding him with his body.  Elves were hardy and fast-healing, infinitely better suited to withstanding a beating than the tender skin of a hobbit.  Unfortunately, it hadn’t been possible to fully spare Sam, not when the river had been tossing them about like a pair of rag dolls.

And yet Sam had survived!  Legolas silently marveled at the resilience of his small companion.  He had heard of hobbit-kind before the Council of Elrond – as a youth, he had been required to learn of the other races of Arda – but writings on hobbits were scarce, and as they kept mostly to themselves, they were utterly inconsequential to the Elves of the Greenwood.  Bilbo Baggins was the lone exception; the uproar he had caused in Thranduil’s halls had still not entirely died down, and Elves had long memories.  Legolas had not been at home when Bilbo and his Dwarven companions were there, and he had never seen a hobbit until his arrival at Imladris.  He suspected his thoughts had been like those of many others at the Council – that hobbits were cheerful, naïve, pleasant to be around, and wholly unsuited for an arduous journey into a land of darkness.

It was Aragorn who had first tried to disabuse him of his prejudices.  “You do not know these folk,” he had said.  “They may not be warriors, but they are made of sterner stuff than you think.  I have been traveling with them for many weeks now, and do not forget the years I have spent at the borders of the Shire.  I know the mettle of hobbits, and I say that Frodo and his friends have the strength see this task through to the end.”

“Frodo, perhaps,” Legolas had replied.  “He is the eldest of the four and has already suffered much at the hands of the enemy.  It grieves me that such a creature as he should be so burdened, but his burden will have readied him for what lies ahead.  It is the others that concern me more.  From what you tell me, Meriadoc has barely reached adulthood, and Peregrin is not an adult at all.  Samwise is but a humble gardener, and all of them are eating, always eating!  Are such folk fit to thwart the Dark Lord himself?”

“More fit than you realize.  Wait until you have become better acquainted with hobbit-kind, and we will see if your opinion changes.”

Legolas smiled up at the roof of the cave.  His opinion had already changed; indeed, it had been changing since the day the Fellowship had set out from Imladris.  The three younger hobbits were faithful companions and endlessly optimistic, which was of vital importance to Frodo, who was clearly dreading the task that lay before him.  Legolas had to admit that no one could buoy the Ring-bearer’s spirits better than his own kin, and no others would be more fiercely protective of him.  Even Aragorn could not rival Sam in his care of Frodo.  Sam had made it his business to ensure that his master was rested, fed, and warm, especially when Frodo did not see to such things himself.  His loyalty was as unshakable as the roots of the mountains.

I think Frodo will need that loyalty ere the end, thought Legolas, looking down at Sam.  A little gardener you may be, Samwise, but look what a garden you now tend!

As if Legolas’ thoughts had been a summons, Sam stirred.  He yawned, opened his eyes, and blinked up at Legolas.  He seemed disoriented, and Legolas felt an anxious flutter in the pit of his stomach.  He did not think Sam had struck his head on bare rock at any point – his own fingers were battered enough from shielding it – but he had been so preoccupied with keeping them both afloat that he could not be sure.

“Hullo, Mr. Legolas!” Sam said at last.  “Where are we?”

A good beginning, Legolas thought.  At least he recognizes me.  “Good morning, Samwise,” he said aloud.  “We are in a small cave near the river.”  He refrained from elaborating, hoping that Sam would remember the rest on his own.

Sam’s brow furrowed, and then his eyes widened.  “The river….  I remember now.  It wasn’t a dream after all.”

“Alas, it was not.”  Legolas frowned when Sam trembled.  “Are you cold?”

“What?  No, but I can’t seem to help shivering when I think….  Good heavens!  Where are my clothes?”

“They are drying,” said Legolas.  “It was necessary to remove them, or you would not have lived through the night.”

“Oh.”  Sam seemed distressed by this straightforward explanation.  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but I couldn’t seem to think clearly after a while.”

“What else do you remember?” Legolas prodded.

“I was so cold,” said Sam.  His eyes grew distant as he delved back into his memory.  “At first I felt like I was being stuck all over with needles, and then I stopped feeling much of anything at all, and then, what do you know?  Even though we were still in the water, I started to feel warm.”  He shivered again.  “I expect I was freezing.”

You were, Legolas thought, but he said nothing.

“I remember the rapids coming closer.  You were swimming.  And then you climbed out.”

“Your memory is better than I expected,” said Legolas.  He hoped he was not letting the full strength of his relief show.  It seemed Sam’s head had escaped serious injury, but it would still have to be checked.

Sam sniffed the air.  “I don’t smell any ashes.  I suppose it was too wet for a fire after that storm.”  He looked gravely at Legolas.  “You warmed me up yourself.  That much is clear as well-water.”

“There was no other option, but I was not certain it would work.  I feared you might have been beyond all aid.”

“But weren’t you cold, too?”

“Yes, but not as cold as you were.  I can withstand the elements better than you can, mellon nin.”

Sam smiled confidently up at Legolas.  “Well, I’m very glad you were with me.  You saved my life, to be sure.  I didn’t do a thing but add weight.”

Legolas gave Sam a serious look.  “That you were able to respond to me as long as you did is remarkable; that you could cling to me as I swam is nothing short of marvelous.  I do not think a Man could have done so much.”

Sam blushed.  “’Twasn’t anything so marvelous.  It’s you who’s the marvel, sir, swimming in frozen rivers and running up trees and seeing farther than’s natural.”

Legolas smiled, half in exasperation, half in amusement.

“What did that mean, what you just said?  Mellon nin?  I’ve heard you say it before.”

“That is ‘my friend’ in my tongue,” said Legolas.  He winced as another stab of pain assailed his leg.  “I must sit up.  Keep inside the blanket, and I will retrieve your clothes.”  He carefully extricated himself from Sam’s side and pushed himself into a seated position, grimacing when every muscle in his body protested.

“Mr. Legolas!” Sam gasped.  “Your arms!  Your back!”

Legolas looked down at his right arm to see the cause of Sam’s distress.  His skin was mercifully unbroken, but it was turning an ugly shade of purple in several places.  While he could not see his back, he could imagine what it looked like; the rocks he had bumped against in the rapids had seemed innumerable.

“It’s not right,” said Sam, aghast.  “Do Elves bruise easily?  I wouldn’t have thought so.  Strider says you’re stronger than Men are.”

“We are,” said Legolas.  “Did he also tell you that we heal more swiftly than the Secondborn?”

Sam nodded.

“That is why I look as I do.  You will look much the same, but not for one or two days, I think.  Do you not feel the effects of yesterday’s journey?”

“I don’t know.  I haven’t really moved yet….  Oh!”  Sam winced and recoiled within the blankets.

All Legolas’ thoughts of his own injuries vanished at Sam’s cry.  “What pains you?” he asked urgently, bending over the prone hobbit.

“Only my wrist,” said Sam.

“Is that all?”

“Well – I feel everything from yesterday,” said Sam.  “I’m stiff as a board, to use the old chestnut, but nothing else pains me.”

“Let me see it,” said Legolas, and Sam gingerly raised one hand from within the blankets.  Legolas took it as gently as he could and applied careful pressure.  Sam watched apprehensively, clearly expecting to feel a lance of pain, but he never made a sound.

“It is not broken,” said Legolas, “but I think it is sprained.  It should heal well if we can only keep it motionless for a few days.  Lie still for a moment.  I am going to have a look at your head.”

“I don’t think I ever struck it,” said Sam.

“We are neither of us perfectly clear regarding our river trip,” said Legolas.  “I must be sure.  Head wounds can be dangerous and difficult to detect.”  He carefully pushed a knot of curls out of the way and felt at Sam’s scalp with his fingers.  “Tell me if you feel any discomfort.”

Sam lay quiet for a few moments while Legolas gently prodded at his head.  “At least it’s my left hand that was injured,” he said suddenly.  “I should feel quite helpless without the use of my right.”

“Why is that?” said Legolas with some amusement, not looking up from his study.  “Is your right hand superior to your left in some way?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is,” said Sam.  “Not in looks, I mean, but I use my right hand so much more often.”

“You do?”

“Of course!  I write with it, I do my chopping and stirring with it, I hold my walking-stick with it… all sorts of things.”

Legolas was fascinated.  “You mean to say that you only do these things with your right hand – never your left?”

“Don’t you?”

“No.  I do all those things with both, though I daresay you chop and stir more often than I.”

“I don’t know of anyone in the Shire who can write with both hands,” said Sam, who seemed just as intrigued by this discovery as Legolas was.  “I’ve tried letters with my left hand before, and they came out looking nothing like they ought.”

“Why did you not practice with both when you were very young?”

“I don’t know.  Hobbits all have one hand that seems to do things better than the other.  It just feels natural.  Writing with both hands!  If that doesn’t beat all!”

“There,” said Legolas, withdrawing his hands from Sam’s head.  “I detect no injuries.  It would have been best if I had examined you yesterday, but I did not dare leave you alone, not even to build a fire.  As for myself, I do not believe I have taken any serious hurt.”  He leaned forward and reached for Sam’s shirt, which he had hastily laid out to dry on the rocky ground, and felt the wound in his leg tear a little.  Warm blood immediately began oozing down his thigh.  He grimaced and tried to wipe away the red with his hand, hoping that Sam would not see, but it was too late.

“No serious hurt?” cried Sam.  “You’re bleeding!  No, don’t bother trying to hide it,” he admonished.  “I can see it from here.”

Legolas sighed.  “I knew the wound was there,” he admitted, “but I had no time to see to it yesterday.”

“Give me my clothes, please, and I’ll patch you up once I’m dressed.”

“You do not have to ‘patch’ me.  I have sustained light injuries many times when there was no one to tend to me but myself.”

“Begging your pardon,” said Sam, “but if there’s one thing I’ve learned since leaving the Shire, it’s that while you warriors may be skilled with your weapons, you don’t take proper care of yourselves once you’ve been hurt.”

“A warrior must be able to press on even when he is injured.”

“I suppose he must, but we’re not in the middle of any battle just now, and there’s plenty of time to tend to you.”  Sam set his jaw and fixed Legolas with a very stern look.  “I will see that cut taken care of, Mr. Legolas, if I have to sit on you to do it.”

“If you insist,” said Legolas, turning away to hide his smile.  When Sam took that tone, he sounded like his own formidable adar when he had caught Legolas doing something he oughtn’t.  He picked up Sam’s shirt, and his mirth turned to dismay when it moved through the air with no more flexibility than an oaken plank.

“Well!” laughed Sam.  “I think that was rather too much starch, sir.”

“Frozen!  You cannot wear this.  It seems we must build a fire after all,” Legolas said unhappily.

“But that will take time.  What about the others?  They’ll be worried about us.”

“Undoubtedly, but we are a long way ahead of them, and I do not think a few hours’ delay in setting out will make a great difference.”

“Poor Mr. Frodo!” said Sam.  “I know he’ll be worried, bless him.  I hope Merry and Pippin have enough sense to see that he eats breakfast this morning, because if I know my master – and I do – then he’ll do his best to refuse it.  I don’t understand it, but he often stops eating when he’s distressed.  It’s very un-hobbitlike.”

Legolas was only half listening.  He was thinking about something much more important than whether Frodo ate his bread and jam that morning.  It was true that he’d not had a moment to spare for building a fire the night before, but even if he had, he would have thought twice about it.  He hadn’t yet told Sam what he had discovered while scouting along the riverside.

Men.

Legolas was loath to build a fire even now.  Though its glow would not be a beacon in the daylight, its smoke might be.  Still, he could not seriously consider asking Sam to don his icy garments.  Sam would readily agree to do it if he knew what Legolas knew, but his stout heart could not protect his mortal body.  The tiny ice crystals would melt against the heat of his skin, and wearing damp clothing would be a severe risk to his health in the cold Narwain wind.

Then we shall have to have a fire, thought Legolas.  At least we may have it here within the cave, which will hide us from unfriendly eyes, and the gray sky may disguise the smoke.  Ai, how the Naugrim would laugh if he knew how glad I am of this cave!  He would never let me hear the end of it.

“If we must have a fire, then we ought to start it as soon as possible,” said Legolas, banishing the Dwarf from his thoughts.  He tried not to dwell on the Dwarf too much in general; doing so made him irritable.  “I will go in search of dry wood, but much of what I bring back may be damp.”

Sam frowned.  “Why you?  You have that horrid gash on your leg yet, and all those bruises, and you’ve not even got a dry cloak to wrap yourself in!  Really, sir, you don’t look at all fit for the job.”

“I, at least, am clothed from the waist down,” said Legolas.  “You will have neither a shirt nor trousers until we have thawed them, and I will not hear of you laboring with your injured hand.  I will look for a suitable splint while I gather fuel.  As for my cut, you can search for bandages in my pack while I am gone.”

“Oh, very well,” Sam said peevishly.  “I suppose you’re right, but I still don’t like it.  Won’t you at least take a blanket?”

“I would prefer you to keep them all.  Have we not just established that you are vulnerable to extremes of temperature as I am not?”

Sam shook his head.  “Elf or no Elf, it simply isn’t right.  You ought to keep yourself warm, sir.  There will be plenty of blankets left for me.”

Sam’s arguments did nothing to change Legolas’ opinion about the blankets, but the hobbit was so adamant that he gave up the fight and wrapped one about his shoulders before stepping out into the wan sunshine.  He watched and listened carefully but saw no signs that any sizable living thing was near, save the trees.  He had not expected to find any traces of yesterday’s Men – he and Sam had left them behind as surely as they had left the rest of the Fellowship – but Men were not the only creatures that they wished to avoid.

Legolas’ thoughts were ever on Aragorn, Mithrandir, and the others as he searched behind boulders and under dead leaves for wood that would serve for the fire.  He’d had no chance to warn them that strangers were near.  He had not actually seen the Men, but their traces had been very recent and their scent had lingered.  Their tracks had indicated that they were heading downstream.  Had the Fellowship’s frantic shouts been heard?  Had he and Sam been spotted during their trip down the rapids?  Legolas hoped not.  If the Men realized they had company in the gorge, then they were more likely to find the rest of the Fellowship than himself or Sam.  The Men were very close to the Fellowship even though they were on opposite sides of the river.  If Aragorn and Mithrandir were not cautious, they could easily be discovered.

But Legolas was not out of danger just yet, and neither was Sam.  The worst news yet remained to be revealed to the hobbit – namely, that they had come out of the Feinduin on the wrong side.  This put them on the same side of the river as the strange Men.  Legolas meant to walk upstream in the hope of meeting the Fellowship partway, but if these Men kept close to the river, their paths were likely to cross.  He could not say for certain that the Men were dangerous, but his heart had been troubled upon finding their tracks.  The Quest’s greatest hope still lay in secrecy.  Legolas had no desire to meet anyone who would be curious about an Elf and a hobbit traveling alone in the wilderness.

Legolas’ search proved to be fruitful, and he returned to the cave with an armload of mostly dry wood and a rabbit that had been a heartbeat too slow in running.  Sam was immersed in rummaging one-handed through Legolas’ pack for medical supplies.  He raised no objection when Legolas began arranging the wood near the back of the small cave, perhaps because he was too taken with the idea of breakfasting on roasted rabbit to notice.  Legolas was hungry too, for like Sam, he had eaten nothing since lunch the day before.

Most wood had to be very wet to thwart centuries of practice with flint and steel, and two small fires were soon throwing a cheerful light against the rock walls.  Once this was done, Legolas fashioned rudimentary shelves to hold their clothing up to thaw by propping long, cleft branches against each other and placing cross-branches between them.  He draped their stiff garments upon the cross-branches and placed the racks a short distance from the low flames, and was pleased when Sam’s shirt immediately began to wilt.

Sam was not so anxious to tend to the wound on Legolas’ thigh that he could not wait for the rabbit to be skinned, spitted, and placed above the flames to roast.  But once this was done he so clearly wanted to begin that Legolas obediently settled himself on the ground in front of the hobbit.

Although he could easily have seen to his hurts himself, Legolas had to admit that Sam had a deft touch.  While he used one of his knives to shape two pieces of wood into flat, thin plates for a splint, Sam carefully washed the wound and pulled away shreds of fabric that had stuck to the dried blood.  The cut was deeper than Legolas had thought, and Sam deemed it best that they sew it up rather than trying to use a salve.  After ascertaining that the wound had been thoroughly cleaned, Sam threaded a needle and paused.

“Perhaps you’d rather do this yourself.”

Legolas shook his head.  “No one enjoys stitching their own wounds.  But wait; the wood is prepared.  It will be much easier for you if we splint your wrist first.”

Sam held the two wooden slats in place on either side of his wrist while Legolas tightly wrapped them with a bandage to hold them in place.  When the end of the linen had been tucked into place, Sam experimentally wiggled his fingers, announced that he felt no pain, and took up his needle.  Legolas watched dispassionately – it took more than a few pricks to distress him – but he was amazed when he felt almost nothing at all.  “You could be a healer among your people,” he said.  “You do this with enough skill that I think you must have had some practice.”

“Some,” said Sam.  “After my mother died, I was the one who patched up my brothers and sisters when they got into scrapes.  My da was hopeless with a needle.”

 Legolas raised an eyebrow at this unexpected news.  So Sam had lost his mother, had he?  That made him the fifth member of the Fellowship to have undergone such a loss, along with Aragorn, Frodo, Boromir, and Legolas himself.  It was an unenviable thing to share, and Legolas was sorry to hear that Sam had had to endure it.  He wondered whether it would be unkind to ask a vague question or two about it, but Sam kept talking and Legolas let the moment pass.

“While you were gone, I took stock of our supplies.  I think there are some parts of yesterday’s story that you left out, because unless you’ve hidden it somewhere, I’ve lost my pack.”

“Yes – it is gone,” said Legolas.  “The river must have torn it away, although I do not know when.  It does not seem that you remember, either.”

“No,” Sam said sadly.  “It’s not too hard a loss, really, except for….”  He paused for a moment.  “I wish I’d let Bill carry my pots yesterday.”

“Surely you did not have them all in your pack?” said Legolas, astounded.

“No.  Bill had the biggest two, so the others will have something to cook in, at least.  But the saucepan…!  And my good frying pan!  They were with me.  And there’s something else missing, too.”  Sam looked up from his work with a grave expression on his face.  “Where is your bow?”

Legolas’ shoulders slumped slightly.  He remembered perfectly the impact with the rock that had destroyed his weapon.  He had felt it splinter against his back, had heard the sound of breaking wood sharp and clear even amid the noise of the rain and the flood.   His father had gifted him with it many years ago, and Legolas had used it so often that it had almost seemed to be a living part of himself.  He could trace every detail of its carvings in his memory.

“My bow is lost,” he said at last.  “I did not try to stop it from being washed away.  It was damaged beyond repair.”

Sam’s features softened in sympathy.  “Oh, sir.  I’m very sorry.  It was a mighty weapon, to be sure.”

“Thank you.”

Sam was silent for a moment, but then his face broke into a hopeful smile.  “But you still have your knives, at least, and that’s lucky.  If you had to lose one or the other, I’d say it’s better to lose the bow, meaning no offense.  A knife’s useful for more things than killing.”  He held up his bound wrist and grinned.

Legolas smiled back.  Indomitable hobbit! he thought.  You are a credit to your race.  “You are right,” he said.  “And more than that – given enough time, I can fashion a new bow.  All I need is a young tree to shape; I have extra strings.  The forests of Arda could not easily replace my blades.”

“I should like to see that.  We hobbits are skilled enough with bows and arrows – at least, those of us who take the trouble to learn are – but I’ve never seen a bow made before.  There!  You are all sewn up.  Don’t exert yourself too much, mind, or the stitches won’t hold.  Now, how is that rabbit coming along?”

The rabbit was roasting nicely, and presently both Elf and hobbit were tucking in.   Legolas would willingly have given up part of his share to Sam, for although it puzzled him, the fact was that hobbits’ appetites were difficult to slake despite their small size.  The suggestion appalled Sam, who insisted on dividing the animal equally.

The cave grew quiet as they ate, and Legolas decided there would be no better time than the present to acquaint Sam with all the particulars of their situation.  Sam’s spirits were elevated due to the hot meal, and he could digest the information along with the rabbit while they prepared to leave.

“Sam,” said Legolas, “did you wonder why I did not come to you when you first called me yesterday?”

The question took Sam by surprise.  “Yes,” he replied cautiously.  “I suppose you’re going to tell me why.  And judging by the look on your face, I’m not sure I’m going to like the answer.”

“I heard you calling, but I had strayed farther from the bank than I meant to, and I could not reach you quickly.  And I strayed because I had found fresh tracks leading away from the riverbank.”

Sam’s lips parted.  “Tracks?  Whose?”

“The tracks of a party of Men.  I followed them to a campsite that had been recently used.  They had made no effort to hide the fact that they had been there.”

“But I didn’t think there were any towns in this wilderness.  I may not have a head for maps like Mr. Frodo, but I looked at a few of them in Rivendell, and there was nothing marked between there and the mountains – except for the Feinduin.”

“There are no settlements for miles.  These Men are far from their homes.”

“But what are they doing out here?”  Sam’s eyes widened.  “You don’t think they’re looking for us?”

Legolas gazed solemnly back at him.

“You do think they’re looking for us!”

“We cannot know for certain.  Possibly they have nothing at all to do with our quest, but what could have brought them all this way?  Hunters need not travel so far to find game.”

“Maybe they’re just traveling, like us.”

“Perhaps – but most reputable travelers would be found on a road.  And the odor that lingered at their campsite was… troublesome.”

“What do you mean, troublesome?”

Legolas shook his head.  “I cannot tell you.  I have smelled unwashed Men before – Aragorn and Boromir often assail my nose – but theirs is the smell of sweat and grime, of honest labor.  There was something in this scent that troubled my heart and bade me be wary.  What is more, the trees seemed glad that the strangers had gone.”  He paused.  “I have no wish to meet with these Men.”

“Could you tell which way they were heading?  Are they going the same way we are?”

“They seemed to be following the river downstream.  The Fellowship was not going to go that way, but now that you and I must be found….”

“Gandalf’s going to lead them along the river to look for us,” said Sam, nodding thoughtfully at the ground.  When he looked back up at Legolas, his face was hard.  “Those Men might see them.  Mr. Frodo could be in danger!”  He leapt to his feet, still clutching the blankets about himself.  There was a light in his face that Legolas had never seen there before.  “Are my clothes dry yet?  We ought to start off, sir!”

“Wait!” said Legolas, holding up a hand.  “I have not told you everything.”

Sam fixed him with one flashing eye.  “Tell me, then,” he said grimly.

“We are not on the same side of the river as the Fellowship.”

For a moment, Sam did not seem to have heard.  His face went slack, and he blinked a few times.  Then he said, “You mean… we went through all that and we didn’t even get across?”

The words stung for a reason that Legolas did not immediately understand, and his back stiffened reflexively.  When he spoke there was an edge to his voice that he could not suppress.  “The current was pushing us toward this bank.  There were more rapids ahead, and I was weary.  I did not like it, but I had to choose the shore that was nearest.  I do not think either of us would have survived another attempt to reach the other side.”

Sam’s face went scarlet.  “Oh, Mr. Legolas!” he cried in tones of deepest mortification.  “I didn’t mean – that is, I didn’t – I’m not blaming you at all!  How you managed it all I’m sure I don’t know; and you saved my life, too!  I just reckoned that… well, I didn’t think.  Forgive me, sir.”

Legolas knew he’d done wrong at the very moment he finished speaking.  His heart burned with remorse for the wounded look in Sam’s eyes, and he chastised himself for not guarding his tongue.  Sam was the last creature in the world that Legolas would resent, and he had no illusions about the high esteem the hobbit held him in.  Upon departing from Imladris, nearly three days had passed before Sam had even spoken to him.  Every time they had locked eyes the gardener had gulped like a fish out of water, blushed, and looked away.  Today was the first time they had ever held a true conversation, and Legolas regarded their nascent friendship as fragile.  What had possessed him to speak so rashly?

And just as he wondered at his own folly, the answer came to him.   Sam is not angry with you.  You are angry with yourself.

Legolas knew it for truth.  He was angry with himself.  He would not have been so vexed if he were alone in his current predicament, but he wasn’t alone.  Sam had been depending on him to bring them both to safety, and he had failed.  He had found a way out of the river, but he had only brought them out of one snare and into another.  Now they were sundered from the Fellowship, goodness only knew how far from the nearest crossing, and a group of Men was coming toward them – Men that were probably trouble.  He ought to have found some way to make it to the other side.  Did he not possess the fabled endurance of his race?  Had he not triumphed in other, equally perilous situations?

Well, thought Legolas, we live still, and we may yet triumph.  I moan like a cat stuck up a tree.  What was done was done; it was the present moment that needed his attention.  Self-recrimination could come later.

“There is nothing for me to forgive, and so I cannot grant you forgiveness,” Legolas said aloud.   “It is I who must ask for your pardon.  I spoke ungraciously to you and caused you injury.  I know your words did not mean what I foolishly took them for.  I, too, find it difficult to believe that after so much danger and effort, we are right back where we started.  I am disappointed in myself, not in you.”

Sam was not mollified yet.  “I didn’t mean it like that, sir, truly.  I was just so surprised –”

“Please, Sam,” said Legolas, rising to his knees and taking one of the distraught hobbit’s hands in his own larger palm.  “I will hear no more apologies from you.  You have done me no offense; I was in the wrong.  And I ask again, as your friend, for your forgiveness.”

Sam did not look as if he knew what to make of this, but after a long moment of staring into Legolas’ face, he nodded his head a few times.  “Yes, yes; certainly,” he said unsteadily.

Legolas smiled.  “Hannon le.”

Sam’s own smile in return was tentative, but it was genuine.  “Hannon le?”

“That is ‘thank you,’ ” said Legolas, ignoring his aches as he rose to his feet.  He pulled Sam’s shirt off the long branches and felt the fabric in several places.  “It is dry, and very warm!  Put it on before it grows cold.”

Sam eagerly accepted the garment and tugged it over his head.  “Oh,” he sighed, and the expression on his face was one of rapturous delight.  “It feels like it’s just come off the clothesline in June!  Quick – give me my stockings and trousers.  Who knows when I’ll be this warm again?”

Legolas pulled his own tunic over his head and allowed himself a moment to luxuriate in the feeling of heat soaking into his abused muscles.  He stretched his arms and back to work out some of his stiffness, which was considerable.

Sam dressed swiftly and began tidying up the small campsite.  “We’d better decide what we’re going to do, sir,” he said as he gathered the bandages and thread together.  “I don’t know whether we should go upstream or down, but we’ll never find the others if we just stay here.”

“It is not an easy choice.  The Fellowship will be walking toward us; that much is certain.  We might see them if we walk upriver, but it will take at least two days to meet; I think we traveled some miles downstream yesterday.  In any event, we will still have to find a crossing somewhere, and I do not know how long it will take for the water to recede.  Any crossing would be too perilous to attempt at present.”

“And there are those Men to think about,” said Sam.  “Going upstream could lead us to them, too.  We could look for a crossing downstream – but do you know where the next one is?”

“I do not.  Aragorn and Mithrandir know this region better than I, but they are not with us.  I had thought we might climb up the walls of the gorge and walk along the top of the cliffs, thus avoiding the Men and affording us a better view of the far bank; but neither of us is hale enough to climb safely, and we could waste hours in looking for a suitable way up.”

“If we can’t go up or down or side to side, then we must follow the river.  I think we ought to go upstream, Men or no Men,” said Sam.  “We don’t know what’s waiting for us if we go forward, but at least we know what to watch for if we go back.  And if we find the Fellowship, then we can just walk along the banks together until we come to another crossing.”

These choices were too few for Legolas’ liking, but there was nothing to do but select the best one, and Sam had already done that.  “That sounds like wisdom to me,” he said, and Sam beamed as if he had never been paid a greater compliment.  “But we must be cautious and avoid the strangers.  The Ring-bearer’s safety is of the greatest importance; the Quest must not be discovered.”

Sam nodded gravely.  “Aye.”

They disassembled Legolas’ shelves and smothered the fires with sandy soil from the riverbank.  The charred wood was buried beneath wet leaves and stones, and they swept the ashes from the rocky floor.  Legolas rolled the blankets as it was too difficult for Sam to pack them tightly with only one good hand; but Sam, never one to stand by idly while work was being done, busied himself by filling their waterskins at the river’s edge.

“I suppose that’s all, then,” said Sam when he returned to the mouth of the cave.

“Your weapon,” said Legolas, handing him his belt with the scabbarded dagger.

“How are we going to avoid the Men if we don’t know where they are?” Sam asked, buckling his blade to his side and swinging his cloak about his shoulders.

“I will listen to the trees,” said Legolas.  “They will warn me of the coming of Men.  And we are downwind of their last position, so I will likely smell them as well.”

Sam laughed suddenly.  “Well, you can spot a robin on a branch a mile off, so I’d not be surprised if you could smell it, too.”

“You give my nose too much credit,” said Legolas with a wry grin.  “These Men are no challenge for it, I assure you.  I know not the strength of hobbit senses; it may be that you will catch their scent as well.”

“After all you’ve told me, I think I’d rather not,” said Sam.  “If the time comes, we will see, but maybe we’ll be lucky and they’ll have gone some other way.  Shall we be off?  I don’t want Mr. Frodo to worry a moment longer than he’s got to.”

They stepped out into the dim daylight, leaving the obliging cave behind.  Legolas walked in front, his eyes sweeping this way and that, searching for any sign of other folk.  He listened as well, to the wind and the birds and the speech of the trees; none of them gave tidings of danger.

Sam’s habitual reticence around Elves seemed to have vanished completely.  He chattered like a squirrel as they walked, now offering an anecdote about life in the Shire, then indulging a shy curiosity about the Sindarin tongue.  Legolas was pleased by Sam’s interest and willingly answered his questions, but he could not fully devote his mind to the conversation.  He was already considering what might lie ahead of them in their path and what they would do if they met it.

Sam’s spirits were certainly rising as they went, for they were heading back to Frodo, but Legolas felt his misgivings grow with every forward step.  There was no evidence of either friend or foe nearby, and yet his heart still troubled him.  He was a captain of Eryn Galen, and he knew well that the fewer the routes of escape from a field of battle, the greater was the danger.  The circumstances were too neatly arrayed against them for Legolas’ liking, and he could not help but feel that they had been funneled into a path with too few directions in which to turn.

The sooner they met with the rest of the Fellowship, the better.

Chapter 5: A Wizard’s Burden

Gandalf the Gray was in a grim mood.  His feet and back ached after a long day’s march and there was no fire to warm them by.  Of course, the lack of a blaze was his own doing; the campsite Aragorn had chosen was not well sheltered and Gandalf had deemed it unwise to press their luck.  So there he was, sitting on a hard boulder and staring out into the darkness with nothing but his cloak and a full pipe to ward off the deep chill.  Not that a campfire would have been enough to lift the weight upon his heart, but it would have made him less grumpy.

A stiff breeze swept along the cliff and found its way into the dark corner where Fellowship had taken refuge.  Gandalf reflexively hunched his shoulders beneath his cloak though the action did little to keep the cold out.  The wind was so capable of finding ways around his wrappings that it almost seemed to have fingers.  Gandalf clenched his pipestem in his teeth and pulled his cloak more closely about himself.  The cold was distracting him when he needed to think, and his watch would be over soon.

Gandalf was not finding it easy to concentrate.  The moment he finally had his cloak snugged around him, his back wanted stretching.  He stood up and walked a few paces, only to be reminded that his feet were tired.  He sat down on the boulder again, found it uncomfortable, and was forced to maneuver about to locate the flat, smooth seat he had labored to find the first time.

Every single bone in his body was weary.  It was not a new sensation; ever since the day he first suspected the rise of evil in the East, he had been feeling his years more and more.  He often wished he had not aged so thoroughly.  For uncounted centuries he had walked Middle-earth, and he had not begun them as an old man.  Though the wearing of the years had been slow enough that even the Elves had scarcely been aware of it, his once-youthful form had grown old.  He did not fear that his body would fail him – it would continue to serve until his purpose was fulfilled – but it did make the journey somewhat more difficult.

Just how close Gandalf actually was to fulfilling his purpose was unclear.  The answer varied depending on how he looked at the situation.  From the standpoint of time, the game was very nearly up.  It seemed probable that the Quest would be over, one way or another, within a matter of weeks.  Either Frodo would succeed and the Ring would be destroyed, or he would fail and Sauron would regain that which he needed to conquer Middle-earth.  Everything depended on the Quest, short of duration though it might be.  So many forces were arrayed against him that Gandalf often felt he was still leagues away from victory.  At the moment, he could not say that the Quest was going well.  Less than a fortnight had passed, and the Fellowship had already been sundered.  It was of little comfort that the breaking had not been brought about by disagreements, personal choices, or even the Ring itself.  Ill fortune was ill fortune, no matter what caused it.

Gandalf furrowed his brow and drew deeply on his pipe.  Sam and Legolas.  He had not been deliberately avoiding the subject, but he did not like the scenarios that sprang to mind when he dwelt on the missing pair.  Neither they nor any more of their possessions had been found since the discovery of Legolas’ ruined bow.  Aragorn had seen no evidence that a two-legged creature had walked either side of the river for some time, much less climbed out of it.  Gandalf glanced at the prone Ranger to reassure himself that he was still sleeping.  Aragorn had been most unwilling to drink the cold tea that Frodo had prepared for him, even though his head had been aching after straining his eyes all day.

The failure to find Sam and Legolas weighed heavily upon the company.  It had not been spoken of, but everyone had been hoping to find tidings of their fate by the close of the day – and not the sort that they had managed to find.  At best, the evidence the pack and bow presented them with was inconclusive.  At worst, it meant that the pair had drowned.

The latter conclusion seemed to be the one that most members of the company were drawing, even though no one wished it to be so.  Boromir and Gimli had been taciturn since finding the bow, their grave faces saying that when they found Sam and Legolas, they expected corpses rather than living beings.  The hobbits had staggered along with various expressions of disbelief, clinging to Aragorn’s reassurances that it was too soon to be certain of anything, but feeling their hope dwindling all the same.  Aragorn himself had looked as if he only half-believed the words he spoke.  With such symbols before them, it was impossible for anyone not to fear the worst.

Gandalf was not immune to the fear gripping the rest of the company, but he still firmly believed that Sam and Legolas might be alive.  Gimli had spoken truly that morning; by themselves, the pack and bow told them nothing.  And the Fellowship had not walked nearly far enough downstream yet.  It was hard for Gandalf to guess how far Sam and Legolas could have traveled downriver while still coming out alive, but they certainly could have gone farther than the Fellowship had traveled afoot.  The going had been slow, what with everyone scrutinizing every broken branch they saw, praying it had been snapped by a cold, overtaxed Elf.  If the two were alive, Gandalf hoped they would have enough sense to walk upstream so their parties would meet swifty and end the dreadful suspense, but injuries or exhaustion might prevent them from doing so.

  Gandalf grumbled wordlessly around his pipestem.  He was going over well-worn thoughts now, and he could not stop himself.  The Fellowship had to search for at least one more day.  If Sam and Legolas had still not been found by the end of the second day, then new and difficult decisions would have to be made.  Then the real question would be: how long could the company afford to search?  There was no guarantee that they would ever be found, especially if they had died.  Their lifeless forms could drift for miles before stopping, if they ever stopped.  Yet Gandalf was troubled by the thought of calling off the search when Sam and Legolas could be just around the next bend.  If they were never found, living or dead, then the question of their fate would haunt everyone in the company until the end of their days.

But the Quest could not be sidetracked forever, and Gandalf fretted over how much it had already been delayed.  The Enemy knew that Frodo had found a haven in Imladris.  The Ringwraiths had seen him enter it.  While the Ring of Power on Elrond’s hand hid Imladris from unfriendly eyes, Vilya’s power was not absolute.  Whatever borders that the Enemy could find had surely been watched.   Gandalf did not think the Fellowship’s departure had been marked, for he had seen no sign of Sauron’s spies – but that did not mean they were not about.  Saruman was looking for them, too, and he had a palantír at his disposal.  With his cunning mind and far-seeing stone, the White Wizard was just as dangerous as Sauron himself.

Gandalf knew it would be folly to think of Saruman as just another of the Dark Lord’s spies.  His lips had issued talk of uniting Isengard and Barad-dúr, but his eyes had spoken differently.  The Istari were not immune to the pull of the Ring – Gandalf knew this very well – and Saruman had succumbed to it.  He did not desire to be second under Sauron; he wished to be first himself, to wear the Ring of Power on his own hand.  He would ally with Mordor if he thought it might bring the Ring into his grasp.  Gandalf doubted if Saruman spared much thought for anything but the Ring these days, alone in his tower with only the poisonous palantír for company.

An owl hooted somewhere nearby.  Several seconds later, an answering hoot sounded from much further away.  Gandalf looked skyward to see that Wilwarin, the butterfly, was directly overhead.  He was not done thinking, but when was he ever done thinking?  Besides, he had to sleep sometime.  The hour of Gimli’s watch had arrived.

Gandalf stood and searched the nearby sleepers for Gimli.  He was easy to spot, not only by the axe that lay conspicuously at his side but by where he slept.  Everyone had arranged themselves on the ground in a rough circle.  Frodo was in the very center, flanked by Merry and Pippin.  Aragorn, Boromir, and Gimli encircled the three hobbits.

Gandalf smiled.  The Men and Dwarf did not lie so close to the hobbits that they would realize they were being protected.  The smaller folk likely had too much on their minds to notice, but they did not like it when they caught the Big Folk being over-watchful.  “We are responsible adults, too,” Pippin had said huffily one morning, not long after setting out from Imladris.  “Just because we are smaller than most does not mean that we need our hands to be held.”  Gandalf had raised his eyebrows at this – Pippin was barely considered an adult in the Shire, and he was not known to be especially responsible – but the young hobbit had been defiant.  Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli had not ceased to be protective of the hobbits, but they had certainly been more discreet about it ever since.  Gandalf would not have it any other way, and Aragorn shared his feelings.  The hobbits had already passed through much danger, but they were not warriors.  Gandalf wondered if they ever really could be.  The did not want for courage, but killing was alien to their nature.

Gandalf gingerly stepped around Boromir’s sleeping form, bent to shake Gimli awake, and was startled by the sight of open eyes staring up at the sky.

“Gandalf,” Gimli said gruffly.  “It’s about time.”

“Haven’t you been sleeping?” Gandalf asked.

“I awoke several minutes ago and have been listening to you mumble around your pipestem ever since.  I did sleep before, without difficulty.  My feet were wearied more by today’s march than by any since we set off, though we did not travel very far.”

Gandalf said nothing.  He understood perfectly well how Gimli was feeling; the aches in his own body stemmed more from the heaviness of his heart than from exertion.  Fleetingly he wondered if any of Gimli’s sorrow was reserved for Legolas, but he doubted it.

Gimli sat up and gave him a shrewd look.  “I see that glint in your eye.  I would think that a wizard of all people would know that while Dwarves may love stone, their hearts are not made of it.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Gandalf, surprised.

“You wonder if my concern is limited to only one of our missing companions.”

Gandalf puffed out his mustache.  “You presume much if you think you know the mind of a wizard.”

“Perhaps,” said Gimli, who seemed amused.  “But some wizards are more transparent than others.”  He chuckled softly before Gandalf could voice his affront.  “Do not be angry; I only jest.  Aye, I pity the Elf as well as the hobbit.”

“Indeed?” Gandalf murmured.

“Anyone may know that I have no fondness for him.  In truth, I would not be sorry to see the back of him – but not like this.  He is a member of this company, and Aragorn trusts him.  Therefore I feel a little less dislike for him than for most Elves generally.  Even were he not allied with me in this Quest, I would not have smiled to see him dashed to pieces in a flood.  I do not take pleasure in the meaningless suffering of others.”  Gimli glowered before adding, “Besides, I have not yet had the chance to teach him proper manners.  I was looking forward to it.  He has an acid tongue.”

“No doubt Legolas will miss the chance to do the same for you,” Gandalf said dryly.

Gimli stood up, hefting his axe with him.  “Elves are arrogant.  Legolas thinks little of the abilities of Dwarves and knows even less than he thinks.  I hope he returns so I may relieve him of his ignorance.  And for Sam’s sake, of course; that most of all.”

Gandalf chuckled softly.  “Here is a new thing – a Dwarf placing his faith in the hardiness of the Elves.”

“Not in the hardiness of the Elves,” said Gimli, “but in one Elf in particular.  I do not think of Elves as hardy, but in this case, I am willing to be proven wrong.  Sam’s loss would be grievous indeed, most especially for Frodo.  If Legolas can contrive a way to save both their skins, then it will have been a deed well done, even though he is an Elf.”

At these words, Gandalf suddenly wondered how Gimli would react if it only one of the missing pair turned up.  He might speak flippantly of Elven resilience, but plainly he was counting on Legolas to have brought every ounce of his strength to bear.  They were all counting on it.  Gandalf had no doubt that if Legolas had not survived the river, then Sam certainly had not; but it was possible that Legolas could have lived and been unable to save Sam.  Let it not be so! he thought.  He wondered if Legolas’ place in the Fellowship would be enough to keep Gimli’s distrust of Elves at bay should he return alone.  Legolas would not take kindly to any suspicions on Gimli’s part, and Gandalf could easily envision their animosity escalating into a rift that could fracture the company entirely.

“A deed well done,” Gandalf murmured, letting that be all he voiced on the subject.  He looked closely at Gimli’s expression; if the Dwarf had read any of his unspoken thoughts on his face, he was giving no sign.  Transparent.  Hmph!  Aloud Gandalf said, “I must retire, or I will not get far tomorrow.”

“It is Merry’s turn for the third watch, is it not?”

“It is.  Wake him when it is time; I have told him when to rouse the lot of us.”

“Aye,” said Gimli, and he picked his way out of the sleeping forms to patrol the perimeter of the camp.

Gandalf found his own blankets, stretched out on the ground in the outer ring between Aragorn and Gimli’s vacated place.  He laid his staff to one side where it would be within easy reach and lowered himself down, feeling his joints pop and creak as he went.  Finally, after tucking his robes closely about himself and setting his hat aside, he lay down, pulled up his blankets, and rested his head on one arm.

He had instructed Merry to wake the entire company before dawn.  He wanted a full day’s worth of searching, from the time it was light enough to see until it was too dark to continue without missing important signs.  Gandalf hadn’t quite made up his mind, but he was leaning toward the idea of searching for two more days at most before giving up, and so it was crucial that they cover as much ground as possible.  The Quest before all else, he thought grimly.  We cannot look forever.

Gandalf shifted his body to dislodge a small rock beneath his back and tugged his blankets up over his nose.  He hoped he would not have to make the decision to press on without Sam and Legolas.  The hobbits would be crushed – Frodo especially.  Gandalf felt a pang of sorrow just imagining the look on Frodo’s face.  The Ring-bearer was constantly in his thoughts despite his concern for the missing pair.  Frodo had changed since setting out from the Shire; he kept to himself more than he used to, for one thing, and much of the good hobbit-cheer that Gandalf knew and loved so well was absent.  It was no wonder, for he bore a token of evil, a wound that would trouble him for the rest of his days, and the hopes of all Middle-earth on his shoulders.  Chance – and perhaps fate – had brought the Ring to him, and he had freely accepted the task of destroying it.  Gandalf believed that Frodo possessed the inner strength necessary to see the Quest through to the end, but that did not stop him from worrying.

Losing Sam would make it difficult for Frodo to go on, but he would have to.  He would have to find the courage somewhere.  As for himself, Gandalf knew he would be able to turn his back on Sam and Legolas, wrenching though it would be.  In his long life he had made many difficult choices, often between only two options – bad and worse.  Sometimes those were the only options there were, and this time, ‘worse’ was simply too risky to entertain.

------------------------------------

Gandalf opened his eyes when someone shook his arm.  No sooner had he recognized Merry than the hobbit turned away and bent to prod at someone else.  It was still very early; the morning light was gray, and frost covered the ground.

Whatever lingering sleepiness Gandalf felt was forgotten when he sat up and stretched.  He was accustomed to sleeping outdoors in every kind of weather, and he never failed to become fully awake upon being roused.  Wizards did not lie abed until noon even when they weren’t traveling.  Well, Saruman might, Gandalf amended silently.  Saruman seemed to have become very sure of himself since his fall from wisdom, and that kind of smug certainty bred laziness.

Camp was broken with all possible speed, but it was a subdued group that departed, eating their cold breakfast on their feet.  They fell into their assigned order with no prompting from either Gandalf or Aragorn.  Boromir and Gimli walked in front and Aragorn took up the rear, with everyone else in between.

By unspoken agreement, the company set a faster pace than the day before.  There was something in the way heads turned and eyes moved that told of a growing sense of urgency in the party.  Gone were the gnawing suspicions that Sam and Legolas had drowned, replaced by the new hope and refreshment that only a new dawn could bring.  Frodo’s face was a stony mask of determination, and his eyes swept the path as thoroughly as Aragorn’s did the far bank.  He looked as if he meant to make Sam appear by sheer force of will.

The end of the rapids had come into view just before the Fellowship made camp.  According to Aragorn, this meant that they might see signs of Sam and Legolas soon.  “They would not have been able to swim amongst the rocks,” he had reminded them.  “They would have had to wait until they were through the rapids to escape the river.  Now we must keep an even closer watch,” he added, if they had not already been inspecting every crumpled leaf and overturned stone they saw.

The company had been traveling for little more than an hour when Frodo suddenly looked over his shoulder and stopped walking.  Gandalf halted and turned to see what had caught Frodo’s attention.

Aragorn was no longer behind them.  For a moment, Gandalf thought he was entirely out of sight, but then Frodo pointed.  “There.  Halfway behind that boulder.”  Aragrorn was standing motionless several dozen paces behind them with his face turned upriver.  Gandalf could sense Aragorn’s tension; he had noticed something, and whatever it was, he was studying it intently.

Gandalf softly called a halt that was passed up the line until it reached Gimli and Boromir.  Gandalf raised one finger to his lips to signal silence before pointing back in Aragorn’s direction.  Curious glances passed between the others.

Presently Aragorn turned and hurried back to the Fellowship.  He motioned for everyone to gather around, and he did not speak until they had clustered themselves into a tight circle.  “There may be Men on the other side of the river.”

Gandalf’s eyes widened.  The others looked as surprised as he felt.

“Men?” said Frodo.  He looked as if he wanted to say more, something along the lines of “Are you certain?”, but then he seemed to think better of it.  Instead he said, “Whatever could Men want out here?  I thought there weren’t any villages for miles.”

“There aren’t,” Aragorn said flatly.  Gimli scowled, and Boromir glanced toward the far bank with a wary eye.  After a moment, Frodo realized what this meant and suddenly clutched at the chain around his neck.  Merry and Pippin remained in the dark.

“Maybe they’re hunters,” Merry said uneasily.  “Deer might wander down here for water.”

“They may be hunters,” said Aragorn, “but I do not think they are hunting game.  More likely they are looking for us.”

“Us?” Pippin exclaimed, earning himself a startled “Ssssh!” from everyone else.

“Why do you say there may be Men nearby?” asked Gandalf.  “If you had seen any, we would not still be standing in the open.”

“I thought I heard a dog’s bark.  I was uncertain at first because the river is so loud, but I waited a moment, and then I heard it again.  I cannot imagine what a dog would be doing here without Men nearby.  It is hard to say how close it is – these cliffs make too many echoes – but I think it is nigh to one quarter of a mile behind us.  We should hide until we know who – or what – is coming.”

Gandalf agreed, and everyone hurried away from the river’s edge.  Aragorn felt they would be safe enough behind some of the larger boulders.  “As long as we keep out of sight and make no noise, any Men or dogs that pass will never know we are here.”

The group clustered behind two weathered, mossy boulders.  The stones leaned against each other in such a way that the taller folk could peer through a gap between them at the top.  If there had been a gap at their bases, it had long since been filled by sand and mud.

The hobbits sat down on the ground to rest their legs while Boromir tied Bill to a fallen log.  The pony stamped his hooves, catching the others’ uncertain mood, and Boromir patted his nose soothingly.  The only other sound was the dull rushing of the river, but one glance at his companions told Gandalf that everyone was listening just as intently as he was.

Merry got up the nerve to speak after a few minutes of silence.  “Strider, if there are Men nearby, why do you think they’d be looking for us?” he asked softly.  “Why couldn’t they just be hunting game?”

Aragorn was peering upriver around the side of the boulder.  He did not look at Merry when he answered.  “Here, we are far removed from any town.  Hunters need not travel so far afield from their villages to find prey.”

“Maybe they’re travelers, then – just going from here to there, like us.”

This time Aragorn did look at Merry.  There was a wry smile on his face.  “I would not say that we are just going from here to there, but I will leave that matter be.  Ordinary travelers would keep to the roads.  Even the lost and wandering who might follow the river would not clamber down into this gorge; they would stay atop the cliffs.  If there are Men here, they have decided to follow little-used paths; therefore I must conclude that they either do not wish to be seen or are looking for others who follow those same paths.”

“But why do they have to be looking for us?” said Pippin, joining the argument.  “How could they even know who to look for?  No one saw us leave Rivendell.”

“The Enemy knows that Frodo went there,” Gandalf said quietly.  “I do not think he knows whether Frodo intended to stay or go elsewhere, but he will take no chances on either, and therefore is guarding against all possibilities.  He is surely watching this whole region in case the Ring did leave.  I know our departure was not marked.  If it had been, we would not have gone ten miles without being attacked, but we cannot afford to grow complacent!  Sooner or later, when all remains quiet in Imladris, the Dark Lord will know that the Ring has gone.  And while he may not be able to guess at everyone who accompanies it, he will always be on the lookout for hobbits.”

Merry and Pippin frowned unhappily, but they seemed to understand.  Frodo stared off to the side at nothing in particular; there was a look of resignation on his face.

“The animal draws near,” Aragorn said suddenly.

The silence amid the company seemed to thicken at this news.  Those who were nearest the side of the boulder where the strangers would first become visible – Aragorn, Pippin, and Gandalf – drew as close as they dared to the edge of their hiding place.  After a moment’s consideration, Gandalf took off his tall gray hat lest its tip show above the top of the boulder.  Frodo, Merry, Boromir, and Gimli stretched their necks but could not see the desired part of the far bank, and so had to content themselves with waiting impatiently.

Pippin gasped softly.

“You see it?” Aragorn whispered.

The hobbit shook his head.  “I heard barking.  There is more than one!”

“More than one.  Hunting dogs?” Gimli rumbled.  “Do they have our scent?”

“Multiple dogs could mean that they are meant for hunting,” said Aragorn.  “Who can yet say what they are?  But whatever their purpose, I doubt they have smelled us here and now.  The dogs are too calm.  Of course, we do not know if they caught our scent before the storm.  If they did, they are surely wondering where we have gone.”  He narrowed his eyes, peering at the far bank.  “They approach.  Keep silent until they are well beyond us.”

Gandalf turned his eyes upon the far bank and pricked up his ears, waiting for the first sign of any stranger, whether Man or beast.  The scant minutes that passed in stillness felt drawn out, and Gandalf heard only the rushing river.  Yet he did not doubt that something was presently going to appear on the other side of the Feinduin.  If Aragorn said that there was a dog coming, then one was coming.

At long last, something darted out from behind a boulder.

Gandalf barely noticed Pippin stiffening at his feet; his own eyes were pinned to the dog that had just come into view.  It was soon joined by two more, and the three of them padded around the bank with their noses to the ground.  They were not the largest of dogs, but neither were they small.  All three were of the same breed, with short hair, pointed ears and long tails, where the fur was longer than it was on their bodies.

Gandalf felt a chill when a Man suddenly stepped out from behind the same boulder, followed immediately by another, and another.  Gandalf stared hard at them, counting as they appeared, filing away every detail in his mind.  There were ten altogether – a large group, in Gandalf’s opinion – but ten seemed better to him than nine.  Nine would have been an… unsettling number.  They wore plain cloaks of brown coloring and leather jerkins beneath.  Their clothing is not like to that of the Men of Rohan or Gondor, thought Gandalf.  It is too nondescript.  Dunlanders, perhaps; there are towns and villages there, but no King.

They certainly looked as if they could be hunters.  Their clothing was sturdy and well-suited for traveling long distances in ill weather.  They had the hard faces and ragged look of those who had been in the wild for some time.  And they were armed; every one of them to a man carried a bow across his back and a plain sword at his hip.  Gandalf thought he saw more than one dagger thrust through a belt.  As for the dogs, when they were not trotting forward, they either had their noses to the ground or pointed into the wind.

The Men moved quickly and silently along the riverbank in single file.  Gandalf sensed focus and intention among them.  He wondered darkly what their goal was, and how close they were to reaching it.  Some of them turned their heads, examining the far bank.  Gandalf stood motionless.  He could only see them with one eye, so very little of him would be visible to the Men, but movement among the still rocks would attract their attention.  Aragorn and Pippin were like statues beside him.

The Fellowship scarcely breathed as the Men passed directly opposite them.  Gandalf lost sight of them when their hiding place blocked his view, but he did not try to reposition himself.  The dogs were just as likely to spot a flash of movement as the Men.

At last the strangers passed the Fellowship and continued walking in the other direction without a single glance backwards.  Frodo, Gimli, Boromir, and Merry cautiously peered around their side of the boulder, getting their first view of the Men as they walked away.

Gandalf could not see the Men anymore, and he could not tell when they first passed out of sight.  One of the dogs gave a short bark, but otherwise the strangers made no noise.  It wasn’t until Gandalf had heard only the river for a full ten minutes that Aragorn finally said, “It is safe to talk again… quietly.”

More than one member of the company let out a long breath.  Gandalf drew a long drink from his waterskin.  His throat was parched.

“Well, we have seen the strangers,” Aragorn continued.  “What do you think, Gandalf?”

Gandalf hesitated before answering.  “I am not certain.  They wore the trappings of hunters, but they did not have the feel of Men searching for game.  I could not determine their land of origin.”

“Dunland?”

“Perhaps.  I wondered the same.”

“If those Men were hunting for food, then I am an Elf,” Gimli said darkly.  “They had an air of malice about them.”

“They were looking for something,” said Boromir, nodding his head in agreement.  “Did you see the way their eyes swept our side of the river?  And their faces were very grim.  Hunting deer is an enjoyable affair – or at least it is in Gondor.  These Men did not look as if they were on a pleasurable journey.”

“I don’t want to meet up with them,” said Pippin.  “I did not like their look.”

“Yes,” said Merry.  “Rather savage-looking.”

“Would that we knew what their intentions were,” Gimli grumbled.

“We may never know the business of these travelers, but we must not meet them,” said Gandalf.  “I did not care for what I saw any more than the rest of you; they may very well be agents of the Enemy.  And if they are… where one band of spies lurks, others may roam as well.”

There was a long moment of silence while the Fellowship considered this.  Most had a far-off look in their eyes, as if unpleasant scenarios were playing themselves out in their minds.  Merry and Pippin seemed discomfited, Boromir was running a hand along his jaw, and Gimli was thumbing his axe.

It was Frodo who finally broke the silence.  “Whoever they are, they haven’t spotted us, and they’re moving like the wind.  I don’t think they’ll be coming back this way again.  So we mustn’t slow down.”

The rest of the Fellowship looked at the Ring-bearer, who was speaking with a good deal more conviction and spirit than any of them had heard from him in some time.

“We have to cover as much ground as we can.  I don’t know how long you’re planning on letting this go on, Gandalf, but surely it’s not forever.  And maybe we don’t have forever, but I won’t give Sam any less than everything I can with the time I’ve got.”

Gandalf saw the unasked question in Frodo’s raised eyebrows.  How long?  From the firm set of Frodo’s jaw, it was plain that he did not want to be put off.  Best to break the news now and have done with it, Gandalf thought, but before he could open his mouth, Merry spoke.

“What if the dogs have Sam’s and Legolas’ scent?”

“If the dogs have not smelled us, then they have not smelled either of them,” said Aragorn.  “They cannot have come out of the river before this point, or we would have seen signs of them.”

“But they could be on the other side,” said Merry, shaking his head, “and if they are, then these Men might catch up to them.”  He exchanged a dark glance with Pippin.  Frodo’s mouth was compressed into a thin line, but his resolve was still painted on his face.

Gandalf pursed his lips.  Sam and Legolas running into these strangers was not a complication he needed; matters were bad enough as they were.  But there was nothing any of them could do to prevent it, and it could not be planned for.  Gandalf gripped his staff tightly, trying not to let his irritation show.  He was rapidly losing control of this situation, if indeed he had any control left at all.  He had never liked the feeling of losing his grip.

“What happens to Sam and Legolas before we find them is out of our hands,” Gandalf said with a note of finality.  “All we can do is continue searching – for the time being.”

“And how long will we be searching?” asked Boromir.

Gandalf glanced at Frodo.  The Ring-bearer pinned him under a direct stare.  Forgive me, Frodo, thought Gandalf, but you will not like the answer.  He did his best to make his voice gentle.  “Today and tomorrow are all that we can spare.”

The three hobbits stared back at him.  “Only one more day?” Frodo said softly.

Gandalf looked at the hobbits with true regret in his heart.  “Yes, that is all.  By sunset tomorrow, I think we will have walked as far as Sam and Legolas could have traveled in the river before perishing.  I can see no benefit to giving you false hope.  I must tell you that if we do not find tidings of them by tonight, then the odds of finding them alive will be low indeed.”

“But they could be hurt,” said Pippin.  “In fact, I should say it’s likely they are hurt!  Think of those rapids they had to travel through!  They could have broken bones and goodness knows what else!”

“We do not know that,” Gandalf said firmly.  He had no intention of getting pulled into an argument about this.  Everyone wanted assurances that he could not give, especially Pippin.  Over the past two days, Gandalf had given a good deal of thought to what they would do if Sam and Legolas were found but were too badly injured to continue the journey.  If this was the case, then there was a very real possibility that one or both of them would have to be left behind.  Pippin would not understand this, and nor, Gandalf suspected, would Merry.  They had set out on the journey for Frodo’s sake, full of the good intentions and naïve courage of youth, unable to appreciate the difficulty of their chosen road.  Gandalf and Aragorn had not yet agreed on the entirety of the Fellowship’s route, but whether they took the Redhorn Gate or the road through Moria, either would be dangerous.  How could an injured hobbit climb a mountain?  Or the never-ending stairs of the Mines?  Pippin and Merry lacked the experience needed to give them perspective.  Gandalf was not going to disillusion them until it was necessary to do so.  If it had to happen, then it would happen when they had no choice but to accept his decision.

“Let’s not cross bridges that lie too far ahead,” said Aragorn.  “We will decide what to do when we find them.  And if we don’t find them” – his mouth tightened into a thin line – “then you already know what we will do.”

Pippin looked as if he wanted to protest further, but Gimli laid a hand on his shoulder.  “Don’t dwell on the maybes, lad.  They’ll do none of us any good.”

Gimli’s words silenced Pippin.  Merry pressed his cousin’s hand reassuringly although he looked as if he could use some reassurance of his own.  Gandalf sympathized with them – he could hardly disapprove of the love they felt for Sam – but he would not allow his sympathy to override his better judgment.  What had to be done had to be done for the good of all Middle-earth.

The company re-formed itself into a double line and set off downriver once more.  Although the Men had done nothing to indicate they would slow down or double back, everyone was on heightened alert.  Gimli and Boromir glanced at the far bank as often as they watched the way ahead of their feet.  Aragorn’s mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes looked regretful.  Gandalf thought he could guess what Aragorn was thinking about.  Likely he was missing Legolas, who could have scouted ahead for them without being detected.  But Legolas was gone, and they were going to have to do without him.

An hour passed.  They saw no more signs of the Men, but they lingered in Gandalf’s mind.  Of late it seemed that thinking and stewing were what he did best.  Between that and scrutinizing the landscape, there was little else to do.

Gandalf hoped that Sam and Legolas weren’t on the wrong side of the river, but with the way their luck was running, it did not seem likely.  Complications.  So many complications had befallen the plans he had made so carefully, so long ago, that very little was now left of them.  The unraveling had started with discovering that the Ring had been right under his nose for years without his knowledge – in Bilbo’s keeping – and after that, one disaster had followed another.  Mordor surged in strength, the Nine rode forth again, and Saruman betrayed all of Middle-earth.  Now, having barely set out from Imladris, the Fellowship was sundered with a flood behind them and strange Men before them.

And yet all was not lost.  Frodo still had the Ring, and though two of its members were missing, the Fellowship remained undiscovered.  If he could only keep it that way, Gandalf felt that they still had a reasonable chance of success.  If only it were possible to prevent more surprises from coming their way!  He might as well wish for the moon as wish for that, he knew – but Gandalf did not much like surprises any more.

Chapter 6: In the Grip of Fear

Sam sighed and sank down onto the rock beneath him when Legolas finally called a halt.  Sweat immediately popped out of every pore in his skin.  Sam ignored it; it happened every time they stopped.  The chill wind would eventually cool him enough to stop his perspiration.  The halt would not be a long one and his legs needed all the rest they could get.  He had been waiting for Legolas to say something for the past half-hour, and a very long half-hour it had seemed, too.

It was late in the afternoon on the second day since the flood, and Sam and Legolas were in the midst of walking a difficult path.  There was no proper shore in this part of the river.  Legolas said that one had probably existed a few days ago, but the flood had temporarily swallowed it.  In most places the water was contained by piles of large stones that seemed to have fallen off the cliff faces.  The gorge was narrower here, and there was little dry ground between the cliffs and the river.

With no shore to walk, Sam and Legolas were required to navigate their way across slabs of fallen rock.  The going was slow.  The stones hadn’t been weathered by the elements much, and they didn’t fit together very well.  Sam had learned hours ago that he had to look twice before he stepped, and then step carefully.  The rocks were liable to shift or tilt when weight was put on the wrong places.  Some boulders were bigger than the rest, with six-foot drops from top to bottom.  Most of those drops were half-full of icy river water.  Legolas was always there to grasp Sam’s right hand as he leapt across them.  Neither of them wanted to endure another dunking.

Their injuries had slowed their progress even further.  First, there was Sam’s sprained wrist.  Stepping on the stones was like performing a balancing act, and Sam was afraid of falling.  If he stumbled, he would reflexively raise his hands to catch himself… and take the brunt of the impact exactly where it would do the most damage.  In the beginning he had kept his fears to himself and simply stepped from stone to stone as gingerly as possible, but Legolas was very observant.  The moment he’d realized what Sam was doing and why, he had stayed close to Sam and insisted on being the first to try every new foothold.  Sam had tried to protest – Legolas still had that gash on his thigh, after all – but the Elf was adamant.

Sam knew the cut was still a problem.  He could see a dark, spreading stain on Legolas’ garments.  The stitches he had made weren’t holding as well as he would have liked and the wound was oozing.  It was no wonder, really, for Legolas couldn’t help disturbing it as they moved over the boulders.  Legolas never said that he felt unwell, but he didn’t try to suppress the occasional pained grimace.  Sam understood how he felt, because he was hurting all over, too.  It was as if he had been beaten from head to foot with the biggest hickory stick in the Shire.  Legolas had been right about Sam’s bruises: it had taken two days, but they were finally blooming in spectacular fashion.  Sam winced to think how long it might take for the worst of them to fade.

Sam’s stomach rumbled again.  He had eaten nothing since lunch, but he was determined to ignore the gnawing hunger inside him.  If Legolas could soldier on with nary a vocal complaint about bruises or bleeding, then he could surely refrain from mentioning food.

“Have a bit of cheese, Sam,” Legolas said suddenly.  “You must be hungry by now; you are a hobbit, after all.”

“I’ll be all right, thank you,” said Sam.  He did not need to be coddled the whole way back to the Fellowship.  Legolas seemed determined to make sure Sam was comfortable even if he never gave any thought to himself, but Sam was equally determined to see that Legolas didn’t neglect himself, and he didn’t want the Elf to think that he couldn’t endure a little hardship, too.

Sam’s journey upstream hadn’t been all bad – rocks, an aching body, and worrying over Frodo notwithstanding – and that was because he was traveling with Legolas.  Even now he felt a flutter of excitement in his belly when he thought about it.  For as long as he could remember he had wanted to see Elves.  Bilbo’s stories had fueled his imagination when he was a lad, and he’d held onto those dreams as he aged.  Since leaving the Shire, Sam’s wishes had been more than fulfilled.  He had seen dozens upon dozens of Elves now, most of them in Rivendell.  Beautiful and strange, young and old at the same time, they were everything he’d hoped for and more.  The one thing Sam had never expected was to actually know one of them.  Every time he’d crossed paths with an Elf, he’d tripped over his tongue.  Lord Elrond, Lord Glorfindel, and the Lady Arwen had been especially kind and polite, but Sam felt that he was worlds removed from them.  Such wisdom and nobility was in the depths of their eyes, and he was just a gardener who hadn’t ever wanted to be anything more.  He could scarcely remember how he had responded when they had spoken to him, or if he had even been able to speak at all.

And then Sam had learned that an Elf was to travel with them to Mordor.  He had felt many different emotions at the news: excitement, anxiety, and relief when he heard that it was not to be Glorfindel.  Sam thought much of the Elf-lord – he had been instrumental in getting Frodo to Rivendell in time to be saved – but he was simply too great for a simple hobbit to feel comfortable with.  What he had gotten instead of Glorfindel was Legolas.

At first Sam had been just as dumbstruck around Legolas as he’d been with every other Elf.  Like all of his kind, Legolas was tall, fair, and unconsciously graceful.  He clearly knew what he was about with his weapons, and Sam had begun wondering what it would be like to see an Elf fight; after all, they were famous throughout Middle-earth for their skills in battle.  In these ways Legolas was much like the Elves of Rivendell, and for several days Sam had been unable to say more than two words together to him, but eventually his shyness began to fade.  Legolas was friendly and light-hearted, and he smiled often.  One day Legolas burst out laughing after Pippin told a joke, and at that moment, Sam was sure he really liked the Elf.  At night he would sometimes tell stories or sing for the Fellowship, and the darkness would seem a little less close.  Sam had never been able to bring himself to ask Legolas to sing – not even since the flood – but he did love to hear it.

Time spent in close company with an Elf was enough to keep Sam’s spirits up even when his limbs sighed with pain and weariness.  After waking up in the cave that glorious morning to discover that he was still alive, Sam had barely been able to keep silent around Legolas.  He blushed when he thought of all the chatter he had spouted on that first day, but he had felt strangely bold and energized.  It had taken a swim through a nightmare to finally loosen his tongue.  Sam couldn’t have been gladder that the loosening had happened, for now Legolas was a friend in truth as well as in name.  Mellon – that was the Elvish word for friend.  Sam had already learned several words from Legolas, and he was looking forward to practicing with Frodo when they were reunited.

Neither Sam nor Legolas had been talking very much that day, though.  Clambering over the rocks required all of Sam’s concentration, and Legolas divided his mind between finding a safe path and lending Sam his aid.  When Legolas wasn’t holding out a hand for Sam to grasp, he was peering around the gorge with a grim expression.  There were no trees in that lonely, narrow part of the river, although there were some atop the cliffs, far overhead.  Legolas said he would have a much clearer warning of trouble if he were walking among the trees, where their voices were loud, rather than straining to catch whispers from a distance.  Sam didn’t think he would have felt like saying much even if he were walking on level ground.  Legolas’ growing unease was beginning to rub off on him.

It had started that morning, just after Sam woke Legolas.  He had insisted on taking one of the watches though Legolas had done his best to dissuade him.  No sooner had the Elf stood up and begun folding his blanket than he paused to gaze upriver, the blanket forgotten in his hands.  For a long moment he stood immobile, seeing and hearing things that were beyond Sam’s senses.  Sam questioned Legolas only when he moved again, and Legolas was reluctant to answer.  He said the forest had no bad tidings to tell, but he felt the need to be watchful.  He seemed frustrated by the lack of evidence to support his intuition.  For his part, Sam needed no evidence to strengthen his trust in Legolas.  If he felt uneasy, then there was probably a reason.  But just because danger was near didn’t mean they had to meet up with it.  Perhaps the Men would decide to turn away from the gorge.  Perhaps they had already found a way up the cliffs and had climbed out to walk on the ground far above.  As long as he didn’t encounter the band of Men – or anyone other than the rest of the Fellowship – Sam was content.

“You are certain that you do not need to eat?” Legolas repeated disbelievingly.  “If I have learned one thing on this Quest, it is that hobbits are voracious creatures.”  He smiled to show that he did not mean it as an insult.

“We are… what you said,” said Sam, “but we can go without if we must.  And the less we eat now, the more there’ll be at supper.”

“Then if you are ready, I think we should keep moving.  I dislike being stranded out on these rocks.  There is nowhere to hide but down in one of these water-filled drop-offs.  I do not relish the thought of having to climb back out again.”

That was as close to mentioning his injuries as Legolas would come, Sam knew, but it wasn’t really that which had caught his attention.  “Is there anything we need to hide from?” he asked carefully.

Legolas crossed his arms.  If he had been a hobbit, Sam would have said he was hugging himself.  “Not yet,” he said, “but I do not like being so exposed when anything at all may be heading our way.  We may need shelter in the future, but I do not know.  I do not know!”

He is ill at ease, thought Sam.  His stomach rumbled again.  It made him feel queasy.  “Then let’s go,” he said.  “Maybe just around the next bend, we’ll come to the end of this!”

They soon found that while the rocks didn’t vanish at the next bend in the river, their end did come into view.  Less than a quarter of a mile from where he stood, Sam could see the jagged slabs of stone taper off into scatterings of larger, widely scattered boulders.  Here and there a tall evergreen grew, and a pebbled shore lay on the left of the water’s edge.  Sam nearly sighed in relief when he saw it, but the feeling didn’t last.  It could still take them nearly an hour to cross what remained.

To keep his mind off the distance, Sam concentrated closely on every step he took.  There wasn’t anything else that he really could do; he had to watch his feet, or an unwary step would drop him into a water-filled gap.  He pushed his growing weariness to the back of his mind and focused on the task at hand.  One step at a time, Samwise, and each one’s bringing you closer to Mr. Frodo.

Legolas held out one hand, and Sam reflexively reached for it before he realized that Legolas was making a sign that meant “stop”.  He said nothing, but his eyes asked Sam for silence.  Then he turned to look upstream.  Sam trained his eyes in the same direction, hoping to see whatever it was that had caught Legolas’ attention, but he saw nothing except more water, more boulders, and scraggly branches waving in the cold wind.  He estimated they were less than fifty hobbit-paces from the end of the rocks.  He would be very glad to leave the rock-field behind.

Legolas turned back to Sam.  His eyes were brighter than usual, lit by a spark from within, but a spark of what, Sam could not tell.

“The Men are near.”

Sam’s pulse skipped.  “How do you know?”

“The trees ahead are uneasy.  There are intruders among them.”

For the hundredth time that day, Sam wondered how Legolas could understand trees at all – especially dormant trees – but it didn’t seem like the right time to ask.

“I would have had more warning if we had been among them,” Legolas added peevishly.  “They would have whispered their news ahead for me.  Either I have been unable to hear it, or the trees up above us are newly aware of it.”

“But you’ve heard it now,” Sam said soothingly, although he could have used a little soothing himself.  Men!  He had been hoping they had decided to go another way.

“It is too soon to be crossing paths with them.  They must be moving faster than we are.”  Legolas frowned.  “They must be moving very fast.  And they have dogs with them.”

Sam’s eyes widened.  “Dogs?”

“At least two.  I heard barking.”

Sam turned his head and cupped one hand behind each ear.  For a long moment he listened, but the noise of the river was the only sound he could detect.  “I don’t hear them,” he admitted.

“I think you will soon.  I do not like this at all.  That these travelers should have dogs….”

“They could be hunting dogs.”

“They undoubtedly are,” Legolas said grimly.  “The question is: what are they hunting?”

Sam felt a chill.  There was no mistaking what Legolas meant by that.  “But we’re downwind of them.  How could they smell us?”

“The wind is our enemy.  In this gorge, an errant gust may carry our scent anywhere.”

Just such a gust rose up at that moment, blasting Sam’s cloak flat against his body.  He shivered and shied away, imagining that puff of air wafting upstream to the nose of a slavering mastiff.

“We must get off of these rocks as quickly as possible.”  There was no mistaking Legolas’ urgency.  He stepped forward onto another rock and held out a hand for Sam.

There was little caution in their steps this time.  Legolas went first as before, but he no longer allowed Sam as much time as he wanted, and Sam found himself being hoisted over the larger gaps as often as he was jumping over them.  Legolas’ arm never wavered – his grip seemed far more solid than the shifting stones beneath Sam’s feet – but Sam didn’t like taking such a hard pace.  Legolas barely left him enough time to find his footing in one place before he had to leap to another, and it made him feel terribly off-balance.  The ever-present feeling that he was about to fall did nothing to quell the butterflies in his stomach.  Sam was so certain that he was going to take a spill that he goggled in surprise when he suddenly stepped off a stone onto hard earth.  They had come to the end of the rocks, and they had done it very quickly.  Legolas gave Sam no chance to wonder at their speed; he started forward immediately, and Sam hurried to catch up with him.

“I am sorry,” said the Elf.  “You could not have enjoyed that very much.”

Sam made a noncommittal sound.  “Hmm.  It’s good to be on proper ground again.”  His stomach and legs still felt shaky.

“Yes,” Legolas said absently, sweeping his eyes along the cliff to their left.

Sam was about to ask whether Legolas was looking for a way up when a distant sound caught his ear.  At first he thought his ears were playing tricks on him, but then he heard it again.  His eyes widened when he realized what it was: a dog’s bark.

“You hear them?”

Sam nodded.  “For a minute I thought… since you said….”

Legolas shook his head.  “Your ears do not deceive you.  I hear them too, though they do not bark often.”

Sam’s shiver had nothing to do with the cold.  It had been bad enough knowing that Legolas could hear the dogs, but hearing them himself was worse.  Legolas had very sharp senses; the creatures could have still been a mile off when he had first heard the barking, for all Sam knew.  But he knew something of the range of his own hearing, and it wasn’t nearly so long as that.

Sam thought back to what Legolas had told him in the cave – that the Men had had an unwholesome smell.  He put his nose to the breeze – they were still downwind of the Men, for all that the wind gusted – but he could detect no odor other than wet earth.  “Can you smell them yet, sir?” he asked.  It was a measure of his unease that he slipped back into his old pattern of speech; Legolas had asked him to stop using the honorific.

“No,” said Legolas, who did not seem to have noticed Sam’s slip.  “They are much too far for that.  My nose is not as keen as my eyes or ears, and I cannot track by scent.  I believe I was only able to detect an odor at their campsite because it was strong and the Men had lingered there.”  He frowned as he looked upstream, seeming uncertain.

“Are they in the canyon with us?” Sam asked.  “They could be on top, and –”

“They are in the gorge,” Legolas said flatly, “and they are coming our way.”

“We could hide,” said Sam.  “Maybe the dogs won’t smell us.”  One look at the iron set of Legolas’ jaw was enough to tell him what the Elf thought of the chance of that.  The butterflies in his stomach flapped harder.  He wondered what they should do, and why they were continuing to walk upriver as if there were nothing at all coming at them from the other direction.

“We could try to conceal ourselves,” Legolas murmured to himself, “or we could meet them head-on.  They would not expect that.  If we behave as if we have nothing to hide… and we still do not know….”

Whatever it was that they didn’t know, Legolas didn’t say.  At that very moment a sharp baying sounded from upriver, closer than Sam had expected.  His stomach flopped like a freshly-caught fish.

Legolas stopped in his tracks and made a noise that was almost a hiss.  “They have caught our scent.  It is too soon.  They have caught me unaware!”

Sam felt the first rush of real fright at Legolas’ words.  He didn’t wonder how Legolas knew that it was them the dogs had smelled; his voice was filled with such conviction that it was impossible not to believe him.  “What do we do?” he asked.  “Should we go back?”

“Nay,” said Legolas.  “Now that the dogs have wind of us, they will pursue us until we are found.  We cannot hope to outrun them on the treacherous path we just left behind.”

“Up a tree, then!”

“We will be tracked to the tree – and we will be trapped there.”

“But we can’t be found!” Sam cried.  “We can’t let anyone know about us, about Mr. Frodo!”  He looked wildly about, searching for an escape route.  He pointed at the cliff to their left with sudden inspiration.  “We could look for a way up!”

“Unless our luck suddenly changes, we will not find an easy way.  I have been looking since we first came ashore, and I have seen nothing I dared to try, not while carrying you.  If I climbed here I would have to bear you, and the going would be slow.  We would doubtless be seen.”

Panic welled up within Sam.  No way out! he thought savagely.  You’re stuck here nice and tight, like an old badger cornered in his hole.

He had to think of something.  If these Men were looking for the Fellowship as Legolas guessed, then they would be suspicious of any travelers that they found – especially folk like Sam.  Elves were likely common enough in this part of Middle-earth, but hobbits weren’t.  Gandalf had made it very plain that Sauron knew about Shire-folk now, and that one of them had his Ring.  Sam was sure that anyone looking for the Fellowship under Sauron’s orders would have been carefully instructed to watch for halflings.  If he were found, could Frodo be traced back to him?

An overpowering dread swept over Sam when he thought of his being used to find his master.  He wouldn’t tell the Enemy anything no matter what they did – he would not give Frodo away! – but he might not need his tongue for Sauron to learn what he wanted to know.  It certainly seemed that Sauron knew which hobbit carried the Ring; ‘Baggins’ had been a dangerous name even in Bree.  Who knew what other names had been connected with it by now?  Perhaps Sauron was just as aware of ‘Gamgee’ as he was of ‘Baggins’.  If the Men found him, if they discovered his name – that might be enough for them by itself.

Sam desperately looked around, searching for somewhere to hide.  The rocks behind him were treacherous to navigate and would be difficult, not to mention dangerous, to try and hide amongst.  Besides, Legolas thought the dogs would find them wherever they tried to ensconce themselves; being found down in a puddle of water between two rocks would look more suspicious than anything.  There was nowhere to escape to.  The cliffs walled them in on one side, while the river….

Sam froze as an idea seized upon his brain.  They could swim the river!  It was high, yes, but Legolas had done it once before, and there were no rapids here.  Surely trying some escape route, even a dangerous one, was better than simply waiting in the mousetrap for the gate to come snapping down.  The prospect of getting back into the icy water terrified Sam down to his toes, but he could not bear the thought of betraying Frodo.

“The river,” said Sam, shuddering as the words passed his lips. 

“What?” Legolas said sharply.

“We can cross the river,” Sam explained, not looking at Legolas.  “Or you can do it, anyway.  I can hold on to you, and we won’t have to be in it so long this time.  I can manage.”

A look of incredulity spread across Legolas’ face.  “Sam – ”

“It’s better than being captured!  It’s got to be better!  I won’t let Mr. Frodo be caught because of me, I won’t!”

Legolas knelt to look Sam in the eye.  “There is no need for such desperation yet,” he said quietly.  “We do not yet know that these Men mean to harm us.”

“But you’ve been saying all along…!”

Legolas averted his gaze.  “I have been speculating - fueled by the misgivings of my heart, which I learned long ago not to discount.”

“And I’ve learned enough about Elves to know that their instincts ought not to be ignored!” Sam said fiercely.  Why was Legolas dismissing every idea that he came up with?  They had to get away somehow; there was nothing else to be done.  “These Men are bad news, sure as eggs is eggs.  You know it in here” – he augured one finger into Legolas’ chest – “and I believe you.”

Legolas seemed to struggle with himself before answering.  “Do I think they are trouble?  Yes.  But I do not know how much trouble, and without knowing that, I cannot consent to trying the river again.  There are many ill-intentioned Men in the world, and they are not all looking for us.”

Sam stared at Legolas.  “Yesterday morning you convinced me well enough that they were looking for us!”

“Possibly they are, but I am not willing to stake our lives on it.  Are you?”

“We’re not staking our lives!” cried Sam, fighting to keep his voice low.  “You got us out last time, and we were taken by surprise then.  You can do it again!”

Legolas smiled bitterly.  “Your confidence warms my heart, mellon nin, but it cannot strengthen my body.  Do you remember the power of the water?  The river is high and its speed has not slowed.  The truth is that we were more than fortunate to escape alive last time.  Now I am tired and wounded.  I fear that for me, the choice would have to be between the river and death before I tried to swim it again, especially while bearing you.”

“Better to be dead than for Mr. Frodo to fail!” Sam said passionately.

“I agree the Quest is of far greater importance than either of us, but I will not risk throwing your life away – our lives away – on a group of Men that we have never met.  You are not as disposable as you think; Frodo needs you with him on his journey.  And if we should perish in the river, who will warn Mithrandir about the Men?  There will be no one to tell him.”

Frustration heated Sam’s face.  No matter what Legolas said, he was sure it would be better to at least try to get away than to take their chances with the Men.

“It seems that all our choices are ill,” sighed Legolas.  “Whatever we decide, we may come to rue it.”

A dog suddenly howled, much closer this time.  Sam’s pulse quickened.  Time was running out!

Legolas hissed again.  “It seems our choice has been made for us!  They are very close now.  If we try to swim the river, we will be seen.  Better to hide than to throw ourselves before their eyes.”  He frowned upriver.  “There is one last thing we can try.  Wait here.  I will return directly.”  And with that, he turned on his heel and dashed down the path.

Sam opened his mouth to object, but Legolas was already gone, and the only sound that escaped him was a croak.  Perhaps it was just as well; it wouldn’t do to tell the Men exactly where he was by shouting.

Sam only had a minute to wonder what Legolas was up to before the Elf came running back.  “I laid a false trail for them,” he said.  “The dogs have scented us, but only on the wind.  I did not want our first scent upon the ground to appear right in front of our hiding place.  If they think we are ahead of them, they might pass us by.”  Sam could only nod in agreement; he couldn’t squeeze his voice out of his painfully tight throat.  His body felt heavier than usual.

Legolas gently took Sam’s arm.  “There is a fissure in the cliff nearby.  We will conceal ourselves there.”

Sam allowed himself to be steered toward the crack, some thirty feet away.  Near the entrance it was wide enough for both of them to stand abreast, but it narrowed as it delved further into the cliffside.  Legolas motioned Sam in first and then followed after.

The interior of the crevice was dim, and Legolas blocked a good deal of the rest of the afternoon light.  Sam couldn’t see much except Legolas in front of him.  They had moved in far enough that the crack was little wider than Legolas’ shoulders.  Sam’s leaned his cheek against the cold stone of the cliff, fighting the hopelessness that threatened to consume him.

Legolas turned sideways and looked down at him.  A strange look came over the Elf’s face, and suddenly he reached out with one hand to clasp Sam’s shoulder.  “Whatever happens now, at least we are together,” he said quietly.  “And I promise you this: I will not willingly leave your side while I still draw breath.”

“Nor I yours,” Sam said hoarsely.

Legolas smiled, but Sam thought he looked sad.  “Be calm, if you can.  If the Men discover us, we must not let them see our fear, or they will think we have something to hide.”

Our fear.  Sam wouldn’t have thought that such an admission from Legolas would ever have made him feel better, but it did.  He drew a deep breath, set his feet, and nodded.  “Aye.”

“We must not let them know that we are part of a larger group.  Our story is that we two are traveling to Imladris.”

“And we’re hiding why?”

“Because these are dark times, and one must always be cautious on lesser-traveled roads.  It is truth enough.”

“What about our names?” said Sam.  “What if they’ve heard of them?”

“Do you think you can remember assumed names?” Legolas asked uncertainly.  “If either of us made a mistake in front of these Men – gave one name when they had already heard another – it could be disastrous.”

Sam hesitated.  He was still thinking of ‘Baggins’ and ‘Gamgee’, and he hated the thought of his very name sealing Frodo’s doom.  He thought it unlikely that the Enemy knew Legolas, Boromir, or Gimli had anything at all to do with the Ring, and he told Legolas as much.  “Maybe your name is still safe to use.  If you can just remember to call me Underhill – Sam Underhill – then I think that will do.  I really don’t know if I can memorize a new name for you, not when I don’t speak Elvish.”

“I can remember ‘Underhill’,” said Legolas.  “Aragorn has told me the full tale of your travels, including this alias.  And as much as I would rather not give my true name, we may have to take a chance on ‘Legolas’.  Thranduilion is another matter; a learned Man will recognize it.  Let me give a surname for myself if one is insisted upon.”  He turned his head, and Sam could tell he was listening.  “They draw near,” Legolas said, speaking very softly.  “Let me speak for both of us if we are found.”

Sam nodded.  His chest felt tight.  He closed his eyes and tried to think of calming things, things from home – from the Shire.  Dew on the daylilies.  The smell of hay at harvest.  A fire and a good pipe while the snow falls outside, and a warm bed after.

Presently Sam heard another dog’s bark – close, this time.  Very close.  Sam had no doubt that the creature had finally picked up their trail on the ground.  Legolas silently eased one of his knives in its sheath.

They waited.  Sam couldn’t tell how quickly time was passing.  Mushrooms and green onions cooked in butter.  He wondered if Legolas could hear his heartbeat.  It certainly seemed loud to him.

He heard the steady tromping of booted feet.

Making iced cream in my gaffer’s garden.  Sunshine on the willows by the brook.  His every nerve was on fire; he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stir when a breath of air wafted through the crack.

A dark shape moved in front of the little light Sam could see around Legolas.  The Elf’s back was as stiff as a plank.

Sam’s heart was a kettledrum.  Running my fingers through freshly-turned earth!  Oh, save me, Mr. Frodo!

One dark shape passed, and another, and another.  Legolas could have been carved from granite for all he seemed to breathe.  Sam remained utterly still behind him, willing the Men to keep moving.

More shapes passed.  Sam tried to count them, but he had been so startled by their appearance that he hadn’t started the count until two or three had gone by.  The creak of leather and the scrape of feet on gravel seemed loud, even with the ever-present noise of the river in the background.  Occasionally something metallic would clink.

The last time Sam had been this frightened had been on Weathertop.  These Men were no Black Riders, but to Sam’s mind they were no less dangerous than the Ringwraiths had been.  And yet… they were passing the crevice by.  None of the shadows so much as paused, and a spark of hope kindled itself in Sam’s heart despite his sickening dread.  There couldn’t be many more of the Men, and they were relying on their dogs to sniff out the trail.  Perhaps their luck was finally turning.  The Men could be far downstream before they realized that they had lost their quarry, if indeed they ever….

The little light remaining in the crevice dimmed.  Boots crunched on the path outside, loud in the silence.  Legolas’ hand tightened on the hilt of his knife.

One of the shadows had stopped.  Sam felt his heart stop with it.

“Well,” said a voice, “what have we here?”

Chapter 7: For the Sake of Friendship

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

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

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

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

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

These Men smelled almost like orcs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Legolas felt Sam stiffen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You might have better fortune if you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Imladris,” Legolas replied promptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Garan said sharply.  “Not yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sam what?”

“Sam Underhill.”

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

“And how are you called?” Garan continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Legolas?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“Are you all right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 8: Masters and Servants

Sam looked over his shoulder and saw that the cliff’s edge coming ever closer.  He faced forward again, and Garan stood before him.  The Man’s face was like to that of a doll’s, pale and perfectly still, lips curved into a cruel smile that never wavered.  His hands were on Sam’s shoulders; he was the one pushing Sam toward the edge.

“Stop!” Sam shrieked.  “Help!  Legolas, help!”  But there was no one around except himself and Garan, and Sam vaguely remembered that something had happened to Legolas.  He tried to recall what, but he was disoriented and unable to hold the thought for long.  Garan was what was here now; Garan was what was real.  He reached up and tried to push the Man’s hands away, but he might as well have been trying to move a brick wall.

“The Elf is gone,” Garan said mockingly.  “You are mine now.”  Sam felt the ground vanish beneath his right heel.  Garan pushed, and he tilted backwards.  Panic seized him – he was going to fall –

Sam’s eyes flew open and he took in a great gasp of cold air.  For a moment he did not see what lay before his eyes; the feeling of falling still had his stomach in knots.  Garan.  Where is Garan? he thought wildly, and then, Where is Legolas?  That was when he suddenly became aware of how warm one of his hands was, and how cold the rest of him was compared to it.

Everything came rushing back when Sam tried to move his stiff legs and found that he could not.  He and Legolas were prisoners of nine Men who had not deigned to tell them what they were wanted for.  Still, it was a relief to be out of the dream; he might be tied up on the cold ground, but Legolas was still behind him, and he was not falling off of any cliffs.

Small stones were pressed into Sam’s face from resting all night upon the gritty earth.  He surreptitiously rubbed his cheek on his shoulder to dislodge them, taking care not to disturb Legolas at his back.  The Elf was still clasping Sam’s hand in his own larger palm.

Much of what Sam could see while turning his head just a little was blanketed in frost: rocks, low pine scrubs, and the shapes of sleeping Men in their blankets.  The Man who was supposed to be keeping an eye on him and Legolas – either Brund or Jakov, judging by his size – was seated on a boulder some twenty feet away.  His eyes were closed and his mouth was slack.  Sam didn’t think that Garan would be very happy with the Man were it discovered that he had been sleeping while on watch.  But the morning light was still very gray, so dawn was some ways off yet.  Perhaps he would wake up in time to cover his mistake – not that Sam really cared whether or not he did.

Sam assumed that Legolas was still sleeping since he had not responded to the gasp he had made upon waking from his nightmare.  He certainly deserved his rest; he had worked hard yesterday.  First he had walked all morning and afternoon, and then he had fought, and then he had climbed the cliff.  Sam still couldn’t understand how Legolas had managed it; from what he had seen there had been next to nothing to hold on to or stand upon on the face of rock.  It seemed that Legolas had used a great many small cracks for finger and toeholds that Sam wouldn’t have thought he could have squeezed a sheet of parchment into.  Well, perhaps that’s going a bit too far, he thought, but the cracks had surely been small.  That climb coupled with hoisting nine Men, three dogs and a hobbit up after was surely worth a song.  Sam resolved to think more on it if he got himself free of the Men.  Perhaps Frodo would be willing to help him write it; he had always been clever with words, far more clever than Sam was himself.

With the world asleep around him, Sam had nothing to do but think about his situation.  Garan occupied much of his thoughts, and not just because of the nightmare; the Man was as bad in waking life as he was in dreams.  He had not said as much outright, but Sam felt fairly certain that Garan knew that he was somehow connected to the Quest.  He had not been able to see Garan’s face while he had first spoken with Legolas – he had been in the back of the crevice, and Legolas had blocked his view – but he had heard the eagerness in the Man’s voice when Legolas had said the word hobbit.  Sam knew that Legolas would have avoided saying it if he could have, but it seemed as if the Man had already known that he was there.  There was only one reason for a Man from this part of Middle-earth to be interested in Shirefolk.  Not for the first time, Sam wished that the whereabouts of the Ring could have been kept secret for just a little bit longer; things would have been so much easier if the Dark Lord were still unaware of hobbits.

Sam’s legs were cramped from being tied together all night.  Straightening them at the knee helped a little but he could not move them apart as he wished, not until he was unbound.  His shoulder hurt, too, for it had been lying under the weight of his body for hours.  He could not ease the pressure on it without disturbing Legolas, so he did his best to ignore it.  But the longer he lay still the worse the ache seemed to grow, and not even the pangs of hunger in his stomach could push it to the back of his mind.  It was not until the ache had made him thoroughly miserable that he finally gave in and moved.

Sam sighed as some of the pressure on his shoulder was finally eased.  Legolas stirred behind him.  “Good morning, Sam,” he said quietly.

Sam rolled fully onto his back when the Elf released his hand and luxuriated in the feeling of relief that soaked through his shoulder.  Now, if only he could get his ankles apart!  “I’m sorry I woke you,” he replied.

“Don’t be.  It is very quiet.  The camp has not yet stirred, has it?”

“No.  They’re all still asleep.”

“Who is guarding us?”

Sam peered at the sleeping Man.  “I think it’s the one called Jakov, but I can’t be sure.  Whoever it is, he’s sleeping, too.”

Legolas made a small noise of what sounded like disdain.  “Hmm.  We may talk freely if softly because of it, but it will go ill for him if Garan discovers him.”

Small popping noises sounded from behind Sam as Legolas stretched his own legs.  The Elf rolled onto his back as well and exhaled slowly through his nose.  That and the small smile of contentment on his face were all the signs of relief that he gave.  He and Sam lay side by side, staring up at the sky, which had clouded over again during the night.

Sam surreptitiously stole a glance at Legolas’ injured thigh.  The stain that the bleeding had left on his garments was still there.  Sam did not think that any of the Men had noticed it yesterday, for none of them had commented on it, but it seemed unlikely that such a thing would happen again that day.  When Garan realized that Legolas was hurt, he would surely exploit it for his own gain.  Or perhaps he would simply enjoy making his prisoners suffer.

“It is a little better today, I think,” said Legolas, still speaking softly.  Caught, Sam started guiltily before he reminded himself that he had done nothing to feel guilty about.  “If I do not have to strain myself overmuch, it should be closed by tomorrow morning.  After that you need not worry further over it.”

“By tomorrow morning?” Sam said dubiously.  Legolas had said that Elves healed swiftly, but even so…!

“Were it not for yesterday’s cliff and banks of stones, it would have been so this morning.”

“Oh,” Sam said faintly.

“How does your wrist feel?”

Sam tried to move his left hand, but he could do little more than wiggle his fingers.  “I don’t feel any pain, but I can’t move my hand much, either.”

“That is just as well,” said Legolas.  “It will heal much faster if it is kept still.”  He paused for a moment and then said, “Do any of the Men yet know of it?”

“I don’t know, but Brund might.”  The big Man had been the one who had tied the two of them up the night before.  He had made his bonds expertly, and Sam wondered whether he had felt the wood of the splint through his shirtsleeves.  And if he had noticed, would he tell Garan?

“Whatever Garan does not know he will likely soon discover,” said Legolas, mirroring Sam’s thoughts.  “You and I should expect to be extensively searched and questioned today.”

“They think we have It?” Sam whispered.

“I do not think that they know why we are wanted – just that we are,” Legolas mused softly.  “Garan may know more than the others, but not that.  It seems most probable to me that they think we either carry or know something valuable.”

Sam thought about that.  From what he knew of the Ring, he doubted that any roving bands of Men would have been told the true nature of what Sauron sought.  It was a fearsome, seductive thing, and brigands would surely have no compunction against heeding its call and keeping it for themselves.  “Yes, I think you’re right.  The Dark Lord wouldn’t trust It to this lot, would he?”

“That is just what I think.  The Elves believe that of all races, Men are most easily seduced by power.  Sauron likely believes this as well.”  Legolas craned his neck to look at their still-sleeping guard.  “We should speak no more of the… of It, and as little as possible of either the Dark Lord or Mordor from now on – even between ourselves.  They are dangerous names that two simple travelers should have no need to utter, and Garan may attempt to eavesdrop on us when we are left alone.”

“I don’t think he believed your story about going to Rivendell.”

“No, he did not.  He knew a prize when he saw it, but just because he knows that we are deceiving him does not mean that we should stop attempting to do so.  The longer we can keep our secrets, the longer our friends will have to get clear of him.”

At Legolas’ words, Sam found himself thinking of yesterday’s fight and how it had started.  He knew a prize when he saw it.  Sam wondered what might have happened if he had not stepped out in front of Legolas in the crevice.  His appearance had incited Garan to order the attack at last.  He would never know the answer now, but he wasn’t sorry that he had done it – not really.  He had known that they were both in danger; if Garan had been trying to be deceptive, he hadn’t done a very good job of it.  Legolas had made it more than plain that he was not about to stand aside, and Sam had been increasingly convinced that the Men were going to kill the Elf in order to reach him.  All he had known when he took those few steps was that he did not want Legolas to be slain on his account.  He didn’t think he could have borne the weight of that sacrifice.  Besides, Frodo was going to need Legolas on his journey; the Elf’s senses, speed, and strength would help keep him safe and whole.  Sam hardly thought of his own role in the Fellowship as unimportant – Frodo needed daily looking after, especially with that Ring around his neck – but Sam had ever been a practical hobbit.  Companionship and care were all very well, but warriors were what Frodo would need most in the end.  How else would he make it through the land of the Enemy?

Maybe we’ll both of us find a way out of this mess, Sam thought.  If we’re lucky, then Mr. Frodo won’t have to miss either of us, and he can have both the friend and the fighter.

“We should come up with a reason for us to be going to Imladris,” Legolas continued.  “I doubt Garan will believe us whatever we say, but it will be one more layer that he has to strip away.”

“Yes,” said Sam.  “I’ve been thinking about that.”  And so he had been, for he had been unable to fall asleep directly the night before.  Legolas had dropped off like a candle being extinguished, but Sam had not been so tired, and his bonds had been very uncomfortable, to say nothing of the cold ground.  “I think we should tell them that I am your esquire.”

“My esquire?”

“Yes.  You rendered my family a service, and I asked to serve you for three years out of gratitude, though of course you didn’t ask me to do any such thing.”

“And what service was that?”  Legolas sounded distinctly amused now.

“You saved one of my brothers from drowning.”

The smile faded from Legolas’ face.  “I see.”

“I suppose it is rather silly,” said Sam.  “I got the idea from one of the stories my da used to tell me, about Bryndun the Steadfast and the good king who aided his family.  It was always one of my favorites, but I suppose people don’t do that sort of thing anymore – enter into service, I mean.”

“I do not know much of the ways of mortals,” said Legolas, “but I such a thing is not as uncommon as you think.  It would be rare between Elves and mortals, for we have little enough to do with any of your kind in these late days, but it has happened, and it may yet happen again.  It is a fine idea.”

Sam blushed.  No matter what Legolas said, it still seemed a bit silly to him.  He shouldn’t really be dwelling on stories at all, not now.  “Well, that’s taken care of,” he said, and changed the subject.  “Now for the biggest question of all: how are we going to get away?”

“Have you come up with any ideas on that subject?”  Sam shook his head, and Legolas sighed.  “I should have stayed awake so that we could plan.”

“Nonsense,” Sam said briskly.  “You needed sleep.  Even if we’d been able to get free, we wouldn’t have gotten far, not without your resting first.  And our guard was awake when I last remember closing my eyes.”

“Night will be the best time by far to escape,” Legolas mused.  “If we could get my hands free and keep you clear of Garan, I might be able to defeat most of the Men, but without my knives I cannot be confident of victory.  If they shoot at me, many things could change.”

“We can’t risk your getting killed,” said Sam.  “If we’re going to get away it will have to be in darkness when they can’t see us.”

Legolas turned his head to look at Sam.  “Our best opportunity may not come at night.”

Sam stared right back at him.  “It’ll have to.  Mr. Frodo is going to need you.  We’ll just have to worry about getting our hands free.  We’ll cut our ropes on a rock, or maybe you can untie me with your fingers if they leave us back to back again.  It’s a shame we can’t get at your knives, but Dorlic tucked them away in his pack.  He’s got my Westernesse dagger, too.”

At that moment Sam heard a scraping sound near the circle of sleeping Men.  He turned his head and saw that their guard had awoken.  The Man, who Sam was now sure was Jakov, was on his feet and rubbing his hands to warm them.  He was looking at his companions instead of the prisoners, looking panicked and relieved by turns.

Legolas swallowed whatever argument he had been about to make.  “He will come to inspect us in a moment,” he said quietly.  “His lack of watchfulness will have made him nervous.  You and I will not be able to say more to each other, but there is one thing I must tell you before he comes.”  Legolas fixed Sam with his bright eyes.  “Be very wary around Garan.”

Sam snorted; he could not help himself.  Did Legolas really think that he did not know just how dangerous Garan was after all that he had done yesterday?  “Of course I’ll be careful around him!  He’s the worst villain of the bunch!”

“He may be more villainous than you suspect.  We do not know how black his soul is.”

Sam was ready to argue, but at the look on Legolas’ face, he changed what he had been about to say.  “Why?”

“He feels… wrong, more so than the other Men.  Why should he be twice as rank to all my senses as they?”

“Because he bathes half as often?”

Legolas’ mouth actually twitched into a smile, but it quickly vanished again.  “It is not his sweat that offends me; it is his malice.  He is both cunning and cruel, but even that does not seem enough to make him as vile as I sense.  There may be more to Garan than meets the eye, so be very careful around him, my friend; I beg you to guard your tongue as you would your own life – or mine, since you wish to safeguard it.  He may not know why Sauron wants us, but he will drag it out of us if he can.”

At that moment Jakov came striding toward them, just as Legolas had predicted.  Both of them closed their mouths and waited.  In short order the Man was glaring down at them, and Sam wondered if he knew that they had seen him sleeping at his post.  Behind him, some of the shapes beneath the frosty blankets were stirring.

“So you’re awake,” Jakov said tartly.  “It’s just as well for you; you wouldn’t like being wakened by my boot.”  Sam did his best to emulate Legolas’ dispassionate gaze when the Man’s eyes swung to him alone.  “You are wanted.”

Jakov bent over with one arm outstretched, and Sam suddenly found himself being lifted off the ground.  His bearer left Legolas where he lay and turned away without a second glance, but Sam was able to catch the Elf’s eyes as he was carried away.  Legolas did not quite look afraid, but he was certainly disquieted.  That did not do much for Sam’s spirits, but he did his best to rally himself as Jakov walked.  Chin up, Samwise!  There’s a reckoning to be faced now, and there’s no avoiding it.

Sam had been hoping for at least a few minutes’ peace among the Men, but his hopes were dashed when Jakov deposited him on the ground in front of a freshly-roused Garan who was seated upon a boulder, strapping on a pair of gauntlets.  Jakov spared Sam no more than a second glance once he had unburdened himself, and at Garan’s order, he began rousing those of the Men who still slept with one end of his bow.  One by one, the Men he jabbed at swung out with one arm to brush him off, but they were awake.  Sam was sure that Jakov would not have been so gentle with him or Legolas; he had probably meant what he had said about his boot.

“A cold morning, is it not, stunted one?” said Garan.  “I trust you did not sleep well.”

Sam compressed his lips.  Garan had called him ‘stunted one’ once yesterday.  He disliked the term as much now as he had upon first hearing it.  Hobbits were not stunted, but it would be foolhardy to try and correct the Men.  He would have wagered his best waistcoat that they all knew it, anyway.  Garan was just trying to goad him.

To Sam’s continued irritation, Garan was looking at him as if he expected an answer to his ridiculous query about how he had slept.  “I’ve had better nights,” he admitted.

“When I put you into the hands of my master, you will not have a bed nearly so fine as you enjoy now.”

Legolas’ words of warning still rang loud in Sam’s ears, but he decided that it would do no harm to ask the obvious question.  An innocuous traveler such as he professed to be would have no reason not to; only someone who already knew where he was bound would show no curiosity.  “Who is your master?” he demanded.  “What do you want with us?”

“I ask the questions, not you,” said Garan.

Sam’s stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly.  He blushed scarlet, partly from embarrassment and partly from anger.  He had not wanted Garan to know that he was hungry.  Even though he had been famished last night, he wished that he could have done without the bread and water that he had been given.  It rankled to be dependent on the Men for basic necessities, to know that they had such power over him.  They could give him what he needed to survive or withhold it if they wished.

“Hoddis!” said Garan, and the wiry Man that Legolas had knocked unconscious raised his head from where he knelt arranging his blankets.  “The Halfling is hungry.  Find him some bread and meat.”

“Aye,” Hoddis said sullenly, and began rummaging around in his pack.  A moment later he straightened up, and with a flick of his wrist, he tossed half a small loaf of bread and three strips of dried meat on the ground beside Sam.  A waterskin followed, seemingly as an afterthought.

“You, Daerid,” Garan called, and another Man appeared behind his shoulder.  Sam’s eyes widened when he recognized the Man that Legolas had nearly strangled.  Dark bruises marred his throat.  “Guard the Elf,” Garan ordered him.

The eager glint in Daerid’s eyes made Sam feel cold.  “As you say,” he said in a hoarse voice, and in a twinkling he had belted on his sword.  Sam’s eyes followed him as he walked to Legolas’ side.  He was none too gentle as he heaved Legolas up off the ground by his bound wrists.  Anger boiled up in Sam when Daerid threw his friend into a seated position against a standing stone, but he reminded himself that such treatment was not too rough for an Elf.  It won’t hurt him much, he thought, and Legolas wouldn’t thank me for interfering.  Daerid pulled his sword from its sheath and touched the point to Legolas’ neck, much as Dorlic had done at the base of the cliff.

I wish Legolas had strangled him! Sam thought, and nearly staggered when he realized what had just gone through his mind.  Wishing harm to others, even when they were worse than unpleasant, was foreign to him.  He felt soiled, as though he had just stuck his hand in a pile of filth.

“He would do it without delay if I asked him to,” said Garan, and Sam turned back to face him.  “Daerid has a great desire for retribution, not only for his injured neck but for his injured pride.  Had he been more cautious, he might have avoided such humiliation.”

Sam doubted that, but he didn’t dare say so.

“I will remove your bonds, but make one false move and your friend will find himself dead.”

“All right,” said Sam, for Garan didn’t look like he would suffer him to be silent for much longer.  The Man reached out, and with deft fingers untied the knot that secured the rope about Sam’s hands.  Sam tried to watch as Garan worked, but the Man’s large hands blocked much of what he did.

“Eat,” said Garan.  His tone said that he would brook no refusal, and Sam picked up the bread, meat, and water.  He was hungry enough that it all tasted good even though he could not identify the meat.

Garan studied Sam while he ate, and Sam studied Garan, wondering what it was about the Man that Legolas so distrusted.  He seemed no better or worse than his companions, unless being the leader and wearing that mocking smile made him more evil.  Sam was learning to hate that smile, but he certainly couldn’t smell anything unusual about him other than the fact that he could badly use a tub of water and a large cake of soap.

“We did not have a chance to become very well acquainted yesterday,” said Garan.

Sam gazed blankly back at him.  That was not true; Garan had been the one holding him hostage while Legolas had labored.  The Man had had ample time to question him if he had wished, but he had been occupied in watching Legolas.  Sam had found watching the climb terrifying, but Garan had seemed excited by it.  Sam had actually seen a look of wonder and admiration steal over the Man’s features when Legolas made it past the most difficult part of the cliff.  He had wiped his face clean of any such expression before his fellow Men could see it, but it had crept back more than once.

“I wish to know more of you,” Garan continued.  “Tell me: what are an Elf and a Halfling doing alone together in the White River gorge?”

Sam drew a deep breath.  It was time to see how well his story would hold up.  “My master already told you.  We’re going to Rivendell.”

Garan’s eyebrows rose.  “Your master?”

Sam nodded.

“How does a Halfling come to be in the service of an Elf?”

“Well, he did a great thing for my family, you see,” said Sam, and for a wonder, his voice did not tremble.  Garan’s gaze was unsettling.  “He saved my youngest brother from drowning, and I was so grateful that I begged to stay with him for three years’ time.”

“Three years is a long service,” Garan said flatly.  “Why not just one?”

“Because I love my brother.  I liked Mr. Legolas from the start, and I’d always wanted to see Elves.”  The story rolled easily off his tongue, perhaps because there was a grain of truth in everything he said.  He did have a master, but it was not Legolas; Legolas had saved someone from drowning, but those someones had been Sam and Frodo, not any of Sam’s kin.  And Sam did think the world of the Elf.  “I’ve only been with him for a few months, but I’m not sorry I did it.”

“He is a good master, then?”

“The best,” said Sam.  He took a bite of bread and was surprised to find that it was the last of the food he had been given.  He must have been even hungrier than he had thought to eat it all so fast.

“Indeed,” said Garan.  “Well, stunted one, it is certainly an interesting story you tell me, but it is no more than lies, I deem.”

“You can think whatever you like,” Sam said brashly.  “I can’t help that.”

“You are no servant.  Servants do not show so saucy a tongue.”

“A servant will do anything for his master if he loves him.”

“But will the master do the same for the servant?”

Something in Garan’s face gave Sam pause.  “What?” he said, and before he could react, Garan’s hand had shot out to seize his wrist.  Sam struggled, but Garan’s fist easily enclosed his arm.

“You are injured.”

“Not much,” Sam said defensively, still trying to wriggle free.  “Let me go!”

Garan paid no more mind to Sam’s struggles than he would a fly buzzing around him.  With his other hand he reached over to push Sam’s shirtsleeve up his arm.

Sam winced at the sight of his flesh.  As Legolas had predicted, he had turned quite black and blue, and while his bruises were not as stark as they had been yesterday, they stood out plainly on his skin.  Only the lightest of them had begun to yellow.  The backs of his legs were worse, he knew; some of those bruises were almost green in color.

“It is a kind master indeed who beats his servants,” said Garan.

Sam’s face darkened.  “He didn’t – no one – I have not been beaten!”  Garan let go of his wrist, and he indignantly pulled his sleeve back into place.

“Whether you were beaten or not is of little concern to me,” said the Man.  “I will learn the truth of who and what you are when you are properly questioned.  I wonder whether your master loves you as much as you profess to love him.  If he does, you may both prove to be a challenge – and good sport.”

Cold fingers grasped at Sam’s breast.  “What are you talking about?  Question us about what?  We’re going to Rivendell; that’s all!”

“Daerid!” Garan suddenly snapped.  “Bring the Elf!”

The Man guarding Legolas bent down to untie Legolas’ feet.  Legolas stood on his own and began to walk back toward the campsite with Daerid close behind him.  The Man’s sword was pointed at his captive’s back.

“Garan,” someone growled.  Sam looked around to see Dorlic scowling at him.  The look on his face was as sour as his yellow coloring.  “A word with you.”

Garan stood and called for Vannil to attend him.  A rat-faced Man came to him, still holding his breakfast of bread and cheese.  “Guard the Halfling,” said Garan.  “Don’t let the Elf come within ten paces of him.”

Vannil’s beady eyes found Sam’s.  “Aye,” he said, drawing his sword and moving to stand beside him.  He continued to eat as he watched, but he held his sword with a steady hand.

Dorlic drew Garan several paces away and began speaking to him in a low, urgent voice.  At first all Sam could hear was the noise of camp being broken all around him, but when he realized that no one was paying attention to him but Vannil, he turned his head sideways so that one of his ears was aligned with Garan and Dorlic.  He pretended to study the cliff on the other side of the river though he was concentrating too hard on catching the Men’s words for his eyes to really take in what they saw.  They conversed softly, but their words were clear in Sam’s ear.

“The Elf is dangerous,” Dorlic was saying.  “Keep him alive and he’ll make trouble, you mark my words!  What good is he to us anyway, other than to keep us all on our toes?  It’s the little one with the hairy feet that we came for.”

“We were instructed to search for Halflings,” said Garan, “and anyone who might be traveling with them.”

“I only heard the fighting Man and the old graybeard mentioned.  Them, and Halflings.  No others.  This Elf is no Man, and he is certainly no graybeard!”

“Halflings and anyone with them,” Garan repeated sternly.  “The Elf will come with us.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dorlic step closer until he was nearly nose-to-nose with his leader.  Sam wondered how either could stand the smell of the other’s breath.  “He nearly killed Daerid with his bare hands!  What if your threats to the Halfling fail to hold him, and he decides to fight again?  How many more of us will he kill before we subdue him, if we can do it at all?”

“Don’t let your hatred blind you,” Garan said coldly.  “The Elf will risk no harm to the Halfling; even you should have seen that by now.  And think what a prize he will be!  You know of Saruman’s interest in orcs.  Would he not relish the opportunity to start afresh?  We will be richly rewarded for this pair!”

Nausea and horror assailed Sam.  He could not keep either from showing on his face, but he was looking away from Vannil, and none of the other Men were watching him.  Saruman had sent these Men!

“I’ll wager he thinks he can do a better job than him what made them the first time ‘round,” Dorlic grumbled.  “He’s got a lofty enough opinion of himself for it.”

“If you do not learn to mind your tongue, you will lose it one day,” said Garan.  “He is a wizard, and far greater than you or I will ever be.  And he is always watching; we never know when his eyes may fall upon us.”

“He’s not greater than you aspire to be, though, is he?” Dorlic said slyly.  “You think the little tricks he has taught you will raise you high, do you not?”

“Be quiet!” Garan snapped.  “The Elf draws near.  He has keen ears.”  Dorlic sneered but acquiesced.

Sam quickly turned his head and stared at the ground so the Men would not see that he had been listening.  Doubtless they had thought he was too far away to hear.  Whatever Garan knew about the abilities of the Elves, he knew nothing of those of hobbits.  But Garan’s lack of knowledge was not what was on Sam’s mind; his stomach roiled as he thought about what he had heard.  Saruman.  Being in the hands of the traitorous wizard would be no better than being in Sauron’s; in fact, it might be worse.  Who knew what methods a wizard might employ for the extracting of information?  Could he force his prisoners to talk, to speak the truth whatever they willed?  Could he get inside their heads?  And Garan thought Saruman would want something with Legolas, too.  Sam tried to imagine what Elves could possibly have to do with orcs, but all he could think was that the answer was surely unspeakable.

Abruptly Sam became aware that Legolas and his guard had arrived.  Vannil motioned for Daerid to keep his charge back.  Some of the other Men who were finished rolling their blankets arranged themselves behind the two guards, waiting to see what would happen.  Most of them eyed Legolas with varying degrees of respect and wariness.

Sam looked at Legolas with all the sense of urgency he could muster.  Legolas misunderstood the reason for his expression and looked Sam up and down, searching for an injury that Garan might have done him.

Sam screwed up his face in frustration.  Legolas could not read his mind, but he strained to tell him what he could with his eyes.  He had to find some way to warn the Elf about what he had heard.  Garan is Saruman’s servant, he thought, willing his thoughts to somehow make themselves known.  He wants to do something horrible to you!  We have to escape!  Hear me, sir!

A look of concern dawned on Legolas’ face.  His eyes slid sideways from Sam to Garan and narrowed suspiciously.

Yes! thought Sam.  You were right to suspect Garan – suspect him still!

Garan returned to stand before Sam and Legolas.  Dorlic scowled at them over his shoulder.  When his eyes fell on Legolas, he said, “You are cut.  I did not see this yesterday.”  His eyes swung to Sam.  “Did you fight back when he beat you, stunted one?  Did he break your wrist in retribution?”

Legolas looked startled.  “He did no such thing,” Sam insisted, but this time, his voice did tremble.

“It is of no matter.  Search them!”

Two of the Men came forward with outstretched arms.  Sam gasped as he found himself being roughly pawed all over.  Hands patted him down, undid buttons, went through pockets.  They’re looking for It, he thought.  But we don’t have what they want.  Through the press of moving figures he caught a glimpse of Legolas who was receiving similar treatment; his cloak had been removed, and someone was searching the inner lining of his tunic for hidden items.

“There’s nothing on this one,” said one of the Men who had been squeezing Sam’s arms and legs.  “No weapons, no trinkets – not even a silver penny.”

“Nothing on this one either,” said one of the Men around Legolas.

Garan frowned.  “What of their pack?”

“Ordinary things,” said Brund, who sat on the ground between the groups with Legolas’ open satchel in his hands.  “Flint and steel, twine, blankets, travelers’ food, and some draughts.”  He popped open one of the small vials of medicine and sniffed it.

“Search every vial,” said Garan.  “There could be something hidden inside.”

Brund shook his head.  “Nothing but medicines here.”

Garan gazed at Sam and Legolas by turns with his black eyes.  Sam thought he looked disappointed.  “They must have something,” he murmured.  “He was very clear.”  His eyes swung back to Sam and affixed themselves there.  “You carry something valuable, stunted one.”

“I don’t have anything valuable,” Sam protested.  “You’ve seen so for yourself!  I don’t know who you’re looking for, but it’s not us!  Please, let us go!”

“Let you go?” said Garan.  “Certainly not.  You are a liar, but I mean to have the truth from you.”  He glanced up at the rapidly lightening sky; the sun would be rising at any moment.  “And yet I think I will not have it here.  As it is, I had not really expected you to give up a secret so dear without a fight.”  He leaned over until his face was low and close to Sam’s.  “I will give you some time to think on your story.  Use it well and you may save yourself much pain.”

Sam stared into Garan’s cold eyes.  “I haven’t any more to tell you,” he whispered.

Garan straightened.  “We will see.”  Without warning he raised his voice and ordered, “Make ready to depart!”  Most of the Men around Sam and Legolas returned to their packing.

“What about Whit?” Dorlic said suddenly.

Garan looked sideways at what was left of the camp.  “Ah, yes.  Whit.”

The Man with the broken leg was sitting on a low stone.  His injury had been more expertly bound during the night, with slats that had been cut to fit around his leg.  White linens held the splints tight.  “You can’t leave me here,” he repeated, though he did not look as if he could do anything about it if Garan decided to do so.  “Wolves will take me.  You cannot!”

“You really have little say in the matter – but never fear.  You are lucky today, just as Hoddis was yesterday.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Legolas’ mouth tighten.

“Make a litter for Whit,” Garan commanded the group.  “The Elf will bear one end, and the rest of you will take turns with the other.”

Sam struggled to keep his composure.  That was not fair!  Wasn’t it enough that Legolas had pulled them all up the cliff?  That he would not have to carry Whit by himself made Garan’s decree a little bit easier to stomach, but not much.

A short time later Sam found himself walking along the top of the cliff with Garan, his hands bound once more, this time in front of him.  He would almost have rather been with anyone else, even surly Dorlic, but Garan seemed unwilling to let anyone else guard him.  The two of them walked near the back of the line while Legolas walked in the front, one support pole of the makeshift litter on each of his shoulders.  His hands and feet were unbound to allow him to perform the task, which made the Men nervous.  Garan had quelled their rebellious mutters by allowing all those who were walking free to carry their bows strung with arrows nocked, and all of them had elected to do so.

Whit lay atop the litter on his back with Legolas’ pack at his side.  None of the other Men had wanted to carry an extra load, and Garan had not seemed to think that Sam could do it.  Whit’s easy journey earned him no few hard glances from his fellows, especially Jakov, who bore the end of the litter that Legolas was not carrying.  He would not bear the weight all day; the Men would take turns with his end.  Sam did not think that Legolas would be allowed a respite, though.

The land sloped uphill as they walked.  The grade was hardly steep, but as the hours passed and the incline continued, Sam began to feel the strain.  Neither the Men nor Legolas showed any sign of weariness.  Sam did his best to maintain the brisk pace.  He was much hardier now than he had been when he had left the Shire, but he didn’t think that he could keep such activity up all day.  He hoped they would pause for lunch so that he and Legolas could both rest.  He would need it if they continued to walk uphill for much longer, and he feared that Legolas might be the one who was punished if he fell behind.

For a wonder, Garan neither questioned Sam nor conversed with him as they walked.  Sam did not know just how long Garan meant for him to ‘think about his story’, but it didn’t make any difference.  He could not, would not betray Frodo, not if he could help it – but he had the feeling that if Garan really wanted to try, he surely could tangle him in his own lies.  He had not had enough time to work out all the details of his story in his mind.

In the absence of conversation, Sam was free to think.  Most of his thoughts were unpleasant.  He spent some time trying to fill in the gaps of his supposed history with Legolas but gave up almost immediately; Garan would not believe him whatever he said.  He probably wouldn’t even believe the truth if he heard it.  Instead Sam fretted over what Saruman would do to him, what he would do to Legolas.  He thought about the rest of the Fellowship – Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli and Boromir, Merry and Pippin – but Frodo most of all.  He hoped Merry and Pippin were being properly attentive to his master; he certainly intended to give them an earful if he learned that they had not.

There was only one thought that gave Sam any cheer on that long march, and that was the fact that Garan did not know about the Ring.  Sam was absolutely sure of this now; the Man hadn’t known exactly why he and Legolas were supposed to be valuable though he had expected to find something on them.  If he’d had even the smallest idea of what Saruman thought they bore, he would surely have searched them himself.

Sam did have another thought that roused his spirits for a time, though the pleasure did not last.  The Men were walking upstream, and that meant that they might cross paths with the rest of the Fellowship, albeit on opposite sides of the river.  He wondered if they were walking close enough to the edge of the cliffs to be seen from the far bank, deep in the gorge.  And while it would certainly comfort him if he knew that Frodo at least was aware of what had happened to him, he wondered if such knowledge would be a comfort to Frodo.  He expected not.  What was more, his being found could put Frodo in danger.  What if the Fellowship saw him and decided to attempt a rescue?  As badly as he wanted to be free of the Men, Sam knew that would never do.  Above all, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin had to keep well away; the sight of more hobbits might throw Garan into a frenzy.  If that happened, Sam didn’t think any river would be able to keep Garan from Frodo, no matter how wild it was.

Sam was so wrapped in his thoughts that he managed to forget his legs for a time, and early afternoon approached without his notice.  At last Garan called a halt for rest and food, and the Men all sat on the ground or leaned against boulders as they took out their meal.  Legolas and Erich, who had taken Jakov’s place, carefully set Whit’s litter on the ground.  Legolas did not try to approach Sam, but he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and shot Sam a smile to show that he was well.

“Well,” Garan said to Sam while pulling a wedge of cheese out of a sack, “you have had a little time to think about your story.  Have you decided to tell me the truth yet?”

Sam’s pulse quickened.  The Man’s voice had taken on a dangerously soft tone.  It was with a terrible feeling of foreboding that Sam met Garan’s eyes, but he dared not change his story now.  He would not be believed if he played the same tune, but he would be doomed if he changed it.  There was nothing else to do but what he had been doing all along – stay steadfastly upon the path that he had chosen.

“As I keep telling you, we’re traveling to Riv–”

There was a bright flash of color followed by a silence so loud that it was deafening.  Sam’s head whirled and the colors flashed again.  Something knocked the breath out of him, and then his head struck a large, solid object.  His fingers groped uselessly for something to hold on to.

Sound returned, but for a long moment Sam could hear nothing but the blood pounding in his own ears.  Huge spots danced in front of his eyes.  He blinked until they shrank a little, and that was when he realized that he was staring at a pair of legs – sideways – and someone was shouting.  The owner of the voice sounded very far away.

He was on the ground.  Slowly he turned his head and saw Garan towering over him, taking a bite out of his hunk of cheese.  The ringing in his ears faded, and the shouting voice resolved itself into something familiar.

“Beast!  You would attack someone half your size, unaware and unarmed?  Cowardly son of a goat, you fight as a troll – as an orc!  You have no honor!”

Garan ignored Legolas and squatted down next to Sam.  “That was but one taste of my arm.  Think you that you can withstand a dozen?  Fifty?  How long can you resist me, Halfling?”  His head turned sideways ever so slightly, and Sam’s eyes rolled to follow.  He blinked when he realized that seven arrows were pointing straight at a furious Legolas, keeping him at bay.

“How long can your friend take a beating before he cries for mercy?” said Garan.  “It might be interesting to find out.  He is strong, after all.  It could go on for hours.”  He took another bite of cheese.

Sam’s chest heaved.  For some reason, it was hard to breathe.  Sweat trickled down his back despite the cold.

“I will give you a little more time to think on what I have said.  We are many days from our destination, and I am patient, but not infinitely so.  Should you continue to refuse me, you will learn firsthand that I possess other means of persuasion as well.”

“Where are you taking us?” Sam murmured into the dirt.

“Someplace you will not like.”  With that Garan stood up and turned away, leaving Sam on the ground.

Isengard, Sam thought miserably.  That’s where you’re taking us.  I have to tell Legolas!  He looked again to where the Elf stood, quivering with rage.  He seemed on the brink of attack, and only the creak of the bowstrings being drawn tighter kept him where he was.  It gave Sam a small measure of satisfaction to see that all of the archers watched Legolas with great trepidation.

The Men’s respite was not long, and Sam was soon walking upriver once more with Garan at his side.  There was no food in his belly; he had not been willing to ask for it, and Garan had not offered him any.  Again Legolas was in the front of the group, carrying the litter.  Skinny Hoddis had taken Dorlic’s place behind him though he did not look strong enough to bear Whit for long.  The other Men kept arrows fitted to their bows, and no wonder, for Legolas’ back was stiff with anger.  Sam wondered whether the Elf would be able to contain himself if Garan lashed out again.  He seemed primed to explode like one of Gandalf’s fireworks.

Garan said no word to Sam as he walked, though he looked at him often.  Sam found the silence disquieting.  He wondered how long it would be before Garan questioned him again, before he found himself being drubbed because he would not change his story.  Or would it be Legolas who was struck instead?  Sam prayed that it would not come to that, though it seemed almost certain that it would.  The very thought of it twisted his insides into knots.  He thought he could face Garan’s abuse of his own body, but he did not know how he would bear seeing Legolas being harmed because of him, and the knowledge that there was nothing he could say or do to prevent it filled him with despair.

Sam let his gaze wander to the far bank of the river, and Frodo and the rest of the Fellowship came into his thoughts once more.  Again he wondered if they would cross paths.  But was Frodo even still coming his way?  Had he decided to give up and go on with the Quest?  Perhaps he had.  After all, the destruction of the Ring was far more important than finding two missing companions, companions who might not even be alive as far as Frodo knew.  It was already the third day since the flood, and the Fellowship surely had to be losing hope by now.  If they were still looking, they would not do so for much longer.  Sam was sure that Gandalf, at least, would not let the search go on indefinitely.

Well, thought Sam, I may never be able to warn Mr. Frodo about the Men, but if he turns away from the river, it won’t matter anyway.  If his master gave up on him, he would be safe.  That was surely more important than being found, but it did not make Sam feel any better.

Garan looked down at Sam, and his dark eyes glittered.  Sam shivered and turned away.  What was he to do? 

Chapter 9: Courage to Endure

The sun was sinking low in the sky when Garan finally called a halt for the day.  Legolas found himself being guarded by three sets of naked swords and suspicious eyes at the moment he and Daerid set Whit’s litter upon the ground.  He paid them little attention, by now being used to such behavior.

Legolas stretched his shoulders and neck, glad to be out from under Whit.  He suspected that Garan wanted to keep him tired to lessen the possibility that he would try to escape.  Carrying the litter had not been difficult, but the load had been constant and the group had been walking uphill for most of the day.  He was wearier than he would have been had he walked the same path, unburdened.

Legolas turned around, looking for Sam, and momentarily locked eyes with Daerid.  The Man’s neck was ringed with bruises, but they had not been enough to keep him from being assigned a turn beneath Whit.  His eyes flashed with anger when they fell on Legolas.  Legolas had not liked having Daerid at his back – the Man was clearly itching to plant a knife between his shoulders – but he would try nothing until Garan gave him leave to.  Legolas doubted that Garan would hand him over to the other Men yet; at the very least, he was insurance against an attempted escape by Sam.

Legolas did not have long to stretch his muscles before his hands were tied again.  The bonds were not enough to induce the three Men who were watching him to let down their guard.  Not until his feet were bound would they relax, and possibly not much even then.  It was his own fault, Legolas knew; his outburst at midday had made all of the Men cautious.  Perhaps they thought that Garan’s threats against Sam would not be enough to hold him after all.  Legolas did not know whether or not he had made his situation worse by growing so angry.  With yesterday’s fight and their dead companion still fresh in their minds, the Men would have guarded him vigilantly anyway.  But now they might be just a little bit more assiduous in the task than they would have been otherwise, and that lessened the chance that either Sam or the both of them could escape.

Even so, Legolas could hardly bring himself to feel remorse for his actions.  When Garan had struck Sam, all he could think about was forcing him to stop.  And once he had started shouting, he had not bothered to stop himself from telling Garan exactly what he thought of him.  The Man cared little enough for pretenses, so why should he?

Legolas had not forgotten that every Man in the party was dangerous, but Garan’s noxious evil dwarfed the others in his estimation.  He was sure that Garan was more depraved than any three of his followers put together, though he could not say why this was so.  The Man had to have no heart to strike an unarmed hobbit.  Sam had been given no opportunity whatsoever to defend himself; in Legolas’ mind, what Garan had done was akin to beating a child.

The bitterest draught of all was that Garan was not finished with Sam yet.  More time, he had said; he wanted Sam to change his story.  This put Sam into a corner.  If he altered his tale it would make Garan even morecertain that he was hiding something, but if he did not alter it, Garan would never be satisfied.

Legolas had a feeling that Sam’s most recent extension would be up that night.  He had heard Garan’s threats to Sam of violence against them both; his wrath had not left him deaf.  Sam had seemed more perturbed by the idea of Legolas being assaulted than that of being beaten himself.  Legolas wished that Garan would leave Sam be in lieu of making good with the threat against him, but he did not think that would happen for some time yet.  Garan seemed a patient Man.  He would focus on wearing down Sam’s resolve until he either ran out of patience or Sam broke.  A flush of anger heated Legolas’ face.  The Man had no honor!

At the moment Garan was steering Sam around the perimeter of the camp, keeping him well away from Legolas.  Sam’s eyes locked with Legolas’ as he walked.  They were wide, but not with fear; it was the same look that he had shot at Legolas that morning and more than once again in the afternoon when he thought that none of the Men were looking.  Legolas was anxious to learn whatever it was that the hobbit wanted to tell him.  The only thing Sam’s face could tell him was that it was important.

“Here, Elf,” said a gruff voice.  Legolas looked sideways at Erich, and the Man tossed him a hunk of bread.  He caught it, even with his wrists tied together before him.  Erich curled his lip, disappointed by his success.  “Garan says even you can’t go on no food at all.”

Legolas’ stomach was quite empty, but he merely held the bread in his hands and gave Erich a level look.  The Man grunted at his lack of response and turned away; only then did Legolas sit down on the ground to eat, carefully folding his legs beneath him.

Legolas’ eyes roamed over the others as he ate.  The Men who were not guarding him were setting up camp.  Garan was giving orders left and right, but no one seemed to be listening to him.  Everyone did what he said, of course, but most times they had already begun whatever task it was that Garan commanded them to do.  No doubt they had set up and struck camp many times; they did not need to be told how to do it, but Garan seemed to enjoy giving orders and having them obeyed.

Legolas did not miss the resentful looks that the Men fired in Garan’s direction every time he issued another unnecessary directive.  Dorlic was the most openly hostile of them all, sneering broadly at his leader when he was told to get a fire going, but Garan affected not to notice.  Perhaps he did not have to.  For all their dislike of Garan, none of the Men seemed anywhere near mutiny.  Legolas doubted if a single one of them would intentionally shirk his duties where the prisoners were concerned.  For their lives, they would not; they had seen what he could do when pressed.

Garan finally stopped giving orders and settled himself into a seated position near the newly-burning fire.  He pulled the usual bread and cheese from a sack and handed them to Sam.  The hobbit took the food stoically though he had to be famished; he had gotten nothing for the midday meal, either.  He took slow, careful bites, hiding his hunger.  Legolas could not help but approve.

Garan watched Sam eat with an unreadable expression on his face, and Legolas watched Garan.  The Man was going to question Sam again; it was only a matter of time.  The knowledge that he would not be able to prevent it made a sour weight of the food in Legolas’ stomach.

But to Legolas’ surprise, Garan ordered that he and Sam be tied together once more when Sam had finished his meal.  Legolas was held firmly in his seated position by four Men, Brund and Dorlic among them, while Erich untied his hands and retied them behind his back.  Sam was carried over and pushed against him, and their hands were bound together.  Once this was done, his legs were stretched out and his ankles firmly secured.  He could not see if the same had been done to Sam.

“That’s not enough,” Dorlic insisted.  “I’d not put it past the Elf to be able to hop away with this miserable creature still hanging from his wrists.”

“Aye,” said Brund in his deep voice.  “About the waist, then?”

“That will satisfy.  For now.”

Erich produced another length of rope, and Dorlic wound it around Sam and Legolas himself.  He knelt by Legolas as he did it, grimacing darkly and pulling each loop ever tighter.  Sam was quite firmly pressed against Legolas’ back when he was done.  To Legolas, the hobbit’s hands felt like nothing more than a mass of fingers and knotted cord.

None of the Men seemed to want to stay with Sam and Legolas, who had been positioned far enough from the fire to escape its warmth.  But nobody felt easy enough to leave them wholly unwatched even though they were excessively bound, and Hoddis and Vannil found themselves stringing their bows and nocking arrows before sitting down at the fire with their companions.  They did not look in the prisoners’ direction very often, but Legolas did not think they had to.  He and Sam were in the periphery of their field of view, and movement would attract their attention.

Legolas sat in silence, waiting to be sure that no one was going to come back.  It did not look as if they would be disturbed for some time; most of the Men were busying themselves in the plucking and cleaning of five ducks that had been shot from the sky that day – three for the Men and two for the dogs to share.  Most of the Men talked among themselves as they prepared the food, alternately making jests and laughing at others in their turn.  Legolas paid careful attention to what was being said, hoping to hear something of value, but to no avail.  Eventually Legolas decided that nothing of importance would be spoken while he was in range of hearing; Garan would make certain of that.  The Man did not seem to care whether he and Sam conversed or not, or he would not have ordered them to be bound together.  If there was nothing worth hearing from the Men, then it would be best to take advantage of the opportunity to speak with Sam.

Legolas turned his head sideways until he was facing away from the cluster of Men.  “Sam,” he said softly, “how do you fare?”

Sam turned his own head.  “I’m all right.  But don’t worry about me; it’s you that we ought to be worried about.  How do you fare?”

“If you are concerned by my labors today, give them no more thought.  It was steady toil, and not punishing.  I am tired but not severely so.”

“That’s good.  And how is your leg?”

“Better.  A day of true rest would soon set me to rights, but the wound is beginning to heal even though I cannot have it.  Walking a sloping path, even with a burden on my shoulders, does not strain me as walking along the river did.”

Sam sighed.  “Well, I’m glad of that.”

A gust of wind swirled over the clifftop, sending fallen leaves and pine needles skittering over the ground.  Legolas felt Sam shiver behind him and suddenly wondered about the hobbit’s health.  They had been denied a blanket last night, and while the cold had not bothered him much, it might have affected Sam.  “Does the chill trouble you?” he asked.

“Not much,” said Sam in a too-light tone.

Legolas shook his head; Sam had not been very convincing.  “You are fatigued, at the very least.”

“Yes, but then, we have been walking uphill all day.  Do you know how far above the river we are now?  I couldn’t get close enough to the edge of the cliff to see.”

“Neither could I, but I would not be surprised if we were nigh on two hundred feet up now.”

Sam said nothing in reply, and a roar of sudden laughter from the Men rose up to fill the silence.  Legolas twisted his wrists within the confines of his bonds, feeling at the rope as well as he could.  He could not move his fingers very far, not with Sam crowded so closely against him, but he persevered.

Vaguely, Legolas wondered if Sam was avoiding talking about the blow that Garan had dealt him over the midday meal; he had veered away from talk of his own welfare quickly enough.  Legolas did not want to let the subject go unaddressed.  When Garan queried Sam again, he would do more than strike him once.  Legolas had no intention of allowing the Men to hold either himself or Sam captive forever, but he had not yet found a window through which to escape, and there was no telling how quickly one would present itself.

Legolas glanced back toward the fire where the ducks were being placed on makeshift spits to roast above the low flames.  One of the Men must have felt his eyes on his back and turned to look at him.  A frown stiffened Dorlic’s already hard face in the gathering dusk.  One of the dogs, lying by his side, gave Legolas a dispassionate look.

Besides Garan, there was no one else in the group that Legolas disliked more than Dorlic.  He did not feel as strangely foul as Garan did, but there was no mistaking the fact that he intensely disliked Legolas.  He had stayed close to him all day, casting menacing glances and stroking his bow longingly.  Legolas was wary of Dorlic, but he did not care why the Man disliked him – only that he did.  Such hatred was a weakness that could be exploited if the right moment came.

Legolas had spent most of the day studying the Men around him in an effort to determine what the others’ weaknesses were.  Daerid hated him, too, though his feelings seemed to stem from his defeat at Legolas’ hand.  He was sullenly angry where Dorlic showed loathing for no apparent reason at all.  Garan’s most obvious weakness was his arrogance.  He had been careful enough to leave no chinks in his armor yet, but the longer he had his two prisoners in his possession, the more overconfident he would become.  The others were not as easy for Legolas to read, for they had had less to do with him thus far than Garan, Daerid, or Dorlic.  Whit was not much of a threat, not with his broken leg.  Hoddis’ weakness might be physical, slender as he was, but he was surely agile if Garan had thought of having him climb the cliff.  Vannil seemed to resent being under Garan’s authority, as did many of the others.

And how exactly do I go about using these weaknesses to my advantage? Legolas wondered, for there was still the problem of Sam to be solved.  It would have been much easier for him to escape if Sam were not a prisoner, just as it would have been easier for Sam to slip away if Legolas were not a hostage himself.  So far Garan had skillfully used them against each other, playing off their well-founded fears that one of them would be severely punished if the other offended.  Sam seemed to be no more willing to allow harm to come to Legolas than Legolas was to see Sam injured.  If one of them could get away, Garan would lose that leverage, but one of them had to be willing to leave the other for that to happen.

It was Legolas’ strong opinion that Sam should be the one to take flight, if it could be done.  He was smaller in size and guarded less scrupulously, and being a hobbit, he could move in near silence over almost any ground.  If he was careful, even the dogs would not notice his going.  Most important of all, though, was the fact that it was Sam that Garan really wanted.  Everything the Man had said and done since their first meeting had convinced Legolas that he was not the true target.  Garan had hoped to find at least one hobbit bearing an item of value, though it was plain that he did not know what that item was supposed to be.  Legolas had not even been questioned; he had been dismissed as a physical threat alone, at least for the time being.  Garan thought that whatever information to be had would be more easily wrested from Sam.  It was hardly an unreasonable assumption to make, and though Legolas thought that Sam would prove to be much hardier than Garan had anticipated, he firmly believed that he could withstand physical pain better than any hobbit could.

And there was yet another reason why Legolas wanted Sam to flee: he did not think he could bear to see the hobbit tormented.  If it began again – as he feared it soon would – he would have to choose between sitting still and allowing it to go on or trying to stop it.  With eight able enemies about and his hands and feet bound, he would not win any fight that he began.  Doing damage to the Men would not be enough; he would likely be slain if he failed to triumph.  Legolas did not know how well Sam would be able to continue resisting if they were sundered in such a way.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Sam said abruptly, breaking into Legolas’ thoughts.  “Right now, before someone comes back.”

Legolas’ attention was suddenly all on the hobbit.  He wanted to speak more of Garan and what he had done and would yet do to Sam, but it could wait.  “You have been throwing meaningful glances in my direction all day,” he said.  “Have you learned something?”

Sam drew a deep breath.  “The Men work for Saruman,” he whispered.  “They’re taking us to Isengard.”

Legolas’ heart faltered; his blood felt suddenly cold.  “They….  Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes.  I heard Garan and Dorlic arguing this morning, but I don’t think they know it.  They didn’t say ‘Saruman sent us’, but he did.  I’m sure.”

Legolas inhaled and exhaled deliberately in an attempt to slow his suddenly quickening pulse.  Saruman!  It was not what he had been expecting; he had been sure that it was Sauron who had sent out this party, albeit indirectly.  There was no being in Middle-earth more perilous than Sauron, and yet Legolas would almost rather have gone to him than to Saruman.  They were much closer to Isengard than they were to Mordor, which gave him considerably less time to escape than he had thought.  “What did they say?” he demanded breathlessly.  “Tell me everything!”

“I can’t remember what they said exactly, mind,” said Sam, “but I’ll tell you everything I can.  They were fighting about you, mostly.  Dorlic wants to kill you, and Garan doesn’t.  I don’t know why, but Dorlic seems to hate you.  He said that they were ordered to search for hobbits, though he called us Halflings, a fighting Man, and an ‘old graybeard’.  I guessed that he meant–”

“Do not speak their names,” Legolas said softly.  “There is no need.”

“All right,” said Sam.  He pressed his fingers against Legolas’ hands, which were still feeling at the cords, before continuing.  “Dorlic wants to kill you because you’re not one of those three, but Garan said that anyone with the… the people they were looking for had to be taken, too.”  He hesitated.  “Dorlic is afraid of you because you’re an Elf, but Garan’s interested in you for the very same reason.”

Legolas frowned.  “Did he say why?”

Sam’s hands trembled.  “Garan said… he said something about Saruman being interested in orcs, and that you’d be useful to him.  That’s the first time he mentioned Saruman at all.  I didn’t understand what he was talking about, and I still don’t, though I’ve been thinking about it all day.  Do you know what he meant?”

Legolas did not reply; his tongue had cloven to the roof of his mouth.  He had heard Sam’s words, but they had seemed to come from far away.  If his blood had been cold before, it was ice now.

“Legolas?”

Panic scrabbled at the edges of Legolas’ mind.  He fought it reflexively though he was more horrified by this news than by anything that had happened to him since being caught up in the river.  He had thought himself ready to face anything, but he was not ready for this.  He could not have felt more dazed or sick if Brund had struck him in the head with a rock.

“Mr. Legolas, what’s wrong?  You’ve gone all cold and stiff!”

Legolas closed his eyes tightly.  Elbereth Gilthoniel!  Let it not be so!  Let me not be doomed to such a fate!  “You are… you are certain of what you heard?” he croaked.

“Yes,” Sam said fearfully.  “And there was something more, something about Saruman being able to do something better than… well, I’m not sure who, actually, but I thought they might have meant the Dark Lord.”  There was a note of apology in his voice.

Legolas clamped his teeth together, but a low moan escaped him anyway.  The small hope he had held to that Sam could not mean what it sounded like was gone.  He would rather die a thousand deaths than be delivered into Saruman’s keeping.

“Your hands are shaking, sir!  Oh, please tell me what is the matter!”

Legolas willed himself to breathe, though he felt ready to sick up at the slightest provocation.  Sam sounded increasingly frantic behind him; he deserved an answer.  “The first orcs,” he said through his teeth, “began their lives as Elves – or so it is said.”

Sam froze.  “What?”

“Morgoth distorted them until they were no longer recognizable, until they no longer knew themselves.  It was he that made the orcs.”  Sam’s shocked silence was louder than any protestations of disbelief that he could have made.  “Sauron is the only being that we Elves hate more than the abominations his one-time lord made.”  He forced himself to keep on talking, to spill it all out.  “It is only too clear.  If Saruman wants something with an Elf, something in connection with orcs, then he can only want one for practice.”

Sam found his voice at last.  “He couldn’t!”

“Saruman is a wizard, and he is in league with Sauron.  I will not say that he could not do this.”  He fought to take hold of himself.  “What else did they say?”

Sam’s fingers suddenly pushed themselves even harder against Legolas’ own hands, and Legolas wondered if the hobbit was trying to console him.  “That was most of it.  They insulted each other a lot.”

“Everything you remember, Sam.”  Legolas pressed back against Sam’s fingers.  “You have overheard much more information than I have managed to glean.  Garan would never have discussed such a subject with me nearby.  He knows too much about the Elves.”

“Well, he doesn’t know anything about hobbits.”

Legolas smiled tremulously into the gathering gloom, thankful that Sam could not see his face.  “No, he does not.  Mayhap that will be his downfall.”

“Maybe,” said Sam, but he did not sound as if he took the thought seriously.  “Everything.  Well.  Garan said that we were a prize, that they’d be rewarded for us.  And I got the idea that he thinks more of Saruman than Dorlic does.”

“Why?”

“Dorlic said that Saruman had a swollen head, and Garan didn’t like it.”

“Dorlic is right, if Mithrandir’s report at the Council was any proof,” Legolas said derisively.  “Saruman of Many Colors, indeed!”

“There was more at the end, and I didn’t really understand it,” Sam continued.  “I’m trying to remember the words.  Something about… aah!  It’s difficult.”  He hesitated.  “Dorlic was trying to get under Garan’s skin.  He said something about Saruman teaching him.”

Legolas’ head came up; his eyes flew open as wide as they would go.  “Saruman teaching Dorlic?”

“No.  Saruman teaching Garan.  Tricks, Dorlic said.”  Sam hesitated again.  “Wait a minute.  Does that mean…?”

“Yes,” Legolas breathed.  “It must.”  His heart seemed to have stilled itself; perhaps his blood had finally frozen solid.  How many dark revelations did Sam have for him?

“Saruman taught Garan magic?”

“It would explain much,” Legolas murmured.  “It could certainly explain why Garan feels so tainted.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I have heard tales of Men who desired powers not gifted them by Ilúvatar.  Such Men inevitably practiced black magic, for Men were not meant to be sorcerers, and they lost pieces of their souls in becoming so.”

“Pieces of their souls!” Sam exclaimed softly.

“I do not know how Men go about dealing away bits of themselves, nor so I wish to; dark rites are surely involved in order to so defy the will of the One who made them.  Yes, I believe that I am right about Garan.  If he has lost a part of his soul, it would lead to this feeling of wrongness about him.”  Sam said nothing, perhaps too dazed to speak, and Legolas continued musing aloud.  The looming hysteria he had felt at Sam’s tidings of his fate had all but vanished in the wake of this new discovery.  “I wonder if it is possible for a wizard to do such a thing to a Man.  Did Garan become a sorcerer of his own free will before crossing paths with Saruman, or did Saruman make him what he is?”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Sam said unsteadily.  “What matters is getting you away from here as soon as possible.”

Legolas was not sure that he had heard Sam correctly; his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment.  “Getting me away?”

“Yes, if we can find some way to do it.  You can’t go to Isengard and let Saruman…!”  He left his sentence unfinished, apparently too appalled by the idea to give voice to it.

Legolas’ own astonishment rendered him quite speechless.  He had never dreamed that Sam would suggest such a thing – staying to face the wrath of the Men while he went free.  “It is strange that you should suggest that I escape,” he said when he found his voice again.  “I have been thinking that it is you who must flee.”

“What?  Without you?”

“With or without me; it is crucial that you evade Garan’s grasp.”

“Certainly not!”  Sam sounded utterly scandalized.

“You are the one that Garan truly wants, hobbit that you are, but you are not the one that he fears.  You are not seen as the dangerous one, and so you are not as closely watched as I.  You have a better chance of escaping than I do.”

“I made a promise not to leave you,” Sam said tartly.  “I keep my promises.”

“I would have you break this vow, great honor though it does me.  I do not deny that I cannot stand to see you mistreated, but that is not why I ask this of you; I ask for the sake of all Middle-earth.”

“I would never betray Mr….  I wouldn’t betray him.”

“Not willingly, perhaps.  I fear that you will not be able to resist the torments that Garan – and Saruman after him – will visit upon you, now matter how determined you may be.”

“No,” Sam said firmly.

Legolas laughed mirthlessly.  “I thought you would react in such a way.”

“It’s not funny,” Sam hissed.  “I won’t run off and leave you behind.  It’s not right.”

“It is not a matter of right and wrong.  It is a matter of protecting what you hold most dear, and of guarding something that is worth more than either of our lives.”

“I wouldn’t say a thing, no matter what they did to me!”

“Men can be very cruel – far more cruel than the Elves could ever be,” said Legolas.  “Garan’s malice extends well beyond anything you have yet seen.  You do not know of what you speak.”

“And you do?” Sam said bitterly.

“Yes, I do.”

Sam stiffened.  “What does that mean?”

“It does not mean what you seem to be thinking,” said Legolas.  “I have suffered no great injury at the hands of Men, but I know more of them than you do.  Many are good and noble, but those that we are amongst now seem to possess every foul trait that there is.  Garan is not done with you.  He will question you again and again, and it will grow worse every time.”

Sam stubbornly shook his head against Legolas’ back.  “I wouldn’t.”

Legolas mournfully raised his eyes to the heavens though there were no stars to see.  He wished that Sam had not pushed him to this, but the hobbit was stubbornly refusing to see sense.  He had to make him look it in the eye, and necessity did not make it any easier to say what needed to be said.  He hardened his resolve and started with a point that was sure to catch Sam off his guard.

“What of Frodo?  Does your friendship with me supersede your ties to him?”

“I….” Sam began, and trailed off.

“Sooner or later, you must choose between us,” said Legolas.  “I know not whether you have bound yourself to him with oaths, but you set out to be a companion to him, not me.  Pain is not something you are acquainted with, especially pain that is willfully visited upon you by another.  You cannot fathom it.  I have looked into the eyes of these Men, and I see their hearts mirrored there.  They are cold, hard, and wholly without mercy.  And there is Garan to consider as well.  Whatever Saruman has taught him, there can be only evil in it.  He will go to any lengths to loosen your tongue, and though you might resist at first, in the end you will tell him what he wants to know simply to escape your torment.  Saruman will end your misery in a most permanent way when his thirst for knowledge has been slaked.  Stay and you will meet death, Samwise.”

Sam’s shuddering breath cut like a knife.  Forgive me, Legolas thought sadly.  I will come with you if I can, but it is you who must escape.  I must make you see that.

A long silence stretched out between them.  The Men were still laughing and talking, only looking in the direction of the prisoners at odd occasions.  The ducks seemed to be coming along nicely; Legolas could smell them even though he could not feel the fire’s warmth.  His fingers, which had stilled on the cords during the past few minutes, resumed their search.  He had not even found the beginning of one of the knots, which were large and complicated.

“Garan untied me quickly enough this morning,” Sam said quietly.  “I think there’s some trick to the knot.  If we can find out what it is….”

“Would that I could manage it,” said Legolas.  “Night has fallen, and we are not being closely watched.”

“I won’t promise to go without you.”

Legolas’ shoulders drooped at this sudden declaration.  After all he had said, did Sam still not understand?  “I do not know when an opportunity for escape may arise.  If we can both go, so much the better; if not –”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Sam with an air of finality.  “Here.  Let’s see if we can’t get this knot undone together.”

Legolas’ mouth tightened, but he knew it would do no good to press the subject further.  If he did, Sam would likely demand to know whether he would run if he had the chance to flee alone.  Legolas knew that he would not, and Sam would never accept any explanation for that inequality.

They worked in silence, smelling woodsmoke, listening to the Men boast over women that they had known and men that they had killed.  They twisted their hands and wrists and strained with their fingertips until their hands were covered in sweat, and their bonds loosened not a hair.  If there was a trick to the knot, Legolas did not think that the rope allowed him enough mobility to be able to find it.

Supper was eaten and under digestion when Garan suddenly stood up.  Sam and Legolas immediately stilled their fingers and tensed, waiting.  At Garan’s gesture, five Men stepped out of the firelight and headed straight for them.

“It begins,” Legolas whispered.  “You must be ready, Sam.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Sam.  “They can’t make me do anything.”

Legolas grimaced.  Sam had misunderstood him; he had meant that the hobbit should be ready to run should the opportunity arise.  It might even arise right then, in the dark, with only half the Men around them.

The blade of Jakov’s dagger made a shrill whisk as it was drawn, and the knot that secured the rope about Sam’s and Legolas’ waists was sliced open.  The rope uncoiled, and Legolas immediately found himself seized by both Brund and Dorlic.  His chest was pushed forward, exposing his hands behind his back.  Someone fumbled at one of the knots until it came undone, separating Elf from hobbit.  Legolas’ own hands remained tied when Sam was pulled away from his back, for they had been secured before he had been bound to Sam.  Legolas twisted, testing his work on the knots, and was rewarded by being flung facedown on the ground.  His head was turned to one side; he could see the cliff’s edge, but Garan and the fire were behind him.

Dorlic crouched next to Legolas and used one of his knees to pin down Legolas’ upper back.  One of his fists held his bound hands.  A long, soft scraping sound announced the removal of a sword from its sheath somewhere above them.

Dorlic bent over until his mouth was close to the upturned side of Legolas’ face.  “If you so much as twitch, Elf, Vannil will strike off your head.  Do you understand me?”

Legolas nearly gagged at the Man’s foul breath, but he gritted his teeth and nodded.  The rocky ground scraped the side of his face that was pressed against it.  What choice did he have?  He was in an even more undesirable position to fight now than he had been in a moment before.  Sam was going to be beaten or worse, and there was nothing that he could do.  Never in his life had he felt so helpless – or so angry.

“Tell me how the two of you came to be in this gorge, stunted one,” said Garan’s voice from several paces away.

Legolas bristled at Garan’s continued slights to Sam.  He insisted on calling Sam either ‘stunted one’ or ‘Halfling’ and nothing else.  Legolas had learned early on that hobbits did not appreciate the term ‘Halfling’, which implied that they were somehow less than Elves and Men, but that it was a common misnomer and therefore not truly insulting.  ‘Stunted one’ was another matter entirely; there could be no mistaking it for the deliberate slur that it was.

“I’ve nothing more to say than what I’ve already told you,” Sam said shortly.

Legolas felt a surge of pride at the steadiness of Sam’s voice.  The last time the hobbit had asserted this it had earned him a vicious blow to the head; he had to suspect that doing so again would only earn him harsher treatment, and yet he met the danger with his head up and his eyes open.

Garan sighed.  “Even if you were going to Rivendell – and you know that I do not believe you – why would you have walked through the gorge to get there?  It is hardly a sensible road to take.”

Sam did not answer right away, and Legolas guessed that he was thinking.  “Well, we hadn’t planned to walk through the gorge, you see,” Sam said at last.  “We tried to cross upriver, but the river was higher than we’d reckoned.  We were knocked off our feet and carried downstream.”

“And you were coming from the mountains?” said Garan, not sounding as if he believed it.

“The Misty Mountains, yes.”

“Tell me what your business was there.”

Sam hesitated again, but after a moment he said firmly, “Our business is none of your business.”

Garan inhaled sharply through his nose.  A pair of boots scraped against the hard ground.  Popping sounds emanated from the fire, and as always, the river roared far below in the gorge.

Legolas tensed at sound of the first blow.  He did not know whether or not to be grateful for his positioning; he might not have been able to contain himself if he had been able to see Garan striking Sam again, bound and pressed against the earth or no.  A loud cheer sounded from the Men around the fire, and Legolas squeezed his eyes shut.

“I almost wish you would move,” Dorlic grated in Legolas’ ear, though he did not sound as if he were really addressing his prisoner.  “Then I could be rid of you and your horrid eyes.”  The weight on Legolas’ back suddenly increased, and Dorlic was breathing into his face again.  “I hate them, do you hear?  I hate the way you’re always looking like you know something I don’t!  You can’t see through me, Elf!”  His fingernails dug into Legolas’ wrists.  “You see nothing!”

“Dorlic,” Vannil said in a warning tone.

Dorlic ignored his fellow.  “Very soon, Garan will let me have you.  And when he does, I will rid you of your eyes.”

Sam grunted.  Legolas tensed further, and Dorlic pressed down on him all the harder.

“You won’t be so pretty with your face marred.  You won’t need eyes where you’re going; you’ll have an eternity to scream your lungs out in darkness once –”

“Dorlic!” Vannil snapped.

Dorlic hissed, breathing hard as though he had been running.  In the quiet that fell while he regrouped, Legolas heard another roar of approval rise up from the Men around the campfire.  He seethed silently and willed the earth to swallow up Garan and all his Men.

Dorlic kept pressure on Legolas’ back and hands while Garan continued his harsh treatment of Sam.  Legolas lay still as stone, if only just.  Sam seemed to be doing a fair job of keeping silent, but Legolas could not have been more furious if Sam had been begging for mercy.  If his hands had been free he could have made Garan curse the day his mother first laid eyes on his father, but he could do nothing now.  The prospect of dying did not frighten him.  If his death was the price of Sam’s freedom, he would embrace it, but he would not throw his life away when Sam still needed him.

Sam was far stronger in spirit than Legolas had ever imagined when they first met, but it would be a terrible thing for him to suddenly find himself alone amongst a group of nine cruel Men, all of them warriors and twice his size.  His resolve would fold like a house of cards.  Legolas was not certain that his spirit would not do likewise if Sam were killed, but he did not wish to dwell on that now.  He could not die, not yet – but he did not know how much longer he could let this mistreatment continue.  It would only escalate with time.

The Men stopped their cheering.  Legolas slumped in relief, but the feeling was only momentary.  He could hear Garan asking Sam yet again if he had come to his senses; Sam did not reply, and Garan lowered his voice.

“I warned you, Halfling.  I have more at my disposal than my strength of body.  You cannot comprehend what I mean, can you?  Perhaps you need to be shown.”

“No,” said Sam.  He sounded as if he wanted nothing less than whatever it was that Garan was about to do.  Legolas jerked, unable to stop himself, and Vannil pushed the tip of his sword against his back.  The steel broke through cloth and some flesh; if he pressed down with his weight, it would go right through him.

Sam gasped.  “There,” said Garan.  “I think you begin to see.”

Legolas blinked in surprise.  That was all?  Only a heartbeat had passed since Sam had drawn that ragged breath.  What had the cursed Man done?

“A little more time, then,” said Garan.  “You will tell me all in the end.  Better to speak now than later, after much sorrow has befallen you.  Think on it.”  He raised his voice and said languidly, “Put him with his master again.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dorlic said loudly from where he crouched.  “This one’s mad as a hornet; there’s no telling what he’ll try.”

Garan paused for a moment.  “Very well.  Keep them on opposite sides of the camp.  Let them be denied the comfort of each other.”

“But that will mean two guards,” Vannil complained.

One of the Men near the fire snorted.  “Always wanting to shirk your responsibilities, aren’t you, Vannil?”

“You will all stay awake and on guard if that is what it takes to hold the prisoners,” said Garan.  “But as long as they are securely bound, one guard apiece will be enough.”

“The Elf could do with some subduing,” said Dorlic.  “If he were to get loose –”

“He will not get loose,” Garan snapped.  “Wrap him with a few extra lengths of cord if it will make you feel better; he can work out some of his frustration on one of Brund’s knots.  He’ll not get far on it.  Or stay up all night and guard him yourself, if you prefer.”

Dorlic swore, but not loud enough for Garan to hear.

In short order Brund had shuffled over to where Legolas lay.  Dorlic kept his knee on Legolas’ back while the bigger Man wrapped and knotted still more rope around his wrists.  Legolas tried to flex his fingers when Brund at last removed his hands, and found that he could move them but little.  At least my hands will be warm this night, he thought bitterly.

“Better tie it off to that root over there,” said Dorlic.

Legolas heard the scrape of Brund’s feet against the ground as he shuffled off to anchor the rope.  Disappointment cut him; he had been unable to prevent himself from hoping that he would be left free on the ground even though he had known it would be unlikely.  If he was bound hand and foot as well as tied to something else, it would make it much more difficult to escape.

“There,” said Brund.  “He’ll not go running off now, not with those knots in place.”

“They’re not enough to satisfy you, though, are they, Dorlic?” Vannil muttered sourly.

“I won’t be satisfied until the Elf is dead,” Dorlic declared.  He put his mouth close to Legolas’ ear again and hissed, “Remember what I said.  Soon.”  He stood up, ridding Legolas of his touch at last, and left for the fire.  Vannil and Brund followed, and soon the sounds of quiet conversation were drifting away on the cold breeze.

With Dorlic’s knees gone, Legolas was free to move at last.  He rolled until he was facing the fire and looked about for Sam, but he could not see the hobbit anywhere.  Either the Men or the flames were blocking him from view.

Legolas resigned himself to feeling at his bonds again – as well as he could, at least.  Garan had not been boasting; Brund’s knots were indeed a puzzle.  He doubted if he would be able to do more than loosen them a little before morning came, but he did not dwell on that.  Garan had effectively stolen most of his hopes; he needed something to work at, something that he might be able to have some effect on, however unlikely his chances of success were.

What had Garan done to Sam, Legolas wondered?  Had he caused him pain?  Had he conjured up a vision?  Had he touched the hobbit’s mind?  It had only been momentary, but it could have been anything.  Now only Sam knew for certain whether Garan was a sorcerer, but Legolas would have wagered much that the Man employed the black arts.  It did not really matter which of the three he had done, if any; all were deadly enough that Sam had to be freed immediately, whatever the cost.

Legolas no longer thought that he could or should wait for a good chance of escape to present itself.  Garan was tightening the noose.  Sam had been able to withstand blows, but Legolas did not know whether he would be able to employ the mental defenses necessary to resist a sorcerer.  Perhaps he could – he had outstripped all of Legolas’ expectations so far – but there was no reason to chance it.  If no window would appear, Legolas was determined to make a hole in the wall, and if he could not make it tonight, he would make it tomorrow.  They would have to untie his hands for him to be able to carry the litter; that would likely be his best chance.  It would be then or at midday when the Men were busy with food in their hands instead of their weapons.  He did not feel that he could afford to wait for the evening’s halt; he would be tired by then, and Garan would already have assaulted Sam again.  Legolas thought it a shame that he had not been able to convince Sam of the need for him to run; he would have to trust that Sam would make the right decision once he acted.

Dejectedly, Legolas wondered what had become of the rest of the Fellowship.  It had been more than three days since the river had separated him and Sam from their companions, and though he had not been able to see the river since yesterday, Legolas was not sure that they were still being looked for.  In other circumstances he might have felt more hopeful, but these had left him devoid of optimism.  If Aragorn and Mithrandir were still searching, then they might now be close enough to see the Men’s fire on the clifftop and wonder, but Legolas did not dare depend on such a slim possibility.  Rescue would not likely come from the Fellowship due to the need to protect Frodo and the Quest.  And even if rescue was coming, it could not possibly come in time.  No; there was no one to rely on but himself, for he had lost even Sam now.  He was not surprised to find that he greatly missed the hobbit’s warmth and companionship.

Legolas twisted his wrists.  If he had managed to create any slack in the ropes, he could not tell, but he could sooner have stopped breathing than trying.  He would sleep a little later on to keep up his strength for the task that lay ahead of him.  If Garan was everything that he feared then the morrow’s dawn was likely the last he would ever see, but the rising of the sun would also bring opportunity – and with luck, Sam’s freedom.  Until then, it would be a long, cold night.

A/N: I think the story warrants its rating here.

Chapter 10: Crime and Punishment

Sam lay quietly on the rocky ground, sucking on a cut on his lower lip.  Garan had given it to him a few hours ago, and though it had long ceased to sting, he could not seem to leave it alone.  His face was turned toward the shadowy lumps that marked sleeping Men and dogs.  Two of the Men were awake and standing on opposite sides of the camp.  The one nearest Sam was Erich, and he knew that the one guarding Legolas was Jakov, although he could not see the Man’s face.  He had overheard Garan assigning guard duty.  Brund and Hoddis would take over for Erich and Jakov, and after that, Daerid and Dorlic would be roused.

Erich was pacing back and forth, only occasionally glancing in Sam’s direction.  Sam kept a close watch on him, closing his eyes whenever it looked like the Man was going to turn his way.  He did not want Erich to know that he was awake and trying to escape from his bonds.  The movements of his hands behind his back made no noise and were not visible in the darkness, not to the eyes of a Man who expected no trouble in the first place, but Sam did not want to take the chance of the fire’s embers being reflected in his eyes.  The bodies of the sleepers did not entirely block his sight of the coals.

Sam had not made much progress on the knots; it seemed that Brund knew what he was about.  Sam still thought there had to be a secret to undoing them though he had not been able to puzzle it out yet.  The bonds had been tied very tightly this time, leaving him little room for maneuvering.  The fatigue he felt was probably hindering him, too.  The aches in his limbs felt like more than mere tiredness after a long day’s march, and the sore throat he had found upon waking that morning had since blossomed into something rather painful.  If only his fingers were longer!  He wondered if Legolas was still awake on the far side of the camp, trying his own knots.  He certainly had long fingers; perhaps he would have better fortune.

Sam hoped that Legolas was not fretting too much over the blows that Garan had dealt him.  He was bruised all over, and the treatment had not been gentle, but he had had worse.  His trip down the river had left him more battered than anything Garan had yet done.  At least his bruises from that adventure had begun to lose some of their tenderness before Garan had started adding more.  But he would not be so lucky again; Garan seemed to be getting the idea that he was not being forceful enough.  Sam still thought that he could endure more than Legolas gave him credit for, but he was hardly eager to test his limits.

The conversation between Garan and Dorlic regarding Saruman had been enough to convince Sam of the need to escape – immediately – and the evening’s events had only heightened his sense of urgency.  He was confused and more than a little bit frightened by what Garan had done, and he still did not entirely understand what had happened.  The Man had alluded to other ‘resources’ before, but this was the first time that he had made himself plain.  Garan had pushed Sam’s head to one side, and Sam’s eyes had fallen upon Legolas, tied hand and foot, pressed to the earth by Dorlic’s knee.  Vannil, the rat-faced fellow, had been standing over them both with his sword drawn.  In that moment, Sam had been certain that Garan meant to harm Legolas, and harm him badly.  He had made some kind of panicked, verbal protest, though he could not remember what he had said.  And then Garan had seized him roughly by the chin and forced him to look him in the eye. 

The only way Sam could think of to describe what had happened was that it was as if all of his senses had been instantly sharpened.  He had been able to see individual strands of Garan’s hair twisting about in the cold breeze even though it was far too dark for that to be possible.  He had smelled the stale odor of old sweat on Garan, and the bitter taste of the blood on his lip had been magnified tenfold.  He had become aware of his sweaty shirt sticking to his chest and coarse fibers from the ropes pricking his wrists.  And Garan’s voice had boomed inside his head somehow, echoing off his skull.  You cannot hide from me, it had said, though Garan’s lips had never moved.  Sam knew that they had not even though his eyes had been transfixed by the Man’s own.  Dark as the night, they had burned terribly, and Sam had been seized with the fear that his enemy could see his thoughts.  He had strained to look away, to turn his eyes to something else, but the air seemed to have turned to stone around him.

And just like that, Garan’s fingers had left his face and the spell had been broken.  Sam had lain there on the ground, staring up at the suddenly dull sky above him.  His body had felt light after its sudden release from the force that had paralyzed it.  Garan had become veiled in shadow once more, but Sam had still been able to see the look of satisfaction on his face.  “There.  I think you begin to see,” he had said.

Sam did begin to see.  Legolas had been right; Garan was a sorcerer, or something like one.  What had happened to him was not natural.  Garan speaking inside his head without ever moving his lips was more than enough to tell him that, even without the heightened sensations he had felt.

Sam had been very quiet after Garan released him.  He had not tried to resist when he was carried off to one side of the camp and tied there, and he had neither looked at his guard nor spoken to him.  He had not even been aware of the cold.  The only other feeling he had noted was relief that Legolas had not been impaled on Vannil’s sword.

Thoughts of Legolas turned Sam’s memory back to the breathless conversation they had had that night, just before Garan had dragged them apart again.  He remembered the anger he had felt at Legolas’ suggestion that he should flee – alone.  His affront had only increased when he realized why Legolas wanted him to go; the Elf thought he would betray Frodo if Garan were given enough opportunities to try and wrest information from him.  Sam had been dumbfounded by Legolas’ obtuseness; he could more easily sprout wings and fly away than betray his master.  But then Legolas had taken that very point and used it against him.

Legolas’ question about where his loyalties lay had caught Sam unaware, and while he was still reeling, the Elf had knocked him flat with his talk of the Men’s cruelty.  Sam had already known full well that Garan intended to do him great injury, but his feelings about that had changed by the time Legolas finished speaking.  He didn’t think that Legolas would lie or frighten him just to get him to agree to run.  Sam almost wished that Legolas had lied to him; that would surely have been better than knowing that the Elf firmly believed every word that he was saying.  Stay and you will meet death, Samwise.  Somehow, the danger around Sam now seemed much more imminent and real.  He wished Legolas hadn’t laid matters out so starkly.

What am I going to do? Sam wondered desolately.  He hadn’t thought of wanting to stay with Legolas as choosing sides between him and Frodo, but somehow Legolas had made it seem like that was exactly what he was doing.  Could he really hold his tongue?  If Legolas had planted the seed of doubt in Sam’s mind, Garan had made it sprout and put forth leaves.  Assaults upon his body he thought he could handle; he could make the choice whether to hold his tongue and let it continue or to talk and make it stop.  But if Garan could see inside his mind, could he hide his thoughts?  Would he have any choice at all, or would everything he knew simply be taken from him?  Sam did have a small hope that the Man couldn’t simply read his mind; if he could, then he probably would have done so long ago.  Yet the thought did not give him much comfort, tied up and surrounded by enemies as he was.

Sam’s encounter with Garan had disturbed him enough that he was now willing to consider Legolas’ point of view on escaping.  But if he did find a way to escape – and used it – what would happen to his companion?  Legolas had been badly shaken upon hearing what Garan and Dorlic had said to each other.  Sam had been hardly less sickened when Legolas finally explained the riddle to him.  How anyone could want to do such a thing to an Elf, he could not imagine.  Sam could not conceive of an Elf ever doing anything truly wicked, and for them to be turned into instruments of the Enemy against their will….  It did not bear thinking of.

Sam doggedly continued to pluck at the knots with his fingertips while he weighed his options.  Garan would lose a good deal of leverage against one of his hostages if the other was beyond his reach, so Legolas might have a better chance of escaping if he vanished.  Yet Sam thought it unlikely that Legolas would be able to do it without help; he was very closely watched.  Even if he was gone and Legolas was free to start a fight, he probably wouldn’t win it.  One against nine out in the open seemed like long odds, and that wasn’t even counting the dogs.  And if Legolas couldn’t escape and wasn’t rescued, he would be lost to the dungeons of Isengard.  Sam knew that he couldn’t count on luck.  He would have to get free first and then find a way to help Legolas.

But how could I possibly help him? thought Sam.  He was too small and inexperienced with weapons to be able to fight the Men himself, and if he got away the watch on Legolas would only double.  He probably wouldn’t be able to sneak back to camp and untie him.  Perhaps if he found the rest of the Fellowship and brought them back…!  But that depended on finding the others in a timely fashion, which he might never do; and even if he did find them, a rescue attempt might be deemed too risky.

Sam reluctantly had to admit to himself that if he stayed he would only be buying time, for eventually Garan would decide to try hurting Legolas instead of hurting him.  If he left, the Men would have no one else to question but Legolas.  Garan had been exercising restraint in his own case, thinking that hobbits could not bear very rough treatment, but he would be brutal with an Elf.  Sam would have wagered all the sheep in the Shire that even Legolas wouldn’t be able to stay silent forever.

The whole mess all seemed to boil down to a few hard truths.  He and Legolas could remain together and wait for an opportunity to escape, but if that opportunity never came, they would both end up in Isengard.  Or he could escape alone and leave Legolas with a ghost of a chance of freeing himself.  Of course, Sam had to actually escape first.  He didn’t think he would manage to undo his bonds that night, but perhaps he could run the next time the cords were removed.  The Men would not be expecting it, and he could probably duck into the nearby trees before anyone could loose an arrow.  The dogs might present a problem, but if he ran fast and had enough of a headstart, he could run across his own trail a few times and confuse them.  It would be touch-and-go at the very least, but if he could evade his pursuers, he could continue heading away from the cliff’s edge afterwards – for a while, at least.  From what he could tell the sparse smattering of trees quickly became a forest.  He could hide among the trees – up one, if he could climb unseen – and wait until the Men moved on.  And after that… well, he didn’t know what he would do.  He would have to think about that when the time came.

With a start, Sam suddenly became aware that he had made his decision.  If the chance came, he was going to run.  The realization was painful.  Even though every other option he had considered was worse, he could not help feeling like a coward.  Legolas would certainly have approved of the plan, but that didn’t change the fact that Sam was going to abandon him to his fate.  He didn’t want to leave Legolas – he had promised! – but what could he do?  There was pain in Legolas’ future whether he escaped or not.  It seemed that the only way he could possibly help Legolas, Frodo, or himself now was by breaking his promise.

Tired and heartsick, Sam finally stilled his fingers.  He was getting nowhere, and he needed to rest if he was going to outrun the Men the next day.  He was quite sure that he was getting sick, and sickness would leave him slow and weak if it truly got hold of him.  He would have to escape on the very first try.  If he were caught he would very likely find himself wishing that he had never been born, and Garan would do something horrid to Legolas to punish him.

The only real problem with Sam’s plan was that he would have to leave at the instant an opportunity presented itself, and that meant not saying goodbye to Legolas.  Sam knew that Legolas would understand, but that knowledge did not give Sam any comfort, and understanding would not keep Legolas company after he had been forsaken.

Sam closed his eyes.  He had settled on what to do now, but he wished there had been another way, one that did not make him shed tears of regret.

------------------------------------

“Get up, Halfling.”

Sam’s eyes opened.  Blearily he noted a long pair of legs before him.  One was moving, pushing the toe of a boot insistently against his side.

“Up with you, or you’ll walk on an empty belly today.”

Sam inhaled slowly, remembering what he had decided the night before.  Not only was it morning, it was the day of his escape – hopefully.  He felt suddenly tense, as if the Men would be able to read his thoughts on his face.  Just act like yourself, he told himself, and they’ll not spare a second thought for you.

Sam hauled himself to a sitting position and promptly forgot his nerves.  It was not easy to sit up with his feet tied and his hands bound behind him, and on top of that, every inch of him was aching.  He winced when he swallowed, feeling how rough and constricted his throat had become.  If he had been back in the Shire, he would have tucked himself into bed with some hot broth and a whole pot of tea.

“You don’t look so well.”

Sam looked up at the owner of the legs.  It was Jakov, who was looking down at him in a considering fashion.  Sam gazed back as steadily as he could manage and fought the urge to cough.  It would not do to let anyone know how just how ill he really felt; Garan would pounce on him if he suspected.  “I’m all right,” he said, though his voice was hoarse.

Jakov shrugged and tossed the end of a loaf of bread and a waterskin into Sam’s lap.  “Eat quickly.  We’ll be leaving soon.”

Sam looked at the food and back at Jakov.  It was the simple truth that he could not possibly pick up either the bread or the waterskin with his hands still tied behind his back, but he was hesitant to speak.  What if the Man decided he was being cheeky and exacted a reprisal?  He wanted this morning to pass quietly; he wanted to be below everyone’s notice.  What was more, he needed his hands to be untied if he were going to escape.  He did not think he would get far with his hands bound behind him.  Why did Jakov have to make him ask?

“I can’t….  My hands,” Sam muttered.

Jakov blinked, not understanding; then it came to him, and he rolled his eyes.  “Very well.  I suppose it must be that way, since Garan insists that you eat.”  He crouched down and began fumbling with the cords.  “Myself, I would be just as happy to feed you less, even if it meant I had to carry you.  You don’t look like too heavy a burden.  We could put you up on the litter with Whit.”

Sam’s heart lurched.  Surely they wouldn’t!  He’d never get free if they decided to starve him.  He was already very hungry as it was; he’d had nothing even approaching a proper meal since being captured.

Sam could not suppress a shiver when a gust of wind raced over the clifftop and flattened his hair against one side of his head.  It was very cold where he sat, and the wind made it colder.  Cold seemed to have seeped into his bones.  He had missed the warmth and protection of Legolas’ body last night.

The ropes loosened about Sam’s wrists, but before he could move, Jakov enclosed one in each hand and drew them together in front of him.  Without delay he began wrapping the rope back in place.

“What are you doing?” Sam exclaimed.  The Men had never failed to untie his hands to allow him to eat before.

Jakov gave him a wry look.  “You can pick up food this way.  Find a way to manage it, for you’ll not be fed by any of us.”

Sam stared at Jakov, but the Man merely tied off his knot, quirked an eyebrow at him, and stood up.  He walked only a few paces away before crossing his arms and lounging on his heel.

Sam’s heart seemed to have sunk into his feet.  So that’s the way it’s going to be, he thought dejectedly.  Are they afraid I might run?  Jakov was not watching him at every moment, but his eyes flickered to him as often as they roamed the rest of the camp, and he was standing too close by for him not to notice any movement on Sam’s part.  His hands were going to remain tied – for the time being, at least.  And his feet were still tied, too.  Well, he might be able to get along with his hands still bound in front of him, but his feet would have to be loosed if he were going to get away, and it did not look like anyone was going to free his legs until it was time to leave.

Sam reached down toward the ground and plucked at the food.  It should not have been difficult to pick it up – all he had to do was spread his palms apart a little and wrap his fingers around the bit of bread – but his fingers were stiff with the cold and did not want to bend.  It took two failed tries before he was able to grasp the loaf between his hands.  He brought it swiftly to his mouth and bit in, too hungry to care that the bread was hard.  That it was bread was enough.

The wind was still gusting, alternately plastering Sam’s cloak against his body and sucking it away.  He was not surprised to see gray, low-hanging clouds covering the sky for as far as he could see.  The bitter tang in the air carried the promise of snow.  Sam wondered if the Men would bother to wrap him up in anything more than his cloak if it snowed that night.  If they did not, he would be in bad shape the next morning, if he woke up at all.  He didn’t think they would let him freeze to death, not when Garan was so keen to find out what he knew.  But Legolas, now – him the Men might decide to let shiver the night away.

Abruptly Sam realized that he was thinking as if he were still going to be present for another night in Garan’s company.   Of course he would be gone long before that if all went well.  He wished he had not thought about snow or what the Men would do to protect Legolas should it fall.  There was nothing he would be able to do about it, and dwelling on such thoughts only served to lay his spirit low.

The end of bread had vanished, so Sam took up the waterskin.  His fingers had thawed enough that he was able to uncork it while holding it between his knees.  He carefully gripped the skin in his fingers, raised it to his lips, and took a long drink.  The water was as cold as he already felt, but it was wet and very welcome.

Sam studied the Men while he waited for his mouth to warm enough for him to take another drink.  At the moment nearly everyone was busy breaking camp, a task which was very nearly complete.  The Men’s demeanors were subdued.  Gone were the jests that had been exchanged over roasted duck, but perhaps it was only the weather.  Sleeping outside in the cold did not make for good tempers.

Sam peered among the figures in search of Legolas, but he was nowhere to be seen.  He could see Erich standing still some distance away; perhaps he was performing the same duties as Jakov and was guarding his own prisoner.

“Are you finished yet?” Jakov said impatiently.

Hurriedly Sam took another drink, ignoring the headache that formed between his eyes.  Better to endure chill headaches than to lose the water due to lack of speed.

Sam had only gotten a few good swallows of water down when he heard a shouted order from Garan.  “Jakov!  Get the Halfling up!”

Sam tensed further when Jakov knelt by his side and began working at the knots that secured his ankles together.  He watched everything over the mouth of the skin, including Jakov.  No one seemed to be paying much attention to him.  Was this his chance?  Should he run as soon as his ankles were free?  Jakov would certainly shout as soon as he moved, and the forest was some fifty feet off yet.  He would only get one opportunity, after all, and he had to be sure that –

Jakov pulled the ropes away from Sam’s feet and immediately clamped one hand down on his arm.  When he stood up he hauled Sam to his feet as well.  The movement took Sam by surprise, who stumbled and nearly fell.  Disappointment and relief warred within him.  He had had no chance to run, but perhaps it was just as well that he had not.  He had not counted on his legs being so stiff.

When Jakov started forward Sam had no choice but stumble along beside him.  They had not gone five paces before Garan became visible, standing in the center of the bustling camp.  Sam felt a now-familiar stab of fear pass through him beneath the Man’s direct stare, and all feelings of relief evaporated.  Surely he was about to be questioned again.  Legolas had been right; the questioning was getting worse every time.  Those pitiless eyes held the promise of pain.

When he reached Garan’s side, Jakov jerked his arm and let go of his charge.  Sam, who had been completely unprepared for such a movement, tumbled to the ground.  For a moment he just lay there, wondering at the utter lack of compassion in these Men, and then a quiet voice swam to the surface of his thoughts.  At least be glad that you didn’t land on your hands, Samwise.  Your wrist could have been broken.

Garan seized Sam by the arm and pulled him back to his feet again.  Sam held his breath, preparing to be assailed with words or violence, but Garan’s attention was elsewhere.  “Is the Elf ready yet?”

“He’s ready,” said Brund’s deep voice.  Looking around, Sam saw that Brund was standing beneath the back end of the litter, holding up a pole in each hand.  Whit was already reclining on top, and Legolas stood at the front as usual.  His eyes softened when they fell on Sam, and his lips curved into the barest of smiles.  Sam did not smile back.  There was something different about Legolas, but he could not determine what.  Only when the Elf suddenly flexed his fingers did he see the change that he had been unable to pinpoint: Legolas’ hands had been lashed to the poles of the litter.  Sam’s heart sank even further.  The Men were worried that they would try to run.

“We will walk quickly today,” said Garan.  “I want to cover as much ground as possible before nightfall.”  He reached into his belt, pulled a dagger from its sheath, and gave Sam a pointed look.  “Stay close to me.”  Sam quickly looked away when the Man began running his thumb over the edge of the blade.

The group set off in much the same fashion as it had the day before.  Legolas walked in front with the litter, Brund right behind him at the other end of the poles.  Sam and Garan were at the back of the line.  Everyone in between had their bows strung and arrows nocked.  The Men did not seem much more at ease than they had been yesterday when Legolas’ hands had been free.

Even from the back of the line, it was Garan who set the pace.  As he had promised, it was brisk, and Sam found himself trotting to keep up.  It did not take long for the exertion to make him uncomfortably warm, and soon he was sweating and breathing hard.  He wished Garan would slow down but he was not about to ask.  For his part, Garan mostly ignored Sam, though he did look down at him from time.

Time seemed to crawl by.  Motion had loosened Sam’s legs, but the rest of him still ached.  Breathing was unpleasant; he had to suck in large gulps of air to keep moving, and the cold irritated his already sore throat.  Sam did not know exactly how sick he was, but he did know that he would be in a bad way if he had to keep up such a pace indefinitely.

The wind continued to blow fiercely, sending the low-hanging clouds scudding across the sky.  Eventually most of the Men put their bows away in favor of holding their cloaks close to their bodies, a task that required both hands.  Sam clutched his own cloak around him, but the wind often succeeded in tearing it out of his grasp and snapping it behind him.  His ears hurt from exposure to the cold gusts.

At long last, the snow that had been threatening to fall made its appearance.  What started as a few stray flakes quickly became a steady flurry.  Sam looked up at the angry clouds and shivered.  Back in the Shire, such a sky would have had everyone shut up in their hobbit-holes by the fire.

The snow was falling thick and fast when Sam, who was finding it increasingly difficult to pick his feet up off the ground in such rapid succession, suddenly tripped over a rock and went sprawling.  His yelp of surprise caught the attention of the Men in front of him, who stopped and turned to see what had happened.  Sam could only just hear some of them chuckling at his expense; the wind was stealing most of the sound away.

Hurriedly Sam moved to sit up.  Garan would be ordering him to his feet any moment; it would be better if he could avoid drawing the Man’s ire.  But now that his body was down, it did not want to move again.  Sam closed his eyes and lay where he was, panting.

“Get up,” said Garan.

Sam’s muscles, fatigued from illness and hard use, refused to comply.

“Up!”

Sam tried – and failed – again.

“He cannot!” Legolas’ voice said suddenly, cutting through the wind.  “You have pressed him too far!”

“He will rise if I tell him to rise,” Garan said.  He sounded very sure of himself, and Sam thought he might even be right.  Fear of reprisal was a powerful incentive, and Garan knew that he had his prisoners between the hammer and the anvil.

One last time Sam tried to do as Garan wished, but a sudden cramp in one of his legs thwarted him.  “I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth.  He turned his face toward the ground, squeezed his eyes shut, and braced himself for the blow that was surely coming.

The blow never came.  After a few moments Sam opened his eyes and looked up at Garan.  He did not like the look on the Man’s face; it seemed… predatory.

“Perhaps you truly cannot.  I have been pressing you hard, and yet you are not even flushed.  I should have been red as a sunset if I had been moving as you were.”  Abruptly Garan turned his face toward the rest of the Men.  “Get a fire going, you lot.  And keep an eye on the Elf.”

Sam turned his head enough to see the rest of the group.  Legolas was watching him, and he looked uneasy.

“A fire?” said Dorlic.  “Whatever for?  It is not even midday yet.”

Garan did not look as if he liked being questioned.  He compressed his lips and worked his jaw from side to side, but he answered nonetheless.  “It is the right time to stop.  I require a fire.  Build it.”

The Men threw dark glances at each other, but no one raised another complaint, and soon they were all moving to obey.  Legolas’ hands were untied from the litter but only while he was under guard by four Men, all with their swords drawn.  Whit was carried to a patch of rocky ground near the eaves of the forest and set down there, whereupon he began constructing a frame for the blaze with the fuel that his companions were collecting.

Hoddis and Daerid took Legolas aside and secured his hands and feet.  In his usual fashion, Garan ensured that he would give no trouble by holding a knife to Sam’s throat.  Perhaps it was simply the grim mood of the entire company, but neither Hoddis nor Daerid seemed to want to take any chances with Legolas.  The two conferred quietly between themselves, and Sam watched as the two pressed him upright against the trunk of a tree and tied him there.  They took up places near the tree, but not too near it, and watched everything around them with tight eyes.

Garan let his knife fall away from Sam’s throat after Legolas was bound, but he kept Sam seated at his feet and watched him closely.  He remained silent while the Men worked and simply ran his thumb along his blade – back and forth, back and forth.  Sam had fully expected Garan to assault him once Legolas was secured, and he grew nervous as the silence dragged on.  What was the Man waiting for?  Why did he want a fire?  Dark possibilities filled his mind, some too awful to think on for long.  His eyes scanned everything restlessly – the Men, the trees, Legolas, the small fire that Whit had managed to start despite the wind and accumulating snow.  He could feel his heart beating fast in his chest; the waiting was making him afraid.  He thought about running and discarded the thought.  Garan was nearly sitting on him; he would not get two steps before the Man fell upon him.  But Garan was about to hurt him again, as sure as the sun rose in the East.  Sam thought of running again.  If Garan would just look away for two seconds, then he could at least try to get away.

Sam was wound so tightly that he jumped when Garan abruptly said, “That’s big enough.”  The Men who were carrying more branches to the blaze set them down by the fire and left them there. 

“You seem to be stewing nicely,” said Garan, looking down at Sam.  “I have been gentle with you thus far, but now you are sick, tired, and afraid.”

A swift movement caught Sam’s eye, and his head swiveled to see Dorlic straightening up from the fire.  Sam wasn’t sure, but he thought he had seen the Man thrust something into the new coals.  Sweat broke out on his forehead.  Whatever it was that Garan had in mind for him, he didn’t want to know what it was.  The Man’s hand closed over his arm again, and he reflexively tried to pull away.

Garan’s laugh was harsh.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

Sam shied away again.  Garan’s face made his heart quail.

“Defiant to the end.  You have done better than I expected you would, but you cannot hold out forever.”

Sam pulled harder.  Garan’s grip was solid and tugging against it hurt his arm, but he didn’t care.

“You look cold, stunted one.  Would you like to warm up by the fire?”

“No,” Sam said anxiously.

Garan walked forward, and though Sam planted his feet and tried to resist, he was no match for the Man’s strength.

“Oh, yes,” said Garan.  His voice became a hiss.  “You are cold, and very hard, but I will soften you.”  A particularly fierce gust of wind blew into them, momentarily knocking them both sideways a step or two, but Garan merely continued dragging Sam toward the fire.

“Let me go!” said Sam, his voice rising in pitch.  He didn’t care whether everyone knew that he wanted to run, now; all he cared about was getting away.

Upon reaching the fire, Garan crouched down and forced Sam to the ground beside him.  Sam twisted and kicked, fighting with all his strength to throw the Man off.  His movements were so furious that Garan was forced to use both hands to hold him down.  He was only distantly aware of the other Men gathering around to watch.

“Stop struggling!” Garan’s full-armed slap momentarily stunned Sam but did little to subdue him.

“Please!” Sam cried.  “Let me go!  I don’t –”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know anything!” Garan snapped.  “And I don’t want to hear any more about Rivendell!”

“I can’t tell you anything!” Sam said desperately.  The lie came easily to his lips; it was just as well, for his mind wasn’t really on what he was saying.  Every shred of his attention was on his frenzied struggle.

“Hold him down!” Garan ordered, and the next thing Sam knew, Brund’s hands were pressing his shoulders against the ground.  Brund kept him in place much more effectively than Garan had, but fear kept him fighting.  When Garan reached for the fire and drew Dorlic’s sword out of the coals, fear turned to abject terror.  Legolas had been right; he hadn’t really understood what it would be like to know that he was about to be tortured.

Garan leaned over Sam, sword in hand.  His eyes pinned Sam down every bit as strongly as Brund’s hands.  The worst part of it was that all emotion had vanished from his face; he did not even look angry anymore.  He simply looked certain – certain that Sam would talk.

“One last time,” said Garan, speaking up to make himself heard over the wind.  “Where were you going when we found you?”

For a moment Sam hesitated, wondering if there was anything that he could tell the Man that would prevent what was about to happen.  To his horror, some small part of him was ready to tell Garan whatever he wanted to hear – anything – even though nothing had happened to him yet.  That part of him was begging him to loosen his tongue.

But I promised, thought Sam.  I promised I’d help Mr. Frodo see it through to the end.

Mr. Frodo.  Tears leaked from Sam’s eyes, tears of hopelessness and defeat.  He could not give Frodo up, not while he was still sane.  That certainty quashed the panicking voice, but it brought no peace with it.  There was no way out for him.

Sam could not make his lips form the denial.  He shook his head.

Garan’s face darkened.  His free hand shot out to grasp Sam’s face, and before Sam could even think about resisting, it was happening again.

Every detail of the world around him was sharper to his senses.  The sky seemed darker than before, the air colder.  He could see snowflakes collecting on the shoulders of the Men and hear the wind coursing through the trees.  He even thought he could hear bark creaking.  And on top of it all, Garan’s voice crashed home in his head.

“I tire of this.  I will break you before this hour is out!”

Garan lowered the flat of the sword toward Sam’s face.  “No!” Sam croaked.

“You will beg to tell me everything – every secret you ever heard whispered in a dark corner!”

The blade came closer.  Sam’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.  The wind wailed shrilly, making the trees groan.

“Do you bear a weapon?”

Sam was paralyzed.  He even forgot about Garan’s eyes for the sight of the runes etched along the length of the blade, growing ever larger as the sword came nearer.  He could feel heat on his face.

“I do not believe that you are alone here.  Halflings, I was told.  More than one.”

Pain suddenly flooded Sam’s head, but it did not come from the sword that still hovered just inches from his cheek.  It seemed to come from nowhere.  Sam clenched his teeth, but the pain grew until he finally wailed with despair.

Garan’s eyes flashed.  “Are there others like you?  Tell me!”

“Garan!”

The pain vanished as if it had never been and the world suddenly became dull again.  Sam sucked in a breath of shock and relief.  For a moment he lay stunned, too shaken to think, but then he recovered enough to realize that the sword was gone.  He looked at Garan in confusion, but the Man was not looking at him.  He was staring wide-eyed in the opposite direction of the cliff’s edge.  Sam turned his own head in the same direction.  What he saw made his mouth fall open.

The wind, stiffer than ever, was tossing the tops of the trees about like rag dolls – but that was not what caught Sam’s eye.  The trees were twisting – not just the limbs, but the trunks as well.  Stiff bark splintered and cracked, some of it flaking away.  Twigs broke off the branches and flew through the air.  And then Sam saw, to his absolute astonishment, that some of the trees were waving back and forth with rapidly increasing motion and distance.  The three dogs were crouched low against the ground and barking incessantly.

“The Elf!” Garan shouted.

Sam looked at Legolas, who he had quite forgotten amid his predicament.  He was still tied upright to the tree, one of the few that was not twisting and bending by the trunk, and his hair and cloak were being whipped about just like everyone else’s.  Unlike the others, however, he was not watching the uncanny scene before him.  His eyes were tightly shut, and he was straining as if he meant to meld himself with the bole of the tree.

“Take him down, you fools!  Get him away!”

Too stunned to react immediately, Daerid and Hoddis goggled at Garan for a moment before their bodies moved to obey his commands.  Their hands fumbled at the ropes.

“Cut him down!” Garan bellowed.  “Move, you spavined goats!”

Sam gaped.  Garan sounded almost afraid.  In fact, he seemed to think that….  No.  It was impossible.

Two voices suddenly floated up out of Sam’s memory: his own, and Frodo’s.

“How does he do that, I wonder?  Disappear among the trees, I mean.”

“He’s a Wood-Elf.  You’ll have to ask him – but I doubt that he will tell you any more than that.”

Was it possible, Sam wondered?  Could Legolas be making the trees move?

The ropes holding Legolas gave, and Daerid tugged his arm so hard that he fell to the ground and rolled away, well clear of the tree’s trunk.

The trees’ violent motions did not cease.  They creaked and groaned and bent back and forth with such displacement that it was truly unnerving.  A few of the Men had begun to back away, but most stood rooted to the ground in astonishment, including Garan.  Sam did not understand it, but it did seem as if the edge of the forest was trying to throw itself upon the ground.  Even individual branches were flailing, making the trees look almost like extraordinarily large underwater plants.  But the limbs were not pliable enough to withstand such motion, and some of them began to break off with loud snaps and cracks.  The Men ducked as a six-foot branch sailed over their heads.

Suddenly a cracking louder than any Sam had yet heard sounded.  Sam’s head jerked toward the source of the noise along with everyone else’s.  It sounded again, and then Sam saw one that of the trees had splintered several feet above its base.  Jagged strips of wood stuck out from the trunk like long teeth.  Sam could hardly believe it.  The trunk was breaking!

CRRRACK!

Sam stared.  Another!  Another tree was splitting!

The sound of tearing wood suddenly emanated from a third tree, and a fourth.  The Men began to back up in earnest.  The dogs’ tails dropped between their legs, and their barks turned to whines.

The sound of the first trunk finally breaking was louder than Sam expected, even with the wind whistling around him.  The tree began to fall, propelled forward by its momentum.  The Men were staggering backwards, fighting to get away.  The dogs yelped and leapt wildly about.  Sam felt Garan tugging at his arm, and suddenly he was being dragged over the ground.  Brund and Jakov were pulling Legolas along with them.

The tree struck home with a heavy thud.  Branches shattered, crushed against the ground.  Sam felt a rush of air sweep over him and saw that a second tree was already falling, followed by a third, and moments later, a fourth.

Sam’s pulse was racing to beat horses.  He gained his feet and stumbled backwards with the others, Garan’s hand still gripping his arm like a vise.  The Men were shouting and the dogs seemed to be going mad.  Branches were snapping, trunks were splintering, and the wind was beating at everything.  It sounded like an entire house collapsing amid a gale.

A cry amid the din caught Sam’s ear.  “Help!”  He turned to look and saw Whit hobbling along, well behind the rest of the group.  The Man winced every time he put weight on his splinted leg.  A tree crashed to the earth just ten feet away, but Whit kept going, his eyes as big as dinner plates.  “Someone help me!”

Erich turned and made as if to return, but Dorlic seized his arm.  “You’ll be crushed!” he shouted.

Another tree was falling, just as suddenly and swiftly as the others had done.  Toward limping Whit.

“Whit!” someone shouted.

Seeing the gaping expressions on his fellows, Whit looked behind him.  The sight of the toppling tree startled him, and he tripped and fell.

“Move, Whit!” someone else shrieked.

Whit was seated on the ground, facing the trees.  Sam could not see his face.  He scrabbled backwards on his hands, but the tree was falling too swiftly, and a moment later he was hidden from view.  The impact sounded no different from any of the others. 

By now the rest of the Men had backed up far enough to be just out of harm’s way, but they hurried on until there was a good fifteen feet between them and the nearest broken crown of limbs.  Sam, whose legs had failed him when Whit vanished, was dragged the rest of the way.

The Men halted.  For a moment they all stood still, listening to the sounds of the wind and creaking trees.  No more loud snaps were heard; indeed, the trees already seemed to be moving less, as though the removal of the Men – or violence done to one of their number – had pacified them.

“Whit!” Garan barked.  Sam glanced cautiously at him, not turning his head.  The Man was breathing hard and his face was pale.

“Whit!”

There was no answer.

“Where are the dogs?” Dorlic shouted.

Sam looked around.  The animals were nowhere to be seen.

“Think one’s down,” Brund replied, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the wind.  “Other two ran into the woods.”

“Wretched troll-spawn!” Garan swore.  “They must be recovered!”

“What about Whit?” said Vannil, sounding more than a little shaken.

“Hang Whit!” Garan thundered, and Vannil took a step backwards.  He was not the only Man to do so.  Sam stiffened within Garan’s grip.  The Man was angrier than he had ever seen him; he looked ready to do murder.

Abruptly Garan pulled Sam over to Hoddis and thrust his arm into the other Man’s hand.  Without a word he stalked to where Legolas stood between Brund and Jakov, each of whom had one of his arms in one hand and a dagger in the other.  No sooner had Garan reached them than he lashed out with a fist, striking Legolas in the stomach.  Legolas’ body folded slightly with the force of the blow.

“Down!” Garan snapped, and suddenly he, Brund, and Jakov were all forcing Legolas to the ground.  Sam struggled against Hoddis’ grip, instinctively wanting to put a stop to what they were doing, but Hoddis merely squatted on his heels and wrapped his other arm about Sam’s chest.

“Dorlic!” called Garan.

Dorlic scowled at the curt summons, but he came nonetheless.

“Dorlic does not much like your kind, Elf,” said Garan.  “That much I think you know by now.  What you may not know is that he has been asking me twice daily to put you into his hands.  He thinks I should have done for you long ago, and I am not afraid to say that I was in the wrong.”

Sam looked from Garan to Dorlic in growing horror.  Dorlic’s astonished smile reflected the thoughts of someone who had been granted a boon he had long desired but not expected to receive.

“Have your way with the Elf,” said Garan, taking care to make his voice carry.  “I do not care what you do to him so long as he is alive, able to walk, and in possession of all his limbs when I return.”

Nausea and terror assailed Sam, making him dizzy.  He stared forward at nothing with unfocused eyes, listening to Garan pronouncing sentence.  He knew he should not have been surprised to hear it – it had only been a matter of time, really – but just a little more of that time had been all he needed, and now it was too late.

Most of the Men greeted Garan’s pronouncement with pleasure.  Vannil hooted and slapped Dorlic on the back as if in anticipation of good sport.  Jakov, Brund, and Erich joined him in laughter.  Sam could feel Hoddis’ body shaking with mirth.  He wriggled in the Man’s arms, trying to catch a glimpse of Legolas’ face.

The only Men who did not seem pleased were Garan, Daerid, and surprisingly, Dorlic.  Daerid was staring at Garan with an expression of pure outrage, no doubt because he was to be denied his chance at revenge.  Dorlic looked flabbergasted; surprise had taken the smile from his face.  “Where are you going?” he said.

“To find those blasted dogs!” Garan spat.  He stood up, letting go of Legolas, and Vannil quickly knelt to take his place.  “Brund, Erich, Daerid, with me.  Hoddis will guard the Halfling.  The rest of you will stay and help Dorlic.”

“Leave me more men,” said Dorlic, seizing Garan’s arm.  “You do not need three to help –”

“Be satisfied,” Garan snarled.  “I could still change my mind.  And I do need three to help.  We need the dogs.”

“But why?”

“Am I the leader of this band, or are you?  Take care of the Elf, and leave the rest to me!”  And with that, Garan shook Dorlic off and strode toward the trees.

Brund, Erich, and Daerid stared uneasily at the edge of the forest and remained where they were.  It did not take Garan long to realize that they were not following; he had not gone six strides before he turned and gave them a look that could have knocked a bull off its legs.  “Come,” he said flatly.  The three Men exchanged another look, but they did as Garan commanded and began to follow him.  The trees showed no sign of renewing their attack, but Brund, Erich, and Daerid did not look certain that they would not.

Dorlic replaced Brund when the big Man let go of Legolas.  To Sam’s dismay, Dorlic seemed to forget all about his misgivings when his gaze fell on the Elf.  There was a definite light of anticipation in his eyes.  “Well,” he said, “I am not one to turn my nose away from the scent of perfume.”

Suddenly, Dorlic, Vannil, and Jakov all reared backwards.  Just as quickly they leaned forward again, all their attention on the ground.  Legolas was trying to break free of their hands. 

Sam struggled in Hoddis’ arms.  The Man was not paying much attention to him – he had begun shouting encouragement to his fellows – but he was still holding tightly to him.

Dorlic abruptly jerked backwards with an angry cry.  The moment his hands flew away from Legolas’ body, Jakov and Vannil found themselves thrown back.  Legolas twisted away and managed to rise to his knees before Jakov grasped a fallen branch in his hand and swung it around.  The branch caught Legolas in the head with a sickening crack, and the Men shouted in triumph as he collapsed back into their arms.

“You fight!” laughed Dorlic, his injury forgotten.  “I like the fighters; it’s all the more satisfying when they’re finally broken.”  He and the others bore down on Legolas, pressing him back to the ground.

But Legolas was not giving up.  Sam had lost sight of the Elf’s face again – it was blocked by Jakov’s body – but he could see his legs and feet twisting, trying to break free.  Dorlic, Jakov, and Vannil bobbed and jerked as they worked to hold him.

“I told you he’d give you to me,” Dorlic rasped.  “I know just what to do first.  I’ll take your eyes.”

Sam gasped.

“Should’ve done it long ago!  You’ll be no danger to us blind, will you?”  Dorlic’s voice hitched whenever his body was shaken about by Legolas’ struggles.  “You can still walk that way.”  He put all of the weight of his upper body on whatever part of Legolas he was holding down and reached, one-handed, for his dagger.  Sam wriggled furiously in Hoddis’ arms when the weapon flashed out of its sheath.

“And I won’t just take them,” said Dorlic.  “I’ll ruin your whole face.  I’ve never seen a scarred Elf before, but I’m sure it would be a sight to behold.  And if I trimmed down your pointy ears, I’ll wager that you’d look almost human.”

Words burst forth from Sam’s throat; he could not have stopped them if he had tried.  “No!  Leave him alone, you monsters!”

Vannil yelped and tore one of his hands away.  “He bit me!” he exclaimed, staring at his hand.  His eyes shifted back to Legolas, and his face reddened.  He balled his hand into a fist, raised it high, and brought it sweeping down.

“Stop it!” Sam screamed.  “You cowards!  Stop it!”

“Shut him up, Hoddis!” Dorlic bellowed.

One calloused hand clapped itself over Sam’s nose and mouth, muffling his cries of outrage.  Sam twisted hard, battling to get free.  The smell of sweat and leather suffused his nose.

Jakov jerked as one of Legolas’ violent movements nearly rocked him from his knees.  “Feisty bastard, aren’t you?” he growled.

“I’ll settle him,” said Dorlic, and hefted his knife.

Sam fought as hard as he could against Hoddis’ arms.  Desperation flooded him.  He could hardly believe that what he was seeing was actually happening; the whole scene seemed to have taken on an atmosphere of unreality.  Hoddis’ hand was suddenly removed from his mouth; the Man seemed to want to use both arms to hold him in place.

“Stop it!” Sam cried again.  “Don’t!  Please!”  He could not help pleading with them even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good.  There was no shred of mercy to be found in any of the Men.

Even with his hands and feet tied Legolas fought like a wild thing, but each time one of his captors wavered the other two were there to prevent him from breaking free entirely.  Dorlic’s look of satisfaction had been replaced by frustration, but he did not seem to want to put down his blade.

“We need help, Hoddis!” Jakov grunted as Legolas’ feet nearly caught him in the gut.

“I can’t just leave the Halfling free!” Hoddis retorted.

“Then incapacitate him, you fool!” Dorlic snarled, keeping his eyes on Legolas.  His hands were grasping furiously at whatever part of the Elf they could catch.

Hoddis’ arms opened so suddenly that Sam, who had still been struggling against his confinement, staggered and almost fell.  He spun around just in time to see Hoddis’ arm rushing toward his face at full speed.  Sam reflexively threw up his hands and snapped his eyes shut, but he could not stop the Man’s gauntlet from catching him full in the face.  He felt a disorienting lurch as his body fell sideways.  Sharp jolts shot through his shoulder and left temple as they struck the ground.

Sam’s head rang.  He was only half aware of the distant shouts of the Men; all sound seemed to have been diminished.  He only seemed able to concentrate on a few things: breathing in and out, the feel of the cold, gritty earth beneath his right palm, and the reverberating throb in his head.

Sam shortly overcame the ache and his own bewilderment enough to think once again.  He might have been knocked for a loop, but certain events were still transpiring just ten feet away from him.  Thinking about that made the voices of the Men grow clearer once again.  They were still shouting, saying things that conveyed a mixture of eagerness, anger, and even grudging respect for Legolas’ last-ditch efforts.  But they were determined to maim him somehow; that had not changed at all.

Open your eyes, Samwise! Sam told himself even as he squeezed his eyelids together even more tightly against the pounding in his skull.  There may be nothing you can do, but you’ve got to try!

Sam’s eyes opened, and he found that he lay facing the Men, all of them still grouped around Legolas and struggling to keep him down.  Dorlic was not holding his knife anymore, apparently having decided that Legolas was not restrained well enough for him to use it.  For now, he seemed fully occupied in holding the Elf against the ground.  Sam could see sweat on all four Men’s faces, and –

Sam stopped breathing.  The four Men.  Hoddis had gone.  Hoddis had left him entirely alone and unguarded; he was part of the circle around Legolas now, working just as hard as the others.  But there was something different about the Men now.  They were not jerking and weaving nearly as much as they had been before Hoddis had joined them.  With four of them bearing down on him, Legolas was losing the fight.  Jakov seemed to have at least one of his shoulders firmly pinned, and Vannil was using his fist freely.

For a long moment Sam simply lay where he was, staring wide-eyed at the Men.  None of them spared him so much as a glance, either believing him to be subdued or having forgotten him.  His chance to flee had finally come, but now that it was upon him, he found that it was next to impossible to move.  His body felt as heavy as lead.  If he moved, would the Men notice?

“Get his ankles!  His ankles!”

No, Sam thought, they won’t notice.  They were entirely focused on the prize before them.  He screwed up his courage, drew a deep breath, and sat up, never taking his eyes from the Men.  Not a single one of them looked around at him, not even Hoddis.

Ever so slowly, Sam stood and began creeping backwards on silent feet.  He feared moving too fast; the Men might have forgotten him, but quick movements where nothing should be stirring might catch their attention.  He kept his body hunched as he walked, trying to make himself as small as possible.  Fear oozed along his bones like chilled molasses.

Abruptly Sam’s foot came down on something cold and lumpy.  He was so surprised that he jumped and nearly fell over.  When he saw that it was only one of the Men’s snow-covered packs – he had stepped onto a small pile of them – his relief threatened to drive him to his knees.  For a moment he had been sure that he had backed right into Garan and his companions, returning from their hunt.  His heart was drumming a rhythm in his throat fit to drown out his headache.

He was a good thirty feet away from the Men now and they still had not noticed that he had moved at all.  The fallen trees were very close; a few steps, and he could start slipping away.  He could even take Legolas’ pack with him, if he could get it wedged between his chest and his bound hands.  It was easy to spot among the others, being fashioned of a different fabric.

Sam’s eyes twitched nervously toward the Men when Dorlic jerked backwards again.  “Bloody…!  Hold him down!” he barked.

Sam let out a long breath.  They still had not seen him.  He bent down and grasped at Legolas’ pack.

A sudden thought shot through Sam’s head.  There were other packs in front of him as well.  What if his Westernesse dagger was in one of them?  He could cut the bonds on his hands with it!

Cautiously, Sam began opening the packs one by one.  His hands trembled as they worked; he wished he dared to move faster.  He felt terribly exposed standing as he was.  If any of the Men looked up….

Sam threw back the flap of the last pack.  His heart leapt at the sight of the sight of the leather-wrapped handle of his dagger.  He planted a foot against the hilt to hold it down, bent over, placed his tied wrists beneath the sharp edge of the knife, and pulled.  The blade passed through the ropes as though they were made of butter.

With a new sense of urgency, Sam thrust his dagger back behind his belt.  Only then did he pick up Legolas’ pack and strap it to his back.  It was overlarge for his small size, but it was not heavy.  He could adjust it later after he had lost the Men.

If he was going to go, now was the time to do it – and yet he paused.  He could not help looking over at the Men again.  Whatever control they had lost a moment ago they seemed to have regained.  They were steadier on their knees now, and more than one of their expressions proclaimed victory.

I should go now, Sam thought heavily.  They’ll see me if I stay.

But he suddenly realized that it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t just leave, not now.  He had not considered that his best opportunity to escape might come because Legolas was being attacked.  He’d thought that that would happen after he was gone, when he wasn’t there to see or hear.  But it was happening now, and he could both see and hear it.

Sam stood still as a statue, casting his eyes this way and that, thinking too hard to really see anything that he looked at.  He was half the size of the Men, and there were four of them.  He couldn’t possibly stop what was about to happen.

Or could he?

Sam threw himself on the pack he had found his dagger in, no longer bothering to move slowly.  All that mattered now was finding them.  He didn’t think that Dorlic had moved them since he had put them away.  They had to be in the same pack; he had seen Dorlic take his dagger, too.

Sam did not hesitate for one moment when his search of the pack revealed the bone-white handles of Legolas’ knives.  They looked almost like swords in his smaller hands, but he did not mark the fact as he turned to face the Men.  They had Legolas pinned down again, and Dorlic had drawn his knife once more.

Sam’s lips twisted into a snarl.  He didn’t know why, but suddenly he wasn’t afraid anymore.  He was angry – angrier than he could ever remember being.  His ire had never been easily raised, but he had never in his life had so much cause for wrath.  His body felt strangely light, his fatigue forgotten.  The pack on his back seemed to weigh nothing at all.

Legolas made a strangled sound in his throat.  Sam did not know exactly when he started moving forward; the sight of the Men swiftly drawing nearer was all that told him that he was running.  A yell burst from his throat, his feet left the ground, and he threw himself at the nearest Man.

A/N: If the last chapter deserved the rating, then this one certainly does.

Chapter 11: Over the Edge

Gimli sat on a fallen log, poking listlessly at a pile of stones with a long stick.  The stones needed no prodding, but he needed something to do.  Action of even of the most inane sort helped keep his mind somewhat occupied.  There was only one thing that anyone in the company could be thinking about, and though it was nothing anyone wanted to contemplate, it did not bear forgetting.

At present, the entire Fellowship – what remained of it – was seated in a rough circle, taking their evening meal.  No one had the heart to talk, so there was no conversation.  Dusk was falling early on account of the heavily clouded sky.  Gimli thought that sky reflected the mood of the company perfectly: overcast, cold, and grim.

It was no wonder that cheer was in short supply, for the third day had come and gone with no sign of either Sam or Legolas.  The time that Gandalf had allotted for the search had passed; in the morning they would find a way out of the gorge and continue on their way east.  In truth, Gimli had had little hope of success since coming across the pack and broken bow in the river.  He was no waterman, but he had heard tales of Dwarves caught up in spring floods on the River Running.  None that sank into those fierce waters were ever seen alive again.  Gimli granted that Dwarves were generally poor swimmers, but even if Legolas was not, he had been burdened with Sam when he was last seen.  Gimli did not see how he could have managed to swim without the use of his arms, and that was not even considering the river’s wrath.  He had wanted to hold out hope for longer than one day – he truly had tried – but he was too practical to bet on such long odds.

Gimli had discovered early on that Boromir shared his feelings.  The Man of Gondor had not spoken aloud of his misgivings for the others’ sake, but Gimli had known.  The grim cast of his face when his eyes fell on the broken bow was confirmation enough.

After Gimli and Boromir, Gandalf had become the next member of the Fellowship to accept the likelihood that Sam and Legolas would not be found.  He had stood gazing at the river while lunch was handed out on the second day, and when he had turned his face back to the others, his eyes had been shadowed.  Gimli had not been surprised; after all, Gandalf himself had said that he thought there was little chance of finding either Elf or hobbit after the close of the first day.

Frodo had been the next to fall.  Gimli had heard him weeping softly during his watch last night, and the hobbit’s heavy eyelids the morning after had had nothing to do with lack of sleep.  Seeing Frodo losing hope was hard for Gimli to bear.  It was Frodo who was closest to Sam, but he was far wiser in the ways of the world than either Merry or Pippin.  The Ring-bearer felt guilt at his feelings of defeat, and his pain was difficult to behold.

Of all the company, only Merry, Pippin, and Aragorn had remained fully determined throughout the third day.  Gimli had certainly not complained at the continuation of the search – at least they might find the bodies of their companions and give them a proper burial – but he had felt certain that they were only doing what was right by Sam and Legolas, and no more.  But what more could be done?  Sam and Legolas would either be found or they would not be.

Gimli had carried vestiges of hope within him for all three days – after all, there had been some chance that their companions had survived; it had just been very, very slim – but now he was allowing them to fade.  By the looks on the faces around him the others were doing the same, some with more difficulty than others.

Aragorn was looking at the face of the nearby cliff with a blank expression.  Gimli found himself wondering just how hopeful the Man had actually been of late.  Unlike Boromir, he kept his emotions off of his face.  He and Legolas had apparently enjoyed a long friendship, and Aragorn did not deny that he had grown very fond of Sam, but he was a practical Man with experience in hard living.  There was no way that he could not have known just how remote Sam and Legolas’ chances were.  If nothing else, he could have been keeping up appearances for the hobbits.  But he was the group’s tracker and a Man of honor, too; Gimli doubted if he could have given the search anything less than his all, regardless of the logic of the situation.

Merry and Pippin were staring at unremarkable patches of ground, their bread and cheese forgotten.  Merry’s face was like Aragorn’s, unblinking and smooth.  Pippin, who had been the last to feel his hopes crumble, looked disbelieving.  While Merry had been increasingly anxious as the day wore on, Pippin had been ready to charge ahead even after Aragorn reluctantly called a halt.  Only when everyone else had sunk to the ground did he seem to realize that it was done.  Now he had the same lost look on his face as Frodo and Merry, born of a sorrow that had deepened beyond tears.

Although it was dark and there was nothing to do, no one in the company made preparations for sleep.  Like the others, Gimli was wrapped in his own morose thoughts.  He wondered how far Sam and Legolas’ bodies had traveled in the river, though he thought it a little strange that the Fellowship had found neither one.  If a pack or bow could be caught on a branch, why not a corpse?  Of course, a corpse weighed rather more than either of those things.

Gimli shook his head.  Sam and Legolas were most likely dead, and that was that.  He regretted the loss of Sam, and not only for the hobbits’ sakes.  He had heartily approved of the gardener with his good temper and culinary skills, though he had thought that Sam was rather too innocent to be on such an expedition.  Of course, so were Merry and Pippin, at that.

Gimli even had to admit that he was sorry to lose Legolas as well as Sam.  He had not cared much for the Elf’s company, but there had been no denying his skill with that bow, and he had not actually been as bad a fellow as Gimli had been expecting.  They had sparred bitterly, but Gimli was in a reflective mood and also had to admit – if only to himself – that it had not been Legolas who escalated their quarrel.  Legolas had done no more than throw dark glances in his direction until Gimli had made the first insult.  At the time, Gimli had been thinking of his father and his captivity in Thranduil’s household, and he had been unable to resist pricking the son of the Elf that had wronged his family.

What’s done is done, thought Gimli.  Ilúvatar have pity on Sam – and on Legolas, too.

“We should all get some sleep,” Gandalf said suddenly, breaking the long silence.  Every eye turned to him, but no one replied.  “I am willing to take the first watch; I should like to smoke and think a little longer.”

“I don’t want to think any more,” Merry said softly.

“Neither do I,” said Frodo, “but I don’t know if I can help it.”

“At least try,” said Gandalf.  “You may drop off in spite of yourselves.”

“I will take the second watch,” Boromir said quietly, rising from his seat on a boulder.

Gimli smiled when he and Aragorn opened their mouths at the same time.  It seemed that everyone was willing to let the hobbits, the most crestfallen members of the company, sleep the night through.  Aragorn nodded at Gimli, indicating that he could speak first.  “It seems that we both want the last watch,” said Gimli.  “Another time, I would offer to arm-wrestle you for the duty.”

Aragorn stood up and stretched, turning to face the river as he did so.  “Another time, I would accept.  But if you are not overtired, I am willing to….”  He trailed off and squinted into the gloom.

Curious, Gimli turned.  It was difficult to see in the dark, but Aragorn seemed to be looking up and across the river.

Boromir had already turned around in an effort to catch a glimpse of what Aragorn had seen.  He peered into the darkness for a moment before saying incredulously, “Is that a fire?”

The hobbits jumped to their feet.  Gandalf stood, frowning around his pipe.  Intrigued, Gimli stepped closer to Aragorn and Boromir.  He came out from behind a tree that was blocking a portion of his field of view, and then he saw it – a small, flickering light atop the cliffs on the far side of the river.  It was a fire, although it was too far from the cliff’s edge for any flames to be visible.

“I see it, too!” cried Pippin.

“Sssh,” said Gandalf, but his heart was not in it.  He was frowning just as hard at the light as everyone else.

For a long minute the company stood still, staring at the strange apparition.  It was Merry who finally voiced what everyone was thinking.  “I suppose it can’t be Sam and Legolas,” he said.  There was a yearning note in his voice despite his words.  “They wouldn’t have had any reason to climb up there.  But if they did, wouldn’t they want us to find them?”  His face brightened.  “It could be a signal fire!”

“Perhaps it is the party of Men that passed us yesterday,” said Boromir.

“Would they have had any more reason than Sam or Legolas to climb the cliffs?” said Frodo.

“And how would they have done it?” Gimli put in.  “There have been many good places for climbing on this side of the river, but I have not seen an easy way up on the far bank since the flood.  I know rock.”

“But there is no reason for anyone to be here save us,” Aragorn mused, still staring at the light.  “How many people can be haunting this river?”

“So you think it is the Men, then?” said Boromir.

Aragorn shook his head.  “I do not know, but I intend to find out.”  He turned his eyes upon Gimli.  “How steady did that ledge we passed look to you?”

“It looked steady enough to me.  Do you plan to put your weight on it, then?”

“I do.  Perhaps if I can get higher, I will be able to see more of this group.”

“It is too dark for you to be able to discern much, even with the fire,” said Gandalf.

“At least I may be able to discover what manner of folk they are,” Aragorn replied.  “Men, orcs, Elves… it could be anyone, but my wager rests on our old acquaintances, though I do not know what they might be doing atop the cliffs or how they got there.”

“Too many coincidences,” Merry murmured.

“Indeed,” said Aragorn.  “Too many strange goings-on, and too many strangers.”

“But the climb will be dangerous,” Frodo objected.  “Even if the way up is easy in daylight, you won’t be able to see anything now.”

“I will be cautious,” said Aragorn.  He met Gandalf’s level look calmly.  “I must insist.  I will not be able to sleep until I have at least tried to find out who these folk are.”

“You must do as you must, then,” said Gandalf, “but I will go with you.  An extra set of eyes will not go amiss.  Merry, you will come as well.”

Merry blinked in surprise.  Pippin’s mouth opened and a look of indignation flashed across his face.  “Why does Merry get to go?”

“He will not be climbing, and neither will I, but we will aid Aragorn from the ground.  Merry has sharp eyes.”

“So do I!”

“Yes,” said Gandalf with a slight smile, “but you do have a tendency to make noise, my dear Took.”

Pippin closed his mouth.

Gandalf picked up his staff from where it lay propped against a rock.  “I assume the ledge you speak of is the one we saw just before stopping?”

“Yes,” said Aragorn.  “If I remember the spot correctly, it looked like an easy climb.”

 “It was – what? – forty feet off the ground?” said Gandalf.  “That is no short distance.  The way down will be more difficult than the way up.  Fetch some rope, Merry, just in case.”

Merry did as he was asked, and when he had dug a length of rope out of Bill’s extra baggage, he, Gandalf, and Aragorn made their brief farewells.  “There is no need to stay awake on our account,” said Gandalf as he stepped out of the circle.  “Choose someone else for the watch, and the rest of you get some sleep.”

“I suppose I should keep watch, then, since I volunteered for the second,” said Boromir after the wizard had gone.

“That’s all right,” Frodo said quickly.  “I’m not feeling tired anymore.  I’ll take this one, and you can still have the second.”

“I’m not tired, either,” Pippin put in.

Gimli laughed dryly.  “We’ll none of us sleep now, not until Aragorn returns.”

The four of them sparred halfheartedly, and the matter was only settled when Boromir pointed out that a forty-foot climb up and back, in the dark, could potentially take some time.  It was decided that Boromir would keep watch while the others slept – or tried to, at least.  The Man settled himself back on his boulder while Gimli, Frodo and Pippin took to their bedrolls.

Gimli snuggled deep into his blankets until only his eyes and the top of his head showed above them.  The night was bitterly cold, even more so than usual because of the wind.  He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.  Sleep usually came easily to him – being on the road had taught him to take rest whenever the chance came – but for once, he could not drift off.  His mind was full of questions and would not be still.  Who could it be on top of that cliff?  It made no sense for anyone else to be walking the path that the Fellowship was on, not unless they were searching for the Fellowship.  One band of roving Men was enough; another would be more than merely unsettling.

Gimli had no idea how much time had passed when the crunch of a foot on gravel caught his attention.  He sat bolt upright in his blankets, his hand reaching instinctively for the haft of his axe before he saw Gandalf and Merry standing just beyond Boromir.  The Man had reached for his weapon, too; it seemed that he was jumpy at the thought of enemies about as well.

Frodo and Pippin sat up every bit as quickly as Gimli had.  They had not been sleeping, either.  The moment Gandalf and Merry stepped back into the campsite, Frodo said, “Where is Aragorn?”

“He is going to sleep atop the ledge tonight,” said Gandalf.  “He wants to take another look at the strangers in the morning, when there is more light to see.  It seems a handy enough solution.  This way, he will not have to climb back down in the dark again.”  He bent down to a pile of baggage on the ground and began to rifle through it.  “Where is his bedroll?”

“Was he able to see nothing, then?” said Boromir.

“Oh, he saw something,” Merry said eagerly.  “He says they’re Men, and quite possibly the same ones as yesterday.”

Gimli and Boromir exchanged a troubled glance.  “Why does he say this?” Gimli asked.

“He saw a dog.  He says he can’t tell how many Men there are, but that there are at least five.”

“This does not guarantee that it is the same party, of course,” said Gandalf, straightening up with a roll of blankets in his arms.  “But Aragorn is right.  How many groups of Men – with dogs in tow – can be skulking about in this gorge?”

“So you think it’s the same people, then?” said Pippin.

“Aragorn has keen instincts,” Gandalf replied.  “I have relied upon them before, and I have no reason to doubt them this time.  Now, I am going to take this to Aragorn.  Stay here, Merry; I can find the way back by myself.”

“Wait,” said Frodo.  “If Aragorn stays up on this ledge, couldn’t he be seen tomorrow morning?”

“He’ll hide himself a little,” said Merry.  “There are some rocks up there, too, and we tied some old branches to his rope to get him started.  Besides, he’s a Ranger!  He blends in with everything anyway.”

Gimli lay down in his blankets again when Gandalf departed.  He could hear the hobbits whispering behind him as Frodo and Pippin questioned Merry, but he paid little attention to what they said.  He had not had long to look upon the Men the last time they had crossed paths, but he had seen them long enough to know that he did not like them.  Dark they had seemed to him, and dangerous besides.  He was sure that they were not benevolent folk.  How had they gotten up that cliff?

Gimli lay awake for a long time, thinking and wondering, before sleep finally came.

------------------------------------

Gimli shivered and pulled his cloak more closely about him.  The wind had picked up during the night, and now, during the last watch, it was quite gusty.  The cliffs behind him seemed to funnel the wind in either direction more than they blocked it.

It required a good deal of Gimli’s self-control to keep his eyes on everything and not just the clifftop where the fire had been seen.  That spot drew his gaze like a magnet drew iron, but he could not afford to be careless.  Earlier Gandalf had remarked that the presence of one group of spies did not mean that there were not more to be found.  Gimli did not mean to let anyone stab him in the back because he forgot to look behind him.

Gimli spared a quick glance at the five sleepers on the ground.  They would not have much longer to rest; dawn was not far off now, although the heavy clouds delayed its arrival as much as they had hastened the onset of darkness the night before.  All travelers in the wilderness slept and rose with the sun.  The Men on the other side of the river would behave no differently; soon they would get up, eat, and be on their way.  Gimli hoped that Aragorn would be able to get a better look at them this time.

Of course, thought Gimli, we’ll be off as soon as we’re certain that the Men won’t cause us any trouble.  It was the fourth day since the flood, and there was no reason to think that the strangers would delay their going.  Yes, their presence was strange, but so long as their path did not cross the Fellowship’s again, what did it really matter?

Gimli let the rest of the company sleep a little later than usual, thinking that it would take extra time for Aragorn to rise, see what he wanted to see, and climb back down the cliff.  But eventually he made the rounds of the sleepers, bending to shake each one awake.

As soon as Gandalf was roused he threw off his blankets, put on his hat, took up his staff and hurried off to find Aragorn’s ledge.  Boromir and the hobbits showed less energy, possibly the result of having slept little.  In the hobbits’ case, however, Gimli thought that there was more than one reason for their lethargy.  Last night’s excitement had helped everyone to forget – at least for a little while – that today was the day they left Sam and Legolas behind.  Morning light made it impossible to forget that the moment was upon them.

Breakfast was eaten cold as usual.  The Fellowship seldom built fires; they were signals in the darkness, and could be in daylight as well.  Still, this was one of those mornings when Gimli would have been very glad of a blaze to warm his hands by.  Boromir and the hobbits seemed to feel the same way; they rubbed their hands together and shot unhappy looks at the sky.

“It smells like snow, does it not?” said Boromir.

“Yes,” said Pippin.  “Look at those clouds!  I’ll bet it snows before noon.”

Frodo sighed.  Merry gave him a sad look and squeezed his shoulder.

Once the company had eaten and rolled up their blankets again, the company had nothing to do but sit and wait for Gandalf and Aragorn to return.  It was a quiet wait; Frodo’s mood had infected his two kinsmen, and they did not talk.  The three of them absorbed themselves in keeping their bodies wrapped up tightly against the wind.  Gimli and Boromir kept their eyes on their surroundings, often looking toward the far cliff.  It was difficult to keep from staring at it; Gimli could see an occasional figure moving around up there now, but only one or two at a time, and they were too distant for him to be able to make out their faces.  He wondered what Aragorn was learning from his higher perch; surely he could see at least a little more from there than he could from the ground.

At long last footsteps became audible, and Gandalf and Aragorn stepped back into the campsite.  Gimli and Boromir both looked up with interest, but the hobbits kept their heads down, barely acknowledging their return.  Gimli paused at his first sight of his companions’ faces.  Their eyes shone with what could only be excitement.

Without preamble Aragorn said, “I have seen Legolas.”

The hobbits’ heads snapped up.  Boromir’s mouth fell open.  For a moment all Gimli could do was blink in astonishment – he felt as if he had almost not understood Aragorn’s words at all – but then he and everyone else began to speak at once.

“Is he with the Men?”

“Is he alive?”

“Sam!  Did you see Sam with him?”

“Ssssh!” Aragorn whispered fiercely.  “The Men are not that far off.  These cliffs can easily magnify any sound that we make.”

“Is Legolas alive?” Pippin repeated urgently.

“He is, but –”

“Did you see Sam?”

“No,” said Aragorn.  The hobbits’ hopeful faces fell, and he quickly added, “But that does not mean that he is not there.  I was not nearly high enough to see the entire group, and Sam is not tall.  If he is with the Men, he did not come close enough to the cliff’s edge for me to make him out.”

The hobbits were looking at each other with expressions of joy mixed with trepidation, glad to hear that Legolas was alive but worried that Sam was still unaccounted for.  Boromir looked ready to burst into laughter, and Gandalf and Aragorn both wore expressions of serene gladness.  Gimli could not have stopped smiling if he had tried; the kindling of hope in his heart when all his expectations had died was a glorious feeling.  He did not even wonder at the fact that his exultation stemmed from the sudden appearance of an Elf.

“Yes,” said Gandalf, “this is a happy event, but all has not yet been told.  You did not let Aragorn finish; he was about to tell you that Legolas is a captive.”

Gimli’s smile slipped.  The hobbits looked every bit as startled as he felt.  “A captive?” said Pippin.

 “There can be no doubt,” said Aragorn.  “His hands were tied behind his back and he was being guarded by a Man with his sword drawn.  I am certain that these are the same folk we saw earlier.”

“Why would anyone want to do that to him?”

“Can you not think of a reason?” said Gandalf in his gravest tone.

Pippin nodded slowly.  “I’m sorry to say it, but I think I can.”

“How many Men did you see?” asked Boromir.

“I saw five Men and Legolas besides,” Aragorn replied.

Gimli frowned.  “Not ten.”

“There must be more.  Those that I did see were coming and going from view.  I could not see their fire circle, either; it was too far from the cliff’s edge.  It is reasonable to believe that any Men I did not see might have been near the fire, or what was left of it.”

“So Legolas is a prisoner, and we still don’t know what’s happened to Sam,” Merry said briskly.  “What are we going to do about it?”

“We are going to follow them,” said Frodo.  “Right?”

“Do you think we should?” said Gandalf.

“Don’t you?”

Everyone was looking back and forth between the wizard and the Ring-bearer.  Boromir had quirked one eyebrow in surprise.  “I had assumed,” he said, “that if our friend is a prisoner, we would try to free him.”

Gandalf held up one hand in a pacifistic gesture.  “Do not misunderstand me!  I do not want to leave Legolas in the hands of these Men, but remember why we are on this Quest.  Legolas would not want you to jeopardize the more important mission for his sake, and neither, I think, would Sam.”

A hush fell over the group while they considered this.

“You are the Ring-bearer, Frodo,” Gandalf said at length.  “Your judgment carries much weight in this matter.”

Frodo frowned at the ground as he spoke.  “We’ve spent three days looking for Sam and Legolas.  Now we’ve found one of them, and he’s a prisoner.”  He looked up and met Gandalf’s eyes.  “Last night I was sure they were both dead; today I know I was wrong.  I can’t bear the thought of not following, at least for a little while.  Sam may not be with Legolas, but if he isn’t, then we’ll never find him.  There’s nothing I can do about that.”  His face crumpled for an instant, but just as quickly it was stern again.  “Even if Sam isn’t there, we have to see if there’s something we can do for Legolas.  I don’t know what that might be, but perhaps we can think of something.  If we can’t… well, that’s a decision for later.”

Gandalf smiled sadly through his beard.  “It gives me no pleasure to remind you of your burden.”

“I know,” said Frodo.  “But sometimes you must.”

“What say the rest of you?” said Gandalf.

“I say we follow,” said Boromir, squaring his shoulders beneath his heavy cloak.  “I do not see how we could leave our companion behind without at least making an effort at aiding him.”

“Yes,” said Merry, and Pippin nodded.

“I wish to follow as well,” said Aragorn.

“And you, Gimli?” Gandalf prompted.

Gimli’s face darkened when the others turned their eyes to him.  He could see the speculation in their eyes.  They are wondering whether the Dwarf will show his prejudice, he thought indignantly.  But then, you did fight with the Elf quite a bit.

“I agree with all the Ring-bearer,” Gimli said aloud.  “Master Legolas and I may never see eye to eye, but he is a member of this Fellowship as much as I am, and I cannot in good conscience leave any ally to imprisonment.  Besides, I should very much like to know if Sam is with this group.  It would ease my mind to know what his fate was.”

“Then it is settled,” said Gandalf.  “We will follow the Men downriver.”

“But for how long?” said Boromir.

“That will likely be a decision for later, as Frodo has said.  It will certainly depend on any action taken by Legolas’ jailors.”

“If we are going to track these Men, we should start now,” said Aragorn.  “They are leaving.”

Gimli looked at the clifftop.  He could just see two figures moving, and they were heading downstream at a rapid pace.

“Get the pony!” said Gandalf, and Pippin hurried to untie Bill from the tree where he had been anchored.

“They are moving fast,” said Aragorn as he strapped his bedroll to Bill’s back.  “We may not be able to keep pace with them if we stay near the cliffs.”

“But walking near the bank will leave us exposed,” said Boromir.  “What if they should happen to look back?”

“We will lessen the chance of being seen if we do not follow too closely,” said Aragorn.  “I propose that I stay further ahead to keep watch on them.  If they stop to look around, I can hide myself and give warning to the rest of you.”

“How?” said Merry.

“A redbird’s call will be my signal.  Do you all know it?”

Everyone nodded.  “Let us hope that we do not hear any real redbirds, then,” Gimli jested.

“We will worry about that if it happens,” Aragorn replied.

“Let us be off!” Boromir said impatiently.  “They are on the move!”

“I will return if you are falling too far behind,” said Aragorn.

“Go, then,” said Gandalf.  “And be alert.”  Aragorn nodded and darted off among the boulders, heading for the riverbank.

The rest of the Fellowship did not wait long to follow. The Men were hastening on, and they would have to move quickly in order to keep up.

The group had not been walking for more than half an hour when Aragorn suddenly reappeared.  “You are losing ground.  They are moving very fast.”  He shot an apologetic look at the hobbits.  “I fear that in order to match their speed, the three of you may have to jog.”

“I’ll jog all the way to the end of this river if it means we can have Legolas back,” Merry said staunchly, and Pippin nodded his agreement.

“Let us hope that you do not have to,” said Aragorn, hurrying off down the bank again.

Gimli had not been included in Aragorn’s address, but he was not much taller than the hobbits, and he found that he had to trot at intervals just as they did.  The hard pace made him sweaty despite the wind, but he voiced no complaint.  Dwarves were hardy folk and did not balk at burdens that would have members of softer races begging for a reprieve.

The Fellowship kept its distance from the water’s edge whenever possible.  The river was nowhere near as fierce as it had been after the flood, but it was still running high and swift; Gimli could tell as much by the condition of the banks on either side.  As he hurried along he wondered what, if anything, they were going to be able to do for Legolas.  He was on the wrong side of the river and a captive of ten Men besides.  Even if the Fellowship could somehow get across the water, what could they do about the Men?  Gimli had no doubts about his, Boromir’s, or Aragorn’s abilities in a fight, and if Gandalf joined in as a wizard instead of a swordsman, it might be a fight that they could win.  The hobbits were not trained as warriors, and that left four against ten.  Gimli was not one to back away from a fight that needed to be undertaken even when the odds were against him, but he knew as well as the others that Gandalf had spoken truly about the Quest.  There were more important things at stake than Legolas’ freedom.

The younger hobbits kept up the hard pace admirably, but Frodo moved with increasing difficulty as time passed.  Eventually Boromir noticed the Ring-bearer’s red face and labored breathing and offered to carry him for a short while, and Frodo gratefully accepted.  Being free to observe his surroundings, he kept his eyes trained on the clifftop.

Boromir had not been carrying Frodo for very long before the hobbit softly exclaimed, “Look!”

Gimli looked where Frodo pointed.  High above them he could see a line of figures marching.  Two of them bore something long between them; it seemed to be riding atop their shoulders.  On top of the long something was another figure.  A litter, Gimli thought, but a sudden realization made him forget to wonder who was on top of it.

“It’s Legolas!” said Pippin.

It was Legolas, and he was bearing the front end of the litter.  There was no one else it could be; none of the Men could have moved with such strange grace beneath a heavy load, and his fair hair stood out among the Men’s darker heads.  Gimli felt oddly relieved at the sight of him.

“He’s at the front of the line,” said Merry.  “Why doesn’t he run?”

“He must have a reason for staying as he is,” said Gandalf.  “At the very least he is being watched.”

“It can’t be Sam on top of that litter,” said Pippin, clearly disappointed.  “Whoever it is, it’s too big.”

Pippin’s words triggered another unexpected thought in Gimli’s mind.  Sam.  What if the Men had Sam, and that was why Legolas stood with open ground in front of him and did not run?  He found himself looking sideways at Gandalf, and who looked right back with a thoughtful expression on his face.  Perhaps they were sharing similar ideas, but neither said anything.  Gimli did not think it wise to speculate on Sam’s whereabouts in front of the other hobbits.

The morning wore on.  Aragorn did not return again and no birdcalls sounded.  Gimli thought they were doing well, even though the effort required him to puff and blow like a lathered horse; the Men stayed well in front of them but did not appear to be gaining any ground.

Eventually Pippin’s prediction that it would snow before noon came true.  The heavy clouds that had been sweeping ominously across the sky let forth a small flurry of flakes that rapidly multiplied into a steady fall.  Gimli did his best to ignore them, but it was difficult to do so when they flew into his eyes and collected in his beard.  The hobbits were all beginning to show signs of fatigue, especially Frodo, who was on his own feet again.  Vaguely Gimli wondered if the Men would ever slow their pace.  He didn’t think that the hobbits could keep up all day.

A redbird’s call suddenly sounded, and the Fellowship stopped in its tracks.

“Back,” Gandalf said softly.  “Back into the rocks.”

Everyone moved as quickly as they could without making noise, herding both themselves and Bill into a cluster of boulders and scraggly pine trees.  Gimli stood as still as he possibly could, keeping his eyes fixed on the clifftop.  At the moment the Men were not visible.

Gimli let his hand caress the handle of his axe.  A part of him hoped very much that he would have the chance to fight the Men who had dared to take one of their Fellowship hostage.  He had never had a great deal of patience for diplomacy, preferring instead to solve matters with a show of strength.  A firebrand, his father had called him.  Gimli smiled with pride at the recollection.  He would much rather be known for having an impulsive temper than a silver tongue.

The company did not have long to wait in stillness before Aragorn approached them from among the boulders.  The stiff wind was swirling both his hair and cloak behind him, but he did not seem to notice.  “I think they have stopped.  Something seems to have happened; I heard voices.”

“What did they say?” said Gandalf.

“I could not tell,” said Aragorn, at last noticing his cloak and pulling it back around him.  “This wind!  It is stealing most of the sound away; unless these Men shout, I will never hear anything.  But I thought that perhaps Merry or Pippin could come with me and see if there is anything that their ears can catch.”

“Oh, yes!” Pippin cried eagerly.

Merry was scarcely less anxious to take Aragorn up on his suggestion.  “We’ll hear something.  I know we will.”

Aragorn glanced at Gandalf as if for concurrence.  The wizard spread his hands, and Aragorn nodded.  “Excellent.  As it happens, I have found the perfect spot for observation.  There is a split in the face of the cliff up ahead.  The upper half looks like an easy climb, and the part below is choked with debris.  I climbed a few steps in it, and it seems solid enough.  The three of us should be able to use it to reach the top of the cliff without too much difficulty.”

“A split?” said Gimli, greatly interested.

“Come and see it for yourself,” said Aragorn.  “The rest of you can remain concealed nearby while the hobbits and I go up.”

“All the way to the top?” Merry said dubiously.

“Do you remember the fissure we climbed through to reach the river crossing?  It is much like –”

A sharp, distant cry suddenly sounded, and Aragorn broke off.  For a long moment the Fellowship stood still, listening.  They waited long enough that Gimli was beginning to wonder if it had only been the wind whistling through the trees, but then they clearly heard another cry.

“No!”

Frodo’s eyes went wide.  “That’s Sam!”

“What?” exclaimed Boromir.

“How can you –” Gimli began, but he fell silent as yet another shout drifted down the gorge.

“Let me go!”

“It is Sam!” Merry cried.  “Where is the way up?”

“This way,” Aragorn said quickly, turning on his heel.

There was no hesitation on anyone’s part.  Aragorn darted through the boulders, and everyone else ran behind him.  Even Bill trotted behind Pippin, who was holding his lead.

Was that really Sam, Gimli wondered?  He had not been able to tell, but Frodo seemed very certain.  Frodo surely ought to know Sam’s voice if anyone in the group did, but Gimli thought it was possible that the Ring-bearer had only been hearing what he wanted to hear.  But whoever it was that had cried out, Gimli did not think it had been Legolas.

Aragorn stepped around one last boulder, and Gimli saw it at last: the split face.  A rift ran parallel to the river where a sheet of stone several feet thick had cracked off from the main body of rock.  The slab leaned slightly toward the water, leaving a narrow gap between it and the rest of the cliff.  As Aragorn had said, the lower half of the gap was stuffed with leaves, rocks, and branches, forming a steep incline that led to craggy chunks of rock above.  In Gimli’s opinion the first half of the path looked to be more easily descended than ascended, but it seemed passable.

When he saw the rift, Frodo darted forward.  Aragorn reached out and seized his arm just in time.  “Wait!”

“I am going up, Strider!” Frodo said firmly, shaking his arm out of the Man’s grip.

“I will not stop you,” said Aragorn.  “Only let me go first.”

A quick smile flashed across Frodo’s face.  “All right.  But hurry!”

“I am also coming,” Gandalf announced, moving to follow Frodo and Aragorn to the incline.

“Don’t forget us!” said Pippin.  “You said you needed our ears!”  He let the pony’s lead rope fall and darted after them, followed closely by Merry.

Boromir and Gimli looked at each other.  “Do you intend to stay here?” said the Man.

“Not for all the gold in the Lonely Mountain,” Gimli replied emphatically.  “I want to know what has become of Sam.”

“As do I,” said Boromir.  “I think it will be safe enough; after all, none of these Men will be able to see us climbing between two slabs of rock.  But we may not like what we see, you know.  If that was Sam, it sounds like he is in trouble.”

“All the more reason to go up,” said Gimli, tying Bill’s lead rope to a skinny pine tree.  “If these Men are injuring him, I will swim the river myself and teach them courtesy with my axe!”

Frodo and Aragorn were well into the crevice by the time Gimli and Boromir began climbing.  At first Gimli wondered at their traveling so far so fast, but he soon discovered that the footing was more solid than he had been expecting.  The incline was covered with a thick carpet of rotting leaves, but there was stone beneath them.  What was more, Gimli found that anticipation – and not a little bit of anxiety – gave his feet wings.

Gimli’s beard blew straight into his face when his head popped up above the top of the rift.  He irritably pushed it out of the way with one hand and threw his other arm down on the clifftop.  Conscious of Boromir behind him, he hurried to pull himself out of the way.  The rest of the Fellowship was already crouched behind some loose stones and low-growing brush.

Gimli’s eyes swept through the falling snow to the far side of the river – and froze in astonishment.

“Keep moving!” said Boromir from below him.

Gimli gave a start and pulled himself the rest of the way out of the crack.  He gained his feet and hurried to where the others knelt, keeping his head low so as not to be seen by the Men on the far side.  He needn’t have bothered; he could have bellowed a mining song and juggled fire on his way to the rest of the Fellowship for all the strangers would have taken notice of him.  They were standing transfixed on the clifftop opposite the company, staring at the trees.

At the moving trees.

Gimli was barely aware of Boromir coming to kneel by his side, his attention being entirely focused on the uncanny scene before his eyes.  The trees were twisting and waving back and forth in far too forceful a manner to have been caused by the wind.  Gimli could see branches and bark breaking off, sailing through the air in all directions.  The dogs were somewhere in that group of Men, barking in consternation.

“The Elf!” one of the Men shouted.

And that was when Gimli saw Legolas, bound upright to one of the trees.  A cold spike of fear stabbed at him – surely it was dangerous to be so close to such a phenomenon! – but then he realized that Legolas’ tree was not writhing as the others were.  Except for the branches waving in the wind, it was quite still.

“Cut him down!” the Man bellowed.  Two of the Men in the group were already working at the cords holding Legolas upright, and one of them pulled a dagger from his belt.  He slashed, the ropes gave, and Legolas fell to the ground.

A loud cracking sound tore the air followed almost immediately by another… and another… and another.  Gimli’s mouth fell open when one of the trees leaned forward dangerously.  Its trunk bowed outward until one side of it splintered into long, jagged strips.  Surely it was going to fall!  Gimli did not understand.  What was happening was not possible – trees did not come alive! – but he could not deny what his eyes saw.

The Men had realized what was happening, too.  Most of them were backing away from the edge of the forest with some urgency, and some of them broke into a run when the first tree groaned and leaned forward.  The Men who had cut Legolas from the tree were pulling him along the ground as they went.  It was no wonder they had to, Gimli realized; the Elf’s hands and feet were tied, making it impossible for him to walk on his own.

And at long last Gimli saw Sam, who was being dragged away by a tall, hard-faced Man.  Gimli’s heart leapt with joy, but that joy was short-lived.  The sight of the first tree hitting the ground followed quickly by another was enough to send his thoughts and feelings into a commotion.

“Help!” someone suddenly shrieked.  “Help me!”  It was a lone Man who remained near the eaves of the wood, hobbling away as fast as he could manage, which was not very fast.

“Move, Whit!” one of the Men shouted.

The Man called Whit stumbled and fell when another tree fell dangerously close to him.  Some of the Men shouted at him out of fear, but none of them tried to aid him.  Whit was scuttling backwards on his hands and feet, but Gimli saw that he was too late.  The hobbits gasped and reflexively looked away when one of the trees crushed him to the earth.  Gimli did not look away, and he saw one of the dogs meet its end in a similar fashion.  The other two darted between the toppling trees and fled into the forest.

The rest of the Men were clear of danger by now, but they kept backing up until they were much closer to the edge of the cliff than the fallen trees.  Slowly the trees’ motions abated, and the sounds of creaking and groaning grew less until the only sound left was that of the wind in their bare branches.

Gimli drew a long breath.

“Whit!” called the Man holding Sam called.  There was no reply, and he called again.

He won’t answer, Gimli thought.  Not now, not ever.  And if these Men have injured our companions, then good riddance to him!

A skinny, ratty-looking fellow spoke, but Gimli could not make out his words.  Sam’s captor’s answer, though, he could hear plainly.  “Hang Whit!”  The Man suddenly thrust Sam into another Man’s arms, strode over to where Legolas’ guards were holding him, and struck him hard.

“Oh!” Pippin cried softly.

“Down!” the Man ordered, and suddenly a group of his fellows were grasping at Legolas, pushing him to the ground.  The first Man called to another by the name of Dorlic, and the one he had summoned came to his side.  There was a long pause in which Gimli could hear only the wind.  And then, without warning, most of the group burst into raucous laughter.  Some of them slapped each other on the back.

“Did either of you hear any of that?” said Gandalf, turning to Merry and Pippin.

The hobbits exchanged uncertain glances.  “I’m not sure,” said Merry.  “Something about… he said he didn’t care about something.  I’m sorry; I couldn’t catch any more.”

Silence fell over the Fellowship.  Gimli felt a sense of foreboding as he watched Dorlic argue with the first Man.  Whatever they were fighting about, Gimli was certain of two things: the first Man was the leader of the group, and Dorlic was not happy about something.

The leader’s voice finally rose at the end of the argument, and every eye in the company turned to Merry and Pippin.  “‘And leave the rest to me’,” said Pippin.  “That’s what he said.”

To Gimli’s surprise, a group of the Men were leaving, walking in the direction of the forest – the leader, a very large Man, and two others.  The Men following the leader did not look eager to enter the trees, but they went.

“What’s going on?” said Frodo.

“I do not know,” said Gandalf, but he sounded uneasy.

“Look – there are only four Men staying behind,” said Boromir.  “Four have departed, and the fifth was felled by that tree.  That makes only nine altogether.  Where is the tenth?”

No one answered him.  No one knew the answer.

Three of the remaining Men were clustered around Legolas on the ground.  The fourth Man was the one that the leader had given Sam to; he was squatting several feet from the others with both arms wrapped around Sam.

Suddenly the Man called Dorlic shouted and lurched away from Legolas.  The other two Men quickly did the same, and Legolas propelled himself to his knees.  He was quick, but so were the Men; one of them, a thickset fellow, seized a branch from the ground and swung it around.  The Fellowship gasped as one when it caught Legolas in the head and sent him sprawling.  But Legolas was not conquered yet, and the Men jerked and weaved in their struggle to hold him down.

An unexpected shout from Sam cut through the noise of the wind.  “No!  Fiends!  Stop it, you monsters!  No!”

There was not a face in the company that did not pale.  Gimli found himself exchanging startled glances with Boromir.  The hobbits sat up on their heels, straining to see Legolas, but it was impossible to catch a glimpse of him.  The cliff on the far side of the river was higher than the one on which the Fellowship knelt.

 “What are they doing to him?” Merry cried softly.

One of the Men jerked away from Legolas again, shouting angrily.  An instant later he was pummeling his prisoner with one fist.  Gimli’s stomach did a slow somersault.

Sam continued to shout.  His voice was tinged with fear as much as rage.  “Stop it!  You cowards!  Stop it!”

Gimli heard Dorlic’s next words clearly.  “Shut him up, Hoddis!”  Hoddis clapped a hand over Sam’s mouth, but Sam was undaunted.  He struggled in the Man’s arms like a wild animal.

“They’re going to hurt them!” Pippin cried.

Gimli looked at the hobbit’s fearful expression.  Tears had sprung to his eyes, making him look even younger than usual.  Gimli was almost surprised to feel his own throat constricting.  Almost surprised – but not quite.  He had never thought to feel pity for an Elf, but Legolas did not seem like just any Elf anymore; unlike most, he was neither nameless nor faceless to Gimli, and the others’ concern for him softened his heart.  Sam certainly cared about what befell Legolas; his mouth was still covered, but his struggles continued.

Dorlic suddenly hefted a knife, and his fellows laughed.  Gimli’s hand clenched into a fist.

Hoddis uncovered Sam’s mouth in favor of holding him still, and Sam’s voice immediately became audible again.  His threats had turned to desperate petitions.  “Stop it!” he cried.  “Don’t!  Please!”

Gandalf turned to look at the others’ ashen faces.  “Don’t watch,” he said heavily, directing his words at the hobbits.

“We have to do something!” said Merry.  “We can’t let them…!”

“There is nothing that we can do,” said Gandalf.  “We cannot reach them.”

“You can stop them!” said Pippin, grasping at Gandalf’s voluminous sleeve with one hand.  “Wave your staff!  Make lightning!  Turn them into rats!”

Gandalf hesitated, and Gimli could see the conflict on his face as he looked between the far side of the river and Frodo.  “I cannot,” he said.  “It is not as simple as you think.  Doing such a thing with my power would be like a beacon for the Dark Lord.”

“But something terrible is going to happen!” cried Pippin.

“I cannot,” Gandalf repeated, and he sounded very, very old.  “The Quest before all else.”

Merry let out a shuddering breath.  Frodo took his hand in his own, but his wide eyes continued to stare at the scene on the other side of the river.  “I never thought….” he said, trailing off and wetting his lips nervously.

Gimli felt like Frodo looked.  He was by turns sickened and horribly riveted by the events unfolding before him.  He did not want to see anyone being tortured, but he could not tear his eyes away.

“Watch out, Sam!” Frodo gasped.  Hoddis had let go of Sam and raised his arm.  Sam spun to face him but was too late to stop the Man from striking him hard on the side of his head.  He staggered, fell to the ground, and lay unmoving.  Frodo’s face went white.

“We must do something!” Boromir growled.  “We cannot abandon them to this fate!”

“I can do something,” said Aragorn, and he reached around to pull his bow off his back.

“What are you doing?” said Gandalf, alarmed.

“I am going to shoot these Men!” Aragorn replied sharply.

Gandalf hesitated again, and Gimli suddenly found himself feeling sympathy for the wizard.  It could not be easy, he thought, to be in Gandalf’s position.  Gimli knew what his objection was going to be.

“Your greatest skill lies in the sword, not the bow,” said Gandalf.  “Can you hit all four of them at this distance, and quickly?  We cannot afford to let them run for the woods.”

“I do not need to hit all four of them.  If I can kill one or two, then Legolas will fell the others.  They will have no chance to run, and I can shoot them while they are down.  I am certain of it!”

“Too late!” said Boromir, interrupting them.

Gimli looked where Boromir pointed.  Sam had risen to his feet and was walking backwards, one careful step at a time.  The Man that had been guarding him was now with the others around Legolas, helping them subdue him.  Bent over their prey, all four of them seemed oblivious to Sam’s movements.  Sam kept his eyes on them as he backed away.

“What is he doing?” Merry whispered.

Aragorn grimaced in irritation.  He strung his bow and drew an arrow, but he did not nock it.  Gimli knew why the Ranger did not act, and why he was discontented.  Now that Sam was in motion, he did not dare call the Men’s attention away from what they were doing.  Any one of them could fall on Sam before Aragorn could fire a shot.

Sam was more than twenty feet away from the Men when he stepped on an uneven patch of ground, staggered, and nearly fell.  Gimli slumped in relief when he managed to keep his balance.  He could hear Boromir and the hobbits exhaling slowly.

The Men around Legolas swayed as the Elf rocked them with another effort to rise.  “Get his ankles!  Hold him down!” Dorlic shouted.

Sam waited, frozen, while the Men regained their balance.  Gimli squeezed one hand into a fist.  Every muscle in his body reflected his tension.  Move, hobbit! he thought violently.  Move!

And at last, after what seemed like an eternity, Sam moved.  He turned back to the object he had nearly tripped over and bent down.  Gimli had thought that he had stepped on some snow-covered rock, but when Sam picked something up off the ground, he saw that he had been wrong.  It was a pack, and Sam was standing in front of a small pile of them.

“Hurry up, Samwise!” Gandalf said under his breath.

Sam abruptly set the pack back down.  Gimli could have screamed for frustration.  It was pure luck that none of the Men had looked in the hobbit’s direction yet, and that luck could turn at any moment.

Sam began rummaging through the packs, one after another.  Gimli could not imagine what he was doing.  Why was he not running?  Did he think he could somehow prevent what the Men were going to do?  If he could, Gimli did not see how.

Everything suddenly became clear when Sam straightened and thrust a dagger behind his belt.  Gimli recognized it as like to the blades that Merry and Pippin carried.  Sam’s wrists had separated from each other; he had cut the cords on his hands.  Gimli held his breath, waiting for the hobbit to do something.  But Sam still did not move; he stood unmoving, watching the Men.  The entire company stared at him in bewilderment.  What was he doing?  He was going to be seen!

It seemed an age before Sam suddenly turned back to the pile of packs and fairly collapsed on them.  Gone were his slow, careful movements; now he seemed to be moving as fast as he possibly could.  When he leapt to his feet again, there was a long, white knife in each of his hands.  Legolas’ knives. 

“We’ve got him!” one of the Men shouted.  “Hold his feet, Hoddis!”

Grunts of laughter sounded, followed by a statement that was unintelligible to Gimli’s ears.  Silver flashed as Dorlic waved his dagger again.  Gimli could not tell if he had done anything with it – the other Men blocked much of his view – but a roar of approbation suddenly rose from the four of them.  Aragorn hissed, and in one smooth movement he had fitted an arrow to his bowstring and drawn it to his cheek.

A split second later, Sam launched himself at one of the Men with an almost feral yell.  It happened so quickly that it took Gimli a moment to register the fact that the hobbit had buried one of Legolas’ blades in the nearest Man’s back.

The heads of the other three Men snapped up to look at their companion, who was staring openmouthed at nothing, blinded by pain.  He let out a wail of agony and slumped sideways, and Dorlic and Hoddis jerked back in shock.  The third reached out to catch the wounded Man as he fell.

“Jakov!” one of them cried.

There was a sudden flash of movement, and the Man who had caught Jakov was flying backward through the air.  Another flash, and a spray of snow and gravel flew into Hoddis’ eyes.  He threw up his hands to protect his face and staggered away from the group, howling.  The last untouched Man was Dorlic; he bellowed with rage, unsheathed his sword, and raised it high over his head.

With three of the Men down, Gimli could plainly see Legolas on the ground.  The Elf rolled as Dorlic brought the sword sweeping down and was out of its path before it struck home.  He twisted, kicking out with his bound feet, and the Man went down, limbs flailing.

“Sam!” Legolas shouted.  “Free me!”

Sam had been staring at the scene, every bit as hypnotized as the watching company across the river, and he gave a start when Legolas called his name.  He tottered toward the Elf as if his limbs but not his mind had understood the command.  Behind them, the two Men that Legolas had kicked were rising to their feet, snarling.  Jakov was moaning from where he lay on the ground.

Legolas rose to his knees and stretched his bound hands before him.  Sam seized the knotted cord and hastily began to slice at it with the one knife he still held.

“Quickly!” said Legolas.

Dorlic groped for his fallen sword.  The nameless Man was rushing forward, drawing a knife from his own belt as he came.  Sam looked up, saw them approaching, and let out a panicked cry.

Quick as thought, Legolas pulled his hands out from beneath Sam’s knife and spun on his knees to face the oncoming Men.  At just the right moment he kicked out again, catching the one who gripped the dagger in the knees.  Dorlic shouted and swung his sword, but his aim was wild and Legolas ducked the blow.  Dorlic staggered as the force of his swing carried him sideways, and Legolas was instantly upright, balancing on his two bound feet.  He threw himself elbow-first into the Man’s side, and Dorlic grunted and went down.  Legolas dropped to his knees and thrust out his hands again.  “Finish it, Sam!” he cried.

Gimli’s heart climbed into his throat as Sam frantically began sawing anew.  Already the two Men were rising, lurching slightly but clearly determined to fight.  And Hoddis, who had received the faceful of grit, was wiping his eyes and pushing himself up off the ground.

Abruptly Legolas brought his arms apart in one triumphant movement.  He reached off to his left where Jakov lay and wrenched the knife from the Man’s back before Gimli could so much as blink.  Pippin yelped, Jakov screamed and Legolas brought the knife arcing down to the bonds on his own ankles.

And even as the three Men fell upon him, Legolas was free.  He leapt upright, striking out with his knife as he gained his feet.  One of the Men shrieked and fell, clutching his middle; the other two backed up a few paces, stepping warily.  Sam stood as if utterly dumbstruck; he did not even seem to notice when Legolas reached out and plucked the second knife from his fist.

Hoddis struck first, lashing out with one flailing blade.  Legolas stepped aside and parried the flickering thrust almost casually, rotating his body and lifting one arm high as the Man staggered past him.  With a gurgling scream, Hoddis dropped his blade and clutched at his neck.  Gimli could see blood gushing between his fingers.

“Oh!”  Merry gasped in horror and hid his eyes behind his hands.

Only Dorlic was left, and the fall of his fellows had made him wary.  For the moment he was keeping his distance.  Never taking his eyes from his opponent, Legolas reached back with one hand and gently pushed Sam away, taking care not to cut him with his knife.  Sam stumbled backwards a few feet and stopped.

Dorlic seemed to be waiting for Legolas to make the first move, but the Elf only stood at the ready once he had moved Sam out of harm’s way.  When he realized that Legolas was not going to come to him, Dorlic’s face twisted in anger.  He finally let out a roar and lunged.

Legolas pivoted on one foot, deflecting Dorlic’s sword while letting the Man’s momentum carry him forward.  His right hand flew up, preparing to strike while Dorlic was still reeling, but the Man regained his footing with a speed that belied his clumsy move and raised his sword in time to block.  Dorlic did better on his second attempt, keeping his wrath in check well enough to avoid repeating Hoddis’ fatal mistake.

It did not take long for Gimli to judge that Legolas was the better of the two fighters.  He was throwing his all into the fight, but there remained an element of fluidity in every thrust and parry.  Dorlic’s motions were not so refined, resulting in wasted energy.  His snarls and grimaces conveyed pure hatred.  Legolas plainly returned the sentiment, but his loathing was frozen where Dorlic’s burned.

Dorlic abruptly became frustrated with his inability to reach Legolas and threw himself forward, blade-first.  It was a tactic that Gimli had seen before; attackers sometimes launched an all-out assault in the hopes of crushing their opponents under the sheer speed and force of their blows.  Legolas swiftly moved backwards, deflecting the slashes.  Thwarted, Dorlic lashed out with his sword only to find that the Elf had stepped out of the way again, and just like that the Man found himself on the defensive.  Legolas strode forward purposefully, his face utterly pitiless.  Now Dorlic was the one backing up, and it was all he could do to keep his foe from him.

Dorlic’s boot heel suddenly caught on something, but Gimli could not tell what.  He wobbled for a moment, panic plain on his face, and fell backwards.  Legolas pounced, and the Man let out one horrible shriek.  Gimli did not actually see the killing blow, but when Legolas turned away, Dorlic did not rise again.

Legolas regarded his fallen enemy for a brief moment before another moan from Jakov turned him around.  The Man was grasping at the rocky ground with one hand and trying to crawl away from the scene of the battle.  His face was turned upriver, and he did not see Legolas coming toward him with quick strides.  It was well for him, Gimli thought, that he did not see Legolas’ approach.  The sight of that severe being drawing near would have set the Man to wailing in terror.

The hobbits had seen enough by then to know what was coming, and all three of them closed their eyes when Legolas crouched beside Jakov and turned him over.  It happened so quickly that Gimli only knew Jakov was dead by the sudden lack of moaning.  Legolas rose again and gazed down at the Man.  Whether it was contempt or sickened regret on his face, Gimli could not tell.  The gorge suddenly seemed very quiet.

Legolas turned his eyes away from Jakov and onto Sam.  Sam gazed back at him, white-faced.  In an instant Legolas had crossed the distance between them and dropped into a crouch.  He set his bloodstained knives on the ground beside him and took the hobbit by the arms.

Sam’s wide eyes slid past Legolas’ left shoulder.  Gimli thought he was looking at Jakov.

Legolas’ hands moved to either side of Sam’s face, forcing the hobbit to look at him.  His lips formed words that Gimli could not hear.  Sam only stared, seemingly paralyzed.

Suddenly Legolas looked toward the trees.  An instant later he threw himself sideways on top of the hobbit, and an arrow whistled through the space where they had been.  A Man stepped out from the eaves of the forest, already drawing a second arrow from the quiver on his back.

Legolas leapt to his feet, pulling Sam with him as he rose.  He hesitated only a moment to scoop his knives up off the ground before grabbing Sam’s hand, and the two of them began to run upriver along the clifftop.

They had not gone more than thirty feet when Legolas changed direction, his feet skidding on the gritty stone.  Gimli immediately saw why: another of the Men, also armed with bow and arrow, had emerged from the trees and was taking aim.

Sam and Legolas began to run, only to stop again when two more Men appeared with arrows drawn to nock.  They advanced but a little, keeping their arrows trained on their quarry.  Cornered, Legolas pushed Sam behind him and began to back up toward the edge of the cliff.

“Don’t be foolish!” the leader shouted.

Sam and Legolas continued to retreat.  Gimli’s insides felt leaden.  Where now will they go? he wondered hopelessly.  There was nowhere else to turn; whether they tried to flee upstream or down, they would only be shot in the back.

“There is nowhere to run,” called the leader.  He relaxed his bowstring slightly but did not lower the weapon.  “You can still gain something by giving yourself up.  If you do so – now – I will grant the Halfling a swift and painless death.”

“What is your word to me?” Legolas spat.  “Truth does not grace your tongue!  We will not give ourselves over to you!”

“You will both perish!”

“Can you speak naught but lies?  We are of no use to you dead!”

By this time Sam and Legolas had stopped, being very near to the edge of the cliff.  Sam was looking nervously over his shoulder; there was only a short span of solid ground left behind his feet.

“All you can do is decide in what manner the Halfling will meet his fate,” said the Man.  “If you do not surrender now, he will curse your name with his last breath!”

Gimli and Boromir exchanged a startled look.  Why did the Man want Sam alive so badly?  Gimli could only think of one reason for one such to be interested in hobbits.  Cold anger bubbled up inside him and he squeezed his axe handle to give it an outlet.  His companions had been in the hands of agents of the Enemy!

Legolas did not respond immediately, and the leader smiled, thinking he was succeeding to persuade.  He could not see Sam behind Legolas’ back, tugging on the Elf’s arm.  Gimli could see the hobbit’s lips moving.

Legolas reached for Sam’s hand with his own and pressed it.  To the horror of everyone in the Fellowship, the two of them slowly began walking forward again.

“No!” Frodo whispered.  “They can’t!”

Aragorn seemed to agree.  His bowstring creaked as he drew his arrow to his cheek again.

The leader could not suppress an eager smile when Sam and Legolas stopped moving.  Gimli blinked in confusion when outrage suddenly flashed across the Man’s face, wiping the smile away.  Had Legolas said something to him?  He drew his bow again as if to fire, but Legolas whirled, scooped up Sam in his arms, ran to the edge of the cliff – and leapt off.

Sam and Legolas seemed to take forever to fall.  Gimli could feel his heart pounding hard against his ribcage, but the pulses seemed to be too far apart.  The Elf is mad! he thought wildly.  They will never survive the drop!

Sam and Legolas hit the river far below with a great splash, and Gimli felt a sudden jolt of hope when he saw that they had fallen into a wide basin of water.  A pool, he thought.  There was a pool.  Pools are deep.

“N-mmmph!”  Merry’s shout of fear was quickly muffled by Gandalf’s hand.

“Where are they?” Pippin asked frantically, trying to see over the brush.  “I can’t see them!”

“Be quiet, foolish hobbits!”

The Men across the river were making plenty of noise.  The leader was unmistakably shouting, “Find them!  Shoot them!”  Gimli looked back to the pool but he could not see Sam or Legolas anywhere.  Only the agitated surface of the water marked where they had been.

Aragorn, who was cautiously peering over the edge, suddenly held up a hand.  “Wait a moment.”  The three hobbits turned fearful eyes upon him and waited, scarcely seeming to breathe.  Gimli did not think that he was breathing either; the wait for Aragorn to speak again seemed interminable.

At last the Ranger’s hand fluttered excitedly.  “Yes – I see them!”

Sighs of relief sounded from all in the company, but their relief was short-lived.  The Men had apparently seen Sam and Legolas, too.  The leader fairly shrieked with rage.

“There they are!  Shoot them!  Shoot them!”

Gimli looked across to the other cliff.  The four Men were clustered at the edge, firing arrows downstream.

“Kill them!” the leader screamed.

Gimli tasted bile.

“What’s happening?” Frodo whispered desperately.  “Are they alive?”

“They have gone under again,” said Boromir.

“Have they been hit?” said Merry, who was holding on to Pippin so tightly that his knuckles were white.  Pippin seemed to be clinging to Merry just as hard.

“I cannot tell!” said Aragorn.  “Wait – I see – it is Sam.  He has resurfaced!”

Frodo let out a choked sob.  Merry and Pippin’s faces broke into twin smiles.

But Gimli could not feel easy just yet.  “What about Legolas?” he interjected.

The hobbits’ smiles slipped.

“He is a far better swimmer than Sam,” said Aragorn.  “We cannot despair of him yet.”

Gimli furrowed his brow.  Aragorn had hesitated for a moment before replying.  “But you did see them both?  Before they sank?”

“Yes,” said Aragorn, never looking away from the river.  Gimli could not see what he saw; he was not tall enough to see much more of the river than the pool, and Aragorn and Gandalf were blocking the rest of the view.

A sudden cry drifted up out of the gorge.  Between the echo, the wind, and the shouting Men, Gimli could not tell what it was, but apparently Merry and Pippin could.  “It’s Sam!” said Merry.

The cry sounded again.

“What is he saying?” Boromir asked impatiently.

“He is calling Legolas’ name,” said Pippin.

“We have tarried too long,” said Aragorn.  “We must go down to them!”

“Yes!” said Frodo.  “He’ll never get out of the river on his own!”  He put forth a hand to the tough limb of one of the bushes to aid himself in rising.

The limb snapped.  Frodo staggered sideways into the bush before Gandalf could catch him.  The forward motion of the sere plants disturbed some loose rocks, which scraped across the ground and dropped out of sight.  For three long heartbeats Gimli heard nothing, but then a loud clatter sounded as they struck a boulder below.

The Fellowship froze.  Frodo stood motionless in Gandalf’s grip, looking shocked.  The Men had stopped shouting.  For a long moment all was quiet, save for the wind and Sam’s voice far below.

“Strangers!” the leader suddenly cried.  A hiss sounded in the air above Gimli’s head, followed quickly by another.

“Go, Boromir!” cried Gandalf.  “Into the gap!”

Boromir sprang into motion without bothering to reply.  He slithered backwards across the ground, taking care to stay low, and entered the rift feet-first.  Arrows whined through the air, some of them striking the clifftop in front of the bushes with sharp clacks.  Gimli followed Boromir to the path, crouching.  The Man was descending with all possible speed, jumping down the incline more than stepping down it.

Gimli fairly threw himself into the crevice.  He climbed down from the clifftop as fast as he could, nearly falling more than once.  When his feet reached the slope of debris the wet leaves betrayed his balance and he toppled backwards onto his seat.  A moment later he was sliding away, following Boromir.  He had gone more than twenty feet down before he was able to stop his uncontrolled motion.  A loud “Whoa!” sounded behind him as Merry reached the incline and promptly lost his footing.  Gimli braced himself in preparation for an impact from behind, but Merry managed to catch himself just in time to prevent a collision.

Boromir had already untied Bill’s lead rope when Gimli reached the canyon floor.  Gimli hurried to the bole of a tree, pressed himself against it, and peered around it with one eye in the direction of the cliff across the river.  The Men were leaving, running downstream along the top of the cliff.

Gimli did not have to wait long before Aragorn came up behind him.  As the first of the Fellowship to ascend the cliff, he had been the last to descend it.  Everyone had to have flown down the passage for him to be on the ground already.  “What do you see?” he asked anxiously.

“The Men are chasing them downriver,” Gimli replied.  “I don’t think they have given up on trying to shoot them!”

“Hurry!” said Gandalf, who was already stepping through the boulders, holding his robes away from his feet.  “I saw their leader’s face; he may not know who we are, but he guesses that we are known to Sam and Legolas.  He means to race us to them!”

“But he’s got such a headstart!” said Pippin.

“Maybe,” said Gandalf, “but he and his Men are still atop their cliff.  Let us hope that the walls continue as they have, and that they do not find an easy way down.  They cannot hold our Fellowship hostage if they cannot reach it!”

“I hope Legolas comes back up!” said Merry.  “Sam can’t swim!”  Gimli needed no reminding of that fact; the hobbits had agonized over it long enough on the first day after the flood.

The Fellowship navigated the boulders and fallen trees as quickly as they could until they reached the clearer edge of the river.  From there everyone broke out into a run, each moving as swiftly as he could without regard to the others.  Gandalf no longer seemed worried about being seen; after all, the Fellowship had already been spotted.  No one seemed to care that they might be presenting an easy target for the Men above.  For Gimli’s part, he suspected that Gandalf was right.  He had seen the leader’s face, too.  That Man did not like losing what he had thought to be firmly in his grasp.  The Fellowship was likely safe from him for the moment, but only until he had regained, destroyed, or given up on his prize.

 Gimli did not know how Sam and Legolas had escaped the river the last time, but he was fairly sure that it had been all Legolas’ doing.  Now they were back in the river again, and Legolas was apparently nowhere to be seen.  Now is the time for a show of that strength you constantly boast of, Elf! thought Gimli.  He found himself raising his thoughts in prayer as he went.  He has acquitted himself well so far.  If he can only pull himself away from the brink one last time – and Sam with him – then I will tell him so myself.

And he ran.

Chapter 12: Breath of Life

“Come, Boromir!  We must move faster!”

Boromir did not reply, preferring to save his breath.  He could not help envying the endurance of Aragorn, who was running alongside him at the head of the Fellowship.  He thought himself in fine form physically but that did not mean that he was used to running at full tilt, and certainly not while carrying his sword, his shield, and a fur-lined cloak.  His heart was pounding against his chest nearly as hard as his feet pounded the earth, but Aragorn hardly seemed winded at all.

A quick glance behind him showed Boromir that he and Aragorn were beginning to outdistance the rest of the company.  Gimli and the hobbits had shorter legs than they and could not cover ground as quickly.  Even so, Merry, Pippin, and the Dwarf seemed ready to run for a good distance yet – but not Frodo.  The Ring-bearer had already been weary before climbing up the rift in the canyon wall, and running now had to be punishing for him.  Gandalf seemed to be puffing and blowing, too, and Boromir wondered just how long he and Frodo could continue at such a pace.

“How far ahead can they be?” Boromir managed.

“I hope that we are not too far behind!” Aragorn replied.  “The river is still high, but it has slowed a little since the flood!”

“Perhaps when we get around this bend!”

“Perhaps.  Hurry!”

Boromir’s eyes swept the water as he and Aragorn gradually rounded the curve.  He feared not being able to spot what they were looking for.  The river was not raging, but neither was it smooth, and the only parts of Sam and Legolas that would be showing were their heads.  The falling snow and poor light would do his eyes no favors, either.

“There!” Aragorn suddenly cried, thrusting a finger forward.

“Where?  I do not see them!”

“Beyond that leaning tree.  Just beyond it!  There!  Do you see?”

“Yes!” Boromir exclaimed.  “Both of them!”

“They are moving faster than we are.  We must speed up!”

Boromir did not see how that was possible – he was already moving nearly as fast as he could – but he would certainly try.  If they were going to keep on running as they were, though, he did not see the point of Gandalf or the hobbits continuing in such a fashion, and he said as much.  “It will not be safe… for the hobbits to get near the river.  If anyone is going to pull them out, it will have to be you and me… and perhaps Gimli.  We can do… what must be done.  Let the rest follow as they may!”

“And if Sam and Legolas come close to neither shore?” said Aragorn.  “They could drift for miles!”

“Then we shall have to run for miles!” said Boromir.  “Frodo and Gandalf… they cannot!”

“You give wise counsel,” said Aragorn.  “One of us must stop and tell them.”

“You go,” said Boromir, who was beginning to feel the strain of his long speech.  “You have more stamina.  You… can catch up.”  Aragorn nodded, stopped in his tracks, and turned to go back to the others.  “Wait!  Take this,” said Boromir, unclasping his cloak with one hand and pulling it from his shoulders.  “Too heavy.”

“And your shield?”

“I may need it!  Arrows!”

“Aye,” said Aragorn, and ran back the way he had come.

Boromir put Aragorn out of his head and shrugged his shoulders.  It felt good to be out from under his cloak, which had been uncomfortably warm as well as heavy.  Feeling lighter and fresher, he picked up his step.

Boromir was required to constantly watch the ground which was rocky, muddy, and uneven by turns, but he looked away from his feet whenever he could.  If either Sam or Legolas sank he wanted to see it, and if the Men reappeared atop the cliffs, he wanted to see them, too.  As it was he estimated that he was less than a quarter of a mile behind the Elf and hobbit, and they were both still visible.  He could not tell whether Legolas was swimming or not, but at least their heads were above water.  And let them stay that way, he thought.

It did not take Boromir long to confirm for himself what Aragorn had said: he was losing ground.  It was no wonder; rivers ran faster than a man could move.  He would have needed a galloping horse to keep up.  The only way he would be able catch them was if Legolas managed to grasp something immobile as he had done the last time, and they would both need help when that happened.  Legolas would be weakened from the fight and the beating he had sustained, not to mention the chill water.  As for Sam, the river was likely enough by itself to do him in.  Boromir had never been submerged in water of the river’s temperature before, but he had heard tales of Men who had been.  It did not take long before the cold made the muscles seize up and the heart slow down.  Still, the hobbit had survived his last encounter with the river, and that gave Boromir hope.

The sound of feet thumping against the ground caught Boromir’s attention and he turned to see Aragorn sprinting up to him, carrying a rolled blanket under each arm.  The Ranger slowed his pace to match Boromir’s steadier gait when he caught up.  Gimli was halfway between them and the rest of the Fellowship, still running hard.  Boromir spared a moment’s admiration for the Dwarf.  How he could manage to run over long distances in that chain mail, he could not imagine.

“They do not want to stop yet, though they have slowed down,” Aragorn reported.  “If they find a suitable shelter they will leave the riverbank and wait for us to return.”  Boromir nodded and turned his eyes back to the river.

Sam and Legolas bobbed up and down in the water.  Now and then they seemed to rotate, but Boromir could not tell whether the Elf was trying to get to shore.  He hoped very much that Legolas was swimming; if he was not, then it would only be good fortune that brought either him or Sam within reach.  Fallen trees and broken limbs occasionally protruded into the water from both banks.  It was possible that they could catch on one if they came close enough.  Now that he looked more closely, Boromir thought that Sam and Legolas seemed to be drifting toward the bank that he and Aragorn were on, but he could not be sure.

“This way!” Aragorn suddenly gasped, veering away from the riverbank.  Boromir did not need to ask why to know what must have happened.  The Men were back.  He and Aragorn ducked into the relative shelter of the nearby boulders and kept moving as quickly as the terrain would allow.

Boromir glanced up at the far clifftop.  There were two Men there, standing near the edge and gazing downstream.  One of them pointed, and they vanished as quickly as they had appeared.

“They did not even look in our direction,” wondered Boromir.  “If they do suspect we are friends of Sam and Legolas, then surely they know that we must be following!”

“We know they want our friends dead!” said Aragorn.  “Most likely they plan to kill them before we can catch them, and then they will turn their attention to us.”

“I do not intend to let them succeed,” said Boromir.  “Let us get back to clearer ground!”

They ran on.  Boromir looked at the cliffs as often as he could, but he saw no further sign of the Men.  He knew they were up there somewhere, though; they simply did not stay close enough to the edge to be seen.  Boromir would have preferred to know their precise location, but perhaps it was just as well.  If he could not see them, then they could not see him, either.

Boromir could spare no more than fleeting glances at either the clifftop or the river as he ran, and so it was pure luck that he was watching when Sam suddenly disappeared.  Legolas seemed to sink sideways into the water when the hobbit vanished.  Boromir stared, waiting for Sam to resurface.  He watched for so long that he forgot to look at the ground, tripped on a rock, and nearly fell on his face.  When he regained his balance his eyes immediately sought the river again, but he still could not see Sam.

“What is it?” said Aragorn.  “What do you see?”

“It is what I do not see.  I think Sam has gone under!”

Aragorn squinted, trying to see through the snow, which was falling harder than ever.  “Is that Legolas in the water?”

“It is him.  He does not seem to be moving as he should be.  He may be hurt.”

They ran on for a few more moments before Aragorn said, “I have not caught sight of Sam.”

“Nor have I,” said Boromir.  “I am almost certain that he has not come up.”

Aragorn grimaced.  “My heart will fail me if he drowns!  Where did you last see him?”

“Just ahead, beside that rock in the water.”

“Did he strike it?”

“I do not know!”

Both Men came as near to the water’s edge as they could.  They slowed their pace, searching the rocks and fallen limbs for any sign of the hobbit.  This close, the rock Boromir had indicated proved to be large indeed.  What showed above the water was only a fraction of what lay below the surface.

Sam was nowhere to be seen – not out in the river, and not near the bank.  Boromir’s eyes frantically scanned the far side, but there was no sign of the hobbit there, either.  He knew all too well that if Sam had caught on something, he might never be found.  Boromir could scarcely bear the thought of returning to the other hobbits without their kinsman.  To see him alive, only to lose him again just minutes later....  How they would mourn!  And they would not be alone in their grief; the entire company would lament the loss of Sam. 

Fear bubbled in Boromir’s stomach.  There was nothing in the water but pitiless rocks, dead leaves, and fallen branches glistening white where their bark had been stripped away.  No cloth, no hair, no flesh, no sign of a hobbit.

Boromir’s eyes slid past the water gushing up around a fallen boulder – and stopped.  What was that pressed against the rock’s surface?

“Aragorn!” Boromir cried, stopping dead in his tracks.

Aragorn whirled.

“Here!  He is here!”  Boromir’s feet left the bank and splashed into the river.  He gasped as icy water spilled over the tops of his boots and flooded his feet.

“Where?”

“Here!  Against the boulder!  His hand!  Do you see it?”

“I….  Yes, I see it!”

“He is pinned!”  Boromir continued leaping away from the bank, sending great gouts of water splashing out before him.  The standing stone was still several paces away.

“Can you pull him out by yourself?”

Boromir did not stop moving but spared the briefest of glances at Aragorn, who had turned his anxious eyes upstream again.  Legolas, Boromir thought.  In his excitement he had nearly forgotten.  “Yes!” he replied.  “Go after him!”

Aragorn wasted no time.  “Keep this,” he said, tossing one of his rolled blankets onto the ground as he dashed off again.  “Sam will need it!”

Boromir scarcely noticed Aragorn’s departure.  The small, limp hand in the water drew all of his attention.  He sloshed into the river with his arms flung out to either side to help him keep his balance.  The current tugged hard at his feet, threatening to pull him down, but Boromir did not have the luxury of taking his time.  He plunged ahead, keeping himself upright purely through his forward momentum.

Boromir was waist-deep in the water when his palms slapped against the cold surface of the boulder and stopped him from falling.  This close, he could just see Sam below the surface.  The hobbit’s shape was badly distorted by the rushing water.

Boromir set his feet wide to brace himself against the current and grasped Sam’s hand.  He tugged hard, but the hobbit did not budge; the water was pressing him too firmly against the rock.  Without a second thought Boromir leaned down and plunged both arms into the water.  His hands found Sam’s cloak, his jacket, his chest.  When he had pushed his fingers as far behind Sam’s body as they would go, Boromir pulled again.

Sam came up out of the river in a spray of cold droplets.  Boromir threw an arm around the hobbit, heaved him up so that his head lolled upon his shoulder, and began making his way back to the shore as quickly as he could.

“Ho, Boromir!” said a strong voice.  Gimli was running up the bank.  His eyes fell upon Sam in Boromir’s arms, and his face paled.

“I have him,” said Boromir.  “Go after Aragorn!  He is still chasing Legolas!”

Gimli nodded, aghast, and kept on.

Boromir could no longer use his arms to steady himself, for he needed both of them to hold Sam up.  With every step he took toward the bank he wobbled, but whether by luck or by grace, he did not fall.  His heart rose a little when he stood on dry ground once more.

A cursory examination of Sam told Boromir that the hobbit was not breathing.  He hesitated for the briefest of moments, wondering if he should try and revive him, but decided against it.  He had once heard that doing the wrong thing for a drowning victim could doom him to death as surely as the water in his lungs could.  Calengil, a captain of Gondor, had told him that.  Boromir shook his head firmly in an effort to hold back the surfacing memory.  No.  He was not going to think about that now; he had more important matters to focus on.  He had to get Sam to Gandalf.  The wizard would know what to do.

Boromir stayed only long enough to wrap the blanket Aragorn had left him around Sam’s frame before he was running again, back toward the rest of the Fellowship.  His sodden boots made a rhythmic squitch squitch against the ground as he went.  Boromir stole a sideways glance at Sam.  The hobbit’s skin was very pale, almost grayish, and he lay utterly still, not even shivering.  Boromir willed his legs to move faster.

To Boromir’s immense relief, the rest of the Fellowship came into view much sooner than he had anticipated.  Either they had moved more quickly than he had reckoned, or he had.  It did not matter either way; he had found Gandalf.

The Fellowship clustered around Boromir when he ran up to them, breathing hard.  Boromir dropped to his knees on the ground and gently deposited Sam in front of him.  Sweat burst from his skin and chilled instantly in the wind.  “Gandalf,” he gasped, but Frodo broke in with a cry.

“He’s not breathing!”

To Boromir’s surprise, it was Merry who took charge.  “Get out of the way!” he snarled, and Frodo and Pippin scrabbled backwards, never taking their eyes off of Sam.

Merry knelt at Sam’s side and laid his head upon the gardener’s chest.  “No heartbeat,” he announced.

Pippin burst into tears, and Boromir felt his heart grow cold.  No heartbeat.  Surely Sam could not be dead!  He had survived the flood, the fall, and who knew what else at the hands of Men only to be lost now during his escape?  He rested his tired arms upon his knees and let his head drop forward.  He had not run fast enough after all.

But Merry had not given up hope.  He settled himself firmly upon his knees, pinched Sam’s nose shut, leaned over, and covered Sam’s mouth with his own.  At first Boromir was thoroughly startled, but then he saw Sam’s chest rise, and the memory he had pressed down just a short time ago tugged at the corners of his mind.

Sam’s chest rose again.

Boromir stared as the two hobbits wavered and changed before his eyes as if he were looking at them through a sheet of warped glass.  Sam was no longer Sam but had become a young, thoroughly drenched boy who lay still and pale upon a riverbank.  Calengil knelt beside the boy, tall and strong, a helm of a Guard of the Citadel upon his head.  The sound of weeping women filled the air.  The man leaned over the boy, pinched his nose shut, and….

Boromir sucked in a ragged breath.  The icy cold of the air startled him, and the vision vanished like a pricked soap bubble.  He was at the river’s edge once again, and Merry and Sam were just as they had been before, except that Merry was now sitting astride Sam’s legs.  He seized either side of Sam’s chest, heaved his back up off the ground, and threw it back down again.

“Pippin!  I need you to breathe for him!” Merry barked.  Pippin stumbled to Sam’s side though he continued to weep.  “Hold his nose shut,” Merry ordered.  “Give him a deep breath when I say!”

Boromir’s mind was still reeling.  Faramir.  Long had it been since he had thought of that day on the Anduin when the Steward’s boating party had nearly ended in tragedy.  In all the years since he had never forgotten that Faramir had nearly drowned, but it had been some time since he had last remembered the scene with such clarity.  To have it swim up now out of the depths of his memory left him shaken and unmanned.  His eyes turned to an ashen-faced Frodo, who was watching Merry’s furious efforts.

“Breathe!” said Merry.

Frodo’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears.  His mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but no sound passed his lips.  Gandalf seemed not to notice Frodo’s despair; he stood as still as a statue, watching the scene unfold before him with an expression that was half disbelieving, half sorrowful.

Pippin had fallen to his knees beside Sam’s head.  His movements were jerky and automatic, but he had mastered himself enough to respond to Merry’s orders, and Sam’s chest expanded as he expelled one great breath.

Pippin straightened up.  “Nothing,” he said in a quavering voice.

Merry was already pulling Sam’s shoulders up off the ground again.  “We’re not giving up!” he cried.  His sharp movements put a hitch in his voice.  “I’ve seen hobbits take much longer than this to come around!”

“It’s too late,” Pippin moaned.  “He’s so cold and blue –”

“Breathe!”

Pippin obeyed.

Frodo inhaled a shuddering breath.  Silent tears were streaming down his face.

Boromir was moved.  He impulsively reached out and enfolded one of Frodo’s tightly clenched fists in his own larger hand.  The movement startled Gandalf out of his reverie, and he reached down to clasp Frodo’s shoulder.

Merry threw Sam’s back against the ground.  “Breathe!” he fairly shrieked.

Pippin bent down and reached for Sam’s nose.  Sam’s body suddenly convulsed, and the unexpected movement so surprised Pippin that he yelped and nearly fell over backwards.

Merry scrambled off Sam’s legs and knelt at his side.  “That’s it!” he cried.  “Come on, Sam!”

Sam’s eyes opened, wide and brown.  He convulsed again, and Merry seized his right shoulder and pulled him onto his side.  Sam’s back was turned to Boromir, but he clearly heard the sound of vomiting followed by a reedy breath.

At Merry’s cry of joy, everyone sagged in relief.  Pippin beamed like the sun through a rain of tears.  Frodo swayed and nearly collapsed against Boromir while Gandalf sighed and leaned heavily on his staff.

Merry held Sam where he was, letting him suck in breaths until the wheezing sound dissipated.  When he gently rolled him onto his back again, Sam’s eyes were closed.  For a moment Boromir thought the hobbit might have slipped away again, but Sam’s chest rose and fell on its own, and the flush of life was beginning to return to his face.  For several long moments Sam simply inhaled and exhaled.  Then he opened his eyes and gazed up at Merry.

“Merry,” he said breathily.

Merry clasped one of Sam’s hands in both of his and smiled down at him.  “Hullo, Sam,” he said in a tremulous voice.

“Where… Mr. Frodo?”

“I’m right here, Sam,” said Frodo, scrubbing at his tear-streaked face with the back of his hand.  He was attempting to look happy, but such a tumult of emotions was present on his face that his smile wavered dangerously.

An expression of purest relief and joy washed over Sam’s face.  “Mr. Frodo… still safe.”

“You shouldn’t have worried about me,” said Frodo in a stronger voice.  “Merry and Pippin have been looking after me very well.”

“He is starting to shiver,” said Gandalf.  “We must get him warm!  Boromir, can you…?”

Boromir pushed his weariness to the back of his mind, reached down, and carefully gathered up Sam.  He felt a surge of pride when his legs did not tremble as he stood.

“Legolas?” Sam abruptly said.

Boromir exchanged a quick look with Gandalf.  The three dry hobbits were looking at him expectantly; he had not yet had the chance to tell them of what had transpired at the river.  “You were separated,” he told Sam quietly.  “Aragorn and Gimli have gone after him.”

“He’ll be all right,” said Pippin.  “Don’t you worry about him just now.”

“No,” said Sam, who sounded confused.  “Legolas….”

“Strider and Gimli will look after him.”  Pippin was still drying his eyes, but his tone was firm.  “Right now we’re going to find a place to warm you up.”

“You’ll watch him, won’t you, Frodo?” said Merry.

“Yes, of course,” said Frodo, who was still wiping his own eyes.  “Go, and quickly!  Legolas will be cold and wet when he gets back, too.”  Merry and Pippin each smiled shakily at him, reached up to squeeze one of Sam’s hands, and darted off toward the cliffs.

“They have been scouting for a suitable shelter,” Gandalf confided softly to Boromir.  “It is most obliging of them.  Frodo and I feel we may walk quickly, but we are too spent for much running.”

“Let’s keep moving,” said Frodo, who had taken up Bill’s lead rope.  “The farther we go, the closer Legolas will be to shelter.”

They started off downstream again, moving as swiftly as they could while merely walking.  Boromir could feel Sam trembling in his arms.  He moved one hand until it rested against the hobbit’s back and carefully began to chafe it against the blanket that encircled him, trying to warm him just a little.

“Sam!  Are you going to sleep?” said Frodo.

Gandalf reached over to Boromir and gave Sam a shake.  “Stay awake if you can, Sam.”

“So tired,” Sam murmured.

Gandalf sighed and let his hand fall away.  “I might as well leave him alone.  He is not coherent enough to answer questions about the Men, and I do not have the heart to be anything but gentle with him now.  We shall have to do the best that we can with the knowledge that we already have.”

“These Men are our foes,” said Boromir.  “For now, that should be knowledge enough.  We will have to be on our guard.”

“How was Legolas faring when you parted ways with Aragorn?”

“I could not tell.  He was too far away, and the snow made it difficult to see.”  A gust of wind rushed down the river, and Boromir shivered.  The wind seemed to go right through him.

“Boromir!” Frodo exclaimed.  “You should be wearing your cloak!”

Gandalf turned a critical eye upon Boromir.  “You are nearly as wet as Sam!  You must change into dry clothes as soon as possible.”

“I will,” Boromir promised.  “This walking helps to keep the blood flowing, at least.  I am warmer now than I felt a moment ago.”

“If we are not careful, half the company will be too sick to continue.  Aragorn and Gimli will likely be wet as well when they return.”

“Perhaps.”

Gandalf shot Boromir a shrewd look, but he did not speak until he had looked carefully at Sam to see whether he was sensible.  “You think they may return without Legolas.”  It was not a question.

“That is a possibility,” Boromir said quietly.  “We only caught up with Sam because he was pinned against a rock.  The river moves too swiftly for Men to match it.  What is more, I think that Legolas may be injured.”

“Injured how?” said Frodo.  “Has he been shot?”

“I was not nearly close enough to see.  I am sorry.”

“Well, you saved Sam,” said Frodo.  “I can only hope that Aragorn and Gimli will be as fortunate.”

“You do not know just how fortunate we were,” said Boromir.  “Sam was underwater when we found him.  We would have run by him had I not looked up at the right moment.  I saw him disappear, and when he did not resurface, we searched the place where he vanished.”

“Underwater,” Frodo said softly.

“Pinned, as I said.  I do not see how he could have broken free.  The current was far too strong.”

“Sam never liked getting into water unless it was in a bathtub,” said Frodo.  “I doubt he’ll ever dip so much as one toe into a millpond now.”

“Faramir nearly drowned when he was six years old,” Boromir heard himself saying.  “It was long before he felt truly comfortable swimming again.  Truth be told, I did not swim for quite some time afterwards, either.  I was there when it happened.”

“Faramir.  Your brother?”

“Yes.”  Boromir hesitated for a moment, surprised at what he was revealing.  He could not imagine what had possessed him to speak of it, or what compelled him to continue.  “I do not know what I would have done if he had been lost.  He is dear to me.”

“Of course.”  There was something strange in Frodo’s voice but Boromir could not decide what.  Perhaps it was just the emotion of the last few minutes coming through.  “I should like to hear more about him.”

Boromir smiled.  “You honor me.”

A high-pitched cry suddenly sounded ahead of them.  “Gandalf!”

“Pippin?”

“We’ve found something!”

“This way,” Gandalf said briskly, turning away from the river.  Boromir and Frodo followed with Sam and Bill in tow.  For his part, Boromir hoped that the hobbits had found something; he was desperately weary, and his arms and legs were feeling the cold despite the quick pace.

It was not long before Merry came running up alone to meet them.  “Back here,” he said.  “It’s more of an overhang than a cave, and the roof isn’t high enough for you Big Folk, but it’s mostly out of the weather.  Pippin’s gathering some wood.  We will want a fire, won’t we?”

 “I think we shall need one,” said Gandalf.  “We must do all we can to be sure that Sam and Legolas recover – and that no one else falls ill.”

Presently the little group came upon Merry and Pippin’s discovery.  Merry had spoken truly; it was not really a cave, but rather a large hollow at the base of the cliff that seemed to have been worn out by the wind.  It was not large enough for Boromir to stand in, but he thought he would be able to kneel inside without having to bend his neck.  It was more than high enough to clear the hobbits’ heads. 

Pippin was sitting beneath the overhang, striking flint on steel above a patch of tinder.  More tinder and kindling rested beside him in a small pile.  “The wood’s a little wet,” he said, briefly looking up from his work.  “It’s not too far gone, though.  Snow’s not as bad as rain.”

“We must get Sam out of these wet clothes,” said Gandalf. 

“I’ll help with that,” said Frodo.  “Merry can find more wood.”

“Keep an eye open for Aragorn and Gimli!” Gandalf called, but there was no telling whether Merry heard him or not.  The hobbit had ducked into the trees again as soon as Frodo had spoken.

“Someone will have to go and watch for them,” Gandalf continued.  He pulled a small pack from the pony and tossed it onto the ground beneath the overhang.  “They will not know where we have gone off to.”

“Put Sam down, if you please,” said Frodo, who had spread a blanket over the hard earth.  Boromir went to his knees, trying not to jostle Sam, and made his way into the gap as gracefully as he could in such an awkward position.  Gandalf followed right behind him, and when they reached Frodo’s blanket, the wizard reached over to help Boromir lower Sam to the ground.

Frodo and Gandalf began stripping Sam of his sodden cloak and jacket as soon as his back touched the earth.  “Get yourself into some dry clothes,” said Gandalf.  “And wrap up in your cloak when you are through.”

“I should go back to the river,” said Boromir.  “As you say, Aragorn and Gimli will need to be watched for.”

“Not by you!” Gandalf exclaimed.  “I wish we could have seen to you immediately, but as it is, I can only hope that you do not feel too poorly tomorrow.  Merry can go when he returns.”

Boromir was prepared to argue further, but once he had donned fresh clothing from Bill’s saddlebags, put on his cloak and taken a seat on the ground, he discovered that it would be difficult to get up again.  Muscles that had pushed themselves hard wished for rest.  Still, Boromir could not stand the thought of doing nothing, so he settled himself beside Pippin and assisted in building the fire.

A sudden exclamation from Frodo drew both Boromir’s and Pippin’s attention.  “What?” said Pippin.  “What’s wrong?”

“He’s covered in bruises, head to foot,” said Frodo, “and his wrist is splinted.”  His voice shook slightly – with anger, Boromir thought, if the hard look on his face was any indication.  “Those Men have mistreated him.”

“A good many of these injuries may have been sustained during his first trip down the river,” said Gandalf.  “Myself, I am surprised to find that he has no broken bones.  How he received these injuries will have to remain a mystery until he awakens.” 

By the time Gandalf and Frodo had Sam out of his freezing clothes and into a blanket, the fire had grown from a pile of smoking tinder to a small, hopeful blaze.  Together they moved Sam close to the warmth and sat down on either side of him.  Boromir doubted if Sam was sleeping any longer – surely his shivers within the blankets were too violent for him to be at peace – but he did not open his eyes.  Frodo seemed to want to take Sam’s hand in his own, but every time his fingers began creeping toward the gardener, he stilled them and drew his hands into his lap again.

“Do you think he’ll be all right, Gandalf?” said Pippin in a near whisper.

Gandalf gave Sam one long, slow look before nodding.  “Aragorn will need to have a look at him, but until then we have every reason for hope.  The shivers are a good sign.”

The sound of approaching footsteps caused every head to snap upright, but shoulders slumped in disappointment when the arrival turned out to be Merry with another armload of wood.  “I’ll fetch more,” he said with an anxious look for Sam, and turned to leave.

“I’ll get it,” said Pippin.  “The fire’s going well enough now.”

“We should like you to go to the riverbank to keep watch,” said Gandalf.  “Someone must be waiting to tell Aragorn and Gimli where we are.  Will you do this?”

“Of course,” said Merry.  “I’ll watch all night if I must.”

Boromir stole a look at Gandalf’s face.  The wizard did not reply directly to Merry’s remark, but Boromir thought he could guess at the thoughts that were flitting through his mind.  If Merry had to watch all night, then Legolas would not be coming back to them alive.

“Thank you,” was all Gandalf said.  Merry nodded gravely and hurried off into the snow again.  Boromir silently hoped that Merry returned soon, bringing the others with him.  He did not think that anyone could survive in water that cold for long, no matter what their race.

Pippin departed in search of larger fuel for the fire.  In his absence a silence fell over the group, broken only by the wind and the occasional pop issuing from the fire.  The snow, falling thick and fast beyond the overhang, looked oddly tranquil after the violence of the past hour.  Pulses and breathing gradually slowed to match the hush that had fallen over the river.  Pippin returned with both arms full of wood and left again.  Boromir kept busy with the fire, Frodo had eyes only for Sam, and Gandalf divided his attention between the shivering hobbit in his arms and the way beyond their shelter.

Gandalf bade Pippin rest for a bit upon his fourth return, and Pippin was happy to oblige him.  He sat down before the fire to warm his hands and said no more than anyone else.  Boromir, gazing into the flames from his place beside the hobbit, was becoming increasingly aware of his fatigue.  Warmth eased the deep chill in his flesh and sent thoughts of sleep to intrude upon his worries.  He could not help but feel a stab of guilt for feeling comfortable.  Merry was keeping a cold watch by the river, Aragorn and Gimli might still be running downstream, and Legolas was likely half frozen, wherever he was.  He had never been one to sit idly while others labored, and it certainly did not seem right to do so now – but he was very tired.

A sudden shout broke the stillness.  “Hullo!”

Boromir straightened out of his hunched position, all thoughts of weariness temporarily dispelled.  The others were sitting up with similar degrees of alertness.  “Hullo, Merry!” Pippin called back.

A rapid crunching sound announced Merry’s approach.  The hobbit appeared like a ghost out of the snow, pausing a few feet from the overhang to turn and beckon behind him.  “This way!”

Moments later Gimli appeared beside Merry, his beard frosted white.  A tall shadow behind him resolved itself into Aragorn, bent under the weight of Legolas, whom he was carrying over one shoulder.  His arms were wrapped about the Elf’s legs to keep him from sliding to the ground.

“Strider!” Pippin called.  “Is Legolas all right?”

“Put him down here,” Gimli said gruffly.  Aragorn stepped close to the entrance and went unsteadily to his knees, one leg at a time.  Gimli and Merry raised their hands to catch Legolas as he slid limply from the Ranger’s shoulder.  “Careful!” said Gimli.  “Don’t put pressure on it!”  He did not need to say what he meant, for Merry moved to stand on the other side of Legolas, and the Elf’s full form could finally be seen.

Boromir stared.  Legolas had been injured; one dark arrow stood out from his back.  There were no fletchings; the shaft ended in a jagged stump several inches above the skin.  No one beneath the overhang said a word at Legolas’ appearance.  They only gaped in dismay.

Aragorn had already moved beneath the shelter on his knees.  He tugged at Legolas with both arms while Merry and Gimli struggled to lift him.  “Help me, Boromir,” Aragorn grated.  “I do not… want to drag him.”  Boromir shook himself and reached forward, and together he, Aragorn, Merry, and Gimli pulled Legolas beneath the overhang as smoothly as they could manage.  Aragorn groaned at the last, long tug that pulled Legolas completely out of the snow.

The first close sight of Legolas was enough to arrest Boromir’s movements.  The Elf’s eyes were closed in a face that was every bit as pale as Sam’s had been, and the same eerie, bluish color tinged his lips.  Gimli had implied that Legolas still lived, but Boromir doubted it.  Dead men often looked so.

“No!”

Boromir turned to see Sam in Gandalf’s arms, his eyes wide with panic.  He was actually attempting to stand up, but he was easily restrained by the wizard and a dazed-looking Frodo.

“They killed him!” Sam cried in a voice made ragged with sudden grief.  Gandalf looked as though he wished to offer solace but could find nothing to say.  Frodo reached for his friend, but Sam did not seem to see him at all; his eyes were fixed on Legolas.  “Oh, they k-killed him!”

“Be calm!” Aragorn said anxiously.  “He is alive!”

Sam did not seem to have heard.  His tears only came faster, and his body jerked as he struggled to breathe.  “No!  I tried!  I t-tried!”

“Gandalf!” Aragorn implored.

The wizard turned his body so that Sam no longer had a full view of Legolas.  “Peace, Samwise.  You must not exert yourself.”

Sam shook his head emphatically.  “They – they shot him!” he wheezed.

“Elves are not easily slain, but Aragorn must see to Legolas at once, and he cannot do so properly while worrying over you.”

“Y-you don’t understand.  There are Men –”

“We have seen them.  We know that they are no friends of ours.”

“They’ll c-come for us!”  Sam seized one of Gandalf’s hands with one of his own.  “They won’t stop!”

“You are across the river,” Gandalf said patiently.  “The Men are still atop the cliffs, and it will not be easy for them to find a way down.  Even if they can do that, they may still have to walk far to find a crossing.”  He gently tried to pry his wrist from Sam’s grasp, but Sam clung to him with strength he did not look to possess.  Frodo was leaning forward, anxiously urging Sam to lie still, but Sam did not heed him.  His eyes shone with a feverish light, and they were squarely focused on Gandalf.

“Listen to me!”

Gandalf hesitated, startled into stillness by Sam’s ferocity.  For a moment he looked into Sam’s face, studying the desperation there before saying, “I am listening now.”

“You… have to understand,” Sam panted.  “They w-wanted….”  He looked wildly up at Gandalf.

“Easy, Sam,” Gandalf said soothingly, managing at last to pull free of Sam’s grip.  He tucked the hobbit’s hand back inside the blanket and snugged the wool back up under his chin.

Frodo leaned across Gandalf’s lap to fix Sam with his gaze.  “Take your time.  No,” he said when Sam opened his mouth, “take a deep breath.  Now another.  Good.  It will all go faster if you just relax for a moment.”  Sam did not look as if he liked these orders very much, but he did as Frodo bade him, and gradually his frantic breathing slowed.

“I must see to Legolas now,” said Aragorn.  “If someone will help me to move him a little farther in….”

Boromir started to rise, but Gimli stopped him.  “You have earned your rest; I will do it.  Where do you want him?”

“As far from the opening as possible.  He needs warmth.”

“And a surgeon,” Gimli added somberly.

“That, I shall have to be.  Merry, I need your assistance.”

Merry’s head came up in surprise.  “What?”

“Your assistance.  Please.”

Merry looked nothing less than poleaxed, but he nodded.

“Get my pack off of Bill, if you please.  Find me some soap and the bandages.  And I will need hot water.  Pippin?”

Pippin glanced at the fire and clucked his tongue.  “Tsk!  Should’ve thought of that ages ago.”  He rose and followed Merry to Bill, who was placidly standing just outside the overhang.  The urgency of the last half-hour had been such that no one had thought to tether him.

“Now then,” said Gandalf, “let us continue.  What did the Men want?”

“They said we had something valuable,” said Sam.  “They w-wouldn’t say what, but w-we knew what they meant.”  Tears welled up in his eyes again.  “We said w-we didn’t have anything.”

A ripping sound from the rear of the shelter drew Boromir’s eyes.  Aragorn was bent over Legolas, who lay on his chest on the ground.  The Ranger was using a dagger to cut his tunic away from the vicinity of the wound while Merry placed a clean, folded garment beneath Legolas’ cheek.  Both Man and hobbit glanced sideways at Sam, but neither of them paused in their work.

The tearing sound drew Sam’s attention, too.  His eyes rolled in Legolas’ direction but Aragorn had moved him too far back for Sam to see without turning.  Sam’s face contorted and he squeezed his eyes shut, sending a new flow of tears down his cheeks.  Boromir felt certain that his stutters were caused more by his grief than by the chill he had taken.  “We d-didn’t tell them nothing, b-but they d-didn’t believe us!  They still think we’ve got something!  They think we have It!”  He drew in a hitched breath.

“What makes you say that?” Gandalf asked quietly.

“They knew about hobbits,” Sam moaned, “and they work for Saruman.”  This time Aragorn did stop moving, if only for a moment.

“The Ring.”  Gandalf’s tone had become clipped, although he did not sound angry.  “Did they speak of the Ring?”

Sam stared up into the wizard’s unblinking eyes and shook his head.  Frodo exhaled slowly and seemed to collapse a little where he sat.  Boromir avoided looking directly at the Ring-bearer when he realized that he was clutching at the chain around his neck – again.  He always did so when he was especially anxious or upset, something he had often been during the past few days.  Boromir found the sight of the small hand grasping that chain increasingly unsettling, although he could not say why.

“They d-didn’t say nothing about It,” Sam continued, “but they know there’s something.  They were always trying to make us tell.  We didn’t say w-what they wanted, but they’re going to come anyway.  We didn’t say a word about M-mr. Frodo or anyone else, but they d-didn’t believe we’re alone.”

“Is that water started?” said Aragorn with more than a little bit of heat in his voice.

“Just putting it on now.”  Pippin looked embarrassed as he carried Sam’s sturdiest pot over to the fire, now full of water from the spare skins.  Boromir felt a flash of irritation at Aragorn’s unwarranted rebuke.  The youngest member of the Fellowship had worked as hard as anyone and had not dawdled for a moment, not even when Sam’s revelations had been enough to give both Aragorn and Gandalf pause.

Any reference to Legolas, however oblique, was enough to send Sam spiraling into despair again.  He shut his eyes and tried to contain himself, but he lost the battle when Gandalf laid a gnarled hand upon his head.  “He was so brave!” he sobbed brokenly.  “J-just as b-brave as all the heroes in the stories!  And now….”

“Sssh,” said Gandalf, passing his hand over Sam’s wet curls.  “Lie still and rest.  I understand now.”

“Saruman,” Frodo murmured.  “And now he has sent Men after us.  After me, truly, although they may not know it yet.”

“You’re not safe here, Mr. Frodo,” Sam sniffed.  “You c-can’t let them find you.”

“Samwise Gamgee, if you are suggesting what I think you are –”

“They’re terrible!” said Sam.  “You d-don’t know –”

“I know enough,” said Frodo, “and I am not going anywhere.  I’ll not leave you behind, and I’m too tired to go any further today anyway.”

“You don’t know,” Sam repeated stubbornly.  He raised his eyes to Gandalf’s face again, and his tears subsided a little amid an expression of the utmost gravity.  “Garan.”

“Who?”

“The leader.  He’s a s-sorcerer.”

Gandalf’s lips parted in surprise.  “What?”

“A sorcerer!  L-legolas believed me!”

“How do you know this?  What did he do?”

“He tried to make me tell.  It wasn’t natural.”

“Another wizard?” Gimli rumbled.  “Is that what we are dealing with?”

“The only other wizard that we are dealing with is Saruman,” Gandalf said firmly, “though a sorcerer is hardly good news.”

“Please,” Sam begged, “you have to….  I don’t know what else he can do….”

Gandalf smiled down at Sam.  “He cannot do what I can.  Take some comfort in that.”  Abruptly he stretched one hand out over the pot, which had barely had time to heat amid the small fire.  Boromir’s jaw dropped as steam suddenly began issuing from the surface of the water.  He had had few opportunities to observe magic in his lifetime though Gandalf had visited Minas Tirith often during his youth.  No matter how major or minor the feat, it never failed to astound him.

If anything, the sudden availability of hot water seemed to wind Aragorn even tighter than he already was.  “Fill three bowls with some of that water,” he said, handing Merry a small, leather pouch from his pack.  “And I need you to find three instruments: one with a flat, rounded end, one that looks like a little knife, and a pair of pincers.  Put them into one of the bowls.  Mind you don’t cut yourself on anything; many of the tools in there are sharp.”

“I thought you said that you couldn’t do any magic,” Pippin said to Gandalf.  “I thought you said it would catch Sauron’s attention.”

“Boiling water is a much smaller matter than….  It is a small matter.”  Gandalf’s face drew down into a grave, pointed expression.  Pippin glanced from the wizard to Sam and back again before nodding.

“How many Men are there, Sam?” Frodo asked quietly.

“Four,” Sam murmured drowsily.  “Were more once….  Legolas killed some.”

“Four of them, and one a sorcerer,” Boromir mused.  “If they are as driven as Sam has reported, then we can expect them to try to cross the river and retake their prizes.  Four against four is not as bad as, aah….”  He trailed off momentarily under Gandalf’s sharp glare.  The wizard seemed intent on keeping Sam from knowing that the rest of the Fellowship had seen his struggle with the Men, at least for the time being.  “Um.  Four is not as bad as, say, double that number would have been.  Still, we could better plan our defense if we could guess at their skill.”

“So it’s to be four on four, is it?” Pippin said indignantly, drawing himself up where he sat.  “There are seven of us who are hale, not four.  You’ve been teaching us how to better use our swords!”

Boromir sighed internally.  He should have thought before speaking.  Pippin was always sensitive to any implication that he might not be as capable as the larger members of the Fellowship in any capacity, but Pippin’s wounded feelings did not change Boromir’s opinion.  “I am not saying that you cannot defend yourselves,” he said aloud, “but you cannot be assured of victory in a one-on-one fight with a fully-trained Man.  Not yet, at least.”

Pippin opened his mouth to protest, but Merry laid a hand on his arm.  “He’s right.  Best to leave the fighting to those who know it well, should it come to that.”

“We’d hardly be a hindrance, though,” Pippin said grumpily.

“Hardly,” Gimli agreed.  “If it does come to fighting, then you may very well find yourselves on the front lines whatever anyone wills.  At the least you will be guarding our injured companions against any breach of our defenses.”

“Do not be too eager for a chance to use your blade,” said Aragorn, who was studying the arrow in Legolas’ back closely.  “You will not be the same hobbit afterwards.”  He and Merry had managed to remove the Elf’s shirt and had swathed him in blankets, leaving the upper left part of his back uncovered.

Pippin blinked and looked away, his face troubled.

A clink sounded from one of the bowls.  “They’re in,” Merry said softly.

“Good,” said Aragorn.  “Once we have washed our hands, we can begin.  Scrub thoroughly; I’ll not risk having infection set in.”

“You still… need my help?” Merry said faintly.

The briefest of smiles flashed across Aragorn’s lips.  “I will pull the arrow and tend to the wound.  What I need you to do is give me whatever item I ask for.”

“Ah.”  Boromir thought Merry looked vastly relieved.  “All right.”

Aragorn and Merry soaped and lathered their hands in one of the bowls for a long minute.  Merry carefully emulated the Ranger, scrubbing every inch of skin and even attempting to clean beneath his fingernails.  The hobbit seemed calm enough during the cleaning, and though he paled a bit when he put his cloth down, he kept his face and hands steady.

“Hand me the flat,” said Aragorn.

Merry reached into one of the bowls, drew out a long tool and gave it to Aragorn, handle-first.  The Ranger bent down over Legolas’ shoulder, lowering the silvery implement toward the wound.

Boromir turned away.  He had seen his share of battle-wounds up close, having been the recipient of more than one himself.  Strangely enough, he could tend to his own wounds without flinching, but he did not like to watch healers do the same to others.

“Now the pincers.”  And after a short pause: “Be ready with those bandages.”

“I’m ready,” said Merry.

Boromir was not the only member of the Fellowship to avert his eyes from what was about to happen.  Frodo looked at Sam, who now seemed to be fast asleep in Gandalf’s arms.  Pippin’s gaze flickered back and forth between Sam and Legolas as if he wanted to see what was going on yet could not bear to glimpse more than fragments of it.  Gandalf seemed wholly unperturbed, but his eyes rested on Sam more often than they did on Legolas.  Only Gimli watched without once looking away.  His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

Boromir busied himself in gazing into the snow.  He thought it highly unlikely that Sam’s Men would appear so soon – there were formidable obstacles between them and the Fellowship – but that was no excuse for not being watchful.  Sam had certainly done his best to impress upon them all his belief that the Men would be tenacious.  If they were indeed creatures of Saruman, then Boromir was certain that they had been sent to find the Ring.  Gandalf’s revelations at the Council had laid bare the White Wizard’s allegiance, and if the Men had known about hobbits….  What other conclusion could be drawn from such tidings?  However much Saruman had elected to tell the Men, he had surely made plain to them the need to find something worth great effort and toil.  It had to be so; Boromir could think of precious little else that could drive these Men to press on when six of their fellows had already perished.  Besides, Sam was not given to exaggeration.  Boromir believed that the hobbit had told what he thought to be the truth, and that meant that the Men would be doing their best to catch up with them, even knowing that they were more than just two.  A guard certainly had to be set, however weary they all were.

“Where are you going?” said Frodo when Boromir began sliding toward the exit from the hollow.

“To keep watch,” Boromir replied.  “We cannot let these Men catch us unaware.”

“But you are tired.  I can do it; I have not toiled as you have today.”

Aragorn grunted, and Boromir’s eyes slid over to where he worked before he could stop himself.  The memory of Faramir replaced Legolas’ spectral visage for a moment, slamming home so unexpectedly that his breath and pulse quickened in response.  “In a little while, perhaps,” said Boromir, tearing his gaze away.  “I feel… confined in such a small space.”  He left the shelter as quickly as he could.  Snow immediately flew into his face and stung his eyes, but he merely wrapped his cloak around himself and turned his back to the wind.

Boromir could say without boasting that he was a brave man, but even the bravest of souls were not immune to fear.  He could think of a scant few things that could shake him as much as the sight of Faramir’s half-dead form upon the riverbank all those many years ago.  That Faramir had lived lessened the terror of the memory, but not enough.  He cast about in his mind for happy recollections of his brother – of which he had many – but he could not seem to fix his attention on any of them.  Why did these images have to trouble him now?  He would never forget what had happened, but he did not want to remember the details.  It is this river, he thought, and finding Sam as I did, and these foul Men that are on our trail.

“Almost there,” said Aragorn.

Boromir inhaled deeply of the cold air, wondering at the strange hold that one event could have on him.  It really was most astounding; he was born of a long line of Stewards, battle-hardened and considered mighty among his people, and now shadows and visions turned his knees to water.  Such weakness distracted him from his duty when there were enemies about and companions to protect.

“The bandages!” Aragorn said sharply.  “Quickly, Merry!”

Boromir set himself to striding back and forth in front of the overhang.  Keeping himself occupied would be just the thing to help him shake off his grim thoughts.  He could do it, given enough time and determination; after all, he was a captain of Gondor, and it was only a memory.

Chapter 13: In Good Company

Merry sat holding a long length of white linen in his hands, watching Strider dab at the wound in Legolas’ back.  Outwardly he was quiet and still, but he was in turmoil beneath his skin.  His emotions were in a hopeless snarl; there were so many things that he was feeling that he scarcely knew what to think.  Fear and horror, relief and hope, sadness and joy – they rose and sank within him by turns like children on a see-saw.

Strider worked with the same tenderness that Merry had seen in him when Frodo had been wounded.  Whether he was wiping a thin stream of blood from Legolas’ shoulder or feeling at the Elf’s neck for his pulse, his hands were gentle and sure.  He had not said so, but he had to be tired after walking so far beneath Legolas’ unconscious weight.  Merry was bone-weary himself but he never considered asking for a reprieve.  There was work to be done, and he was needed.  At least the worst of his labor was over.  Watching Strider remove the arrow had not been easy.

The sight of Legolas was not one to inspire confidence.  Despite the fire he seemed scarcely less white than he’d been when he first appeared from out of the snow, dangling behind Strider’s back with ice in his hair.  He breathed, but he was utterly insensible to everything around him.  Merry knew this for a fact, for Legolas had not so much as twitched when Strider wrenched out the broken shaft.

At the moment, Merry had no difficulty counting his blessings – or Legolas’ and Sam’s, for that matter.  “It could have been so much worse,” he murmured.

“Yes, it could have,” Strider replied softly, “and might still be.  I have not yet had the chance to examine either Sam or Legolas thoroughly.  They may have suffered broken bones or blows to the head.”

Merry hesitated a moment before replying, conscious of the sudden stillness beneath the overhang.  It had been some time since anyone had spoken, and he could feel the rest of the company listening.  “But they are alive.”

“They are,” Strider agreed, “and that is no small thing.”

Strider himself was the reason that no one had said anything for a good while.  He had been so tense and snappish since dragging Legolas into the shelter that no one had dared to disturb him, but his calmness now was heartening enough to spur Merry on.  “Is Legolas going to recover?”

“The arrow pierced no vital organ.  If you must be shot, the shoulder is far from the worst place to be struck, and it was not even as deeply buried as I thought it would be.  Perhaps he was underwater at the moment of contact.”

“It’s a pity he wasn’t wearing more armor.”

“Oftentimes, an archer needs little more than these,” said Strider, indicating Legolas’ vambraces, which Merry had removed and set aside himself.

An archer needs a bow, too, thought Merry, considering Legolas’ broken weapon.  No one had so much as considered leaving it behind, and until someone unloaded Bill it remained strapped to the pony’s back.  But then Merry thought of the fight atop the cliff, and he stilled his tongue.  Legolas was far from helpless without a weapon, even when he was bound hand and foot.  And when he had got his hands on his knives, he had been very… efficient… in dispatching the Men.

And Sam…!  What of him?  Merry had certainly not expected him to do what he had done.  None of them had.  Even knowing all that had been at stake, Sam was the last hobbit in the Shire that Merry would have thought capable of such a thing.  It was simply not in his nature.  The Men must have been more blackhearted than Merry could imagine to have driven Sam to attack in such a fashion.  That, or Sam had layers that he had never guessed at.  Perhaps it was a little of both.

“If this wound proves to be the worst of his injuries, then he is very fortunate, and so are we,” Strider continued.  “He can recover quickly from such a hurt by itself.  But his body is already taxed by exposure, and perhaps by other secrets we have yet to uncover.”

“What about these?” said Merry, gesturing at Legolas’ bruises.

Displeasure painted Strider’s face.  “Most of these have been here for some days’ time.  See how they are fading?  They must have been inflicted during the journey through the river.  But these others….  I think that we saw enough atop that cliff to know how Legolas and Sam were treated while in captivity, but we cannot know all until one of them revives enough to tell us.”

“Sam has told us quite a bit already,” Gandalf said abruptly.  He and the others had given up all pretense of deafness now.  Even Boromir had stopped his restless pacing to stand near the shelter’s edge, although he continued to keep an eye on what lay beyond it.  “The Men suspected that he and Legolas had something of value in their possession.”

“He said the Men thought they had It,” said Pippin, placing special emphasis on the word.  “It, not something.”

“And yet Sam has told us that they gave no description of what they sought,” said Gandalf, leveling a significant look at Pippin.

“A group of ordinary Men mightn’t have set themselves upon an Elf and a hobbit wandering around all by themselves,” Pippin persisted, “but Sam said that these are Saruman’s Men.  Saruman knows about… well, he knows, and he’s none too happy with you, Gandalf.  He must have told them to get it for him.”

“Ah, but you are forgetting something,” said Gandalf.  “Think about what it is that Saruman wants.  You have heard how it corrupts, how it can turn the minds of the unguarded.  You need no better example than Saruman himself.  He once was one of the mightiest folk in Middle-earth, and though I would no longer call him wise, he is still both powerful and cunning.  He would not trust anyone with full knowledge of what he seeks, for he knows its nature well.  Saruman would no more take a hired sword into his confidence than he would an orc, and mercenaries are surely what these folk are.  No Men serve him out of love.”

You have heard how it corrupts, how it can turn the minds of the unguarded.  Merry looked away from the others, filled with disquiet.  Gandalf’s words brushed a little too closely to a secret that he kept closely guarded.  He did not like talking about the Ring; it had been but a few days since he’d picked up his burden, and the wound was still fresh.  What would Gandalf say if he knew?  What would Frodo say?  Merry shivered a little and squared his shoulders.  Well, they were not going to know.  He would rather die than admit it to either of them.

“Still, I think you have the right of the situation in general, Peregrin,” said Gandalf.  “We have no reason to doubt Sam’s assertion that the Men are in Saruman’s employ.  And while I do not think that they know what it is that Saruman wants, I believe that he sent them to find a group of hobbits and bring them to him.  These Men must have understood that Saruman valued them in some way, even if they were not given details.  They found Sam and Legolas alone, took them prisoner, and searched them.”

“And found nothing,” Frodo murmured.

“Do you believe Sam’s insistence that he did not betray us?” said Gimli.  “I mean no offense,” he said, raising his hands in apology when Frodo angrily opened his mouth, “but we knew that these Men were foul when we first saw them.  And after seeing what they did to our Elven companion – or rather, tried to do – I cannot help but wonder.  That Sam would never wish to give us away I do not question, but if he has been tormented….”

Pippin’s face had gone very white.  “Do you really think they…?”

“Sam spoke of a sorcerer,” Gimli continued.  “And he was most anxious to make you believe him, Gandalf.”

“He said that the Men tried to ‘make them tell’,” said Boromir.  “He called their efforts ‘unnatural’.  What qualms could a wielder of the black arts have against terrorizing a hobbit?”

“Oh, Sam,” sighed Pippin, who was on the edge of tears again.  Frodo looked no less distraught, but he did not seem surprised by these theories.  Merry suspected that his own face more closely mirrored Pippin’s than Frodo’s.  Even though he had seen Sam being threatened with a sword from across the river, he had not considered that even worse treatment might have been going on for days.  The thought of Sam being deliberately harmed could not be borne.

“This kind of talk does nothing for our morale,” Strider said quietly.  “It might be that Sam has not undergone any such trial as we fear.”

“Perhaps,” said Gimli, “but we must consider it.  These Men may be coming to try and reclaim their prizes, and I for one would rather be overprepared than not.  ‘Plan for the worst and your surprises will always be pleasant.’  It is well for us that Sam mentioned the sorcerer before falling asleep.  Sam is convinced that he presents a danger to our Fellowship, and if he can make the trees come to life, then I cannot say that I disagree.”

“Oh, I do not think that was the sorcerer’s doing,” said Gandalf.  “He and his Men fled from that phenomenon.”

“Then what was it?” asked Boromir.  “Is this part of the river enchanted?”

“Only when Wood-elves are about.”

Merry, Pippin, Boromir and Gimli all stared at Gandalf.  “Surely not!” said Gimli.

“Legolas can do magic?” said Pippin.

“He would not call it magic,” said Gandalf.  “He and his folk can hear the voices of trees, and the trees can sense them in kind.  I do not know just what happened, but I wager that Legolas had everything to do with it.  It will make for an interesting tale when he awakens.”

“Even if that was Legolas’ doing, it makes the Men no less of a threat,” said Boromir.

“You may be the only one among us who can fight a sorcerer, Gandalf,” said Frodo.

Gandalf favored the Ring-bearer with a grim smile.  “That is not quite true.  A sorcerer can die by the sword as readily as anyone else.  The difficulty lies getting close enough to the sorcerer to use it.”

“So you may have to use your magic after all,” said Pippin, who had regained some of his composure.  “But before – on the cliff – you said you couldn’t.”

Gandalf hesitated for a moment before replying.  “I did.  Perhaps I should rather have said that I would not.  At that moment, I believed that helping Sam and Legolas would severely endanger the Ring-bearer and his Quest.  I would have you know, Peregrin, that weighing our companions against the good of all Middle-earth may have been the wise thing to do, but it was not lightly done.  You must not think that I did not care what befell them.”

“I didn’t think that,” Pippin murmured.

“Well, we are together again despite my decision, if somewhat the worse for wear.  And if this sorcerer thinks to subdue us with his abilities, he shall soon learn that he is no match for me.  Teaching him may mark us out for any who are watching to see, but so be it!  I will not have our errand fail because I did not use my powers when I ought to have done.”

Gandalf spoke so confidently that Merry’s spirits rose a little.  He almost felt foolish for worrying about this sorcerer, this Garan, as Sam named him.  What trouble could a barely-trained Man bring that a wizard could not handle?  Merry could not remember precisely when it had happened, but at some point he had begun to suspect that there was more to Gandalf than fireworks.  The Elves of Rivendell had treated him with the utmost respect, and Merry blushed to think of the wizard’s reputation in the Shire.  Many hobbits routinely gave him less than a warm welcome.  Gandalf did have a tendency to stir things up a bit whenever he came, and though hobbits did not like to be stirred, it was no excuse for rudeness.  The bowls of still-steaming water caught Merry’s eye.  So boiling water with the wave of a hand was a small matter, was it?  He looked back at the wizard, still clutching his pipestem between his teeth and supporting Sam in his lap.  What could Gandalf the Gray really do?

“It is time for that bandage, Merry,” said Strider.

Merry looked down at Legolas.  He had been so distracted by the conversation and his own thoughts that he had not noted Strider’s progress.  The Elf’s back had been meticulously cleaned and a folded wad of white cloth had been placed over the wound.

“We must lift him to wrap these linens about his chest,” Strider continued.  “I will hold him up if you will do the rest.  Move quickly, if you can.  He is still very cold and may yet be in danger.”

Merry did as Strider asked and worked as rapidly as he could.  As it happened, the work took very little time, and soon he was tucking the end of the long, white bandage between two of its own layers.  Strider had required Gimli’s aid to hold Legolas up, being wearier than he had known or perhaps wanted to admit, and the two of them began to lower him back to the blankets on the ground.

“A moment!” Boromir enjoined them.  He unfastened the clasp of his fur-lined cloak, pulled it from his shoulders, and handed it into the shelter.  “Take this.  I have a plainer,” he added, seeing the look of surprise on Strider’s face.  “It is not as warm, but this fire and an extra blanket will more than make up for the lack.”

With a strange look on his face, Strider reached out and took the offering.  “A man who gives selflessly is noble indeed.  Surely the people of Gondor do not love you without cause.”

It was Boromir’s turn to be taken aback.  Merry wondered whether it was because the praise was unexpected or because it came from Strider.  To his eye, the two Men were not always entirely comfortable around each other.

“I hope that is so.  I was once instructed by one of the Wise on the nature of nobility.  It is earned, he said, and not by birth.”  A small smile played about the corners of Boromir’s mouth as he shifted his gaze to Gandalf.  “I was young, but I never forgot it.  Neither did my brother.  You were most forceful in your teaching.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Gandalf.  “In matters of such importance, forcefulness is imperative.”

“Help me,” Strider said softly, and Merry aided him in wrapping Boromir’s cloak around Legolas.  He glanced at the weary Ranger as Gimli helped to settle the Elf to the ground again and saw that his eyes glistened beneath a sheen of tears.

“What happens now?” Pippin asked.  His voice sounded too loud to Merry, but it was no fault of Pippin’s.  Strider had turned away from the others, and they could not see his face.

“I will check them for other injuries… as well as I can,” said Strider.  He was still staring down at Legolas.

Merry and Gimli looked at each other from either side of Strider.  Gimli’s expression echoed the sympathy that Merry felt welling up inside him.  Impulsively, he reached over and patted Strider’s arm.  Strider did not look at him, but after a long moment he closed his eyes, smiled tightly, and turned away.  Gimli gave Merry a brief, approving nod when the Man was no longer looking.

Despite Gandalf’s exhortations that Strider take some thought for himself, Strider refused to rest until he had fully examined both Legolas and Sam.  Apart from his arrow-wound and chilled body, Legolas’ hurts amounted to an older cut on one of his legs that had not healed as well as it ought to have done and bruises that were cast helter-skelter across his skin.  Strider expected more bruises to appear as a consequence of the fight they had witnessed, but even so, he was relieved.  “At least they did not manage to stab him,” he said.

It was not until Strider turned his attention to Sam that he learned of the state that the hobbit had been in when Boromir rejoined the company.  To Strider the news did not seem unexpected, but Gimli listened raptly as the others explained what Merry had done.  They generally made him out to be the hero of the story, and Merry found himself wishing that they wouldn’t make such a fuss about it.  It had not required any great deal of courage to do what he did; he had simply done what he had been taught to do.

Though he was reluctant, Merry was forced to recount the whole ordeal to Strider, who was very keen to hear the tale from his point of view.  He answered the Ranger’s questions but made the telling as brief as possible.  Talking about Sam’s revival brought his tangled feelings to the surface again, and he still did not know how to sort them out.  It would be easier, he thought, if he could stop thinking about it.

“Alas that I was not with you,” Strider murmured when Merry had finished.

“Sam was breathing when you returned,” said Boromir.  “What more could you have done?”

“Even I would not have asked you to put Legolas aside,” said Frodo.  “Surely his need was the greater at that moment.”

“After Boromir and I parted ways I almost turned and went back,” said Strider.  “I feared that Sam might not be breathing when he was pulled from the water.  But then I remembered that we had a wizard with us, and I ran on.  And now I find that I ought to have placed my faith in quite another member of our company!  I still wish that I could have seen to Sam immediately, but it seems that you had matters well in hand, Merry.”

Merry’s face flushed a little despite himself.  “That’s what comes from growing up in Brandy Hall.  All Brandybucks know how to revive hobbits who have fallen afoul of the Brandywine.”

Strider listened to Sam’s breathing and heartbeat and pronounced himself pleased by what he found.  His examination of Sam’s body, however, brought no smiles to his face or anyone else’s.  Sam’s bruises were more numerous than Legolas’.  Frodo grasped the hilt of Sting and drew himself up, eyes flashing, when Strider murmured over the beginnings of a bruise on Sam’s cheek.  By now it almost went without saying that Sam and Legolas had been maltreated, but that did not make seeing the evidence any easier to bear.  If one of the Men had suddenly appeared in their midst at that moment, the Ring-bearer might have tried to dispatch him single-handedly.  In such a fey mood, thought Merry, he might have been able to do it.

Sam’s other wounds were no more serious in nature than his bruises but were no less cause for concern.  Especially troubling was a long, thin cut across his neck, just below the chin.  Grim silence fell when Strider discovered it.  Merry could not see how it could be anything other than what it seemed to be, although he wished it were not so.  At least Sam’s splinted wrist had the potential to be explained away.  Strider pointed out the careful smoothing of the two splints as evidence that Legolas might have done the work himself.  The Men would not have taken such pains to make Sam comfortable, he said, and they would not have let Legolas near a knife; therefore, Sam’s wrist could have been bound long before the two groups met.

Only when he was satisfied that he had done everything possible for Sam and Legolas did Strider cast himself down to rest.  At the others’ urging, Boromir wrapped himself in a blanket and oiled cloak and joined him.  The two men were asleep almost as soon as they closed their eyes.

Frodo plainly wished to remain at Sam’s side.  When Gandalf carefully passed Sam into his master’s care, it did not rouse the sleeping hobbit in the least.  At first Frodo gazed intently down at his charge, but as minutes passed uneventfully and Sam slumbered on, his head began to droop.  Eventually he nodded off where he sat with one of hands covering one of Sam’s own.  No one woke him.

By an unspoken agreement the waking remainder of the Fellowship took up positions near the edge of the overhang to keep watch.  Gimli sat in one corner while Merry and Pippin sat opposite him, looking upriver.  Gandalf took it upon himself to unburden poor Bill, who had been nearly forgotten, before choosing a place between Gimli and the hobbits.  He promptly refilled his pipe and resumed puffing away, his brows drawn down forbiddingly, staring out over the ground that Boromir had so restlessly paced.

The four of them sat without speaking for a long time.  They could hear the rushing noise of the river, which was hidden from view by boulders and the trunks of trees.  The wind was not as cutting as it had been, but now and then it would rise enough to wail through the treetops and fling snow beneath the Fellowship’s meager shelter.  Merry watched the fire out of the corner of his eye, ready to tend to it should it begin to falter.  On behalf of the sleepers he begrudged every gust that slipped beneath the overhang, but the wind disturbed Frodo and the Men very little and Sam and Legolas not at all.

Even with the ever-present sound of wind and water, it was quiet at the base of the cliff.  Merry supposed that it was impossible for things not to seem quiet after the frenzy and noise of the past two hours.  No one spoke, not even Pippin, who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts.

Thinking and waiting were all that was left for Merry to do, and in the stillness, his thoughts turned once again to Sam’s revival.  He could not seem to help focusing on it.  He didn’t want to; while the sight of Sam’s eyes opening had been joyous, the time that passed before had been torture.

Boromir came pounding up, winded and red-faced, bearing what could only be Sam in his arms.  He shuddered to a halt, dropped to his knees and lowered Sam to the ground as gently as he could.  Sam’s head fell back, exposing his face.  Merry’s heart skipped a beat.  Sam was as white as the snow….

The scene was unfolding before him again.  Merry groped about for something else to think about, something that would take his mind off of what had happened, but nothing else was strong enough to block it out.

Merry stood rooted to the earth in shock.  He had never thought to see Sam in this condition.  Drowning was the death that Sam had always feared.

“He’s not breathing!” Frodo cried, his voice breaking.  Merry staggered forward as if Frodo’s wail had been a physical blow.  He was grieved and shocked, but he could not stand still and be dismayed.  He was quite possibly the only person present who knew what to do.

Merry’s body had returned to life, but Pippin’s had not.  He stood stock-still where he was, staring openmouthed at Sam in horror and disbelief.  “Get out of the way!” Merry snapped.  It came out more roughly than he had intended, but fear had him in its grip and he could not help himself.  There was not a moment to be spared.

For Merry, Pippin and Frodo might as well have ceased to exist once they had both stumbled out of his line of sight.  The icy edge of Sam’s cloak crackled beneath his weight as he knelt and pressed his ear to Sam’s chest.  Please, he silently begged, straining to catch what he desperately wanted to hear.

There was nothing.

The ragged fringes of panic rose in Merry’s gut, but he reflexively suppressed them almost as soon as they were born.  In their wake remained only the dull knowledge of what had to be done.  The hobbits of the Brandywine Watch had taught him well.  “No heartbeat,” he said, and Pippin promptly began to sob.  Boromir’s proud neck bent in defeat.

They thought that he was announcing Sam’s death, but Merry knew otherwise.  Sam might very well be beyond his reach, but if he was not, he would not become so for lack of trying.  Merry pinched Sam’s nose shut with one hand, drew a deep breath, and pressed his lips against Sam’s slack mouth.  Sam’s chest expanded slightly, but Merry’s relief was fleeting; he could not get as much air in as he would have liked.

Merry inhaled deeply and blew out once more.  Sam did not stir, but Merry had anticipated as much.  He had not been able to find a pulse, and that meant that Sam’s heart would have to be restarted.  At least he would not have to do both the breathing and the heavy lifting by himself.

Moving quickly, Merry slid backwards and swung one leg across Sam’s body so that he was sitting on the fallen hobbit’s legs.  He leaned over, seized Sam’s shoulders with his hands, and pulled Sam’s back up off the ground.  Frodo gasped from somewhere behind him when he threw Sam back down and began repeating the motion over and over.

“Pippin!”  He was still shouting, but Merry could no more control his voice than he could bring back Sam if he truly were dead already.  “I need you to breathe for him!”  He spared only a brief glance at Pippin when he stumbled into view and knelt beside Sam’s head.  He was still weeping, still horrorstruck, but at least he was there.

“Give him two deep breaths when I say,” said Merry, punctuating the order by throwing Sam’s back against the ground again.  Twice more he repeated the motion before looking up at Pippin.  He moved a hand from one of Sam’s shoulders long enough to straighten Sam’s head, and then cried, “Breathe!”

Pippin breathed, and Sam’s chest rose a little.  Inwardly, Merry railed against the water that was blocking the way.

“Nothing,” Pippin choked out, dashing away tears with one hand.

Merry grasped Sam’s shoulders and pulled him up off the ground again.  “We’re not giving up,” he replied.  A few more lifts, a few more throws.  He was sweating already; senseless bodies were heavy.  “I’ve seen hobbits take longer than this to come around!”

But the words rang hollow in his ears.  Sam had that look about him already; at best, he was skating the razor’s edge.  How far had Boromir had to run since finding him?  How long had it taken to reach the rest of the company?  There was no way of knowing how much time had passed since Sam had stopped breathing.

“It’s too late,” sobbed Pippin.  “He’s so cold and blue!”

“Breathe!” said Merry.  This time, Pippin steadied Sam’s head back by himself.  Two breaths went in.  Sam lay quiet.

Fear was welling up inside Merry again despite his training.  Not all drowning victims could be saved, and not even the eldest members of the Brandywine Watch knew why.  He ought to be controlling his fear better – it was imperative that the rescuer distance himself from the victim – but he could not.  This was Sam beneath his hands.

Up and down, up and down.  It required an increasing effort on Merry’s part not to throw Sam against the ground as hard as he could.  He had to jar Sam’s heart back into motion, but a beating heart would do Sam little good if his skull had been cracked.  Merry could not help feeling that he was trying to grasp sand in his hands.  Time.  If only he had more time!

Merry threw Sam’s back against the ground once more and shouted, “Breathe!”

A spasm contorted Pippin’s face, but he bent down dutifully, and….

Merry felt tears gathering behind his closed eyelids.  His father had always said that the sound of a beating heart was the sweetest sound there was.  Merry had thought he’d understood, but he hadn’t really known what Saradoc had meant until now.  In his mind he saw again Sam’s eyes opening, heard the sound of his first wheezy breaths.  The event had been so desperately desired that his strength had evaporated, leaving him with only with weakness in his limbs.  Unless it had been on Weathertop, he did not know when he had ever been so afraid.

“Do you think this snow will ever stop?”

Merry jumped, startled by the sudden sound of Pippin’s voice.  He had been so lost in thought that he had become quite unaware of his surroundings – including his cousin.  He scrubbed at his face to wipe away the tears that had fallen.  Pippin did not seem to have noticed; he was still looking out over their surroundings.  “I don’t know,” he replied when he had collected himself.  “I suppose if it continues on like this, we could wind up with a fair bit on our hands.”

“I’d just as soon it didn’t.  I don’t much care for the thought of digging our way out of this canyon.”

“I expect we won’t be leaving for a few days at least, Pip.  Frodo won’t be willing to leave Sam behind.”

“What about Legolas?” Pippin said softly.  “It’s a nasty hole he’s got in his back.”

“Strider thinks he’ll be all right,” Merry said as reassuringly as he could manage.  “He says he can recover quickly, so long as he’s not hurt too badly.”

“But how quickly?” Pippin countered.  “From the way he looks you’d think he needed bed rest for two weeks at least, and never mind his being shot.”

“I know,” Merry sighed.  “But there’s nothing to do now but wait until he wakes up again.”

“We need him, don’t you think?  He’s handy in a pinch.  Strider might have just been trying to make us feel better at the time, but I think what he said about an Elf having a better chance of surviving in that river than anyone else was true.”

The wind picked up again, sending a shiver down Merry’s spine.  He pulled his cloak more tightly about his body.  “Strider’s worried about him.”

“Well, they’re friends, you know.  I’d be worried about you if you’d been shot.”

Merry did not respond.  He thought of the look he’d seen on Strider’s face, the one that only he and Gimli had glimpsed.  He didn’t know if gratitude for Boromir had played any part in that look, but he knew two things for certain: Strider was afraid for Legolas, and he didn’t want the rest of the Fellowship to know just how much.

Merry was still shaken by the memory of Sam’s rescue and could think of nothing to say, but he expected that Pippin would be speaking up again very shortly.  By the way he was restlessly shifting his weight, he was either uncomfortable in his position or determined to talk, and Merry was banking on the latter.  If there was something on his cousin’s mind, it would come out sooner or later.  Pippin had never been known to be reticent.

“Sometimes I wonder if Lord Elrond did the right thing, sending us along,” Pippin said after a minute or two of fitful stirring.  “Instead of more Elves, I mean.”

Merry smiled incredulously.  “After all that fuss you made about not being left behind?  We may not be warriors, but Gandalf did stand for us.  And we’re not completely hopeless with our swords anymore.  Boromir’s a good teacher.”

“Well, there is that,” said Pippin, “but that’s not really what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

Pippin looked away and shifted his weight again.  Merry frowned.  What was it that had Pippin so agitated?  He opened his mouth to speak again, but Pippin saw him and said, in a rush, “I’ve got a confession to make.”

“A confession?  Whatever about?  There’s no way that you could have done anything worth confessing to in the last few days.  I’d have noticed.  Unless you’re referring to that business with Bill and the apple, and we all know that was you anyway.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?  You always did think better of me than most, but then, it’s my own fault.  I suppose I’ve pulled one too many pranks.”

Merry blinked at the bleak expression that had appeared on Pippin’s face.  His cousin looked… ashamed.  Pippin never looked ashamed, even when he ought to.  “What on earth is the matter, Pip?  You look upset.  Truly, you do.”

“I’ve got reason to be,” said Pippin, dropping his voice to a whisper that Merry had to strain to catch.  “I’ve heard it.”

“Heard what?” Merry whispered back.

“It,” Pippin breathed.  His eyes darted over to where Gandalf sat.  “The Ring.”  Merry sat still, dumbstruck, and Pippin mistook his silence for disapproval.  “I couldn’t help it,” he added quickly.  “All of a sudden it was just there in my head.   And that’s not even the worst of it.  I didn’t just hear it – I listened.  I didn’t want to, but putting my fingers in my ears didn’t do any good, and I was paying attention almost before I knew.  I thought about it later, after the voice had gone, and I can’t figure out why I listened.  It wanted me to do things I’d never do, not if I were in my right mind.  I’ve been wanting to tell someone for days now, but I couldn’t stand the thought of telling anyone but you, and every time I got the chance I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

Pippin was looking directly at Merry now, pleading silently with his eyes.  Merry knew exactly what it was that Pippin wanted, because he wanted the same thing himself.  He wanted someone to tell him that it was all right – that he wasn’t weak-minded, or bad somehow, or unworthy to be on the Quest.  He wanted to know that he wasn’t alone.

Merry had never considered that he might not have been the only one that the Ring had singled out.  He had been too busy feeling guilty about it to think about the rest of the Fellowship.  They had been nearly a week out of Rivendell when he had first heard the whispers in his mind.  He didn’t have to ask Pippin how he knew that it had been the voice of the Ring; he had just known.  He did not understand how an inanimate object could speak to him in such a way, but apparently the Ring was not entirely inanimate.  The way Gandalf and Elrond talked about it – how it wanted this, it desired that – it sounded as if the band of gold had a mind of its own.

For a moment Merry was too surprised by Pippin’s revelation to speak, but the initial shock was quickly replaced by something else: relief.  He had wished desperately not to be the weak link in the chain even though he wondered if having company would make him feel any better.  He didn’t want the Ring to have any more chances to make trouble than it already had, after all.  But he did feel better knowing he wasn’t alone.  Pippin wasn’t weak-minded or secretly evil, and if he had heard the Ring, then Merry couldn’t be any of those things either.

Merry suddenly realized that he felt better than he had in days, and for the second time that afternoon he had a real reason to smile.  “It’s all right,” he said softly.  “I’ve heard it, too.  It’s not just you.”

Pippin’s eyes went as wide as they would go.  “You have?” he stammered.

“It did just what you said.  It made me want things that I’d never wanted before – and still don’t want.  And I couldn’t block it out, either.”

“And while it was talking to you – did it make a strange sort of sense?”

“Yes, it did.  But not after, when I had a chance to think about it.”  Merry felt as if his heart would burst for the look of purest gratitude that had come over Pippin’s face.  “It’s not just you.  Really.  And I’m glad to know that it’s not just me, either.”

Pippin did not reply right away.  He gazed out into the falling snow, looking both relieved and thoughtful.  For his part, Merry was content to revel in his own feelings of solace.  It was as if a great weight had been lifted from around his neck, a weight that he had not truly felt the burden of until it was gone.

Several minutes passed before Pippin spoke again.  “I suppose if you and I have both heard it, then it’s not just the two of us, either.  Do you think it’s gotten to Sam?  Or Strider?”

“Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve all heard it by now,” said Merry.

“Even Gandalf?  And Legolas?”

Merry stared at his cousin.  “So that’s what you meant about sending Elves instead of hobbits.”

“Elves are immortal,” said Pippin with a shrug.  “I thought maybe they wouldn’t be susceptible like we are.”

“I don’t think that’s true.  The Council decided that no one could wield it, not even the Elves.  It wants to get back to its master, and that’s none of us here.  The Council must have thought that it could get hold of anyone.  After all, Elrond did warn us all – not just you and me.”

Pippin gave a little shiver.  “I don’t know if that makes me feel any better.”

“Then take comfort in this,” said a kindly voice.  Merry and Pippin both jumped.  Gandalf had heard them!  “I would not have advocated your coming if I did not think that you possessed enough strength of will to resist its lure.”

For a moment Merry could only goggle at Gandalf.  “How much did you hear?” he demanded, albeit weakly.

“Not everything – you were very quiet in the beginning – but I am not so deaf as you believe me to be.  I heard enough to deduce what you were talking about.  If you want to tell secrets to each other, you will have to do the telling a little further from me.”

Gandalf’s eyes were twinkling, but Merry felt terrible.  Hadn’t he thought he would rather die than admit to Gandalf that he had heard the Ring’s voice?  Despite his own assertion to Pippin that the entire company had probably heard its call by now, he wished that Gandalf had not found out.

Gandalf’s expression softened when he saw their distress.  “Peace, young ones!  I think no less of you for this; I was sure that it had already happened to you, for it has certainly happened to me.”

“It has?” Pippin said faintly.  Merry thought he looked uneasy.

Gandalf smiled gently.  “Merry is right – we are none of us immune.  It is your will that will keep you safe.  The whispers that you hear are persuasive, but they cannot make you act.  You have still got some say in the matter, Peregrin.”  He leaned closer and dropped his voice.  “And let me take this moment to remind you: do not speak aloud of Rings!  Sauron’s spies are legion, and there are enemies about.”

“What can it be that has you all so intrigued?” Gimli said abruptly from the far side of the shelter.

Merry had nearly forgotten Gimli’s presence altogether.  Apparently Pippin had, too; the two of them stared at the Dwarf, mutely wondering what they ought to say.  Merry feared that it was already too late for anything they said to sound plausible – they had to look positively guilty – but he had no wish to lay his soul bare to everyone in the Fellowship.

“There’s no need to look like you’ve been caught pinching the comb from the honey-jar,” said Gimli when no one replied.  “You may keep your secrets!”

Merry could feel heat suffusing his cheeks.  Surely he was every bit as scarlet as Pippin had gone.  But apparently Gimli had meant what he said; he had already turned his back to them and was gazing out among the boulders.

Merry exhaled slowly and exchanged a long glance with Pippin before turning toward the landscape again.  They sat that way for a long time, watching the wind swirl the falling snow and disturb the skeletal branches of the trees.  Neither of them said another word.

------------------------------------

It took Merry a moment to recall where he was and why when he first opened his eyes.  It was dark outside the shelter – in the small hours of the morning, by the feel of things.  At a certain time of night, a waking soul invariably felt that he was the only thing living in the whole wide world.  Everything was certainly still now.  There was no wind, no more falling snow, and the fire was burning soft and low.

Merry had been sleeping back to back with Pippin for warmth.  Pippin was still there, drawing the slow breaths of sleep.  Merry stayed huddled in his blankets and let his eyes search his surroundings for signs of whatever it was that had woken him.  He could see Frodo standing guard at the far edge of the shelter.  When night had fallen and Sam had still not roused, the Ring-bearer had volunteered for a turn at the watch.  Strider sat a little way from him, silent and expressionless.  Boromir was on watch as well, but Merry would have had to move in order to see him, and he didn’t want to disturb Pippin.

Sam lay near the fire, partially screened from stray breezes by Gandalf’s body.  He was so thoroughly covered in blankets his forehead and eyes were the only parts of his body that showed.  At some point in the night he had curled himself into a more comfortable position, and so he looked comparatively better recovered than Legolas, who still lay rigidly upon his chest on the other side of the fire.  It didn’t look as if Legolas had stirred since Strider had….

Merry’s lips parted in astonishment.  Legolas’ eyes were open!  He was awake!

An instant later Legolas’ eyelids fluttered, and Merry realized his error.  Legolas waking up, but he wasn’t yet fully there.

Merry felt unable to move.  An irrational fear that this was all a dream seized him, and he fought against closing his eyes for even an instant.  But at last his eyes demanded that he at least blink, and when he did, Legolas remained unchanged.

“Strider,” Merry whispered.  When the Man did not move he tried again, a little more loudly.  “Strider!”

Strider turned, took in the look on Merry’s face, and immediately saw what had transfixed him.  A moment later he had launched himself from his seat.  The scrape of his boots on the ground was loud in the quiet.  “Legolas!” he whispered urgently.  He placed one hand on Legolas’ uninjured shoulder and bent down to look him in the face.

Merry saw Gimli sitting up somewhere on his right.  Across the fire, Gandalf raised his head.

Strider placed the back of one hand against Legolas’ cheek, checking to see if he was warm, and repeated his name.  Legolas’ furrowed brow and slowly blinking eyes gave him a disoriented look.  One of his own hands appeared from inside Boromir’s cloak, moving palm-down over the ground.

Without warning Legolas’ eyes went wide and his whole body jerked.  Merry gasped aloud and heard Pippin do the same behind him.  “No, Legolas!” said Aragorn, tightening his grip on Legolas’ right side.  “Stay still!”

Legolas pressed against the ground with his hand and jerked again in an attempt to throw Strider off.  Merry was astonished to realize that he was trying to get up, and violently so.

Elvish words burst from Legolas’ mouth, none of which Merry recognized save one: Sam.  Strider seemed so surprised by the outcry that he was unable to say a thing until the still-struggling Elf had repeated himself in an even more desperate tone.  Strider leaned his weight against Legolas to hold him down, although Merry could see that he was trying to do so as gently as possible.  He spoke rapidly into Legolas’ ear, and though Merry did not know what was being said, he could tell that the same phrases were being repeated over and over again.  At first Legolas did not seem to hear, but presently his eyes lost their wild look and he stopped fighting.  Strider’s voice grew soothing as the Elf calmed.

“He is here,” Gandalf said quietly when Legolas lay still and Strider stopped speaking.  “He is here, and he is well.”  He gently put his hands on Sam’s form, showing where the hobbit lay sleeping.  Sam was the only one among them who was not awake; everyone else was watching Strider and Legolas with varying degrees of hope and trepidation.

Legolas stared at Sam with an unnerving intensity for a long minute, but then Strider spoke into his ear again, and his face relaxed.  Strider murmured words of consolation and eased his hold on Legolas’ arms, although he did not let go altogether.  He continued to speak until Legolas’ eyes drifted shut, and just like that, the Elf was gone again.

The entire company seemed to exhale together.  “Well,” Pippin said a trifle shakily, “that was startling!”

“Their tale must be one for the annals of both their peoples,” Boromir added quietly.  “See how concerned each is for the other!”

“Is he going to be all right?” asked Frodo.

“I hope so,” said Strider.  A smile had dawned on his lips, and some of the tightness around his eyes had vanished.  “He is much warmer now, and it certainly seems that there is life in him yet.  The next time he wakes, he will be calmer.”  The various members of the company smiled at each other at this announcement, and the atmosphere around the fire grew noticeably more relaxed.

“Perhaps his rest will be easier knowing that Sam is safe,” said Gimli.

“I think we will all rest easier now,” said Gandalf.  He was stretching himself out on the ground again, looking for all the world as if Legolas’ outburst had been nothing out of the ordinary.  “Go back to sleep, Merry, Peregrin!  There is nothing more to be done at this hour, and we do not know what tomorrow will bring.”

There was no arguing with a wizard in the dead of night, and so Merry and Pippin wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay down again.  Merry could hear Gimli and Gandalf trying to find comfortable positions in their own corners of the shelter.  Frodo and Boromir went quietly back to their watches, but Strider lingered near the fire for a moment, adding more wood and tucking Legolas’ arm back under the cloak that encircled him.  When he returned to his post at the edge he was humming softly to himself.

Pippin quickly dropped off despite his muttered protestations that he was too excited to do so.  The sigh from Gimli as he rolled over and the soft, occasional snore from Gandalf announced that they had gone back to sleep, too.  Merry lay staring at the fire and Sam and Legolas on either side of it, wondering how they could all slip away so easily.  There was still so much to think about.  He was glad that Strider thought there would be a next time for Legolas, but how long would it take him to heal?  What exactly had he and Sam endured?  Would the Men leave them alone, or were they trying to find their lost prisoners?

At first Merry thought he was destined to lie awake for the rest of the night, but drowsiness crept up on him despite his lingering questions.  He was feeling pleasantly warm, Pippin was breathing steadily behind him, and Strider’s contented humming hung over everything, a song so soft that it was scarcely audible.  The need for rest trumped the need for thought, and at last he descended into slumber.

Chapter 14: Tales to be Told

There were no two ways about it – Pippin was cold.  His fingers, his backside, his nose, and even his feet were chilled.  He briskly rubbed his gloved hands together to thaw his stiffened fingers and resisted the urge to look back at the fire.  Even though it was burning low and its heat did not reach far, it remained warm, inviting… and just out of reach.  He reminded himself that it wasn’t wise to think overmuch about what he couldn’t have.  Doing so would only increase his longing – and consequently, his sense of privation.  Anyway, it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t be able to enjoy the fire later after morning had broken and it had been built up again.  There would be no fresh meat or eggs to be had unless Strider or Boromir went hunting, but at least they would have tea.  Something hot to fill his belly would be just the thing – even if it was mostly water.

Abruptly Pippin realized that he was still thinking about the fire despite his resolutions to the contrary.  Mind your work! he chastised himself.  You’re supposed to be watching for the Men, not daydreaming about breakfast!

It was not the first time he had used the threat of the mysterious Men to snap himself back to attention, but it was as effective a technique at the tenth usage as it had been upon the first.  The proof of their malice lay just a few feet behind him, and he did not need to look at it to remember.  Images of Sam and Legolas, half-dead from their encounter with the Men, were seared into his brain.  They were enough to help him forget both the fire and his numbed body.

Pippin was on third watch with Gimli.  The two of them sat at opposite ends of the Fellowship’s small shelter, gazing out into the waning night.  Morning was not far off now; objects that had been indistinguishable in the dark were visible as layers of shadows upon an iron-gray backdrop.  The snow that lay thick upon the ground somehow looked less white than it had in complete darkness.

Upon summoning him for the watch, Strider had told Pippin that all was quiet and had been so since Legolas’ panicked awakening.  Neither Sam nor Legolas had stirred since then, at least not that Pippin could tell.  He had been relying upon his ears to notify him if either of them woke again.  If Legolas’ behavior was any guide, neither of them would lie quiet when they came to.  At least each knew that the other was alive, but Pippin would have wagered his best buttons that they would both demand more information upon being roused again.

Pippin sat and watched and thought while the gray light slowly increased around him.  During his watch he had seen nothing but the shadows cast by the low-burning fire, heard nothing but the wind and the river nearby, but in his imagination the shadows sometimes took the shapes of Men, tall and fell, coalescing among the boulders with lengths of steel in their hands.  He would snap his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, the phantasms would be gone.  It was hard, watching and waiting for an enemy who was almost certain to catch up with them.  Sam seemed quite certain that the Men would move heaven and earth to find a way across the river, and the Fellowship couldn’t even move from its current position.  There was nothing for it but to hope that the Men were thwarted in their crossing long enough for Sam and Legolas to recover – that, and be watchful.

Not unexpectedly, Strider was the first member of the company to stir, and with nearly half an hour till dawn yet.  Before reaching Rivendell, Pippin had noticed that Strider was almost always the last to lie down at night and the first to rise the next day.  He could not imagine how the Man managed to persevere with so little rest.  He supposed it had something to do with Strider’s many years out in the wild.  He had spoken little of them, but he was a Ranger, and that told Pippin enough.

Strider rose from his blankets fully dressed and immediately buckled his sword belt, which had been lying against his side all night, around his waist.  All of the sleepers had weapons resting nearby.   Pippin could see Boromir with his scabbarded sword, Frodo with Sting, and Merry with his Dagger of Westernesse.  Even Gandalf had Glamdring out, an item which he seldom bared.  Pippin had kept his own dagger close to hand while he had slept.

Strider looked at Gimli and Pippin in turn from where he knelt, and each of them shook their heads.  They had seen nothing of note during their watch.  Strider nodded, rose into a crouch, and made his way over to where Sam lay surrounded by Gandalf, Frodo and the fire.  He was forced to keep his neck and back awkwardly bent to prevent his head from striking the rock overhead, and yet he was able to move in near silence.

Although he was still supposed to be watching the terrain outside of the shelter, Pippin could not help glancing back at Strider every few seconds while the Man looked Sam over with a critical eye.  He reached out, lightly touched Sam’s forehead with the back of his hand, and frowned.  His frown only deepened when he leaned in and put his ear near Sam’s half-covered mouth.

Strider’s movements did not wake Sam, but they did stir Frodo from his sleep.  “How is he?” he whispered urgently, sitting up halfway.  “Is he well?”

“Not wholly,” Strider whispered back.  “I fear he has taken sick.”

“How sick?” Frodo demanded, sitting up further.

“I do not know, but for the moment it is better to let him be.  Go back to sleep, Frodo.  There is no need to rise just yet.”

“I’m quite awake now,” said Frodo.  The expression on his face plainly indicated that he wanted to stay with Sam, but Strider was occupying most of the space nearby and was paying him no mind.  With a sigh of resignation, Frodo threw off his blankets, buckled on his sword and made his way to Pippin, stepping carefully around the rest of the company.

“Quiet night?”

“Very.”

“Good.  I’d hate for these Men to come upon us in the dark.”

Pippin spared only a brief glance at his cousin.  The watch was still his responsibility.  “I’ve been thinking about that ever since I got up tonight.”

There was no humor in Frodo’s answering smile.  “I thought about it all through my watch, too; it was impossible not to.  I’m sure they would rather attack us at night if they could.”

“Maybe they won’t be able to get across the river.”

“Maybe,” said Frodo, “but Sam seems certain that they’ll show.  If they can’t cross the river now, they’ll cross it when it falls again, and they’ll at least try to find us.  With their dogs, they might be able to do it.”  He sighed heavily.  “I don’t know whether to hope that they stay away long enough for Sam and Legolas to heal or that they just come and get it over with.”

Pippin turned to stare at Frodo, temporarily forgetting his duty.  “What?”

“Do you want to be wondering whether they’re behind us all the way to Mordor?”

“No,” Pippin spluttered.  “But someone’s going to die if they come, and it might not be one of them.  They could be better fighters than we are.”

“Not if they fight like the Men on the clifftop.  Legolas handled them all very well.”

“But he’s not in any condition to fight now,” said Pippin.  “Besides, he had help.  If Sam hadn’t gotten the drop on them, he might be dead right now.”

The conversation paused at the reminder of Sam’s actions.  The image of Sam throwing himself at that first, wretched Man surfaced in Pippin’s mind as it had done so many times during the night.  In his wildest dreams he would never have expected such a thing of the unassuming gardener.  Sam was slow to anger, and even when he was angry, he was never violent.  Whatever it was that had happened to Sam and Legolas while they were gone, it was all too clear to Pippin that the Men’s final assault on Legolas had driven Sam to the end of his rope.

Frodo’s face was troubled for a long, quiet minute, but at length he shook himself and spoke again.  “These Men are just why Elrond saw fit to form a Fellowship.  Legolas and Sam may not be of any use just now, but that still leaves seven of us.  Boromir and Gimli know what they’re about, and I can scarcely imagine a better fighter than Strider.  Gandalf will do for the sorcerer.  You, Merry and I will be ready to jump in if we’re needed.”  Frodo did not seem to notice that he was gripping Sting’s hilt.  “Yes, we will be in danger when they come.  But we are already in danger; we have been so ever since we left the Shire.  I think you are right – someone will have to die – but we have good folk on our side.  I will not weep for the Men when they fall.  It was they who began this quarrel, not us.”

Pippin had nothing to say to that.  Silence fell again, broken only by the scraping of Strider’s boots and knees on the hard ground as he moved about the shelter.  He was now at Legolas’ side, peering beneath the bandages.  His actions did not rouse Legolas in the slightest.  Pippin turned back to his vigil, frowning.  He knew very well that it was nigh unto impossible to sneak up on an Elf; he had tried to do it more than once and failed every time.  Why, then, did Legolas not stir when Strider touched him?  He had woken fully enough in the middle of the night.

The light grew steadily as the rest of the Fellowship began to wake one by one.  With the exception of Sam and Legolas, everyone was up and moving before the sun rose.  The fire cast more warmth about the shelter when it was rebuilt, enough that Pippin could feel the chill dissipate a little.  He waited as patiently as he could for Gandalf to finish his morning ablutions.  The watch would continue at all hours and the wizard would be taking his place.  He intended to get some more sleep after he was relieved, but not until breakfast had been cooked and eaten.  Everyone knew that sleeping on an empty stomach brought bad dreams, and he’d already had his fill of those.

Strider refused to allow a single one of them to go near the river until he had scouted the area.  “We do not need any of these Men leaping out of the boulders while we are filling our waterskins,” he said.

And shooting us in the back, Pippin thought, but he kept it to himself.

Strider was not gone long; the tea water, taken from the extra skins that Bill carried, was only tepid when he returned.  “I have seen no signs of the Men on either side of the river,” he reported, unslinging three ducks from his shoulder.  “If they have managed to cross, they did not do it here.”

“Could they have crossed already?” said Gimli.  “Is it even possible?”

“Certainly it is possible, although they would have to swim to do it, which would greatly increase their danger.  If they wait a little while – and are able to find a ford – then they will be able to cross in relative safety.  The river is falling.”

“How long before it is back to its usual height?” asked Gandalf.

“Two days, perhaps,” said Strider.  “It was already falling yesterday.”

“We cannot depend upon having that much time,” Gandalf murmured.

“And when will they be well enough to travel?” said Boromir, nodding toward the fire where Sam and Legolas still lay sleeping.

Strider seated himself cross-legged beneath the shelter, handed one duck each to Merry and Boromir, and promptly began plucking the third himself.  “If Sam is not too ill, then he could walk some distance tomorrow so long as his health was carefully watched.  But Legolas will require two or three days before he will be strong enough to continue, so Sam should have more time to rest than that.”  A few moments passed before he became conscious of the many faces staring at him in amazement.  “What is it?” he asked.

“Two or three days?” Pippin repeated dubiously.  “That’s all?”

“Yes,” said Strider, “and closer to two than three.  He will not be fully healed by then, but he will be well enough to walk.”

“You said he’d heal fast,” Merry said faintly.  “I didn’t know you meant that fast.”

“Do you see how soundly he sleeps?  All of his resources are devoted to restoring him to health.  He will not wake until he is ready to do so, and it would require some doing on our part to rouse him beforetime.”

“You have not yet told us how you were able to catch him,” said Boromir.

Strider hesitated for a moment before replying.  “He was clinging to a fallen tree with his right arm.  I am sure that his left was useless.”  He took up one of the duck’s wings and began plucking vigorously.  Feathers flew as he spoke.  “In a way, he was not holding on to the tree so much as it was holding on to him.”

“The tree was still alive?” said Frodo.

“No, it was quite dead; but he had managed to wedge his good arm into a cleft branch.  It was a wise thing to do.  He was senseless when I found him.”

“Still, it is well for him that you run so swiftly.”  Gimli turned toward the rest of the group and elaborated, “I arrived to find Aragorn crawling out on the trunk of the tree, far from the safety of the bank, reaching down for an unconscious Elf who was slowly being dragged under by the current.”

“And you came out after me,” said Strider.  “It would have been perilous to tow him back to shore without your help.  The water was swift, and very cold.”

“A cruel river, to be sure,” said Gimli.

“Perhaps, but this same river that divided our Fellowship provided Sam and Legolas with an escape route – and now grants us a certain degree of protection.”

“For a little longer, I trust!” said Merry.  “I would feel better if they were at least awake before the Men caught up with us.”

“We seem to have little choice for now but to wait and see,” said Boromir.  “We must be on our guard all day, but even more so at night.  Once they have found us they will wait until dark to make their move – unless their leader has taken leave of his wits.”

“Speaking of being on guard, I believe it is time I relieved you, Peregrin,” said Gandalf.

“And a relief it is,” Pippin said truthfully, rising from his seat.  He stretched his stiff muscles and made no attempt to hide rubbing at his numbed posterior.  He cast an eye toward the water pot and the ducks but was bound to be disappointed; the water was nowhere close to the boil and the fowl were only partially plucked.  Breakfast seemed to be some way off yet.  Resigned, he made his way to the blankets that he had vacated in the middle of the night.

“You might as well get some sleep, Pip,” said Merry from over his bird.  “There’ll be nothing to do until these have roasted.”

And I’ll be on watch again in a few hours, thought Pippin, suppressing a sigh.  It was not that he begrudged the work – he knew why it was important – but time spent on watch invariably left him either bored or anxious.

“That sounds like a fine idea,” said Gimli, who was on his feet again, having been relieved by Frodo.  “But I could use a stretch before lying down again.  What do you say, Master Took?  Care to join me in filling your waterskin?”

Pippin readily accepted.  He was weary, but a walk would be pleasant after sitting still for so long.  It could not be too dangerous to be out in the open; Strider had just had a look around, and if he had not seen the Men, then they likely weren’t there.  Pippin was accounted a fair tracker in the Shire, but he had been impressed by Strider’s skill time and again.

“Keep your eyes open,” said Strider as Pippin and Gimli made ready to depart.  Only a slight thinning of his mouth betrayed his displeasure at letting them go off alone.  Pippin was not surprised; Strider always liked to be in front, scouting.  That he had only just returned would make little difference to him.

“Have no worries on that account,” said Gimli, who was collecting the last of the empty waterskins.  “We’ll not be forgetting who put us in this pickle to begin with.”

Pippin waited until they had moved off a short way before turning to Gimli and saying, “A few days ago, I might have thought that you were referring to Legolas just now.”

Gimli barked out a terse laugh.  “A few days ago you might have been right, but it does not seem right to tease him when he has been laid so low.  It is not sporting; he ought to have the chance to come up with a retort.”

Pippin felt a pang of regret at Gimli’s words.  It was not the first time that he had lamented the animosity between the Elf and the Dwarf.  He could see why there might be some hard feelings between the two because of the bad blood that lay between their fathers, but that should only take them so far.  If he understood the situation correctly, their feud was an offshoot of a long-standing chill between Elves and Dwarves in general.  He knew something of ancient quarrels – there were certain families in the Shire that avoided one another as much as possible – but he had always thought them rather silly.  Most of the time, no one could remember what had begun the trouble in the first place.  What was the point of being angry over something that had happened so long ago?

The real shame of it was that Legolas and Gimli were both fine folk, and if either of them had been of another race, they would have gotten along famously.  For his part, Pippin liked them both.  He had been uncertain around Legolas at first, but the Elf had proved to be a pleasant fellow with no airs at all.  Gimli he had liked from the beginning.  The Dwarf was congenial and fond of a good joke, and there was usually a twinkle in his eye.  It was because of that twinkle that Pippin had felt an instant kinship with him.

The last of the boulders came into view, revealing the river beyond and the cliffs on the other side.  A chill ran through Pippin’s body and he slowed his steps, suddenly reluctant to pass beyond the relative safety of the fallen rocks.  Gimli showed no such qualms and continued on with nary a pause.  He was nearly to the water’s edge when he realized that Pippin was no longer beside him.  “Come on,” he said, fixing Pippin with his dark eyes.  “It’s as safe now as it will ever be while these Men still live, and we need the water.  One of us has to keep a lookout.”

Pippin knew that he was right.  He reminded himself that Strider would not have let them go if he thought danger was imminent, and that now was no time to turn coward.  He had begged Gandalf and Elrond to let him join the Fellowship, and though Elrond had acquiesced, he had still held misgivings about sending him.  Pippin could not bear the thought of proving him right.  There was really no point in delaying; the sooner they began, the sooner they’d be done.  He inhaled deeply and stepped away from the boulders.

Gimli turned and knelt at the river’s edge when he saw that Pippin was coming.  Pippin walked forward at a measured pace, looking for all the world as if he were just out for a stroll down the lane – except for the fact that his eyes were ceaselessly scouring the riverbanks and clifftops.  He stopped next to Gimli and rotated slowly, taking in a full view of the gorge.  There were no signs of life that he could detect, and yet his skin prickled at the feel of invisible eyes staring at him.  He felt so exposed standing there; anyone could look down from the cliffs overhead and see them.

Gimli did not say whether he felt the eyes, but he did work quickly, and to Pippin’s relief they were soon leaving the bank with their arms full of cold skins.  He began to feel much easier once they stepped among the boulders again.  “So that’s what Frodo meant,” he murmured.

“What’s that?” said Gimli.

Pippin blinked, realizing that he had spoken aloud.  “Oh, nothing.”

Gimli threw him a wry look.  “Aye – nothing.  You are certainly keeping your thoughts close of late.”

Pippin flushed a little.  He had a reason to be less than talkative these days; they all did.  Still, he supposed that he didn’t have to avoid talking about everything – just the Ring.  Words could not express how grateful he was to Merry for easing his burden, but he didn’t feel up to discussing it with anyone and everyone.  “Frodo said he would almost rather the Men just came and got it over with,” he said.

“Ah,” said Gimli.  “That I can understand.  I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder all the way to Mount Doom.”

A smile crept onto Pippin’s face in spite of himself.  “That’s just what Frodo said, almost.”

“Knowing what we know from Sam, the idea of dealing with the Men now has a certain appeal,” said the Dwarf.  “I would rather face my foe and take my chances than be stabbed in the back because I never knew he was there.”

“I didn’t see anyone, but I felt like they were watching me,” Pippin admitted.  “We’re the bull’s-eye on a target, and I don’t like it.”

“We none of us do, lad,” sighed Gimli.  “We none of us do.”

 Pippin and Gimli offered no comments upon their return to the shelter, and by this the others understood that they had seen nothing noteworthy.  They had not been gone more than five minutes, and there had been little change in Sam, Legolas, the water pot or the ducks in that time.  Pippin needed no further urging to lie down and take a nap; the weight of the unseen eyes had only added to his weariness.  “Wake me up when breakfast’s ready, Merry,” he said, wrapping himself in his blankets.

“We’ll save your share, and Gimli’s, too,” said Merry.

“I don’t want you to ‘save’ anything.  Wake me up.”

“We’ll save it,” Merry replied pleasantly.

“Fresh duck and fresh tea, Merry.”

“Get some sleep, Pippin.”

Pippin sighed, turned over, and scooted just a little bit closer to the fire.  He had to give it up; Merry was not going to budge.  He told himself that it wouldn’t be so bad anyway; he wouldn’t sleep so long that the duck wouldn’t taste fresh, and they had plenty of tea.  It would be very nice to have something hot to drink upon waking – strong tea, with just a little bit of sugar.  It was too bad there weren’t any pastries to go with it.  That was the first thing he’d do when the Ring was destroyed and they all got back to civilization – get a big pot of tea and a tray full of crumpets and scones.  Blueberry scones.  And strawberries, and clotted cream.  And milk and honey for the tea.

And a loaf of fresh brown bread, with cold yellow butter.

And some jam to go with it….

Raspberry jam….

“Pip.”

Pippin twitched.  What was it that was touching his arm?  He wanted it to go away.  The food in front of him was enticing.

“Pippin!”

The touching suddenly became shaking, and Pippin’s eyes popped open to see Merry gazing down at him.  “What…?  How long have I been asleep?” he muttered groggily.

“Not quite two hours.”

Pippin blinked up at Merry.  “Are you sure it wasn’t five minutes?  I was dreaming about breakfast.”

The corners of Merry’s mouth quirked upward.  “I expect you were.  We’ve already had ours –”

“I told you to wake me up!”

“Shush!  You needed the sleep more than the food, and we saved some duck for you.  But that’s not what I came to tell you.  Strider says that Sam is coming ‘round.”

“He is?” Pippin cried softly, sitting up halfway.

“I knew you wouldn’t forgive me if I let you sleep through it,” said Merry.

“I wouldn’t,” said Pippin, sitting up fully and throwing his blankets off.  Looking around, he saw Strider sitting on the other side of the fire near Sam.  Frodo was seated at his servant’s side, watching him critically.  He and Gandalf had been replaced on watch by Gimli and Boromir – because the two of them wanted to be near Sam when he awoke, Pippin supposed.  The Dwarf and Man glanced repeatedly in their direction, torn between their duty as watchmen and their desire to see that their companion was well.

Sam’s eyelashes were fluttering sluggishly when Pippin and Merry joined the little circle.  No one spoke when he slowly opened his eyes and then closed them again; but when he repeated the action, groggy and bewildered, Strider gently began to prompt him.  “Sam?”

Pippin and Merry both leaned forward expectantly.

“Sam.”

Sam blinked owlishly up at the circle of faces above him.  He did not appear to recognize any of them, and Pippin found himself holding his breath even though Sam had known them all the day before.  Then, at long last, he murmured, “Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo’s face broke into an expression of unrestrained joy.  “Yes, Sam.  It’s me.”

“Sam,” Strider said quietly, and the hobbit’s groggy gaze shifted to him.  “Do you know where you are?”

Sam’s eyes slowly roamed the shelter, taking in the low ceiling of rock and the snow that lay piled just outside.  “No,” he said.

“You are back with us – with the Fellowship,” said Strider.  “You are across the river, and we are beneath a shelter of sorts.”

“The river,” Sam repeated.  His brow furrowed, and suddenly his eyes flew open as wide as they would go.  “Mr. Legolas!” he gasped.

“We found him,” Strider said with deliberate calm.  “You saw him last night.  Do you remember?”

“He’s hurt bad, Strider,” Sam croaked.  Pippin wondered at the continuing hoarseness of his voice; he certainly sounded as if he had a frog in his throat.  “They shot him, and I couldn’t….  He’s hurt bad.”  His eyes pleaded with the Man.  “Where is he?  Is he still alive?”

“Yes, he is alive.  He is sleeping now, just there.  In a few days he should be as good as new.”

Sam’s eyes darted around, much more quickly this time, until they found the long, fur-swathed figure on the ground.  He studied it intently before speaking again.  “As good as new.  Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Then it’s better than I dared to hope for.”  Sam closed his eyes.  “I tried to hold on to him.  When I lost my grip, I thought….  How did you find us?”

Pippin did not miss the glance that Gandalf and Strider exchanged at these words.  From the look on Merry’s face, it appeared that he had not missed it, either.  The two Big Folk looked… cautious.  “We saw you jump off of the cliff,” said Strider.  Pippin and Merry frowned at each other.  They had seen a good deal more than that!

Sam blanched, and Pippin’s confusion deepened.  What reason did Sam have to look guilty?  “We had to escape,” he said.  “It was run or die, and we hadn’t anywhere else to go.”  His voice caught on the last few words, and suddenly he burst into a fit of coughing.  Pippin winced at the deep, rattling sounds he heard.  He didn’t know much about taking care of the sick, but that cough sounded serious.

Strider placed the back of his hand against Sam’s forehead when the hobbit stilled again.  “I do not like the sound of that.  How are you feeling?”

Sam swallowed and immediately winced.  “Not so good, sir.”

“You feel a little warmer than you should be.  Tell me what ails you.”

“Well, my… my throat is sore, and I think I’m going to cough again, and I just ache all over.  And….”

“And what?”

“I’m hungry,” Sam admitted, flushing slightly.

“Bless me!” Pippin cried.  “Of course you’re hungry; it’s been at least a whole day since you last ate, and that’s not fitting.  We have some duck and broth – would you like that? – and tea.”  He glanced up at Strider, who nodded his approval.

Sam essayed a smile.  “Sounds lovely.  The Men didn’t put too much thought to feeding us.”

“I’ll fetch it,” said Merry, fishing a tin cup out of a nearby pack.

A brief silence fell while Merry tore up bits of duck and dropped them into the broth.  While Pippin felt as impatient for information as the others looked to be, Sam appeared to be lost in thought.  He turned his head in the direction of the river, his expression unreadable, and Pippin surmised that he was listening to the sound of the water.  Presently he wet his lips and murmured, “How is it that I’m not dead?”

Pippin could not tell whether Sam was talking to himself or wanted an answer.  “What do you mean?” said Gandalf.

Visibly startled, Sam looked up at the wizard.  “Oh.  I mean – well, I can’t get my reckoning straight.”

“You jumped off the cliff,” Gandalf prompted.  “Where after that does your reckoning fail you?”

Sam looked uneasy, but he opened his mouth to reply, only to be cut off by a new bout of coughs.  Pippin shook his head.  Sam needed some broth and a good rest, but the Fellowship needed some answers from him, too.

“We jumped,” Sam grated when his coughs subsided again.  “Legolas held on to me somehow.  It was so cold, and I couldn’t breathe… felt like the longest time… and I couldn’t tell up from down.  But we came up again after all.”  He paused for a moment and his eyes grew distant.  “We were going downstream, and the Men were shouting overhead, and then they started shooting at us.  Legolas pulled me under.  I think he was trying to swim, or hide, and then….”  Sam’s eyes grew sad, and his voice quavered slightly.  “They shot him.  He lurched, and he went stiff – and then he let go of me.  I expect he couldn’t help it; I know he didn’t want to.”  Another cough interrupted him, but he picked up again directly.  Pippin wondered if he had forgotten that he had an audience.  “I came up somehow, and when Legolas came up again, he wasn’t moving anymore.  I caught his cloak and I tried to swim, but I didn’t do a very good job of it, and before long I couldn’t hold on anymore, and the river took him away.”  His chin trembled, but he drew a sharp breath and compressed his lips, obstinately refusing to shed tears.  “And then… I don’t know what happened.  Blink of an eye, and something pulled me down.  I couldn’t hardly move.”  Sam’s face stiffened.  “And that’s where my reckoning stops.  Next thing I know, I’m looking up at Mr. Merry.”

Pippin looked around at the others.  Strider, Gandalf, Boromir and Gimli were all watching Sam intently, the guard forgotten for the moment, but Frodo and Merry were not.  Frodo was gazing into space, seeing something that was not there, and Merry was frozen in the act of dropping a handful of duck into the tin cup.  Sam had pulled himself back into the present, but he was determinedly not looking at anyone.  Pippin wondered what it felt like to drown, and shuddered.

It was Boromir who spoke first.  “It was the water that pulled you down, I think.  We found you underwater, pressed against a rock.  It was difficult to pull you out.”

Pippin’s eyes found Merry again.  His cousin was pouring broth into the cup, and his mouth had acquired an assuredly stubborn set.  Pippin knew that look all too well.  Merry was not planning on saying anything about his part in the rescue.  Well, he was not about to let that happen; Sam ought to know who had saved his life.  “And it was Merry who got you breathing again,” he said.

“Really?” said Sam, turning to look at Merry.

Merry kept his eyes on his work.  “Yes.”

“So that Watch business of yours really works,” Sam murmured.  “If that doesn’t beat all.  I never thought I’d be one of those poor hobbits that got fished out of a river.  I’m… I’m glad you know what you’re about, Mr. Merry.”

“So are we all,” said Merry, turning to him with the soup.  Pippin knew that that would be the end of it.  Merry would not bring the subject up again, and Sam likely wouldn’t, either.  He had always said that it was sensible to avoid rivers; now that he had nearly drowned, he might not want to come within a mile of any river ever again.

After Frodo had propped him up, Sam took the cup in both hands and drew a long drink of the broth.  “It’s wonderful,” he sighed.  “Much better than hard bread and cheese.”

Sam drank slowly, and the company waited.  Frodo appeared to be very calm, supporting Sam on one side, but Pippin could see that Strider and Gandalf were eager to proceed.  They sat quietly while Sam finished, but when Merry poured more broth for him, Gandalf broke his silence.  “Yesterday you told us of the Men.  You said that there remained only four, and that one of them was a sorcerer.”

Sam nodded.

“You also said that this sorcerer exercised his powers.  Can you tell us what he did?”

“I told you what he wanted,” Sam said apprehensively.

“Yes, my dear hobbit – but what did he do?  It would be helpful for me to know what I will be opposing.”

Gandalf’s tone was gentle, but Sam was beginning to resemble a cornered animal and Frodo was growing angry.  “He doesn’t want to talk about it,” he said tartly.

“I understand that these Men were not kind to you or to Legolas,” said Gandalf.  “I know that you may not feel ready to speak of what happened, and that I am asking much of you – but I do not press you without great need.”  Sam squirmed uncomfortably, and Gandalf made his wrinkled face as kindly as possible.  “What if you simply start at the beginning?  Forget the Men for a moment, and think about how you escaped the river the first time.”

“At the beginning,” Sam muttered, looking away from Frodo’s apologetic face.  “Well….”  He drew a deep breath, coughed again, and fixed his eyes upon an unremarkable spot on the rocky ceiling.  “The branch broke.  Legolas held me up so I wouldn’t be drowned.  He swam once we got past the rocks, and I just held on for I don’t know how long.  He made it to the shore, and he pulled the both of us out.  Then he carried me; I don’t know where, on account of my falling asleep.”  Sam swallowed and winced, and Pippin pitied the soreness of his throat.  “I woke up the next morning and wasn’t dead after all.   He’d taken all my clothes off and wrapped us up in a blanket; he said he’d had to do it, or I’d not have lived.  ”

“That is true,” said Strider.  “Your wet clothes would have drawn badly needed heat away from your body.”

“Don’t know how much heat I had left in me by then anyway,” said Sam, and Pippin found himself sharing a brief smile with Frodo.  That sounded a little more like the hobbit they knew.  “I’d hurt my wrist, so Mr. Legolas wrapped it up for me, and I stitched him up a bit.  We talked about what we were going to do.  We couldn’t get back over the river, and we reckoned there was no point in going downstream, so we decided to walk up and hope we met you partway or found a way across.  Legolas told me about the Men, but we hoped –”

“Wait!” Gimli exclaimed.  “He already knew that there were Men about?”

“He went scouting around while Mr. Frodo and I were fishing, and he found traces,” said Sam.  “It’s why he didn’t come when we called.”

“Such strange fortune,” said Boromir with a shake of his head.  “If he had come but a little sooner, the three of you might have avoided the flood.”

“A little later, and Sam and I would have perished,” said Frodo, and Boromir nodded his head in concession of the point.

“It is unfortunate that we did not know of this sooner,” said Gandalf, “but what’s done is done.  Please go on, Samwise.”

“Well, we walked upstream,” said Sam.  “I can’t remember whether it was the second or the third day before the Men caught us.”  He hesitated again, and the pause was so long that Pippin was sure Gandalf was about to prod him, but at last Sam sighed and continued.  “Legolas was talking to the trees, hoping they’d give him some warning if the Men came close.  Said he didn’t have a good feeling about them.  But there weren’t many trees around, and by the time he got close enough to one to hear, there wasn’t no going back.  Legolas laid a false trail and we hid.”

“And he laid that trail for the dogs?” asked Strider.

“Yes, for the….  How did you know about them?”

“The whole company passed us moving downstream.”

“You didn’t let them see you!” Sam cried.

“Not then,” said Gandalf, sounding wearied.  “We hid ourselves well – but they caught a glimpse of us after you fell.”

Pippin’s eyes slid from Gandalf to Strider, both of whom were watching Sam carefully, and something suddenly clicked into place.  They didn’t want Sam to know how much they had seen; that was why they were making it sound as if they had only seen the fall.  What he still didn’t know was why.  Did they think it would upset him?

A new spate of deep-set coughs wracked Sam’s frame, causing Frodo’s mouth to tighten, but now that he had begun he seemed better able to continue.  After another drink of broth he muttered, “Now I’m even surer they’ll come.  I’ll get to why,” he said when Strider opened his mouth to ask.  “We hid in a crack in the cliff, but the Men saw us anyway.  Garan – the sorcerer – talked with Legolas.  He was trying to get us to come out, but Legolas didn’t want to.  It wasn’t ’til I stepped out in front of him that they attacked us.”  Sam sighed.  “Legolas fought them, and I tried to, too, but I couldn’t move nowhere back in that crevice.  Amazing, he was; he might’ve even fought them off, if Garan hadn’t got his hands on me.  He killed one of them, knocked out another, broke Whit’s leg, and very nearly throttled Daerid.  Lucky for Daerid Garan had a knife at my neck or he’d’ve died there, too.”

Pippin could not help but be enthralled.  Sam’s story was like something out of the great tales Bilbo told, only this time it had happened to someone he really knew.   Even though it was obvious how the story turned out – thus far, anyway – he felt a thrill of fear as he listened.

“Garan kept me close after that.  Seemed to think Legolas wouldn’t dare try anything for fear he’d cut my throat.”  Sam’s mirthless laugh nearly became another cough.  “And he was right.  That’s how he got Legolas to climb up the cliff right then and there.”

“He what?” exclaimed Frodo.

“I hope the rock was more forgiving than what I have seen on the far side,” said Gimli, blowing out his mustaches.  “In my opinion, it would be dangerous to attempt any of those cliffs without a rope.”

“I don’t know a brass farthing’s worth about climbing,” said Sam.  “And I don’t want nothing to do with it, neither.  But whatever you’ve seen, this couldn’t have been any better; anyone with two eyes could see it was dangerous.  That’s why Garan had Legolas do it.  He didn’t care what happened to him.”  Sam frowned.  “Well, that’s not quite true.  But he cared more about me.”  His gaze became unfocused as he continued, staring into the past, and a small smile appeared on his lips.  “You should’ve seen it.  I know that sounds horrid, but it’s just – I’ve never seen the like.  Legolas climbed up with naught but a few cracks and lumps to hold on to.  And he was all bruised and cut from the rocks in the river.  Even the Men thought it was something.  They were afraid to try, and for good reason; any one of them would’ve fallen to their deaths, of that I’m sure.  There was a time or two when I thought Legolas was going to slip – but he didn’t.  And then, when he got to the top, he pulled every one of us up behind him with a rope.”  Anger darkened Sam’s face.  “Garan told Brund to go last, just to be cruel.  Brund was the biggest fellow in the lot by a fair bit.  No one helped Legolas pull, even after he got them up.  I don’t know how he did it; I really don’t.”

“Elves are strong,” Strider murmured, though he seemed to be as absorbed in the tale as everyone else.  “This Garan must have known as much; a Man could not do such a thing by himself.”

“He knew,” said Sam.  “I think he knew rather more about Elves than Legolas liked, so Legolas didn’t give him his right name.  Not the full one, anyway.”

“He would have been a fool to do otherwise,” said Boromir.  “The King of Mirkwood is the stuff of legend.  His name is known far and wide.”

“Well, ‘Legolas’ didn’t mean anything to Garan – but I daresay it does now,” said Sam.

“And what about your name?” Gandalf prompted.

“We said it was Sam Underhill,” said Sam, causing one corner of Frodo’s mouth to quirk upward.  “I can’t remember the surname Legolas chose; I didn’t have to repeat it, and that’s a relief.”

“And they meant nothing to him?”

Sam shook his head.  “He didn’t say nothing else about them – but he said he’d been ordered to search for Halflings and anyone with them.  Well, he didn’t so much tell me as I overheard him talking to Dorlic.”  He smiled grimly.  “So he didn’t know as much about hobbits as he thought.  I heard a lot of things he didn’t want me to know, like how they were all Saruman’s Men.  And that they’d been told to watch for a fighting Man and an old Man.  I figured that was the two of you,” he said, looking between Strider and Gandalf.  “And that’s when Garan told Dorlic that he couldn’t kill Legolas because –”

Sam abruptly broke off and closed his mouth.  No one said anything, but he flushed under the company’s scrutiny.  “Garan said that Saruman would have a use for him,” he finished lamely.

Pippin’s mouth thinned.  Sam was a poor liar; he’d had no practice at it.

“Sam,” said Frodo, sounding disbelieving, but Sam interrupted him.

“It’s not mine to say, Mr. Frodo, it really isn’t.  I should’ve bit my tongue.”

“But what -” Gimli began.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Sam, a trifle sharply.  “They won’t get him anywhere near Isengard now.  And I don’t know as Legolas would want me telling.  It upset him something awful.”  Sam’s face went red again.  “And I’m still saying more than I ought.”

Pippin looked at the others, wondering what to make of this less than complete information.  The only person who looked as if he had more than an inkling was Gandalf, and he still seemed uncertain.  “Sam, I really think –” said the wizard, but to Pippin’s surprise, Sam did not let him finish.

“Legolas can tell you himself when he comes around.  If he wants to.  It won’t happen now; it can’t.”

“Very well,” said Gandalf.  Pippin was still curious – how could Sam drop hints like that and not expect them to want to know the rest? – but he thought it was wise of Gandalf to let it go.  Sam was determined, and it would take more than asking to wrest the details from him.  “When did you discover that these were Saruman’s Men?”

“The next morning.  I didn’t get to tell Legolas until almost dark.  They searched us, and then they kept us apart mostly.”

“And they did not say what they were looking for?”

Sam shook his head.  “Garan just said we had something valuable.  He didn’t know what it was, sure as I know my own name.”

“Saruman is no fool,” said Gandalf.  “He would not trust knowledge of the Ring to thugs.”

“He wanted to find out what it was all the same,” said Sam.  “We told him a fish story about who we were and he didn’t believe us.  He wouldn’t stop pestering us about it.”

“And how did he question you?” Gandalf asked quietly.

Sam drew himself in until he seemed to be hugging himself.  “Well, he… he called us liars, and… he asked us lots of things.”

“Yesterday you said that he tried to force you to talk.”

“He said he’d hurt Legolas.  And me.”

“All right.  And what was this unnatural thing that he did?”

Sam was looking hunted again, but Frodo pressed his hand and said, “It’s all right, Sam; just tell him.  He needs to know.”  Sam’s face fell and he dropped his eyes.  He wrung his hands for several moments, but at last he sighed and muttered something.

“What was that?” Gandalf asked gently.

“I said, he got inside my head.”

“Ah,” said Gandalf, who looked and sounded as if this were a significant piece of news.  He kept his tone mild as he continued.  “Tell me exactly what he did.”

“I don’t know how he did it,” Sam muttered sullenly.  “He touched my face, and then he was just… there.  Inside my head.”

“How do you mean?”

Sam flushed crimson.  “I could hear him talking to me, and his mouth wasn’t moving.  It was loud.  He said horrible things, and I thought… I thought maybe he could read my mind.”

“Do you think he did?”

“I don’t know!” Sam cried.  “He could talk to me in my head, so why shouldn’t he be able to do it?”

“What did he say to you?”

“What does it matter?  I swear I didn’t tell him anything, not apurpose, but –”

“Just tell me what he said.  In your mind.”

“Well, he… he said he’d harm us, but that was nothing new; and he asked me if there were more hobbits, and whether I had….”  Sam trailed off and the gleam of desperation faded from his eyes.  “Oh!” he gasped.

“Yes,” said Gandalf.  “I think that you and I have come to the same conclusion.  If this Man could truly see your thoughts, he would have no need to continue questioning you.  The ability to connect mind to mind is held by very few, and even fewer of those can glimpse another’s thoughts at will.  I cannot imagine a mortal sorcerer having this skill.”

“But it was Saruman that taught him,” said Sam, who did not look quite contented with this answer.  “And Legolas said that if that’s what happened, then Garan lost a piece of his soul somehow.  He’s not just any Man!”

“Perhaps not.  But I say to you all again – if Garan faces me, I have no doubt as to which of us will be the victor.  And I am certain that he did not read your mind, Samwise.  Now, as to how you were able to escape?”

The look of relief that had crossed Sam’s face at Gandalf’s reassurance was gone as quickly as it had come.  He stiffened visibly, and Pippin thought that he was going to avoid answering again.

“We were walking upriver.  Garan called a halt.  A wind came up, and some trees fell over.  One of them crushed Whit, and one of the dogs.  The other dogs ran away.  Garan took three of the Men with him to look for them.  Dorlic and the others wanted to harm Legolas while they were gone, but he fought them off.  He killed them all.”

It was all Pippin could do to keep from gaping.  It was not the sudden flatness of Sam’s voice that made him stare, though it had certainly caught his attention; rather, it was the half-truth he was telling them, and not very well at that.  Sam really was a terrible liar.

“Garan and the other Men came back.  They had their bows out, and we had nowhere to go.  We weren’t keen to give ourselves up, so… we jumped.”

Pippin did not understand.  Why was Sam glossing over all of the details?  It had not been just a wind that came up; it had been a phenomenon.  He hadn’t mentioned Legolas’ being tied to the tree, or Garan threatening him with a sword.  And what about what he had done?  If he hadn’t stabbed that Man, Legolas would never have had the opening he needed.  True, it had been shocking – but Sam was a hero.

“I see,” said Gandalf.  “Let us talk of the remaining Men.  Who are they?  What do you know of them?”

Pippin stared incredulously, not believing that Gandalf would let this pass, but Frodo caught his eye and shook his head slightly.  The set of his jaw said quite plainly that he would brook no opposition, and Pippin smoothed his features.

Sam’s easement at his escape from the topic was palpable.  “Garan, Erich, Daerid, and Brund are still alive.  I don’t know about the dogs, but I didn’t see them.  You ought to be glad that Dorlic and Jakov are dead; ‘nasty’ doesn’t even come near the mark.  Garan you mostly know about already.  He’s a cruel fellow; you’d best remember that.  Brund – he’s the big Man – he doesn’t say much, but he does what Garan tells him.  Erich sneers a lot, and I think he’s not the cleverest, but he’d never cross Garan and he’s a wicked one to boot.  And Daerid has it in for Legolas.  He’s the one that near got himself strangled, if you’ll recall.”  Sam’s eyes moved back to where Legolas lay.  “He’s really going to be all right?  He’s terrible still.”

“Don’t worry about Legolas,” Frodo ordered gently.  “Strider has been taking good care of him.”

“It’s not fair, his getting through all that only to….”  Sam’s chest hitched, and he coughed several times before subsiding.  “What do we do now?”

“We wait and watch,” said Gandalf.  “If the Men come before we are ready to depart, then we will fight them; if they do not, then we will leave when you and Legolas are well enough to travel.”

“Oh, they’ll come,” said Sam.  “If they’ve seen that there’s more hobbits about, they’ll come.  I think they want Legolas dead now, and never mind what Saruman wanted him for.”  He looked up at Frodo, and his face grew troubled.  “You and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had best get out of the way if you see them coming, sir.  Garan might go mad when he sees he’s close.”

“We’ll leave it all to the Big Folk if we can,” Frodo assured him, “but we’ll not be letting them get close to you or to Legolas.  We thought we’d lost you before; we won’t lose you again.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Sam whispered, “but you just watch yourself.”

The interview appeared to be over; Gandalf asked no more questions of Sam, who seemed relieved to be done.  His voice was still hoarse, and each successive cough plainly pained him more.  Strider felt his forehead again and announced that he had a slight fever.  “Not too high, I think, but I don’t want it to get any higher.  When did you start feeling ill?  Your cough sounds as if you have had it for some time.”

“I’ve not been coughing for long, but I wasn’t feeling well… two days ago, I think it was.  And it feels like it’s been much longer,” he added softly.

“Well, you have been very fortunate thus far, having escaped injury and death,” Strider said gravely.  “And now that you are reunited with us, I must ask you to do as I bid you in matters of health – at least for the next few days.  If you rest and eat and drink what I prepare for you, then both you and Legolas should be ready to travel at nearly the same time.”

“If those Men leave us alone.  And they won’t.”

“Leave them to us,” said Gandalf.  “And worry no more about them for the present, if you can.”

Sam subsided at last and the Fellowship fell silent.  Pippin did not much feel like talking in the wake of his story, for his heart was much too full.  Poor Sam – and poor Legolas!  The things they had endured!  And what else had they faced that Sam had not mentioned?  Pippin knew that there were things Sam wasn’t telling them; he’d omitted all the details of the skirmish on the clifftop, and he had been reluctant to give his tale at all.  Pippin could only imagine that something had happened that Sam could not bring himself to speak of.  The Men had probably been crueler than he was letting on.

Pippin suspected that where Legolas was concerned, the Fellowship had heard mostly truth; Sam was far less hesitant to speak of him than he was of himself.  Sam’s eyes softened whenever they fell on the Elf’s still body, and pride filled his voice when he spoke of his deeds.  Though Pippin had yet to hear aught from Legolas save a few desperate words, the newfound intimacy between Elf and hobbit was indisputable.  It was a remarkable change from the tentative distance that had existed between them before.

The Fellowship’s introspective mood continued as the day wore on, and conversations were few and far between.  Sam drank the powdered herbs that Strider prepared for him and spent most of the time asleep.  Frodo was content to sit with him throughout the day, although he would eventually have a turn at the watch like everyone else.  The rest of the company took turns sleeping and guarding, with only brief forays outside the shelter for firewood, water, and fresh meat.  During the whole course of the day Legolas did not stir at all, and though Strider did not seem worried, Pippin could not help wishing that he would open his eyes, and soon.  Elves were a peculiar lot, but it did not seem right that he should sleep for so long without waking.

Evening fell silently on Pippin as he found himself on watch again.  He did not find it difficult to bear; even though the company’s danger increased with the darkness, the confidence that Gandalf and Strider projected was bracing.  He felt better, too for the warm presence of his kinsmen, and for Gimli and Boromir – two impassive sentinels between Sam and Legolas and the world outside.

Now that full dark had finally arrived, no one seemed to feel like sleeping.  Pippin could feel the mood of the company vibrating around him: grim vigilance wound through with a thin vein of anxiety.  It was very quiet, with only the sound of the running river and the crackle of the fire to break the silence.  Pippin could not see much sky from where he sat, but he could see a little, and stars glimmered wherever the heavens were visible.  The air was as cold as ever, but it felt cleaner somehow; perhaps it was because the sky was no longer overcast.  But for the knowledge that there were two wounded friends behind him and four Men somewhere nearby, Pippin might have found it quite peaceful.

The stillness was so protracted that Pippin jumped when Bill suddenly nickered and shifted in his hobbles.  He was not the only one to do so; every head turned in the pony’s direction.  Frodo pressed a hand to his heart and looked down at Sam, who was still asleep.  When nothing else happened, long breaths were exhaled all around.  Pippin saw more than one hand straying away from a sword hilt.  Gimli muttered something unintelligible in Dwarvish.

It had not been quiet for long when Bill nickered again.  Pippin was much less startled this time, but when Bill continued to shift and make noises of protest, he began to wonder what was bothering the pony.

“Bill!” Frodo hissed.  “Be quiet!”

“He’s been in his hobbles for too long,” said Merry.  “He’s restless.  Perhaps we should let him loose for a little while.”

No one replied, and after a moment Bill ceased his noise.  But just as Pippin was beginning to think that the pony’s complaint had been merely a passing concern, Bill snorted and stamped his hooves, somewhat more impatiently this time.  Merry shifted where he sat, growing increasingly restless as Bill continued making noise.

Pippin was beginning to think that Merry might be right; Bill might attract unwanted attention and ought to be quieted.  He was just about to open his mouth and say so when Merry said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” and stalked out of the shelter toward Bill.

“Merry,” Strider said in a low, warning voice, but Merry simply waved his hand irritably.  Bill was a mere few feet away, and he had already reached the pony’s side.  The shelter’s low ceiling and the various members of the Fellowship blocked a good portion of the fire’s light, but some of it still leaked out to illuminate the pair.  Merry reached up to touch Bill’s head with one hand.

Suddenly, unaccountably, Pippin felt a ripple of uneasiness flash from his head to his feet.  He did not like the sight of his cousin out there at the edge of darkness, even if it was just a few steps away.  The boulders seemed to loom menacingly around him.  “Leave Bill be,” he heard himself saying.  “He’s all right.”

“Come back, Merry,” said Gandalf, almost on top of Pippin.  There was no mistaking the note of urgency in his voice.  He was unsettled, too.

Pippin heard a gasp at the fire behind him and turned to look in spite of himself.  He had just enough time to register Sam’s frightened face and Legolas’ wide, open eyes before Bill let out a piercing whinny and jerked his head out of Merry’s hands.

Pippin’s fear became a sharp spike in his gut.  “Get back here, Merry!” he cried, and he was not the only one.  That whinny had been nigh unto a scream.

Merry stumbled back a pace, too startled to react quickly.  Pippin blinked when he realized that Strider had left the shelter and was nearly at Merry’s side.  Bill neighed again and nearly reared up off the ground despite his constrained legs.  Strider reached out to seize the stunned hobbit and pull him away.

A naked sword suddenly flashed from out of the shadows, slicing at Strider.  Strider threw himself backwards and toppled over, clapping one hand to his neck as he fell.  Merry shrieked and turned to run, but no sooner had the sword struck than a long arm flung itself about his chest and dragged him out of sight.

“Merry!” Pippin cried.  His hand groped for his sword hilt, but he could not seem to find it.  Why could he not find it?  It was right there at his side!

Strider’s head hit the ground with a horrible jolt.  Boromir and Gimli were scrambling to their feet as swiftly as they could without striking their heads, drawing their weapons as they went.  They had scarcely set one foot outside the shelter when a voice bellowed, “Stop!”

Unseen, Merry gave a sharp cry that was quickly muffled.  Boromir and Gimli stopped dead in their tracks.  Gandalf stayed his hand, which had been reaching for his staff.  Pippin stared out into the darkness, searching wildly for any sign of Merry, but he was hidden from view.  Then the voice spoke again, and his heart began hammering a wild tattoo inside his chest.

“Don’t move an inch, any of you, or I’ll break its neck!”

Chapter 15: What Cannot Be Reclaimed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you considered it.

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

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

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

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

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

Forever.

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

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

Much good may wishing do you! said the voice.

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

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

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

“--all right,” said a voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gandalf, Sam thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our weapons, then,” said Gandalf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Merry!  Pippin!” Frodo cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let it go!” Sam repeated.

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

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

Outside the shelter, Garan’s shriek ceased.

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

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

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

“Who is dead?” cried Frodo.

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

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

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

“Pippin, answer me,” Frodo demanded.

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

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

“Legolas?” Strider called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are they alive?” Frodo exclaimed in alarm.

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I?”

“Your neck!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes – yes, I’m all right.”

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

“It’s Legolas, sir,” said Sam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps,” Legolas said doubtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Legolas shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stoic,” said Legolas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Which will slow us down,” Boromir added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can help,” Sam said automatically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pippin blinked.  “We won’t?”

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

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

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

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

“That is so,” said Strider.

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

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

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

“Sam,” Legolas said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.  But maybe.

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

Chapter 16: First Steps

Legolas opened his eyes to find that all was dark as pitch.  The Fellowship seemed to have gone ahead with their plan to put out the fire, for it was cold beneath the shelter as well as dark.  Legolas drew a deep breath through his nose, taking refreshment in the simple act of breathing.  The temperature did not bother him; on the contrary, he luxuriated in it, rejoicing that he could feel the sensation of cold again.

It was very dark, even for an Elf, and he would be able to see nothing until his eyes adjusted to the gloom.  While he waited, he took note of the condition of his body.  Physically, he felt much better; his shoulder was no longer throbbing as it had done after his use of Aragorn’s bow, and the bone-deep weariness that had consumed him in his effort to survive had dissipated a little.  The only major discomfort he felt was the aching of his muscles, which were cramped and sore after remaining still for so long.  It certainly felt like he had been asleep for several hours at least, and if it was still dark, then he had likely slept through another full day.

Soft voices and a scraping noise drew Legolas’ attention.  His eyes were already better accustomed to the darkness, and he could see several of his companions silhouetted against the outside world.  Mithrandir was unmistakable with his bulky robes and long beard, and so was Gimli, who was not a great deal taller than the hobbits but fairly bristled with hair.  He could see both Men as well, and three hobbits.  The lot of them were clustered around a patch of ground, working on something at their feet.

“How much farther?” said Pippin’s voice.

“Not much,” said Aragorn, “but the deeper, the better.”  More scrapes sounded, followed by a soft clatter as something was scattered over the ground.  Gimli grunted as he hefted something weighty off the ground, which he set down again with a clack.

Ah, thought Legolas.  They are digging a firepit.

“It won’t be very big,” Merry said doubtfully.

“Just enough to warm your hands and feet by,” said Boromir in a bracing tone.   “That will be more than we have now.”

Legolas watched them while they worked.   Already he could see the buttons on Frodo’s jacket and the braids in Gimli’s beard.  He looked Merry over with a critical eye, but could discern no injuries other than the cut across his neck.  There was no doubt that he and Sam had acted in the nick of time; Garan had been very insistent, and had surely been on the brink of slitting Merry’s throat.

Merry and Pippin were very quiet as they worked.  Legolas suspected that their silence had more to do with their recent actions than a desire not to wake him.  They had a lost look about them that he knew all too well; he had seen it on the faces of many Elves and Men over the years.  The two of them had crossed a line although they had not gone as far across it as Sam had.  No one could draw blood for the first time without being changed by the experience.

Legolas knew that Sam was not in his blankets, for he had grown sharply attuned to the gardener’s presence over the last few days.  He cast his eyes this way and that, and at length saw two forms at the far end of the shelter.  One was Sam, who seemed to be huddled into himself in an effort to keep warm.  The other was the pony, which had settled himself on the ground with his head near Sam’s right side.  Now and then Sam would reach out to stroke Bill but neither moved nor spoke otherwise.

Legolas was not pleased to see that Sam was alone, Bill notwithstanding.  He had no idea how much Sam had told the rest of the Fellowship about his time with the Men, but he had a feeling that he hadn’t told them everything.  Sam had a hunted look in his eyes that made him seem as if he had something to hide.  If he had kept the worst to himself, then it was surely eating him up inside.  Legolas doubted if it made any difference to Sam that he had not dealt Jakov’s final blow.  From what he had learned while in the hobbits’ company, they were a peaceful people to whom violence was foreign.

At length Aragorn proclaimed that the pit was deep enough, and the Fellowship built a small fire within it.  As they shifted around, Legolas could see that Gimli had built a small wall of stones around only half of the edge, like a crescent moon, doubtless to prevent light from escaping from beneath the shelter.  Everyone settled themselves around the new blaze with the exception of Boromir who volunteered to stand watch.  The hobbits stretched their hands out over the wamth, and though they seemed glad of the heat, they did not appear to be much cheered by it.

It was time, thought Legolas, to rise and join the rest of the group.  He was anxious to hear how Sam was faring though he thought he already knew, and the others surely wanted to speak to him – but first, he wanted a word with Aragorn.  He did not care if the others heard, but he had questions for his friend and he wanted to ask them without being interrupted.

Legolas pushed himself into a seated position, taking care to use his right arm.  As he had expected the others immediately noticed his movement and paused to watch him.  “Aragorn,” he said softly, and the Ranger swiftly made his way to his side.  The rest of the company cast speculative glances at each other.

“At last!” said Aragorn, folding his legs up beneath him.  “We have been wondering when you would wake up.  How do you feel?”

“Much better.  The wound must be healing well; it troubles me but a little.”  Legolas paused for a moment to study Aragorn, and was not surprised to see a look of frustration on the Man’s face when he hesitated.  “I suppose you would like to take a look at it,” he continued, taking pity on him.

“I know how you dislike being poked and prodded.  Besides, I do not think that you would be so cruel as to deceive me – at least, not where your injury is concerned.”

“You are our healer, so you will not be truly at ease until you have seen the evidence for yourself.  Go ahead.”

Aragorn cracked a smile.  “You were never planning to deny me this.”

“No, but it was fun to watch you squirm a little.”

“You must be feeling better if you are in the mood for a jest,” said Aragorn as he began unwrapping the bandage.

“You would be too if you had been lying on your face for as long as I have.  How long have I been asleep?”

“All this day.  Despite your actions last night, some of the others have been concerned.  Gandalf and I have been assuring them that you would continue to improve.  Truthfully, I was still a bit worried about you myself until last night.”

“You know the Elves better than that,” Legolas chastised gently.

“Perhaps, but sometimes my heart speaks louder than my head.  If you had seen what you looked like when we brought you back from the river, you would not be so sanguine.”

“Was it you who found me, then?”

“Gimli and I pulled you out.  I could not have managed it without his help; you were not very close to the shore, and the current was strong.”

“I see,” Legolas murmured, uncertain of how he felt upon hearing this.  He was surprised, but not overly so; after all, he would not have hesitated to help rescue the Dwarf had their positions been reversed.  Legolas was indebted to many people now, and Gimli was one of them.  It was not even a new debt; the Dwarf had helped to try and pull him out of the flash flood.  What was more, Legolas had noticed something during his captivity that had been quietly nagging at him, and he had come to the conclusion that Gimli deserved an apology for one particular insult that had been dealt him.  Legolas did not like the idea that something he had done was akin to any of Garan’s actions, no matter how minor.  Besides, he did not want to lose Sam’s respect.  It had been far too dearly bought.

Suddenly, Legolas felt a prickling between his shoulderblades that had nothing to do with Aragorn’s cold fingers on his skin.  The rest of the Fellowship could have no difficulty following their conversation; it was quiet beneath the overhang, and their voices carried although they were not speaking loudly.  Legolas could feel Gimli watching him, waiting for any further reaction on his part.  Well, he thought, it could be worse; at least he has a sense of honor, even if it does not extend to keeping a civil tongue with me.  Aloud he said, “I am indebted to you both.”

Gimli grunted softly, and for a moment Legolas wondered if the Dwarf was going to throw his gratitude back in his face.  Then he realized what he was thinking and reproached himself.  He could hardly be happy about being obligated to someone that he simply did not like, but Gimli had helped rescue him.  Had he not just promised himself that he would apologize for past wrongs?  Thinking uncharitable thoughts about Gimli now would prevent him from feeling the weight of the obligation. 

“There are no debts between us,” said Aragorn.  “But still, you have given me such a fright that I will not soon forgive you.”

“I am sorry,” said Legolas.  “I had not planned on things turning out in such a way.  The truth is that I expected them to be much worse.”

Aragorn chuckled at this.  Glancing sideways, Legolas saw Frodo, Merry, and Pippin watching them with great confusion.  Boromir and Gimli, however, seemed to find his comment amusing as well.  Of course; hobbits would not be used to the sort of black humor that soldiers so often enjoyed after finding that they had skirted death once again.

Aragorn pulled the folded linen away at last.  “There is still some bleeding,” said the Man, “but you are right – you are healing very well.  The change is not so dramatic this time, but the puncture is smaller.”

“What was that, Strider?” said Pippin’s bold voice.  To Legolas’ ears, he sounded annoyed.

“Legolas is mending well,” Aragorn repeated.

“That’s good.  Is he well enough to talk to everybody?  We would very much like to speak with him, too.”

“There is nothing wrong with my tongue,” said Legolas, making Gimli’s eyes glint mischievously.  Legolas ignored him just as he ignored Aragorn’s tense face as he got to his knees and stood up, taking the fur-lined cloak with him.  He was not able to straighten his back on account of the low ceiling, but it felt good to stretch his legs.  He would have liked to stand longer, but the others were watching him with such expectant faces that he only walked far enough to join them and sat down again.  A drop of something thick and warm began sliding down the skin of his back as he lowered himself to the earth.

Aragorn tsked softly and settled himself at Legolas’ left side.  “Your use of my bow has surely delayed your recovery,” he said as he began replacing the bandage.

“I will take care not to use my left arm,” Legolas promised.

“And you promised to eat when you woke again,” Aragorn reminded him.  “Will you put that soup back on the fire, Pippin?”

“Hurry up with that bandage, Strider,” said Merry.  “It makes me cold just looking at someone with no shirt on.”

Pippin hung one of Sam’s smaller pots above the low flames and asked, “How is it that you’re not freezing?”

“I feel the chill, but I will be none the worse for being cold for a moment or two.  That I can feel it at all is a relief to me; perhaps my blood is beginning to thaw out.  And I do not want to get blood on this magnificent cloak.”  Legolas looked at Boromir.  “This can only be yours.”

“More than once I have wondered if it was too much of an extravagance for this journey,” said Boromir, “but such thoughts no longer trouble me.  I am glad that it has been useful.”

“Well, I thank you for the loan.  Its warmth has been welcome, as you may imagine.”

“We’re all very glad that you and Sam are back.  And alive,” Frodo said quietly.

“So am I,” sighed Legolas.  “It seems to be against all odds that we escaped.”  He looked over to where Sam sat, some distance away.  Lowering his voice he asked, “Why does Sam sit alone?  It is not safe what with Brund still roaming this river, and even if all the Men were dead, he should still not be by himself.  He is in great need of his friends, I think.”

“He won’t talk to any of us,” Merry said soberly.  “Not even Frodo.  If Sam were going to talk to anyone, it would be him.”

Frodo’s face was troubled.  “It’s true,” he said.  “I have tried coaxing him, but he only withdraws more and more each time.  And just tonight… well, I finally decided to leave him alone.  He didn’t ask me to go away – he’s far too polite – but I knew he wanted me to.”

“Perhaps I pushed him too hard yesterday,” said Mithrandir, “but I do not see how it could have been avoided.  I needed to learn all that I could from him.  Well, what’s done is done.  At least you do not need to worry about his safety; I set up a small warding around our camp.  Ordinarily I would not have done so – there is a risk, albeit small, that the enemy might detect it – but Sam seemed to greatly desire solitude, and we cannot leave him unguarded.”

“I’ve been hoping that he might talk to you, Legolas,” said Frodo.  “Whatever it is that he’s mulling over, it surely happened while you were together, and he seems to have grown so fond of you since we were separated.”

“I have grown very fond of Sam myself,” said Legolas.  “I did not appreciate the strength of hobbits in either mind or body until I saw how he endured.  You are very fortunate in your choice of companion, Frodo; his devotion to you is beyond question.”

“Sam would blush if he heard you saying those things,” said Frodo, “but on his behalf, I thank you.  He is perhaps the most selfless hobbit I ever met, and a most dear friend.  I fear that if he does not talk to you, he will talk to no one, and I cannot stand to see him in such misery.  Will you try?”

“I will,” Legolas promised, “though not at this moment.  If it is solitude that he wants, then let him have it for a while.  I expect that the rest of you have questions for me in the interim.”

“I have questions for you, that’s for sure,” said Pippin.

“Then speak,” said Legolas, wondering at the continuing firmness in the young hobbit’s tone.  It seemed unlike him to try to take the lead at the moment; Legolas had expected Mithrandir or Aragorn to do that, and Pippin surely had, too.

“My first question is not the most important,” said Pippin, “but I’m sure we all want to know – how did you manage to shoot those Men yesterday?  I’d have thought that drawing a bow would have caused you terrible pain.”

“That is easy enough to answer.  I drew with my right hand, which caused much less strain on my injury than drawing with my left would have.  I would not have cared to try drawing on the left; it might not have been possible.”

“You don’t mean to say that you can switch back and forth?” said Boromir, astonished.

Legolas could not help but be reminded of his conversation with Sam on the morning after their escape from the flood.  “Yes, I can shoot with either hand.  And it surprises me to hear that other folk do not have this skill – but I learned as much from Sam as we journeyed upriver.”

“Lucky for me,” Merry murmured.

“Which brings me to my second question,” said Pippin.  “I know that everything’s turned out all right so far, and I’m glad, but” – he raised his head and looked Legolas squarely in the eye – “why didn’t you shoot Garan first?  He might have cut Merry’s throat.  Or did you know something that I don’t?”

The source of Pippin’s inner fire became instantly clear to Legolas.  He looked between the three hobbits, noting how different their expressions were.  Frodo looked solemn and sad, while Merry was refusing to meet anyone’s eye.  As for Pippin, his face bore a tumult of emotions: fear, hope, and even anger.  Legolas knew that Pippin was not going to like his answer, and a part of him hated to disappoint him.  Yet it was not inconceivable that a similar situation might arise in the future – that the company would have to risk sacrificing one of its number in order to continue, or that one or more of them would die in pursuit of Mount Doom.  Besides, Pippin had petitioned to be allowed to join the Fellowship.  He might be underage in his land, but Elrond had selected him, and he had to face the hard truths just like the rest of them did.

“No,” Legolas said at last, “I am not privy to any secret information.  I did fear for Merry’s life.”

Pippin’s face fell.

“I could not see Garan through his cloak of darkness, but I could see his companions.  My plan was to shoot two of them before they had time to react, and I hoped that either Mithrandir or Merry himself would have the presence of mind to act before Garan did.  He lied to you about his men; of the three, only Daerid had his bow out, so I shot him first.”

“Seems like an awfully big risk to take,” Pippin muttered.  To Legolas’ surprise, the hobbit did not seem to be addressing him; he was glancing sideways at Mithrandir, of all people.

Mithrandir arched one eyebrow in mild affront and gave his pipe a stern puff.  “Why do you look at me like that, Peregrin?” he asked.

Pippin drew a deep breath and fixed his eyes upon the wizard.  He looked as if he were steeling himself for a particularly difficult task.  “I want to know something.  Would you have let Merry die?”

Merry looked down at his hands and Legolas’ eyebrows rose.  Pippin was a bold soul, but he was never so direct with Mithrandir.

Mithrandir took his pipestem out from between his teeth.  “You think I would have let Garan slay him not ten feet away from us?” he exclaimed.

“You could have crisped that awful Man to ash where he stood.  Why did you talk to him for so long?  He was about to kill Merry!”

“I was trying to bring Merry out of danger!” Mithrandir replied tersely.  “I could not see him any better than you could, but I had to assume that there really was a knife against his throat.  I’m sure you’ll agree that in such circumstances, one’s actions must be precise.”

“But you waited so long that Legolas and Sam had to act first!”

“I had no way of knowing that they were about to take a hand!  I was trying to convince Garan to show himself.  If I had been able to see him, I could have attacked him while safeguarding Merry at the same time!  I did have to remove that fog myself, in the end, but the rest of you finished him before I had to.”

“But why didn’t you just do that at the very beginning?”

“Because it required an extra step, Peregrin, and Garan might have been able to react in time to kill Merry before I could kill him!”  Mithrandir stuck his pipe back between his teeth and huffed irritably.  “You do not understand magic, and I cannot explain my every action.  To make the depth of my knowledge known to you would take longer than your lifetime, and that is time that neither one of us can afford to lose.”

Though Pippin’s face had gone pink, his jaw remained stubbornly clenched.  “Why shouldn’t I have thought that you might let Merry die?  You were willing to let him die, before.”

Legolas’ brow furrowed when he realized that Pippin was referring to him.  What did that mean?

“Pippin,” said Frodo, clearly in warning, but the young hobbit plunged ahead.

“Maybe it really would have endangered the Quest if you’d helped then, but how are the rest of us supposed to know that?  If we’re in trouble and you’re not going to be able to do anything about it, then I want to know so I can do something about it!”

“Pippin!” Frodo said sharply.

Instead of growing angry at Pippin’s brazenness, Mithrandir softened visibly.  “That was different.  Any action I took then might have gravely endangered our Quest, but it was not so with Merry.  I was prepared to fight Garan for him.”

“But why?” Pippin insisted.  “Why could you use magic last night, but not up on the cliffs?”  Frodo groaned aloud.

The blood drained from Legolas’ face.  What revelation was this?  When had the Fellowship been out of the gorge?  He swung his astonished eyes to Mithrandir, but the wizard was not looking at him.

“Over such a distance, and out in the open air with spies of the Enemy all around… my actions might certainly have been noticed,” said Mithrandir.  “That is as much as I can explain without delving too deeply into the matter.  I hope you will be satisfied with it.  It may sound cruel, but our responsibility is to ensure that Frodo reaches the summit of Mount Doom.  I will protect you all if I can, though not at Frodo’s expense.  But I told you before – you must not think that I do not care about the rest of you, for I do; I want all of us to reach the end of our journey safe and whole.”

“I do not understand,” Legolas stammered, and at last the others took note of his discomfiture.  “When were you up on the cliffs?”

The rest of the Fellowship exchanged uncertain glances.  “I was trying to stop you, Pippin,” Frodo sighed.  Pippin looked abashed.

“We hadn’t meant to tell you like this,” said Boromir.

“Tell me what?  How…?”

“We saw you jump off the cliffs,” Gimli said flatly, “and much of what happened before.”

Legolas blinked, wondering for a moment if he had heard incorrectly, but most of the others were looking at him with such sympathy that he knew he had not.  He hardly knew what to think.  The Fellowship must have been close – on the other side of the river – and he had never noticed.  And if they had seen the Men assaulting him, then they must have seen what Sam had done to put a stop to it.  “How much?” he managed to ask.

“I was the first to reach the top,” said Aragorn.  “I saw most of the Men crowded around Sam; one was bending over him.  I did not know it at the time, but I now believe it was Garan.  And then the trees began to move.”

“Yes.  What was that about?” said Merry.

“Wait,” said Legolas, holding up a hand.  “You were the first… to reach the top?”

“We saw your fire the night before,” said Pippin.  His face was still flushed, but his eyes dared the others to try and stop him.  “We’d been looking for you for days, but we didn’t know it was you until Strider saw you the next morning.”

“We followed you,” Frodo added.  “When we heard Sam start shouting, we found a way up to the top of the cliffs.”

“The way up was far easier on this side of the river than it was on yours,” said Aragorn, seeing the dumbfounded look on Legolas’ face.  “Sam told us of your climb, and it was nothing like that.”

“So he has told you what happened?” Legolas asked.

“Somewhat,” said Mithrandir.  “He kept a good deal back regarding… his own actions.”  Legolas did not need the wizard’s pointed look to know what he meant.

“He’s not a very good liar,” Pippin chimed in.

When Mithrandir spoke again, he did so very softly.  “Sam knows that we saw the jump, but not what happened before, so we must keep our voices down.”

Legolas was still stunned.  If the hobbits had seen all that….  Most of those killings had been messy.  Only Dorlic had really fought, albeit not very well.  Afterwards when Legolas had knelt and taken Sam by the shoulders, Sam had looked at him with such terror that for a moment he had feared the gardener might bolt.  Those were almost the first battle-killings that Sam had ever witnessed; Paet’s death back in the crevice had probably been the only other.  Why would Merry, Pippin and Frodo be any different?  Legolas had no reason to believe that they had ever seen anything like those four deaths atop the cliff before.

“It gave me no pleasure to sit by and watch, knowing what was about to happen,” said Mithrandir.  “I am sorry.”

“You know better than I what you could and could not do,” Legolas murmured absently.  “The Quest comes first, of course.”

A brief silence fell.  Legolas wondered if the others really believed that he understood, staring into space as he was.  He did understand, if in a detached way; he could not spare much thought for Mithrandir’s decision at the moment.  He felt nearly as dazed as he had been when Jakov had struck him in the head.  What would Sam make of this news?

“Please,” said Merry when no one else spoke, “can you tell us what happened with those trees?  Gandalf said you did it.”

The question brought Legolas back to the present.  “The trees,” he repeated.  “Why they behaved as they did, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“That they ‘behaved’ at all was my doing, though it was unintentional.”  Legolas looked around the little circle to find that nearly everyone was watching him avidly.  “When I realized what the Men were going to do to Sam and that I could do nothing to prevent it, I lost all hope.”  His chest tightened at the memory of Sam’s frantic pleas.  He doubted if he would ever forget that sound for as long as he lived, and if he survived the Quest, that could be a very long time.  “I suppose you saw that I was bound to a tree, so you know that I was not completely friendless, small comfort though it was to me at that moment.  I turned to them in my grief, having nowhere else to go.  And they… responded… in a most surprising way… to my despair.”  The hobbits gazed back at him in astonishment, and he tried to explain.  “The thoughts of trees run deep and slow; in my homeland they are more alert and easier to commune with, being accustomed to the presence of Elves.  I can only guess that these trees had encountered Elves before.  My need may have been great, but I do not think that would have been enough to stir them to self-destruction on my behalf.  These trees were more aware than most.”

“Rivendell is two weeks away!” exclaimed Pippin.

“Elves have been passing this way for a long, long time,” said Mithrandir.  “For many lives of trees, at any rate.”

“I certainly did not ask them to throw themselves upon the Men,” Legolas continued.  “They acted of their own volition, and it was unusual behavior for trees, even in my experience.  I am as grateful for their aid as I am for all of yours, and when this Quest is over, I will plant new saplings to honor them.”  He looked each of the others in the eye in turn – all save Mithrandir, who did not need to hear what he was about to say.  The Gray Wizard was welcome everywhere, even when he was unwelcome.  “You should know that you will all find open arms in Eryn Galen – in Mirkwood – should you ever pass that way, whether I am there or not.  So long as we dwell in Middle-earth, my family is at your service.”  As are all of the Elves of my home, he thought, though he did not say so.  When his father learned of what had happened, he would make certain that every Elf in Eryn Galen knew the names of these seven mortals.  He would even include Gimli when Legolas made it plain that the Dwarf had been instrumental in his salvation.

Reflexively, Legolas’ eyes swung to where Sam sat.  Sam probably had no idea, but he would be honored above even Aragorn and Gimli, who had pulled his body out of the river.  He could have any reward that he named, could make himself the richest hobbit in the Shire if he wished it – but Legolas knew him well enough by now to be sure that he would ask for no such thing.  He would never even think of asking, and Legolas loved him for it.

“Will you tell us your full tale?” Aragorn asked quietly.  “Sam was maddeningly vague on some points, though I think he told us the most important information long ago, when we brought you back from the river.”

“He told us that Men had taken you, and that one of them was a sorcerer,” Merry put in.  “And he told us that they were in Saruman’s employ.”

“He told you what they wanted with us, I am sure,” said Legolas.

“He did,” said Mithrandir, “and I relaxed considerably when I learned that Frodo’s burden was never directly mentioned by them, the tidings of the sorcerer notwithstanding.”

“But he says less and less every day,” Frodo reminded them.  “Now he limits his answers to ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ whenever possible.”

“I suppose you would like to hear the story from the beginning, since none of us here know what he did not tell you… save what you saw with your own eyes,” said Legolas.

“Mostly,” said Mithrandir.  “He was very clear on your escape from the river.  He also told us that you had found traces of the Men before being caught in the flood.”

Legolas sighed.  “My greatest regret is that I was not able to pass those findings on.  If I had known what was going to happen to us, I would certainly have told you, even if it was from the middle of the river.  I feared they might come upon you at unawares.”

“We saw them pass on the far side of the river.  Your side.”  Aragorn smiled slightly at the look on Legolas’ face.  “There is no need to worry; they never saw us.  In fact, I would wager they never knew we were here at all until you jumped from the cliff.”

Legolas’ mouth fell open.  For a moment he could not speak, but then he said, “That explains much.  Sam and I told the Men that we were traveling alone though they never really believed us, and when Garan found you, he made it plain that he thought we were dead.  I heard him say so before I fired my first shot.  I had been wondering why he went to such trouble to find two lifeless bodies – but if he saw you on the cliffs, then he was looking for you instead.”  He looked questioningly at Aragorn.  “Jus how many surprises do you have for me?”

“Not as many as Sam had for us, I’ll wager.”

“We shall see,” said Legolas.  “Well.  I suppose my tale begins before the flood came, when I first found traces of the Men.”

The Fellowship listened attentively while Legolas told his story, though they often interrupted him to ask questions.  It did seem that Sam had told them everything that was important, and he had apparently said plenty about what Legolas himself had done; the others already knew all about the escape from the flood and his climb up the cliffs.  Yet as Legolas went on, he realized that Mithrandir was right: Sam had glossed over most of his rough treatment at the Men’s hands.  Garan’s campaign of increasing Sam’s sufferings unfolded with the tale, and the group grew ever more somber as Legolas progressed.  Legolas did not offer too many details – if Sam was unwilling to share them, then he would honor that desire as far as he could – but the bare minimum was more than enough to stir the other hobbits to anger.

“How dare they!” Merry whispered after Legolas told them of Sam’s first beating.  His fists were clenched in anger, and Frodo looked even more wrathful, though his face was still as stone.  “So many against one – and him half their size!”

“I think they did it as much to demoralize me as to wear down his resistance,” Legolas admitted.  “Garan knew that I was very solicitious of him, but Sam was protective of me as well.  The Men underestimated him in more ways than one!  We only knew Saruman was the force behind them because Sam overheard them talking.  What Sam was wanted for was more than clear, but when he heard the Men speak of what Saruman wanted with me….  I had to explain it to him, but once he understood, he actually suggested that I escape without him if I could.  Not that I in particular would have been interesting to the White Wizard; I am sure that any Elf at all would do for him.”

“What did Saruman want with you?” Mithrandir asked sharply.

“Sam did not tell you this, either?”

“He started to, but then he shut up tighter than a mussel,” said Pippin.  “He thought you might not want us to know.”

Legolas hesitated, thinking, while the others waited.  Sam had clearly piqued their curiosity.  It was difficult for Legolas to even think of what his fate might have been, and if he spoke of it, he would have to explain to everyone save Aragorn and Mithrandir what it meant.  Few besides the Elves knew of the orcs’ dark origins, and the Elves had no desire to make them generally known.  Yet there was more at stake than his own comfort.  Mithrandir, at least, ought to know everything he could about Saruman’s plans.

When he had made up his mind, Legolas raised his eyes to the wizard’s and held them there.  It felt easier to speak of such things while focusing on only one face.  “I pressed Sam for every snatch of talk that he could remember.  He heard the Men say that Saruman was interested in orcs, and that he was seeking the capture of an Elf.”

There was a heavy pause.  “That does not necessarily mean what you think it means,” said Aragorn.

Legolas kept his eyes on Mithrandir.  “He went on to say that Saruman apparently thought he could ‘do something better than the Dark Lord could’.  Or so he heard the Men say.”

Silence.  Mithrandir frowned around his pipestem, and after several long moments he said, “That could be interpreted in a number of ways, but I can guess how you must have read it.  Well, if you are right, then this is interesting news indeed – but only as it pertains to Saruman’s arrogance, which is considerable.  He could not do what you feared, Legolas, not even with the… the item of power that he seeks.”

“I don’t understand,” said Pippin.

Mithrandir looked at Legolas, but when Legolas hesitated to continue, he turned back to the others and briefly explained the connection between Elves and orcs.  The ensuing shock and disbelief was predictable.

Boromir shook his head.  “I almost don’t believe you.”

“So there is a reason that Elves and orcs are mortal enemies,” said Gimli.

“The orcs are the work of Morgoth,” said Legolas, finding his tongue again.  “That would be reason enough by itself.  I pity the poor wretches who were destroyed to make them – but no more than those first few.  All that have come after, I would destroy if I could.”

“If you listen to what you are saying, you will realize that you are answering your own questions,” said Mithrandir.  “In the orcs, Morgoth created a new race.  Neither Sauron nor Saruman has the power to do this – not that that would have stopped Saruman from trying, of course.”

Legolas let out a breath that he had not realized he was holding.  He felt suddenly lighter, almost as if he could float right up off the ground.  Had these fears really weighed him down so?  He also felt strangely foolish.  Now that Mithrandir said so, it seemed obvious that none of the Maiar could duplicate Morgoth’s dark feats.  “I should have known,” he muttered.

“Hmph!” said Mithrandir.  “Why should you have known?  You are not Istari; you do not know our limits.  You would have been witless not to quaver at the prospect of being sold to Isengard.  Perhaps Saruman could not have done all that he desired, but his efforts would have destroyed you.  Is that not enough to fear?”

Legolas did not answer.  He was thinking of Dol Goldur, great black fortress and blight upon his homeland.  There was not an Elf in Eryn Galen that was not leery of it, for he who entered it was never seen again.  No one knew what befell them, but everyone knew what happened to Elves who ran afoul of orcs, and that was bad enough.  The work of Sauron’s higher lieutenants – and a wizard gone bad – could surely stretch even the most active imagination.  Yes, thought Legolas, Saruman was quite enough to fear by himself.

Legolas avoided responding to Mithrandir’s question, and when the others saw that he did not want to talk about it, they let the matter drop.  Thankful for this, Legolas went on with his tale and shortly came to the following afternoon, when he and Sam had managed to escape at last.  “I have no idea what passed between Sam and Garan, but Sam refused to indulge him,” he said proudly.  “And Garan was prepared to do much worse than use his fists this time.  That was when I finally despaired – when I saw what he was planning to do.  Luckily for us, the forest was stirred to wrath on our behalf.  But I have already told you this.”

“This is where Sam was at his vaguest,” said Mithrandir.  “We may have seen what happened, but we could not hear what was said.”

“In brief, Garan was infuriated by what happened,” said Legolas, “especially as one of his men was crushed and the dogs either ran or were killed, so he put me into Dorlic’s hands to do with as he pleased.  His only stipulation was that I be able to walk when it was all over.  Dorlic despised me from the start, so I was more than dismayed by this.”

“Why did he hate you?” asked Boromir.

“I know little of his reasons,” said Legolas, “but it was not long before I was certain that his hatred was of Elf-kind and not me in particular.  To him, one Elf was much the same as another, I deem.  The things he said to me!  Well, I will never know the origin of his hate now, but no matter; he is dead, and good riddance to him.  He was a blemish on your race,” he added to Aragorn and Boromir, “though he would be alive still if Sam had not acted.  But I am getting ahead of myself.  Garan left Dorlic and three others behind to avenge themselves upon me while he took the rest to search for the dogs.”

“I suppose he wanted the dogs to search for our scent, since he never believed your story,” said Gimli.

“That is precisely what I thought,” said Legolas, surprised to find himself in agreement with the Dwarf.  Such occurrences were rare.  “I think he expected Sam to crack that very afternoon, and that he was hoping to use the animals to find the rest of you.  I suppose his powers did not include locating a quarry he had never before encountered.”

“There weren’t any dogs with him last night,” said Pippin.

“Then he never found them, or could not compel them to return to him,” said Legolas.  “So much the better for us.  And leaving Sam and me with only four Men might seem like a mistake, but it would not have been had Hoddis not stopped watching Sam.  One moment there were three Men holding me down; the next, there were four.  It is clear to me that Hoddis did not properly secure Sam before joining his fellows.  If he had, Sam would never have been able to come to my aid.”

“He hit him,” Merry said tightly.

Legolas’ mouth thinned.

“Knocked him to the ground,” Merry continued.  “I suppose he thought that was enough.”

“He was wrong,” said Legolas.  “When I heard Jakov scream and felt the Men let go of me… you can imagine my shock.  They had nearly subdued me by then.  But it was just the opportunity that I needed, and once Sam had cut my bonds, I began to hope again.”  That was certainly an understatement; the wild anticipation he had felt when his hands had finally come apart had overwhelmed every other feeling.  “I was not at my best, not after taking such a drubbing, but some measure of good fortune was on our side.  The Men did not fight well; I think their surprise and anger overcame whatever blade skills they possessed.  It only grew easier to slay them as their numbers decreased.”

Legolas paused, remembering the last Man he had killed.  Ending Jakov’s life had been merciful as well as necessary.  Sam had dealt him a fatal wound, but he had done it in such as way as to prolong his death most painfully.  It was a pity, Legolas thought, that Jakov had chosen to follow Saruman.  He had been a strong Man – that he had remained conscious, crawling, spoke volumes – and might have done good things in the service of a nobler being, had he chosen to do so.

The company was quiet while Legolas sat musing, and it was he who broke the silence again.  “I suppose Garan and the others heard the commotion and came hurrying back.  When the four of them stepped out of the trees I was sure that it was the end for both of us, but Sam looked down, saw the pool below, and suggested that we jump.”

“Sam said that?” said Frodo, aghast.  “But he hates rivers and heights, and I know just how much.”

“Perhaps this casts his trials in a new light?” said Mithrandir.

“It does.”  Frodo still looked disbelieving.  “I simply can’t see Sam looking over a cliff that high and actually suggest jumping off it.”

“What other choices did we have?” said Legolas.  “I certainly did not intend to go back into Garan’s hands alive.  I would have tried to kill him if I had no other option, but the Men surely would have killed me first; I could not have dodged their arrows.  And I cannot say what action Sam would have taken; he may not know himself.”

“But weren’t you afraid?” said Merry.  “That was a horribly long way to fall.”

Legolas thought for a moment and said, “If you were to take me back to that spot right now and ask me to jump off, I would be fearful, but in that moment I was not afraid at all.  If we were dead either way, then it was better to die on our own terms than on Saruman’s, and we at least had a chance of escaping if we lived.”

“You might have had another option, though you didn’t know it,” said Pippin.  “Strider was going to shoot the Men.”

“Were you?” said Legolas, looking at Aragorn.

Aragorn nodded.  “The leader first.”

“I didn’t want him to,” said Mithrandir.  “It would have given our position away.”

“I gave it away, in the end,” sighed Frodo.  “After you jumped, I dislodged a rock, and it went clattering down the cliff.  And then the Men were shooting at us.”

“Would you have hit them, do you think?” Legolas asked Aragorn.

The Ranger quirked one eyebrow.  “I think you mean that as an honest question, and not an insult.  The truth is that I am not sure.  Over that distance, in all that wind… it would have been very chancy.  It is probably best that I didn’t try.  I might have hit you instead.”

“In danger from both sides,” said Legolas, smiling to show that he was joking.  “Well, the Men certainly fired enough arrows off, trying to hit us; I could see them streaking down into the water all around.  We did stay underwater for as long as we could, swimming, but we had to come up for breath in the end.  And that is when I was hit.”

“Sam was swimming?” Frodo said dubiously.

“Well, not right after the fall,” said Legolas.  “I think he was too shocked too try.  Being suddenly submerged in such water is enough to halt all thought.  I pulled him along until we came up again, but after the arrow struck home, it was Sam who did the work.  My memories from that point on are hazy, but I remember looking over to see Sam kicking his way along, dragging me with him by my cloak.  The current carried us, and I cannot say how much he was able to move me, but he kept himself afloat and us together.”

“And Sam does not know how to swim,” said Boromir.  “It is amazing what one can do when pushed to one’s limits, is it not?”

“With luck, we will not have to see too much more of that amazing behavior before this Quest ends,” Mithrandir said dryly.

“He lost you in the end, though,” said Pippin.  “He told us so.”

“I do not remember that happening, and I am grateful,” said Legolas, “but I am sure that it was a wrench for Sam to be separated so.”

“You don’t recall catching hold of the tree, where we found you?” asked Aragorn.

“A little, and only in flashes,” said Legolas.  “Waking up later that night was very confusing.  I did not know you at first, Aragorn; I thought you were Garan.  And how strange it was to discover that I was alive!  A full three times that day I thought I was lost only to find that hope remained after all.”

“If only you knew how difficult it was for us to hold out hope for you and Sam,” said Frodo.  “When we found his pack and your broken bow, it was hard to believe that you could still be alive.”

Legolas blinked in astonishment yet again.  “You have my bow?” he asked softly.  How very strange and unexpected these revelations all were!  He had thought his weapon lost forever.

“We kept the two halves,” said Aragorn, “but they will be of no value to you save sentimental, I fear.”

But Legolas only smiled broadly.  “Oh, the damage is certainly irreparable, but it will be pleasant to see it again all the same!  I have used it for so long that it is like an old friend.  Sam must have been glad to see that his pots and herbs had not been lost.”

“Very,” said Frodo.  “That is one of the few things to have given him any joy in these past few days, beyond being reunited with Bill – and you, of course.”

“Don’t forget yourself, Frodo,” said Boromir.  “Sam was most pleased to find that you were safe and well.”

“Sam is too good to me,” Frodo murmured, smiling softly.  “Sometimes he neglects himself for my sake.”

A sudden, rattling cough from Sam’s corner of the shelter drew everyone’s attention.  “How long has that been going on?” Legolas whispered, alarmed.  “He was already unwell before we jumped back into the river.”

“He says he’s starting to feel a little better,” said Gimli, “and I for one believe him.  That cough does not sound so deep as before.”

“His fever has subsided,” said Aragorn.  “He has been drinking what I give him without complaint, and he sleeps a good deal.”  He rose up on his knees and stirred the soup in the pot.  “This is hot now.  You must have some, Legolas, and Sam should as well.  Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Good!” said Aragorn.  “Yet another sign that you will soon be set to rights.”

“Let me take Sam’s portion to him,” said Legolas.  “I have finished my tale, more or less, and it would ease my heart to sit with him.  Perhaps the company will do him some good as well.”

“Will you try talking to him, then?” Frodo asked softly.

Legolas took a long look at Sam’s hunched shoulders before replying.  “Perhaps; perhaps not.  I would counsel patience, Frodo.  Sam is… not the same as he was.  He cannot be.  I will have a better idea of how he is faring when I have had a chance to be near him for a while.”

“There is nothing else I can do for him, I suppose,” Frodo sighed.

“Give him patience, time, and your friendship,” said Legolas.  “That is all anyone can ever do.”

“You sound like you’ve seen this kind of thing before,” said Merry.

“Many times,” Legolas said gravely.  “And I am certain that I am not the only one.”

The hobbits looked around at the bigger folk and found all of them – Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli and Mithrandir – looking back at them with sober expressions.  Most of them fixed their eyes on either Merry or Pippin, neither of whom could stand their knowing gazes for long.  “I suppose I know a little bit about how Sam feels,” Merry muttered.

“Me, too,” said Pippin.  “And I don’t much feel like talking about it yet.”

“I think you will, given a little time,” said Boromir.  “You won’t be able to simply put it out of your mind, for I’ll not stop teaching you.  You may need to use your blade-skills again.  Aragorn tells me that the both of you handled yourselves quite well with Garan, especially given the circumstances.”  Pippin blushed scarlet.

“You should talk of it, lads,” said Gimli.  “You may not think so now, but it will help.  I know; I have been there.”

“Be thankful that you even have time to recover from the shock,” said Boromir.  “Sometimes, the circumstances do not allow it.”

Sam sneezed, and Legolas turned to Aragorn.  “I think it is time that Sam had something hot to drink.”

“Indeed,” said Aragorn, and he locked arms with Legolas to help him to rise.

“Ah,” Legolas sighed once he had gained his feet.  “It does feel good to stand again.”

“Enjoy it,” said Mithrandir.  “You will be sitting again in a moment.”  He handed them each a tin cup full of steaming soup, and they turned away, but not before Legolas saw Frodo giving him an encouraging smile.

It was a short walk with bent backs to where Sam sat, still idly stroking Bill.  He looked up at them as they approached, and though he smiled upon seeing Legolas, he quickly looked away again when his eyes fell on Aragorn.  With Aragorn’s aid Legolas sat down on the ground next to him, not bothering to ask permission.  He didn’t think Sam would refuse to give it, but he didn’t want to take the chance.  It would not do to leave Sam alone and brooding for too long.

Legolas wordlessly handed his cup of soup to Sam, took the other from Aragorn, snugged Boromir’s cloak back around himself, and drew a long drink.  It was thin but the broth was rich and salty, and the bits of meat were tender.  It tasted wonderful.

Aragorn left without saying a word, and Sam and Legolas sat in silence for a long minute while Sam stared into the depths of his cup of soup.  Legolas could feel the hobbit’s tension; he was drawn into himself like a turtle in its shell.  Legolas remained quiet, waiting for Sam to open the door.

Bill suddenly whickered, startling both of them.  Feeling a bit amused by how easily he had been caught off his guard – by a pony – Legolas reached down to give Bill an affable pat.  The pony let out a contented puff through his nose.

“He missed you,” Sam said unexpectedly, and Legolas saw that he was smiling ever so slightly.  He glanced down into his soup again and finally took a sip.

“I am sure he missed you as well,” said Legolas, who was now scratching Bill behind one ear.  “He quite dotes upon you.”

“I spoil him.”

“How could you not, with those beautiful eyes looking at you?  And he is such a gentle beast; he is good temper itself.”  Legolas took another drink of soup.  “I do not remember broth ever tasting so marvelous.”

“It is good after all that hard bread and cheese,” Sam murmured.

“We have more of the same hard food to look forward to.”

“But it is our bread and cheese, and that makes a difference.”

They sat without talking for a few moments, but then Sam said: “I’m glad you’re doing so much better.”

Legolas smiled, and for more than just the good wishes.  Sam apparently did want to talk even if he didn’t know it.  “I am feeling far better than I did last night.  I feel I have done nothing but sleep for two days, but it has done me a world of good.”

“You worried me so much,” Sam said gravely.  “If you could have seen yourself… you would have thought it was too late for you, too.”

“I have much to be thankful for; there is no denying that,” said Legolas.  “I cannot claim to have saved myself.  Without the help of many others, I would not be alive now.”  Without your help most of all, he thought, but he didn’t say so.  That would come later.  Approaching the subject of Sam’s first kill had to be done delicately.

“Me, too,” said Sam.  “If it hadn’t been for Boromir and Merry….  Well, it’s not as if I remember much of it, thankfully, though what I do remember I’d like to forget.”

“What do you mean?” said Legolas, suddenly concerned.

“You mean they didn’t tell you?” said Sam, frowning.  “I know you’ve been talking with the others.”

Legolas stared.  What had happened to Sam that he did not already know?  “Tell me what?” he demanded, but even as he said it, a chilling thought came to him.  He had never heard how Sam had escaped the Feinduin the second time.

“It was Boromir who pulled me out of the river,” said Sam, who was staring at an unremarkable spot on the ground.  “They said I wasn’t breathing when he found me, and Merry had to bring me ’round.  He knows what to do with hobbits who’ve almost drownded, you see.  He grew up near a river.”

Legolas’ chest had grown cold as Sam spoke.  “Elbereth,” he whispered.  Sam had nearly drowned?  What would he have done if he had awoken to find that Sam had perished in the river?  How could he have borne it?

“I am never, ever going swimming again, not even in a pond,” Sam declared stoically.

“Thank the Valar for our brave companions!” Legolas said fervently, meaning every word.  He thought of Sam sinking into the river, filling his lungs with icy water as he gasped for air, and felt sick.  “Oh, mellon nin, I am so very sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Sam.  “You couldn’t help being shot.”

“I did try –”

“I know you did.  You couldn’t, sir; you just couldn’t.  You’d done so much already.”

“But that is my task, Sam – to make sure that you, Frodo, Merry and Pippin reach Mordor alive.”

Sam looked up in surprise.  “What about the others?”

“Ah.  I do not mean to imply that they are unimportant.  Aragorn has a great destiny, certainly; much depends on him, and on Mithrandir as well, I think.  And who can say what the rest of us are meant to do?  There is much that is noble in our Fellowship.  But even so, I and all the others that you call ‘Big Folk’ are determined to help the four of you go as far as you can, even unto our own deaths.”

Sam stared.

“I am not one of the Wise,” said Legolas.  “I have not their insight.  But they have told us that it is hobbits who will be central to the victory – and that is why the four of you come first.  This cannot truly be news to you; Elrond and Mithrandir talked of little else before we departed from Rivendell, and I am sure you must have heard them.”

“I did,” Sam admitted, “and it’s hard to miss the way you’re all of you always looking out for us.  But it feels different, hearing you say it like that.”

“Even if it were not my duty to protect you, I would give much to ensure your safety,” Legolas added quietly.  “I have already told Frodo, Merry and Pippin this, but now I must tell you: your entire race has grown in my estimation during our time together.  I misjudged you terribly, Samwise; there is great strength in you, strength that I had not expected to find.  I wonder if I do not see you now better than even the Wise do.”

“You can’t know what that means,” Sam murmured.  “Your regard, I mean.”  Legolas could not help noticing that the hobbit’s voice was suddenly unsteady and that he refused to meet his eyes.  Out of compassion, he turned his own gaze away.

“And I don’t deserve it,” Sam breathed.

Startled, Legolas blinked.  There it was – Sam’s first real word on what was truly bothering him.  He had not expected it to come so soon.  It did not sound as if Sam had meant for him to hear what he said, though he should have known better; he knew enough about Elven senses by now.  Perhaps Sam had said what he was thinking without realizing it.  “Do not say such things,” Legolas admonished gently.  “That is nonsense.”

Sam flushed.  “I hadn’t meant to….” he began, confirming Legolas’ suspicions.  He drew both knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.  “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

But Legolas saw that Sam’s hands were trembling slightly, and his eyes were a little too bright.  The disquiet that he failed to hide coupled with that one statement – I don’t deserve it – told Legolas a good deal of what Sam had been thinking for the past two days.  Well, Sam had certainly stepped over a line now.  Legolas was willing to bet anything that his soul’s desire for solace was stronger than the fear that had kept him silent until now.  “You deserve every ounce of my regard and more,” he said firmly.

“No,” said Sam.  “Please don’t.”

“Sam –”

“No,” Sam repeated in a quavering voice.  Legolas held his peace and watched the hobbit out of the corner of one eye.  Long, quiet moments passed while Sam drew in deep breaths of cold air and struggled to regain his composure.  He was not succeeding; his eyes were wide and brimming with unshed tears, and his chin began to tremble as the seconds ticked by.  He was staring straight ahead, looking as if he were gazing into a yawning abyss that nobody else could see.

“You don’t….” Sam suddenly said.  “I can’t….”  He squeezed his eyes shut, sending two tears running down his cheeks.  Embarrassed, he scrubbed at his face with the back of one hand before threading it securely around his knees again.

It is coming soon, thought Legolas, knowing that it would be next to impossible for Sam to stop the dam from bursting now.  The fight to contain it all had plainly become too great a strain.

Two more tears slid from behind Sam’s tightly closed eyelids.  With his arms wrapped around his legs, he had pulled into himself as firmly as he could.

“You are still Samwise Gamgee,” Legolas said softly.  “It will come out all right.”

A sob burst from Sam’s throat followed closely by muffled, erratic breathing as he tried one last time to pull himself together.  Several paces behind him, Legolas could sense the rest of the company going absolutely still.  When he reached over and put one hand on Sam’s shoulder, Sam seemed to crumple beneath his fingers.

Legolas easily pulled Sam close until he leaned against his side.  Whether Sam was too weakened by grief to resist or simply didn’t care to try made no matter to him.  During those times in his life when he had been at his most broken, it had always been another’s touch that had given him the greatest possible comfort.  The presence of a sympathetic soul was better by far than grieving alone.

Sam wept bitterly for several minutes, clutching one side of Boromir’s cloak about himself while Legolas’ arm kept him in place.  He shed his tears with such ferocity that Legolas began to grow concerned, and at length he found himself singing quietly in an effort to calm Sam before he slipped back into self-recrimination.  It was nothing great or lofty – just a simple song about grass and flowers and other growing things – but Sam was a gardener, after all, and took joy in such.  Legolas hoped that he could discern the subject even though the words were in Elvish.  Hobbits seemed to have more in common with Elves than most mortals; perhaps he would be able to tell.

Sam’s sorrow ebbed away slowly.  It rose up once or twice again when Legolas had thought him serene again, but eventually he began to show signs of exhaustion.  Legolas sang without interruption – most of the songs that he knew tended to go on a bit – until Sam’s breathing had become slow and even.  He would have kept on singing until Sam had dropped off entirely, but there was something he wanted to say while Sam was still malleable.

“Sam,” Legolas said quietly.

“Hmm?” said Sam.

“You and I should talk tomorrow.”

Sam yawned behind one of his hands.  Legolas waited for several long moments before prodding him again.  “Sam?”

“Sounds good,” Sam murmured.  “I think I had… better sleep now.”

“Then sleep.  There is nothing to stop you.”

“Oh, no.  I am very comfortable, but I don’t want you” – Sam yawned again – “sitting here all night.”

“I wouldn’t –”

“Yes, you would.”  Sam gave a groggy half-smile and pushed the fur-lined cloak off.  “I’ll take to my blankets, and you can get a proper night’s sleep, too.  Can you get up by yourself?”

“Not without upsetting Aragorn.”

“I suppose he’s done enough work on you that he doesn’t want you messing it up.  You’d better get him.”

Aragorn was summoned, and Sam made his way back to his bedroll.  To everyone’s great surprise, he sought out Frodo and exchanged a few quiet words with him before closing his eyes and rolling over.  Very little was said, but Frodo looked considerably relieved as he left Sam’s side for the small campfire.

Legolas found that he was more tired than he had expected to be, which was less than heartening.  Two days, he thought, was surely enough sleep for anyone.  Pleased that Sam had made progress but disappointed in his own weariness, he chose to seek sleep himself instead of joining the rest of the company around the small firepit.  Boromir refused the return of his cloak yet again, so Legolas remained inside it as he lay down on his back and stared up at the rocky ceiling above him.

The Fellowship waited until Sam’s first snore sounded before turning to Legolas.  “How astonishing!” said Frodo, smiling from ear to ear.

“Yes,” Legolas murmured.  “Remember that it is not done yet, though, and that this was but one step forward.  Still, I think Sam will be much improved tomorrow.”

“Any step forward is a good one,” said Mithrandir. 

“Are you all right, Legolas?” asked Pippin.  “You don’t sound happy.”

“Oh, I am happy,” Legolas assured him.  “Happy where Sam is concerned, at least.  It is only that I am tired again – and I weary of feeling this way.”

“Well, you’re getting better every day, too,” Pippin said encouragingly.  “Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Legolas smiled drowsily.  “You are right.  All things are made new with the rising of the sun, and tomorrow will bring fresh counsel.”

“Fresh food, too, with any luck,” said Boromir.  “Bring your appetite with you when you wake.”

“Hmm,” said Legolas, and let his eyelids fall half-closed.  A few minutes passed, and he was on the verge of dropping off when he suddenly heard Pippin whisper: “It’s no wonder he’s so tired.  He eats like a rabbit!”

“Or a bird,” Merry whispered back.

“He will be hungrier tomorrow,” said Mithrandir.  “Wait and see.”

“It doesn’t seem natural,” said Pippin.  “Are you sure there’s nothing still wrong with him, Strider?”

“Truly, he is much better,” said Aragorn.  “Don’t listen too much to what he says about himself; he is too self-critical.  He will be perfectly ready to travel soon.”

“I’m so glad,” said Frodo.  “What would we have done if we hadn’t gotten him back?  Sam might never have forgiven himself, even if it were none of his fault.”

“I will have to ask him just what it is that he finds so lovable about that Elf,” said Gimli, but to Legolas’ surprise, there was no bitterness to be heard in his voice.  “Well, there is something that you all should know.  After Sam and Legolas jumped off that cliff, I promised myself that I would tell Legolas that he had done well, should he live through it.  I knew there was no way that Sam could have escaped the river the first time without his help, and I have grown quite fond of Sam.”

“I suppose there’s no chance you’ll ever grow fond of Legolas,” said Merry.

“Not much.”

“Then why are you telling us this?”

“To ensure that I keep my promise,” Gimli growled.  “I can’t break it if you all know about it.  Well, there it is; I will give him the praise he deserves, and we will see if he laughs at me.  But if he does, I will be convinced that he is unworthy of Sam’s affection.”

“He won’t laugh at you,” said Pippin, but Legolas scarcely heard him.  It was astonishing to hear Gimli talk of such a thing when Legolas had been readying himself to approach Gimli for much the same reason.  Suddenly the thought of walking up to Gimli and offering the apology he was owed did not seem quite so dreadful.

Well, thought Legolas, here is something the Fellowship surely never thought to see – the Elf and Dwarf offering each other a truce.  He could not help but wonder how it would go.  It would be interesting to see whether he and Gimli could actually hold a conversation afterward.  It might be possible; they had never before gotten past the sniping and insults to find out.

Legolas drew a deep, silent breath, exhaled, and concentrated on relaxing himself enough to sleep.  He hoped that he would wake up in the morning feeling refreshed, for he had two very important conversations ahead of him.  One would likely be much longer than the other, but it was impossible to say which would be the more taxing.

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A/N: Hey, gang.  A few people have sent out feelers in an effort to find out what on earth I’m doing these days.  I have been working on the next chapter, but it’s been coming very slowly; I’ve already scrapped a great deal of work… twice.  All the same, I feel that I have made some real progress lately, and that’s a good thing.  This story will be finished – it’s just a question of when.

A/N: I am sorry that it has been so long since I last posted.  Looking back at the reviews for the last chapter, I see that there are some that I never responded to - most of them from back in February!  Since it’s been so long, I’m probably not going to reply to them this time, but I would like to say once again that I treasure all of your comments (with special thanks to those of you who have reviewed very often).  They continue to be a source of great encouragement for me.

There is one more chapter left.  I don’t think it will take terribly long to complete.  Life has been full since the last time I posted here, which tends to drain my creative energy.  Things have slowed down for the time being so I have reason to hope.

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Chapter 17: A Change in the Weather

When Sam awoke in the morning he was pleased to find that he felt somewhat better in both body and in spirit.  He limbs remained tired and achy but his sickness seemed to have lessened, and for the first time in many days, his dreams had been uneventful.

One glance around the shallow cave told Sam that he was the last to awaken.  Boromir, Pippin and Gandalf were on watch.  Merry and Frodo were stirring something in the pot atop the firepit.  Strider was taking an inventory of his supply of medicines and bandages, and Gimli was inspecting his chainmail.  As for Legolas, he was sitting cross-legged near Sam, balancing a tin cup of tea on his open palms.  Sam was pleased to see that he was fully dressed and looking much more like his old self, though it did appear as though his mind was miles away.

Legolas stirred when he saw Sam move.  “Aur bein,” he said.

“Good morning,” Sam replied softly.  The others had all turned to look at him, and he felt suddenly shy, remembering how he had broken down so completely the night before.

“Sam!  How are you feeling?” asked Strider.  “Better, I hope.”

Sam nodded.

“Your throat?  And the cough?”

“Not so bad yet.”

“We shall see how you do as the day wears on.  You should keep drinking my tea.”

Sam sighed.  “Begging your pardon, but it tastes awful.”

“If it did not, it would not be medicinal,” said Strider, his eyes twinkling.

“All medicine tastes bad,” agreed Pippin from his place at the edge of the rock overhang. 

“And what do you know?  It is already brewed and waiting,” said Frodo, who promptly began pouring the now-familiar greenish tea into a cup.

“Lucky me,” said Sam.

Frodo chuckled.  “And a good morning to you, too!”

Sam took the offering and resignedly sipped at it, studying the rest of the Fellowship above the rim as he did so.  Everyone seemed to be in high spirits.  They were all smiling at him, even Gimli, who was trying not to be too open about it.  Sam was warmed by their concern for him, but he couldn’t quite share their good cheer, for there was still the matter of his secret.  He had already concluded that the company ought to know that he had considered giving Frodo up, for the information affected them all and might alter Gandalf’s plans.  The difficulty lay in getting up the courage to do it.

The company was waiting for Sam to speak, but he was at a loss for words.  The only thing he could think about was his impending confession, and he was not prepared to give it yet.  But what could he talk about that did not touch on his captivity?  Sam was all too aware of his separateness from the rest of the Fellowship.  He was not the same hobbit he had been prior to the flood, and only Legolas had seen him through that change.

A few moments of awkward silence passed until Strider came to the rescue.  “If your health continues to improve, I think we will be ready to move on tomorrow.”

“Already?” said Sam, turning to look at Legolas.  “I mean – yes, I will be all right, but are you well enough, sir?”

“I grow stronger with each passing hour,” said Legolas.  “I am perfectly able to walk.”  He lowered his voice to the barest of whispers so that only Sam could have heard his next words.  “And stop calling me ‘sir’.”  The twitch at one corner of his mouth was enough to show that he was not angry.

Sam supposed that Legolas would hold him to his promise to discuss Jakov at greater length – and soon.  Well, thought Sam, he’ll hear more than he bargained for, that’s certain!  He had mulled a few things over after weeping away his pent-up sorrows, one of which was the notion of telling Legolas his news before telling everyone else.  Legolas had proved to be a willing ear and confidant, and he understood the ordeal better than anyone else could, though that still wouldn’t make telling him easy.  His kind words of the night before had cut Sam like a knife; and then, when Legolas had insisted that Sam deserved his respect, Sam had felt that knife twist most cruelly.  The Elf couldn’t have known that he was causing pain, and Sam didn’t blame him for it.  The problem now was that letting Legolas down was going to hurt all the more.  What if Legolas wished his words unsaid?

“In truth, I feel ready to leave now,” said Legolas, raising his voice so that everyone could hear.  “We have already lost nearly a week of time on this river.”

“Don’t let the delay concern you,” said Gandalf.  “Our Fellowship remains whole and the immediate threat has been dealt with – mostly.  There is no need to hurry today unless the Nazgul suddenly appear at our backs.”

“I could go now, too,” said Sam.  “Really.”

“Not until tomorrow,” said Strider.  “The rest will do you good.”

Sam tried offering again, for he thought he really was well enough to walk at least a few miles, but Strider and Gandalf refused, saying that it was better to remain in such shelter as they had while Sam and Legolas recovered.  Thus it was that Sam found himself with a whole day on his hands.  He still did not feel much like talking to the others, at least not until he was ready to break his news, but he did not feel the need to completely remove himself from their company as he had done the day before.  Sam felt a twinge of embarrassment when he thought of how coldly he had behaved, but no one seemed to be holding a grudge.

Sam kept himself busy while trying to find the courage to speak with Legolas and occasionally managed to forget his troubles.  Going through his recovered pack gave him pleasure and he spent nearly an hour scratching Bill’s ears, who was appreciative of the attention.  Yet when these pleasant tasks had been completed, Sam grew increasingly restless.  He could not forget his obligations when the rest of the company kept firing encouraging looks in his direction.  Frodo’s glances were the keenest of all, almost as if he suspected something.

The midday meal was hours gone before Sam had finally had enough of waiting.  Joining Legolas’ company was easy; like Sam, he had mostly eschewed conversation, and the others had only disturbed him when necessary.  When Sam approached he was engaged in the same activity he had been at for most of the day: the painstaking inspection of his arrows.

Legolas lowered the arrow he had been scrutinizing and looked Sam in the eye.  “You have been waiting,” he observed.  “Perhaps I should have come to you.”

“No,” said Sam.  “I’ve only just decided.”  His eyes roamed over the two piles of arrows – one on Legolas’ left and one on his right.  He could hardly believe how long it was taking for Legolas to sort through them, but he held his tongue.  Remarking on it would have been impolite.

“I suppose I am being a bit thorough, but it seemed as good a way to pass the time as any,” said Legolas.  “However, this one does need to be checked carefully.”  He held up the arrow between his fingers.  “It struck a boulder instead of its intended target.”

Brund, thought Sam.  His stomach squirmed a little at the thought of those missiles being wrenched out of the dead Men’s bodies.  “Why didn’t you just leave them?”

“I have supplies for the making of arrows,” said Legolas, “but such work requires time and care and is not easily done in our circumstances.  I cannot afford to leave them in the bodies of the fallen – not if they can be retrieved.  Boromir and Gimli fetched these for me.”

Sam made a face.

“It is a gruesome task,” Legolas admitted, “but time and practice makes the job somewhat less distasteful.”

Sam didn’t answer.  He didn’t think that he ever wanted to get to the point where he no longer found such a thing to be unpleasant.

Legolas glanced toward the rest of the company, looking pensive.  Sam thought he could guess at his thoughts.  The others could hardly help overhearing what was said, being only a short distance away.

“Shall we step outside?” Legolas asked pointedly.

“Please,” said Sam.

Despite Legolas’ insistence that he was feeling better, Sam watched closely as the Elf got to his feet.  His eyes went immediately to the upper left side of Legolas’ back and found little evidence that his companion had been shot at all.  The old blood had been washed out of the fabric, and Frodo had stitched up the damage made by the arrow and Strider’s blades.

Once he was up, Legolas turned to look at the Fellowship yet again.  Sam followed his gaze just in time to see Gandalf raise one eyebrow and give the slightest nod of his head.

“He’s not worried about our going out, then?” Sam asked in a near-whisper.

“I would not say that,” Legolas whispered back.  “He has done something to safeguard us.  A warding of some kind, perhaps.”

Sam reflexively looked down at his body.  He didn’t feel any different – no tingling, no excess warmth or cold – but was odd, knowing that Gandalf had done something to him.  Or perhaps he had done it to the whole campsite!  In Sam’s opinion, acts of magic should be accompanied by noise or flashes of light.  At least then he would know that something had happened.

Whatever it was that Gandalf had done, Sam was not about to step into the open unarmed.  He silently gathered his Dagger of Westernesse, which he kept very close now, and found that Legolas was girding himself in similar fashion.  Feeling suddenly nervous, Sam rose and picked his way around the packs and bedrolls to the edge of the overhang.  Legolas followed…

…and together they stepped into a world of hushed splendor.  Every surface was covered in a thick blanket of white that seemed to brighten the wan sunlight.  The air was cold and smelled sharply of frost.  There was no wind, and little sound could be heard save the river nearby.

Sam had seen many a snowfall in the Shire, and the scene he now beheld was as tranquil as any he had ever witnessed.  The wildness of the gorge had been tamed by its new clothing.  It was hard to believe, he thought, that the same river had been the site of death and despair just a few days gone.

“Snow makes all things seem new,” Legolas sighed.

Sam did not respond.  It seemed as if even talking about the beauty around him would taint it somehow.

Legolas pointed to a nearby boulder.  “Shall we sit?”

“You’re that tired?” said Sam, surprised.

“Nay!  Do not worry about me; I am no longer feeling so sluggish.  It is only that our conversation will likely be weighty, and difficult to hold while pacing.”  Sam could not deny this, and a few moments later he found himself perched atop the freshly-swept boulder with Legolas on his left side.  A blanket spread over the stone kept some of the bone-deep cold from reaching his skin.

With the long-dreaded moment nearly upon him, Sam was feeling exceptionally alert.  Even his skin seemed to vibrate in anticipation of what was to come.  It was akin to what he had felt upon standing at the edge of the cliff and looking straight down.  Garan’s intrusion of his mind had also produced a similar effect.  Sam could only suppose that nothing heightened one’s awareness like impending doom. 

Sam and Legolas sat in silence for what felt like quite some time.  Sam was struggling to find the right way to begin; in some ways, taking this particular plunge was harder than jumping from the cliff had been.  He really hadn’t had much choice then – going back into Garan’s hands hadn’t been an option – but that wasn’t the case now.  He’d done nothing irreparable until he opened his mouth.  It was so hard to take the leap!

“Your health truly does seem to be improving.”

“Oh,” Sam muttered.  “Yes.”

“You have not been coughing as much today.  Your throat is better?”

“A little.”

“To my eye, you are still weary.  I am sure that if you need more rest, Mithrandir will –”

“I don’t want to stay here any longer.  I want to leave.”

The words were brusque, and for a moment Legolas was silenced, but then he nodded.  “I am not surprised.  I also wish to go and never return.  This river will ever be a place of darkness for me – and for you, I should imagine.”

That was as perfect an opening as Sam knew he would get.  As he gathered his courage a voice in his head gibbered at him to reconsider, but he quashed it ruthlessly.  It was time.

“I’ve something to tell you.”

Legolas blinked.  Clearly, this was not what he had been expecting Sam to say.  Then he took in Sam’s drawn face and his eyes darkened.  “It is Garan, is it not?  What has he done that I do not already know?”

Sam was gratified by Legolas’ obvious anger on his behalf, but this time it had been misplaced.  “It’s not Garan.  It’s me.”

“What?”

Sam hunched his shoulders.  “I….”  He faltered for a moment, grimacing.  He had to make the words come.  “I’m not so brave as you think, sir.”

Legolas was apparently mystified enough to overlook the fact that Sam had called him ‘sir’ again.  Still, he regrouped speedily, and his face took on a soothing expression that made Sam feel ill.  Oh, how he was going to disappoint everyone!  “I doubt that very much,” the Elf said simply.

“You shouldn’t.”

“There is nothing you can say that –”

“I thought about giving up Mr. Frodo,” Sam interjected.

Legolas froze in mid-sentence.  His eyes searched Sam’s face while the hobbit’s heart began to sink – slowly at first, then faster as Legolas continued to gaze at him in silence.  It was as he had feared; Legolas was disillusioned with him at last.  Telling himself that it had been necessary was no consolation.

After what seemed like an eternity, Legolas’ features grew calm.  What he said next was entirely unexpected.

“When?”

All other emotions vanished in the wake of Sam’s astonishment.  That was Legolas’ response?  Not ‘What’ or ‘Why’ or ‘How could you’, but ‘When’?  And he seemed completely unruffled to boot!  Dazed, Sam replied, “At the end.  When Garan got into my head, and the trees woke up.”

“I see.”

Anger replaced surprise with lightning speed.  “That’s all you’re going to say?  ‘I see’?”

Legolas’ brows furrowed.  “I was not necessarily finished, but I had not yet thought of what else to say.  Would you have me be angry with you?”

That Legolas appeared to be genuinely confused only stirred Sam’s ire.  “You….  This is important!” he spluttered.

“I am sorry,” said Legolas, who now looked embarrassed.  “I had not meant to imply that I thought otherwise.”  His eyes suddenly locked with Sam’s.  “You did not tell him?” he asked urgently.

“Of course not!”

Legolas exhaled with obvious relief.  “Then how have I offended you?  I do not understand.”

“I thought about giving him up!” Sam exclaimed.  How else could he explain it?

Utterly flummoxed, Legolas stared right back at Sam.  He seemed to weigh his next words very carefully.  “But… you did not.”

“No!”

“Then why are you upset?  You have done Frodo no harm.”

Sam had no rejoinder; if Legolas could not see why this mattered, then there was nothing he could do to make him comprehend it.  Frustrated, hurt, and angry, he felt his face beginning to grow red.  This was not going at all the way he had thought it would.

Legolas’ mystified frown abruptly melted.  “Ah, I think I….  You do not see it the same way, do you?”

“Mr. Frodo has to know he can count on me,” Sam said quietly.  Now that Legolas was clear, he could feel his anger swiftly ebbing away into a low, throbbing ache.

“But he can count on you,” Legolas said firmly.

Sam forgave Legolas his thick skull for the kindness of that affirmation even though he knew what was coming next.  Legolas was going to try to convince him that thoughts of betrayal weren’t as awful as all that, but Sam knew better.

“Do not be so hard on yourself!  Think of what you were facing.  You would have had to be devoid of all feeling not to at least entertain the notion of succumbing.”

“Would you have thought about it?” Sam demanded.

“You must stop putting me on a pedestal.  If you do, I am bound to disappoint.”

“You haven’t failed me yet.”

Legolas laughed mirthlessly.  “Oh?  I was unsuccessful in reaching the right side of the river.  I misjudged the danger posed to us by the Men.  I should have listened to you when you suggested that we swim to avoid them.  I could not stop their mistreatment of you, and you very nearly drowned during our escape.”  He shuddered and looked away.

Sam didn’t like the turn that the conversation had taken.  Listening to Legolas indulge in self-recrimination could not be borne.  “I told you yesterday, you couldn’t help any of that.  You did the best you could.”

“Then how is your situation any different from mine?  We are critical of ourselves, but not of each other.”

Sam shook his head.  These so-called failures were in an entirely different realm than his own.  How could he make Legolas acknowledge what he didn’t want to see?  “For a moment – just one – I thought about it.  I really thought about it, and it doesn’t feel right that I should’ve.”

“All the more reason for Frodo to feel secure in his choice of bodyservant,” Legolas insisted.  “Turning away from something that you do not want in the first place is easy.  The difficulty lies in holding to your path when the temptation to stray is very real.”

Sam opened his mouth to retort… and hesitated.  Was it possible that Legolas was right?  He had denied Garan what he wanted most, and Frodo was still safe.  Whatever he’d considered, things would have been much worse if he had chosen to follow through.  He hated that he’d considered it at all, but he’d held fast even under threat of torture.

Sam knew what he had to do.  It wasn’t enough that Legolas held him blameless or even that he might – just might – be able to forgive himself.  “I have to tell Mr. Frodo,” he said aloud.

“If it will ease your conscience,” said Legolas, “but I would wager much that he will think no less of you for it.”

“We’ll see then, won’t we?” said Sam.  Legolas’ face reproached him for continuing to doubt, but he did not press the point any further.

Silence fell, and before long Sam was alone in his mind again.  He was feeling rather off-balance.  He had been certain that there was nothing Legolas could say to make him feel any better, but now he found himself daring to hope that Frodo would forgive him.  Legolas seemed so certain that he would.  No matter what the Elf said regarding his actions over the past few days, Sam still had faith in his judgment.

Once again it was Legolas who broke the stillness.  “I never did thank you properly for saving my life.”

It was as Sam had suspected; Legolas did want to discuss Jakov.  “It’s nothing you wouldn’t’ve done if it’d been me instead of you,” he said.

Legolas shook his head.  “That may be so, but it is not the same thing.  You are not accustomed to bloodshed.”

Sam looked away when he saw the expression on Legolas’ face.  He didn’t think he could bear the weight of all that compassion again.  “I wouldn’t have left you to die.  I’d feel a sight worse than I do now if I’d done nothing and those Men had hurt you.”

“I wish to say that –”

“Please don’t,” said Sam, pained.

Legolas’ face was the picture of frustration, but he refused to be silenced.  “I have not the words to express my gratitude, but you must….  I beg of you, let me try!  My thanks and friendship are all I have to give you, and they do not seem sufficient.”

Sam smiled thinly.  “It’s more than enough.  Never thought I’d be real friends with an Elf, and that’s the truth.”

“In this wilderness I can do no more than accompany you on your path,” said Legolas, “but when our Quest is over, I will ensure that all of Eryn Galen is at your service – provided that I survive to carry the tale home, that is.”

Something in that statement signaled a warning in Sam’s ear.  “What do you mean, carry the tale home?” he asked querulously.

“The Shire is not far from where my people dwell.  I wish you to be able to come to them should you ever be in need, and they must know who you are if that can be.”  Legolas laughed suddenly.  “Besides, my father will not keep silent when he learns of this!  Your name may become as well known as that of Bilbo Baggins.”

It had taken all of a heartbeat for Sam’s stomach to turn ice-cold.  “Then please, don’t tell him!” he cried.

Legolas’ demeanor grew solemn.  “Very few manage to gain my father’s trust these days, whether they are Elf or mortal.  I am dear to him, and he will want to show his gratitude – as do I.  Is this proposition truly so awful?  I know you are modest, but –”

Sam seized Legolas’ arm with one hand, stopping him in mid-sentence.  He had to explain before the Elf got himself all turned around again.  “It’s not that I’d not value your father’s goodwill.  I’d be honored, to be sure, but it sounds like you think he’ll make some sort of pronouncement, and then your folk’ll be thinking I’m something I’m not.  If you must say something, can’t you just say that I helped you – that we helped each other?”

By the time Sam had finished, Legolas appeared to have resigned himself to the situation.  “If it is truly your wish that my people should know nothing at all of the matter, then I will honor it,” he said.  “I would not have my gratitude become a burden to you.  Even so, you should know that my captains must hear the full tale of this incident.  I am duty-bound to report all threats to our realm.”

Sam blinked.  “Brund?”

“Yes.  I was captured by servants of Saruman, one of which lived to carry word of my escape back to his master.”

“But you didn’t give your right name.  You think he’d still be able to tell…?”

“The White Wizard knows much – and sees much, judging by what I learned at the Council.  Should Brund reach him, he may quickly discover who ‘Legolas Ilantharion’ really was.”

A sudden, terrible realization seized Sam.  If Saruman could figure out who Legolas was, than that meant….  “You don’t think he’d go to the Shire?” he gasped.

“Possibly, but I think Saruman would turn to Eryn Galen should retaliation be on his mind.  Your gentle people pose no threat to him; you and your companions are the only hobbits he need fear at present.  Only when all others have fallen will he look to the Shire… or so I guess.”

“Oh, I wish you’d shot Brund!” cried Sam.  The moment the words passed his lips, he felt something lurch within him.  There he went, thinking those awful thoughts again.  Just a few days gone he’d wished some of the other Men dead, too.

“Are you well?” Legolas asked.  “Suddenly, you do not look it.”

“Proper hobbits don’t wish for things like that,” Sam murmured.

Legolas watched Sam closely for a long minute.  “Your actions still trouble you,” he said at length.

Sam sighed.  “Maybe you’re right.  Maybe they shouldn’t, but –”

“Why should they not?” said Legolas, moving swiftly to interrupt.  “You are a hobbit, and a gardener besides.  Surely you have not thought much on killing before now.”

“I’ve thought about it some,” said Sam, a trifle defensively.  “I saw enough on the road to Rivendell to know this business wouldn’t be neither neat nor tidy, but for sure I didn’t think I’d be doing much killing.  That’s what you Big Folk are for.”  He raised his eyes to Legolas’ face, briefly remembering how he’d looked during his rampage – very different from the composed Elf that sat next to him now.  Frightening was the only word for it.

“I knew I might be killed if I went on this Quest,” Sam continued.  “After all, Mr. Frodo’s got some right awful things chasing him.  It’s being captured I never thought of!  Nothing to do but wait and be afraid….  I don’t want to go through that again.  We’re very lucky to have got away at all.”

“There was a good deal more than luck to it,” said Legolas.

Sam looked away.  “There you go again, telling me I’m brave.  I didn’t feel brave then and I don’t feel brave now – leastways, not about what I did to Jakov.  I was just so mad, that’s all!  They were hurting you for fun.”  Just thinking about the Men and their smug cruelty was enough to make him angry again.  “It was wrong of them, and I had to try to stop it, but even so… killingone of them!  Maybe he deserved to die, but it doesn’t feel right.  We don’t kill in the Shire, Legolas.  We just don’t.”

Abruptly Sam realized that he was not taking the trouble to keep his voice down.  He and Legolas were not at all far from camp, and the company might be able to hear him.  Well, perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing.  He still hadn’t figured out how he was going to tell Frodo, Merry and Pippin about his part in the escape, and this was one way to do it.

“Your people are fortunate to have dwelt so long in a land of peace,” said Legolas.  “I do not think there is any place like it in all the world; not even Imladris and Lothlorien enjoy such tranquility, and they are… protected.”

Sam felt a sudden rush of gratitude for Strider and his brethren.  They watched over the borders of the Shire, and it was largely through their vigilance that hobbits remained isolated from Middle-earth.  A few months ago Sam would not have believed that such protection was necessary, but now he knew that the world outside the Shire could be very hard indeed.

“My people do not live by your mores,” Legolas continued.  “We cannot, or we would have perished long ago.  Our lives are bought with the deaths of spiders, orcs, and Men.”

Sam could not fathom what it would be like to constantly fight for survival at home.  “How can you stand it?”

Legolas shrugged.  “Killing spiders and orcs causes me no heartache, for they are bent upon the destruction of all free peoples.  As for Men….  They are not born under the shadow of evil as orcs are, and slaying them can cause green warriors great pain.  My first such kill was many years ago now, and it shook me terribly, but I have learned to distance myself from those who must die by my hand.”  He paused, and Sam guessed that he was choosing his words carefully.  When he spoke again, his voice was rough.  “It is well that you feel regret for Jakov, whether or not he deserves it.  You have not a warrior’s calloused heart, and I… I hope that you can remain so.”  He blinked several times in rapid succession and looked away.

Sam knew Legolas well enough by now to recognize a compliment in this sudden show of sentiment.  Legolas seldom loosed his emotions save in Strider’s company – and in Gimli’s, though there was no warmth in the latter case.  Any such openness, Sam now knew, was a sign of trust on Legolas’ part.

“I hate them for what they wanted to do to you,” said Sam, “and I’m not used to hating anyone, so I hate them all the more for that.”  Legolas smiled off in another direction, and Sam had the feeling that he was trying to regain his composure.  “But I still feel sorry for them – at least a little.  How unhappy they must have been!  Most of all I hate that this had to happen.  I couldn’t have left you like that, but I can’t help but wish there’d been another way.”

“Perhaps there was no other way,” Legolas mused.  “And perhaps you may find yourself needing to kill again ere we are through, but be assured that those of us here who are not hobbits are quite prepared to shoulder that job for as long as we can.”

“There’s no denying I’ve no taste for killing, but that doesn’t seem fair,” said Sam.  “Anyway, oughtn’t we to be getting used to it?  It’s a long way yet to Mordor.”

Legolas’ eyes fell upon Sam once more.  “Oh, my friend, I would not worry about that.  I have already seen what you can do under duress – you and Merry and Pippin and Frodo.  Three of you have already drawn blood.  You will be able to do it again no matter how much you loathe it, for you cannot break the bonds between you, and we cannot allow our Quest to fail.”

We cannot allow our Quest to fail.  Sam’s heart resonated with these words, reminding him that he had yet to make something right – or at least try.  There was still no telling how the company would react to his tale; Legolas was not upset with him, but he was an Elf, and Big Folk could be perplexing.

“I think I’d like to have done with this mess,” said Sam.

“You still mean to speak with Frodo?”

Sam nodded.  “Best to get it over with.  A quick cut, if you understand me.”

“That sounds wise.”

They slid off the boulder and stood up.  Legolas took up the blanket and shook it free of snow.  Meanwhile, Sam watched the company.  Every single one of them had turned to look, and he took their quick notice as evidence that they had been listening, or trying to.

“I’m afraid to do it,” Sam admitted.

“It will not be as bad as you think,” Legolas said gently.  “You will see.”

“I hope you’re right.  Let’s go.”

The Fellowship watched as Sam and Legolas made their way back to the overhang.  Sam was conscious of the scrutiny, but he kept his eyes on Frodo.  The crunching of his feet on the snow was unusually loud in his ears.

Sam reached the edge of the shelter and stopped.  “Mr. Frodo, there’s something I need to tell you.”  When Frodo said nothing, he went on.  Goodness, how his pulse was racing!  “I told you that Garan didn’t believe Legolas and me were on our own.”

Frodo nodded.  “I remember.”

“And he kept asking about hobbits when he… questioned me.”

“You said you didn’t tell him anything, and I believe you,” said Frodo, smiling warmly.

“But I didn’t tell you everything, sir.”  Frodo’s smile slipped a little, and Sam plunged on.  He was afraid to stop lest he be unable to start again.  As steadily as he could manage, he told Frodo how Garan had been prepared to torture him to get what he wanted.  “It only stopped because Legolas woke the trees up.  I suppose he’s told you about that already.”  Sam glanced up at Legolas, who nodded back at him.  “Mr. Frodo, I… I thought about telling him what he wanted.”

Looks of surprise dawned on several faces.  Frodo said nothing.

Sam clasped his hands before him.  “I’ve never been so scared in my life, sir – not on Weathertop, and not when I was in the river.  But that doesn’t excuse it.  We can’t none of us give you up, not for anything, and you’ve got to be able to trust us.  If you… want me to go back to Rivendell, I’ll understand.”  He averted his gaze, unable to look at Frodo’s still face any longer.

Frodo stood up.  “Come here, Sam.”

Sam’s heart sank.  “Sir –”

“Come here, if you please.”

Filled with trepidation, Sam dragged himself to where Frodo stood.  Now it was coming – the moment he had been dreading for the past three days.  Steeling himself for the worst, he raised his head to look Frodo in the eye… and found himself being embraced.

“I don’t care, Sam,” said Frodo.  “Do you hear me?  You’re back, you’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”

Sam could hardly believe what he was hearing.  “But, sir –”

“I heard what you said.  Of course you would have at least thought about giving me up.  It’s what that Man wanted, wasn’t it?  That’s how you could have saved yourself.”

“I –”

“But you didn’t, did you?  Think of what the Gaffer always said.”  And to Sam’s astonishment, Frodo released him and did his best impression of the Gaffer.  “ ‘Your word’s nothin’ but hot air, Sam, if’n you don’t follow it through.’ ”

Gandalf chuckled softly, and Merry and Pippin laughed together.  “That’s the Gaffer, all right!”

Frodo beamed at his cousins for a moment before turning back to Sam.  “You promised to help me see this thing through to the end, and I know you mean to keep your word.  I never imagined you would have to try holding to it under threat of torture.”  Frodo’s expression grew sad.  “Dear Sam!  I won’t have you doubting yourself; you are the truest friend anyone could ask for.”  He put his hands on either side of Sam’s face, drew him close, and kissed him on each cheek.  “You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness from anyone here.  Now, let’s have no more talk of your going away.  I’ve only just got you back again, and I can’t face this road without you.”

Tears were pricking at the corners of Sam’s eyes.  Legolas had been right after all; Sam could feel self-satisfaction rolling off him in waves.  In mere moments his heart had gone from leaden to feather-light, and now it seemed to be trying to float right out of his body.  There remained only one piece of the tale still to be told, and then it would be over!

“There’s one more thing, sir,” said Sam.  “I killed a Man.”

Frodo smiled gently.  “I know.”

Sam blinked.  “You do?”

“We all do,” Boromir put in.

Sam looked up at Legolas again, but the Elf shook his head.  Puzzled, he turned back to the others.  If Legolas had not told them, then how…?  Then he remembered.  “I s’pose I wasn’t talking too softly just now,” he said.

The hobbits were suddenly looking at Sam with expressions that could only be called sympathetic, and the Big Folk seemed to be working very hard at keeping their faces still.  They could not have indicated any more clearly that they had a tale of their own to tell, and they were not eager to do it.

It was Frodo who took it upon himself to explain.  “We heard snatches of what you said, but that’s not how we know.  We saw it.”

Sam’s eyes widened in shock.  “You what?”

“We saw most of what happened to you, just before the two of you jumped into the river,” said Frodo.

Sam listened in stunned silence while Frodo related the circumstances by which the Fellowship had come to find them.  Knowing that such a thing had happened cast everything in a new light.  He and Legolas had been fighting for their lives, and the others had been watching from across the river?  It was almost unfathomable!

When he had finished, Frodo took both of Sam’s hands in his.  “I am sorry that we didn’t tell you sooner,” he said, “but we just didn’t know how.  You were already so upset, and we were afraid that if you knew….  Well, we didn’t help you, did we?”

Sam found his voice at last.  “Bless me, Mr. Frodo!  You thought I’d be angry?”

“Of course I did,” Frodo replied.  “No matter why we did it, you deserved better from us.”

“Oh, sir!  I’d never’ve thought you’d just abandon us.  If you didn’t help, I expect it’s because you couldn’t.”

Frodo suddenly looked uneasy, and Sam grew confused. “Sir?” he asked timidly.

“Oh, by the stars!” Gandalf exclaimed irritably.  “I will explain this clearly, so we may be done with it.  It was my decision to abandon you to your fate.  Anything I might have done could have attracted the Enemy’s notice, and I would not put the Ring-bearer in danger.  I cannot blame you if this angers you, but I will not apologize for it.  Did I have to make the decision again, I would not change my mind.  Frodo – comes – first.”

The gravity of this statement settled over the company like a heavy blanket, rendering them all temporarily silent.  Frodo might be the center about which the Fellowship revolved, but Gandalf was its undisputed leader, and he had just said quite plainly that any one of them could be discarded if it meant ensuring Frodo’s success.  Sam already knew this and suspected that the others did too, but they had never actually discussed it, and it was not easy to hear.

“I am sorry,” Frodo said softly, “sorrier than I can say.  I think you’ve rather put us to shame, Sam.  You didn’t leave Legolas behind when you had the chance to run.  You helped him though it must have cost you dearly, and we didn’t even try to help you.  Maybe our decision was the right one, but the fact remains that we left you.  I left you.”

Sam’s head cleared quickly in the wake of Frodo’s self-blame.  “No, sir.  Gandalf’s right; the Ring makes the difference.  You had it, and me and Legolas didn’t.  It would’ve been foolish to put yourself in danger for us.”

“Sam!” cried Frodo.  “You are my dear friend, and more important to me than any Ring.”

“Mr. Frodo, don’t say that!  You’ve got the rest of Middle-earth to think of.”

“Careful,” Gimli growled.  “What if that fellow is still lurking about?”

“I agree.  Let us speak no more of jewelry,” said Gandalf.  “It is not safe!”

Frodo flushed.  “You are right, of course, Gandalf.  I will try to be more careful.  Look,” he said, fixing Sam with his eyes, “all I am trying to say is that you are more valuable than you give yourself credit for, and I don’t want to lose you.  And maybe we will all have to make sacrifices for my sake, but I don’t have to like it.”

“I won’t feel abandoned until you wish me gone, sir,” said Sam, still anxious to reassure his master.

“Well, that is one thing I will never wish for,” said Frodo.  His face had smoothed a little, but he did not seem fully convinced.  “Oh, how I wish we didn’t have to make such hard choices!”

“If wishes were horses….” Merry muttered.

“Indeed,” said Gandalf.  “We should be rejoicing that things turned out as well as they did instead of dwelling on what might have been.  We can only do the best we can and trust that it will be sufficient.  I think we are a capable lot; that we are united and living after such a misadventure is proof of it.”

Despite his mild words, there was no mistaking Gandalf’s strong suggestion to let the matter be.  Sam was content to oblige him, for it didn’t seem that he could fully soothe Frodo’s injured spirit, and he didn’t want to hear his master talk of endangering the Quest just for his sake.  Sam was flattered by the sentiment, but such an act really would be madness.  Besides, his heart warned him that Frodo might not really know just how important the Ring was to him.  Of late Sam had begun to wonder if the Ring wasn’t growing on Frodo a little.  His master’s hand seemed to clasp the chain about his neck more often than he used to, and he had begun muttering things in his sleep, too.  Gandalf had said that the Ring was corruptive and Sam believed him.  If a wizard dared not take the Ring for fear of its influence, then surely a hobbit couldn’t keep it for years without being just a little bit affected, not even a hobbit as noble as Frodo Baggins.

Well, thought Sam, I can keep an eye on him now that I am back!  That’s my job – to make sure that Ring troubles him as little as it may.  And if I stick by his side, then he won’t ever feel he needs to choose between It and me.

“You look a little thinner than I remember, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said aloud.  Turning toward Merry and Pippin, he asked, “Have you been making sure he’s eating properly?”

Pippin rolled his eyes.  “We have been doing our best, but no one nags quite like you do, Sam.”

“I think I am rather thinner than I was a week ago,” said Boromir.  “I have missed your cooking.”

“As have I,” said Gimli.  “I march better on your food than any other.”

“Now, now, Mr. Frodo, Merry and Pippin are all fair cooks,” said Sam, who could not help blushing at the unexpected compliments.

“Certainly,” said Boromir, “but you seem to have a true talent for making something tasty out of nothing at all.”

“I take no offense at the truth!” said Pippin, who stood and gave Boromir a short bow.  “Everyone knows that Sam is the best cook here.”

“Please, don’t talk of food unless you plan to bring some out,” said Merry.  “I’ve been hungry for hours and have held my tongue just as Gandalf asked – a fact which I hope he will remember tomorrow.  Discussing food when we can’t have any is just cruel.”

“It is nearly time for supper, is it not?” said Strider.  “Daylight is already fading.”

“The sun nears the horizon,” Legolas confirmed.  It was the first thing he had said since escorting Sam back to the overhang.

“Then it is time to eat – or at least start the preparations,” said Frodo.  “And it is my turn to cook.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Frodo!” said Sam.  “Let me.”

“You are on bed rest until tomorrow,” Frodo admonished.  “No chores until then.”

“You know I don’t think cooking a chore!  I would like to do it.”

Pippin smirked.  “You could take my turn currying Bill if you need some –”

“Pippin!”

“Really, sir, let me whip something up – and not just because you’d enjoy it.  It’d feel so nice and normal after all this… unpleasantness.”

Frodo was unable to refuse such an earnest request, and two hours later the Fellowship was seated in a circle around the firepit, spooning down fish stew and effusively praising Sam’s handiwork.  Gandalf’s dire words were on no one’s mind any longer.  Frodo seemed to have shaken himself out of his funk, Merry, Pippin and Boromir were in high spirits, and Strider and Gandalf were almost relaxed.  Legolas and Gimli were eyeing each other strangely, which Sam thought odd; in the past they had either quarreled or ignored one another completely.  Yet whatever they were thinking, they seemed content, and Sam was glad that they were behaving civilly in close proximity.  It was a definite change for the better.

Sam’s heart felt very full as he gazed around at the rest of the Fellowship.  Now that he had everything off his chest, he felt that the distance between himself and the others had closed a little, and he ceased to hold them at arm’s length.  Frodo, Merry, and Pippin were overjoyed by his apparent return to the fold and showed it with great enthusiasm.  Sam had feared such a different reception that he almost wondered if it was all a dream.  He had been so certain that he had permanently altered his relationship to Frodo, Merry, and Pippin – indeed, with all the Shire – but it was not so.  He might not be quite the same old Sam, but knowing that the other hobbits still saw him that way made him feel as light as air.

The company was laughing at a jest that Boromir had made when Sam suddenly found himself locking eyes with Legolas across the fire.  Unnoticed, they shared a smile, and Sam felt his heart swell anew.  Real friends with an Elf! he thought.  Who’d’ve ever thought that something so wonderful could come out of such an awful time?  As the others chuckled around him, he found himself feeling affection not just for Legolas and the hobbits, but for all the Big Folk.  He hadn’t realized how much he had come to value their company until he had been separated from them.  Could they all learn to be such friends, he wondered?  It didn’t seem likely, but if they could…!  Surely Sauron’s heart would tremble in the face of such an unlikely brotherhood.

Legolas looked away as the laughter bubbled down; but Sam, who was feeling more buoyant than he had in a very long time, found himself doing something he’d never had the courage to do before.

“Will you sing something for us, Legolas?”

 The hobbits beamed delightedly at Sam.  Gandalf’s eyes glinted knowingly.

Legolas’ smile was pure contentment.  “It would be my pleasure.”

Sam leaned happily against Frodo’s side and let the first clear notes wash over him.  He could not really understand the words, for his grasp of Elvish was still rudimentary, but it didn’t matter; he could tell that it was about something good.  Sam wondered if Legolas was feeling the same way he was – rejoicing in a return to the simple pleasures of companions, a warm blanket, and hot food.  Sam doubted if he would ever compare the Fellowship’s humble campsites to the comforts of the Shire again.  From now on, he would compare them to what he had endured in Garan’s company.

Time passed and the song went on.  Warm and comfortable, Sam felt himself growing drowsy.  Before long his eyelids were drooping, and he soon gave up the fight to stay awake; but just before his eyes slid closed, he caught a glimpse of the sky through the trees outside.

The stars have finally come out at last, he observed.  How fitting!

And with that, he fell asleep.

Chapter 18: Reckonings

“Time to get up, Frodo.”

Frodo stirred within his blankets.  “Hmm?” he asked muzzily.

“It’s morning.”

Frodo opened his eyes and blinked at the sight of Boromir bending over him.  He could just make out the Man’s face in the gray, pre-dawn light.  “Is it really?  Already?”

“We’re getting an early start.  Gandalf’s orders.”

Abruptly, Frodo remembered.  Today was the day that the Fellowship would finally leave the Feinduin behind.  The thought was enough to wake him up completely.

“You wake the rest of your kin,” said Boromir.  “I will rouse the others.”  He turned away and stepped toward Gimli, being careful not to tread on anyone.

Between the two of them, Frodo and Boromir made quick work of shaking the others awake – with the exception of Sam and Legolas.  By now everyone had grown accustomed to taking pains not to disturb the pair, and the morning routine was begun in near-silence.  Legolas, however, woke just as they began to resurrect the fire.  He allowed Strider to inspect his injury without protest, though he had to know that all the others were stealing glances for themselves.  Frodo shook his head in wonder at the sight of the still-healing wound.  Strider had been right; it would vanish completely before long.

Everyone brightened when Sam woke shortly after Legolas.  Never one to relish being the center of attention, he blushed and ducked his head at the chorus of “Good mornings” that greeted him.  The others smiled at each other behind his back when he set about rolling up his blankets in a matter-of-fact way.  No one bothered to ask whether he wanted one more day of rest; it was plain that he was eager to move on.

For his part, Frodo couldn’t wait to get out of the gorge.  He was tired of the little half-shelter, tired of the forbidding cliffs all around, and tired of worrying that Brund would suddenly appear in their midst.  He couldn’t look at the river without thinking of Sam and Legolas drifting away, and the memory of Sam’s near-drowning was fresh enough to make his heart tremble.  Sam had come on this quest because of him; so had Merry and Pippin, and Frodo was keenly aware of his responsibility for them.

Merry and Pippin caught sight of Frodo looking in their direction and shot him identical, hopeful grins.  Frodo smiled back, but inside, his heart was aching with love and worry.  These hobbits were the dearest friends he had in the whole world; how could he bear it if anything happened to them?  Sam had already paid dearly for his loyalty.  More than anything Frodo wished that the events of recent days had never happened, but of course that could never be so.  All he could do was continue to reassure Sam, through words and actions, that he still held him in the highest esteem.  It didn’t seem like enough.

There were still hot coals in the bottom of the firepit, and Gandalf suggested that they make use of them in spite of his earlier desire to leave quickly.  Frodo understood that this was mostly for the benefit of Sam and Legolas.  What with everything that had happened, it might be some time before anyone felt comfortable building a proper campfire again, and hot food would not do any of them ill.  Sam insisted on helping, and Frodo didn’t argue.  Being denied the task would hurt his pride.  Besides, Frodo knew that Sam really did enjoy cooking, and his labors over the previous meal seemed to have buoyed him up.

Frodo kept a close eye on Sam as they cleaned a set of fish for frying.  Sam’s high-flying spirits of the night before seemed to have gone, but this was to be expected; the heady moment of confession and forgiveness had passed.  Sam now seemed quietly content.  Frodo was glad to see it, for this was much more like the unassuming gardener he had known for so long.  There had been a terrible feeling of separateness about Sam after he had awoken amid the company, a feeling that hadn’t gone away until he had finally bared his soul.  It had been terrible for Frodo to sense that distance – he and Sam had always been close – but Sam had experienced something that Frodo had not, and there was no changing that.  As he thought about this, Frodo began to wonder.  Merry, Pippin and Sam knew that the Ring was a burden to him, knew how much the Quest required of him in both body and spirit - but they couldn’t wholly understand, because they weren’t carrying it.  That distance that he felt from Sam… did the Ring make the other hobbits feel distanced from him?

Disquieting as the thought was, Sam was happy enough that Frodo could not dwell on his misgivings for long.  Merry and Pippin were in good spirits now that Sam was so much improved, and Strider, Boromir and Gandalf were in a better temper than Frodo had seen from any of them since the flood.  All of them were behaving so genially that breakfast was in Sam’s best pan by the time Frodo realized that Legolas and Gimli had not joined in the conversation.  Looking around, he saw that the two of them were watching each other with odd expressions on their faces.  Though their looks were more quizzical than challenging, Frodo was instantly wary.  He knew just how quickly an argument could spring up between the Elf and Dwarf.

Sure enough, it didn’t take long for the pointed glances to become a full-fledged staring match.  Gimli’s countenance grew harder and harder, and Legolas’ eyes narrowed as though in suspicion.  The others eventually noticed their silence, and a cloud settled over the company though conversation continued.  Frodo doubted if either Gimli or Legolas noticed the way Merry and Pippin were eyeing them nervously, or Strider’s obvious irritation, or Gandalf’s unconcealed curiosity as he puffed away on his pipe.

The looks between Legolas and Gimli had grown very ominous indeed by the time Sam asked Frodo to dole out the tin plates.  He was just sliding the first bit of fish out onto a platter when Legolas abruptly got to his feet and walked, bent-backed, toward the fire.  Everyone froze when he stopped in front of Gimli.

Gimli looked up at Legolas with a wary expression, but he did not stand.  For a moment Elf and Dwarf simply regarded each other.  Legolas’ expression had become unreadable, but as the silence dragged on, Gimli’s face darkened further.

“Amends I have to make to you, Gimli son of Gloin,” Legolas said abruptly.

If anyone in the company had been pretending to ignore Legolas and Gimli, all such pretense was gone.  Gimli’s eyebrows climbed until they were in danger of disappearing beneath his helm.  “Amends, Master Elf?” he said.

“Aye.  Amends for several occasions on which I have insulted you.”

Frodo’s mouth dropped open.

Gimli’s brows drew down again.  “And which occasion might that be?  I have stopped keeping count, but I think you have been averaging at least five a day.”

Legolas’ eyes flashed.  Oh, dear, thought Frodo.

“I see you do not wish for any apology from me,” Legolas said tightly.  “Nor did I expect you to accept any.”  Gimli opened his mouth angrily, but Legolas held up a hand.  “Know this!” he snapped.  “At odds our people may be, but never again will you hear the word ‘Naugrim’ disgrace my tongue.”

Frodo was still gaping.  That was what Legolas had wanted to say?  It would certainly be a change for the better – Naugrim was an insult – but it had been most unexpected, and Legolas’ tone didn’t make it sound like that much of an apology.

Gimli stared at Legolas as though he had grown a second head.  Legolas glared right back at him, seemingly challenging the Dwarf to act.  Frodo could see Gimli’s jaw working.

“Very well,” Gimli grated at long last, and Frodo’s shoulders slumped in relief.  For a moment he had been sure that they were was going to come to blows.

Legolas gave a curt nod and turned away.  A moment later he had cleared the low overhang and was striding away from the camp.  He had not gone four steps before Strider hurried to his side and caught his arm.

“Where are you going?” Strider asked in Elvish.

“To scout,” Legolas replied shortly.

“Not by yourself, you’re not –”

“I will keep very close to the camp.  And I can move better unseen than as a pair.”  They stared at each other, Legolas looking exceedingly bitter and Strider disgruntled, before Strider silently placed his bow in Legolas’ hands and nodded.

This simple act changed Legolas’ countenance entirely.  In the blink of an eye he had gone from angry to… to pained, thought Frodo, though it did not seem like it was physical pain that was bothering him.  The Elf’s eyes flickered briefly back to the Fellowship, touching on both Gimli and Sam, and then he was walking away again.  Strider watched him leave.

“What was that about?” said Merry.

“Who can say?” Gimli snarled.  The sudden sound of his voice made Frodo jump.  “No one will ever say that I understood Elves.  They are flightier than any sparrow.”

A long minute of quiet passed while the Fellowship puzzled over what had just happened.  For his part, Frodo was confused.  Legolas and Gimli could be quite volatile around each other, but this exchange was some of the oddest behavior he had ever seen from either of them.

“Why is Legolas going to stop saying ‘Naugrim’?” Pippin suddenly asked.  “I thought it was Elvish for ‘Dwarf’.”

Gimli glowered as Gandalf explained.  “It is not the proper word for ‘Dwarf’,” said the wizard.  “It is what the Elves call the Dwarves when they mean to be cutting.”

“Few Dwarves take the trouble to learn Elvish,” Gimli snorted, “but all of us know what that word means.”

“And that is…?” Pippin prompted.

“It can be translated as ‘stunted one’ in Westron,” said Gandalf.

There was a loud gasp followed by a clang, and everyone jumped.  Frodo whirled to see Sam standing still as a statue with his mouth wide open.  He had dropped the frying pan on the ground, but breakfast had mercifully stayed inside.

“What’s gotten into you, Sam?” Frodo said shakily.

“Stunted one?” Sam managed.

“It is not very complimentary,” Strider said apologetically, but Sam shook his head.

“No, I… it’s not that.”  He closed his mouth and gazed wonderingly in the direction that Legolas had gone.  “The Men that we….”

“What about them?” Strider prodded.

Sam glanced around at the others.  Frodo did not understand why, but he looked embarrassed.  “That’s what Garan liked to call me: stunted one.  That, or Halfling; never anything else.”  His cheeks pinked, and he looked away.

Strider’s lips parted in surprise, and comprehension dawned on Gandalf’s face.  Gimli’s eyebrows climbed into his helm again.

“I didn’t like it much,” said Sam.

Frodo now understood why Sam looked so uncomfortable.  Big Folk sometimes called hobbits ‘Halflings’, and while the hobbits that lived at the edges of the Shire had learned to live with the term, they did not care for it.  Its implication was that hobbits were lesser creatures than larger folk, which was both annoying and untrue.  And to be called ‘stunted one’… that was far worse than ‘Halfling’.  It was an insult, plain as day, where ‘Halfling’ was more of an insensitivity.  With this thought, Frodo suddenly found himself re-evaluating Legolas’ snappish apology and seeming pain.  The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that Legolas was ashamed.

A long, awkward moment followed.  Gimli ran his thumb back and forth over his axe-blade.  Frodo thought he seemed discomfited.  Gandalf wore a small smile, and exchanged a meaningful glance with Strider.  “Well,” Boromir said at last, “that does explain a few things.”

“If that isn’t just like an Elf!” Gimli barked, rising to his feet.  “Even when they admit that they are in the wrong, they still manage to leave the injured party in debt.”  And to Frodo’s immense surprise, he ducked out from beneath the overhang and began to head off into the woods in the direction that Legolas had gone.

“Gimli,” Gandalf began warningly, but Gimli silenced him with the wave of one hand.

“We will both return to camp in one piece,” the Dwarf said tightly, and he stomped off down the path, leaving the rest of the Fellowship to gape at each other.

Gimli had passed well beyond the range of hearing before anyone spoke.  To Frodo’s surprise, that someone was Sam.  “I don’t understand.  How is Mr. Gimli in Legolas’ debt?  It almost wasn’t a proper apology at all.”

“Gimli promised himself he’d congratulate Legolas for saving your life, Sam,” said Strider.  “He told us as much.  Now Legolas has stepped toward a truce of sorts, and Gimli’s obligation still remains.”

Sam stared at the Ranger.  “Why would he tell you something like that?”

“To prevent him from changing his mind later,” said Gandalf.  “Dwarves have a strong sense of honor, you know, and he surely realized that it would be difficult to be charitable once Legolas had recovered enough to hear what he had to say.  For when Legolas was well enough to hear, he would be well enough to speak,and when those two speak….”  The wizard shook his head.

“They don’t speak,” Pippin muttered.  “They fight like two cats in a barrel.  Wet cats.”

“I can’t believe Garan called you ‘stunted one’,” Merry said darkly.  Frodo took one look at his cousin and concluded that Merry probably hadn’t been listening to anything that had been said since Sam had revealed this information.  He looked very angry indeed, and had likely been stewing.  “That swine!  If I’d known this earlier, I’d’ve stabbed him all the harder.”

Still somewhat flushed, Sam shrugged.  “If it means that Legolas and Mr. Gimli can come to some sort of understanding, maybe I’ll forgive him for the name.”

“I don’t know how you can say that.  If someone had called me stunted –”

“It’s the bit about taking us off to Isengard that I’ll really hold against him,” Sam interrupted.  “That, and what he let Dorlic do to Legolas.  An awful fellow, he was.”  A small, bitter smile abruptly dawned on his face.  “Don’t think he’d be too happy, knowing that something good might come of his name-calling.”

“Hmph!  It’s less than he’d deserve,” said Merry.

“I think he’s got all the desserts he can, now,” sighed Sam.

“And in the end, it was his own fault,” said Gandalf.  “Now, let us talk of something else.”  The wizard’s words earned a grateful smile from Frodo, who had been about to suggest this himself.  Speaking of Garan was plainly dragging Sam’s spirits down again.

Lukewarm fish was appealing to no one, so the company opted to eat without Legolas and Gimli.  There were many introspective faces but little conversation, and Frodo suspected that most thoughts were on the absent pair.  What were they talking about?  Were they even talking at all?  It seemed too much to hope that their relationship would improve; they only ever seemed to make each other angry.

Breakfast ended with no sign of Gimli or Legolas, and cleanup began.  There was little left to do in the way of chores, and it would not take long to remove all traces of the Fellowship from the site.  Frodo wondered how long their missing members were going to take.  He hoped it wouldn’t be too long, because another day of sitting around in the gorge might just drive him mad.

Frodo was filling in the firepit with Pippin, eavesdropping on Gandalf and Strider’s discussion of the Fellowship’s road, when Legolas and Gimli suddenly reappeared.  Frodo felt a flash of irritation – Strider and Gandalf disagreed on something important, and he was itching to find out more – but it was gone as quickly as it had come.  Legolas and Gimli were more interesting… for the moment, at least.  Legolas had dropped to his knees in order to see everyone beneath the overhang, while Gimli stood impassively a pace or two away.  They gazed in at the rest of the company but did not look at each other.

“Anything?” Strider asked quietly.

It took Frodo a moment to understand that Strider was asking about Brund and not what – if anything – had transpired between them.

“I saw no sign of Brund,” said Legolas.

Frodo’s eyes flickered to Gimli’s face, but the Dwarf showed no reaction to Legolas’ use of I instead of we.

“Not that I expected to find any,” Legolas added.  “I did not take Brund for a fool.  He would not have stayed so close to us when he is so greatly outnumbered.”

“He might try to pick us off from behind,” said Boromir.

“Then our rearguard will have to be vigilant,” said Gimli.  Legolas lifted his chin slightly but said nothing.

Frodo’s eyes narrowed.  Were they insulting one another again?  He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure.

“It seems we have returned just in time,” Gimli continued.  “You all look nearly ready to leave.”

“Nearly,” said Gandalf.  “You have managed to avoid trying my patience, at any rate.”  This was plainly an invitation to speak, but neither Elf nor Dwarf seemed inclined to take it.  They cast flat glances in Gandalf’s direction and held their peace.

“I’m sorry to tell you that Merry and I have eaten your shares of the fish,” said Pippin.  “It was getting cold, you see, and we had to put out the fire.  It’s no good unless it’s hot anyway.”

“True enough,” said Legolas.  “Cold fish would have left me feeling unwell.”

Strider’s lips thinned.  Frodo thought he knew what was coming; there was no way the Man was going to let Legolas skip breakfast.

“I will take the usual bread and cheese,” Legolas said, glancing sideways at Strider.  “I hope you will pardon me, Sam; it was not your cooking that kept me away.”

“I will take the same,” said Gimli, giving Sam a short bow.  “’Tis my own fault if I have missed the better meal.”

Temporarily dumbstruck, the company stared at Legolas and Gimli, who looked back with neutral expressions.  Frodo could scarcely believe it, but Gimli had just agreed with Legolas.  They never agreed on anything!  It would have been far less surprising to hear Gimli refuse food entirely, simply because Legolas had asked for it.  Frodo was intensely curious.  Had they really reached a truce?  Yet though seven sets of calculating eyes watched Elf and Dwarf, neither gave any sign that he would reveal the substance of their conversation.

As always, Gandalf was the first to recover.  “Can you eat as you walk?” he asked.

Legolas and Gimli arched their eyebrows in such near-identical fashion that a smirk came unbidden to Frodo’s lips.  He stifled it as soon as he realized what he was doing.  He’d be the target of anger from both parties if they saw him, and he didn’t want to be the one to disturb the peace.

“Good,” Gandalf said dryly.  “Off with us, then, as soon as all is ready.  It is time to be away from this river!”

Frodo looked over at Sam, who had been tending to Bill before Legolas and Gimli had interrupted them all.  The hobbit smiled when Gandalf gave the order, and gently stroked the pony’s nose.  Pippin was watching Sam, too, and when he locked eyes with Frodo, they shared a smile of their own.

Not ten minutes later, the last of the Fellowship was out from under the hollow in the cliff.  Gandalf strode off without a backward glance, but most of the others took one last look at the place that had been their refuge before turning away.  Gimli gave the lip of the overhang a firm slap with the palm of one hand.  To Frodo, it seemed to be a gesture of thanks.

Gandalf took the lead, exuding an even greater sense of purpose than usual.  Boromir followed him, with Merry and Pippin right behind; then came Gimli, and Sam leading Bill.  Frodo was unwilling to be far from Sam and walked beside him.  Strider and Legolas came last, their eyes flitting this way and that as they searched for signs of another human presence.  Legolas carried Strider’s bow.  He had told them all of his intention to leave his broken weapon to decay in a forest somewhere – “When we find a proper forest again,” he had said, “and I can be sure that Brund will not find it.  It shall return to the earth and nourish other growing things.”

The Fellowship made its slow way through the gorge in near-silence.  They were all eager to be moving on, but no one knew if Brund was watching them, and they could not help but feel anxious.  Frodo hunched his shoulders when he imagined that big Man up on one of the clifftops, taking aim at them.  If Brund was following them, Frodo expected it would be from above.  If he’d found a way down, he could probably get back up again, and he was far less likely to be detected there.  The gorge wasn’t wide enough to give anyone following the company much room to hide.  Boromir was surely right; if Brund had even the littlest bit of sense, he wouldn’t pit himself against all nine of them at once.  If he wanted to kill them, he’d try to pick them off one by one… from a very defensible position.

Time passed, and nothing was seen of Brund.  No sound was heard save for the wind and the rushing water.  The sun reached its zenith, and the Fellowship ate lunch on their feet.  Frodo found the continuing silence more oppressive as they went on, but he didn’t dare break it.  Was this what it was going to be like all the rest of the way to Mordor, he thought?  No one speaking for fear they would be found?  Things would have been much easier, he decided, if Gimli and Boromir had managed to kill Brund.  Unless they actually saw him again, they would always have to assume that he had either followed them or gone back to Saruman.  To Frodo, the latter was worse than the former.  Brund was just a Man.  Who knew what devilry a wizard could send against them?

In the absence of speech, Frodo found that he drew great comfort from Sam’s familiar presence.  He had once heard that you couldn’t truly appreciate what you had until it was gone, and Sam was the proof of it.  He’d never taken Sam for granted, but now that he’d nearly lost him, he felt keenly just how dear a friend he was.  Frodo couldn’t imagine life without him – coming up the walk every morning, regular as the sunrise, always ready with a kind word or a bit of organic wisdom passed down from the Gaffer.  Though he was far from home, Frodo had often felt that he still had a bit of the Shire with him when the other hobbits were near – especially Sam.  Of the four of them, Sam had been the least changed by the journey… until recently, anyway.

A sudden, sharp scrape of boots against rock drew Frodo’s attention, and he turned to look back.  The rest of the company halted with him.  A moment later they were all looking at Legolas, who seemed to be the one who had caused it.  He was gazing far down the river, frozen in mid-stride.  The rigid look on his face made the hairs on the back of Frodo’s neck stood up.

“What is it?” Gandalf asked quickly.

“Are you hurt?” said Strider.  “Does the wound pain you?”

“There is a body in the river,” said Legolas, still staring.

Everyone spun to look.  Frodo’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the water.  Dark, indistinct blobs marred the surface here and there, but none were moving, and if any of them were a body, he could not tell.

It was apparent that no one else in the company could see what Legolas did, but no one seemed to doubt him.  “Is it Brund?” Gandalf asked flatly.

“I think so.”

Gandalf did not ask if the person in question were dead, but Frodo supposed he didn’t need to.  Legolas wouldn’t have referred to this someone as a ‘body’ if he had any doubt.

“Watch him as we approach,” said Gandalf.  “I’ll take no chances with a servant of Saruman.”  He stepped forward again, and the rest of the company automatically moved to follow.

Frodo looked sideways at Sam as they went.  His eyes had gone wide with anxiety or fear, and his breath seemed to be coming quicker.  Frodo laid a hand on his arm and squeezed it.  Sam blinked, looked over at Frodo, and smiled querulously.

Frodo kept glancing upriver as he walked, and though it took a little time, he eventually thought he’d spotted the body.  It was lighter in color than the rest of the rocks, and seemed to be moving slightly where the other objects were stationary.  Sam saw it, too, and inhaled sharply.  Frodo gave his arm another squeeze.

Another few minutes banished all of Frodo’s lingering doubts.  They were nearly upon it now.  It had a roundish shape, so it could not be a tree, and rocks did not float.  Whatever manner of creature it was, it had to be dead; no living being could have floated in that icy water without every survival instinct spurring it into motion.

They halted at the river’s edge, as close to the corpse as they could get.  Now that there were no other objects blocking their line of sight, they could plainly see that it was a very large Man, caught against a pile of limbs, roots and leaves that had been wedged among the nearby boulders.  Mercifully, he was floating on his stomach; the skin that Frodo could see was gray-white, and the sight of his dead face would surely have been horrible.  No one spoke, but no one had to.  Even if they had never seen Brund before, they would have known it was him by the looks on Sam’s and Legolas’ faces.

Strider, Boromir, Gimli and Gandalf took in the sight of the body with grim faces.  Pippin only looked for a few moments before going green and turning away, and Merry moved to comfort him.  Sam, however, kept his eyes trained on the corpse.  Frodo thought he saw a mixture of sorrow, revulsion and pity in his expression, while Legolas’ face bore only icy sternness.  Frodo hadn’t noticed it happening, but Legolas had drawn near to Sam while they approached the corpse, and now they stood side by side.

Frodo looked the Man over from head to foot, feeling queasy at the sight but unable to tear his eyes away.  How had he died?  At first Frodo thought there wasn’t a mark on him, but a second look told him he was wrong: there was a wound on the side of Brund’s head.  It wasn’t easy to see – his half wet, half frozen hair partially hid it – but once glimpsed, it was unmistakable.  Somehow, the Man had struck his head and drowned.  It might have happened on the very night of the attack; perhaps Strider could tell how long Brund had been dead, but Frodo could not.  He swallowed and shuddered, thinking of Sam and how nearly he had avoided this awful fate.  Then he thought of his parents and quickly put them out of his mind again.  His memories of them were all happy ones – except from the night when they had died, and he preferred not to think of that time.

The Fellowship stood in silence while Sam and Legolas eyed their fallen foe.  Unable to bear the sight any longer, Frodo turned his attention to the Elf and hobbit.  All the others were watching them, too.  Frodo could only guess at the thoughts that were going through their minds, though of the two of them, only Sam could possibly be feeling any sorrow for the dead Man.  There was no sympathy in Legolas’ eyes.  Though they appeared to be wholly focused on Brund, they were obviously aware of each other at the same time.  Legolas’ hand was resting on Sam’s shoulder – rather protectively, in Frodo’s opinion – and Sam’s hand eventually reached up to give Legolas’ fingers a pat, as though he thought the Elf needed comforting.

“I s’pose it’s all over, then,” Sam said suddenly.  Legolas’ hard expression became mournful and his hand tightened on the hobbit’s shoulder.  Sam’s face constricted in pain, but Frodo knew that it wasn’t Legolas who had caused it.  There was something going on beneath the surface.

Sam smoothed his face and turned away from Brund.  “Let’s go,” he said, and started forward with Legolas and Bill in tow.  The rest of the Fellowship wordlessly fell into step behind them.

There was no joy in the procession – just an atmosphere of grim determination.  The immediate danger had passed, and it was time to move on.  And who could feel pleasure after witnessing such a wretched sight?  Whatever Brund had done, he was certainly pitiful now, bobbing up and down against the debris of the river, unlamented and unburied.  Frodo thought him the loneliest sight he had ever laid eyes on.

Frodo kept his eyes on Sam as he walked.  Sam’s somber mood was evident in his stiff limbs and distance from the rest of the company.  Only Legolas and Bill were very close to him, and at the moment, it seemed right that this should be so.  The feeling of separateness that Frodo had felt earlier was back again, but it troubled him less now than it had when he’d first noticed it.  Sam was the most stubbornly optimistic hobbit that Frodo had ever known.  If anyone could live through such an experience and be able to go on after, it was him.

“The cliffs ahead,” Gandalf said suddenly, pointing a gnarled finger.  “Do you see?”

Frodo looked, and after a moment he realized what Gandalf was talking about.  The cliffs were growing shorter, and they seemed to be farther apart than they had been.

“The gorge will end soon,” said Gandalf.  “We are nearly there.”

“Aye.  We should be out by nightfall, I think,” said Strider.

“That’s good,” said Sam.  “That’s very good.”  He drew a deep breath and gave Bill a pat.

Frodo smiled sadly.  He knew it wasn’t really over, no matter what Sam had said.  It wouldn’t be over for a while.  Feelings of friendship and comfort surged in his breast, and he willed them across the short distance between himself and Sam.  He would be patient, and when Sam was ready to close that distance again, he would be there.  It seemed that there were some ghosts that had to be fought alone.

---The End---

A/N:  Well, we have come to the end at last.  To everyone who has read the story, I hope that you have enjoyed it; just knowing that there is an audience is a great encouragement.  To those of you who took the time to leave your comments, questions and suggestions, I can’t thank you enough.  The writers among you understand how much it means to know that other people have taken pleasure in something that you have labored on for so long.  And labor this has certainly been, but it’s one of the most enjoyable tasks I’ve ever undertaken.  I have a few other story ideas rolling around in my head, so perhaps I’ll see some of you again if they come to fruition (as I hope they will)!

Holy cow.  Someone with the name "papaveracee" took it upon themselves to make a book cover for this story.  Check it out at the link below; "The River" is third from the top.  I'm honored and very impressed.  Nice stuff.  

http://papaveracee.tumblr.com/