This story takes place during that two-week period between the time the Fellowship of the Ring left Rivendell and the time they came down off Caradhras. Tolkien doesn’t say much about this time, so I thought I’d fill in my version of the details. We start on the night of December 30, 3018. (They left December 25, for those of you who like to follow timelines.) Enjoy!

December 30, 3018

Only five days out from Imladris, and already I tire of their quarreling.

Gandalf shook his head and sighed. He’d known this would happen. Even a fool could have foreseen this. Not only had his heart spoken in warning, but simple common sense had made it painfully clear that this could not be avoided. The first two weeks of their journey, quite possibly the least perilous, might well prove to be the most irritating. But there was one bright spot in this. Aragorn now owed him two bags of Southfarthing pipe-weed. Before leaving Rivendell, the Ranger had bet that two particular members of the company could keep their tongues and tempers in check for at least a week while Gandalf predicted a breakdown of relationships within the first four days. Elrond, when informed of the bet, had given a rather unelven sigh and then reiterated his opinion that the objects of the bet were meant to be part of the Fellowship. Gandalf was of similar feelings at the time, but he now wondered if he hadn’t been gravely mistaken.

"How can you seek to place the blame on me? With those supposedly keen elven eyes, I thought you would have seen me halt. I saw no reason to warn you, and it is your fault for running into me. I believe you owe me an apology."

"Keen my eyes may be, but you live so close to the ground that I mistook you for another rock in the path, Master Dwarf. And how can one apologize to something that can barely be seen, much less acknowledged?"

Gandalf wondered if Aragorn would be willing to place another wager as to when Legolas and Gimli would come to physical blows. The verbal barbs, blunt and subtle at first, had been gaining in strength and intensity, and the wizard was almost willing to bet both hat and staff that someone would have to pull the elf and dwarf apart by the end of this first week, if not sooner.

Gimli was now grumbling under his breath, a familiar sign that indicated Legolas was getting the better of the argument. "Better to pass unseen than to walk through hostile lands with ill-placed faith in weak and cowardly fighting skills," the dwarf growled.

"And for that, you should thank your short stature," Legolas replied easily. "My heart fails me when I think that a passing Orc might see through your arrogance and hew you lower than you already stand. May you be forever grateful that you are short and hard to see."

Gandalf noisily cleared his throat, a tactic that usually managed to silence both of them, though of late he’d been forced to add a backward glance complete with bristling eyebrows. To their credit, neither continued the debate this time. Gandalf heard Frodo sigh gratefully, and then came the hushed whispers of Merry and Pippin, who were apparently keeping a running tally of the verbal sparring matches. Legolas enjoyed a commanding lead and Merry was predicting a complete and total victimization of the dwarf by the end of the journey, but Pippin maintained that Gimli’s insults were improving and that the dwarf might take them all by surprise with a sudden rally.

"What say you to a halt, Gandalf?" Aragorn asked from behind the wizard. "There is a glade on the other side of this rise that would serve us well."

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully. Halts had become the launching point for many insults, but having just been silenced, the wizard doubted if either elf or dwarf would dare pick up their arguments again so soon. There might never be a better time.

"I could use a rest, too," Sam piped up from his position just in front of Gimli. "And it wouldn’t be a bad thing to let old Bill do a bit of grazing," he added, stroking the pony’s neck. If Bill had any thoughts on the matter, he kept them to himself and plodded forward silently, though his ears did flip backwards occasionally as though wondering when the elf and dwarf would start up again.

"We will stop briefly," Gandalf decided. "There are still a few hours before dawn during which we must journey. This halt will be our last one before sunrise."

At that announcement, even Boromir seemed to sigh with relief. There would be fewer chances for Legolas and Gimli to start the virtually endless quarrels. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the two that they would refrain from arguing during daylight and minimize their arguing while walking.

Gandalf wondered what Boromir made of Legolas and Gimli. A warrior from Gondor, he’d had little chance to interact with elves and dwarves before journeying to Rivendell, and he was now getting a full course of the animosity that ran between the two Races. So far, the man had said nothing concerning the two who, more often than not, were either directly behind him, directly before him, or on either side of him. To completely ignore them, Boromir would have to be rendered both blind and deaf. Even in the darkness of night, it was impossible to miss the looks that Legolas and Gimli would occasionally lever upon one another, looks with enough force to give even a dragon pause for thought. But so far, Boromir had kept his peace and said nothing. Gandalf wondered how long his silence would last.

On the other side of the hill, the Company found Aragorn’s glade and stopped for a brief rest. The hobbits quickly dropped their packs and themselves to the ground, grateful for a respite from the long marches. Under Sam’s watchful eye, Bill the pony was allowed to wander in search of green shoots. Aragorn stood apart from the group, eyeing the surrounding territory with the wary scrutiny of a Ranger. Boromir also drifted away from the company, seemingly still uneasy around his comrades. As well he might be, Gandalf sighed. Two of those comrades seem more willing to fight each other than the Dark Lord.

As if on cue, a thud, an outcry, and the peculiar sound of an elf trying to hold back laughter broke the silence of the night. And I thought they were finished until tomorrow. With the air of one resigned to a difficult and unwanted task, Gandalf turned around and took in a scene that threatened to quirk even his reluctant lips.

Gimli stood drenched to the bone in the cold night air, his water skin on the ground before him and a very confused Took sprawled on the ground behind him. Merry, Frodo, and Sam were all on their feet with expressions that suggested they wished to see the last few seconds played again in the hopes that they could figure out what had just happened.

"My dear hobbit and dwarf," Legolas cried. The prince of Mirkwood knelt swiftly by Pippin’s side and helped him back to his feet, considerately dusting him off as he did so. "I thought I spied a bush and movement beyond. Alas, it was Gimli’s beard that I saw and his short stature behind it. Your pardon, please, Master Peregrin."

"No harm done," Pippin stammered with a nervous glance at the wet, shivering dwarf.

"You…you…" Not for the first time since the beginning of the journey, Gimli was at a complete loss for words. But this time, the dwarf remedied his speechlessness with action, and the son of Gloin leaped forward in a murderous rage with fists clenched tight.

Initially startled, Legolas’s elven reflexes enabled him to dance away and out of reach. Gimli’s lunge took the dwarf sailing past a surprised Aragorn and into the brush beyond the dell while the elf’s dodge bore him straight into a Boromir’s broad chest, nearly knocking both of them to the ground.

"Enough!" Gandalf said sternly while Aragorn moved to assist Gimli to his feet and Boromir and Legolas regained their balance. "We may not be far from Rivendell, but the spies of the Enemy are still about. Peace, both of you. This behavior is foolishness."

"My apologies," Legolas said smoothly with a graceful bow. "You speak wisely and I heed your words."

"Just watch your back, elf," Gimli grumbled as he started to wring out his soaking beard. "You may not be so lucky in our next encounter."

"There will be no next encounter," Aragorn declared, eyeing both of them. "Now is not the time for petty quarrels. Your two Races may be at odds, but that should hold no weight for either of you." Gimli glowered angrily and Legolas smiled innocently.

Should have asked Aragorn about that second wager, Gandalf reflected with a twinge of regret. I would have won.

Yuleday,** 3018

Gimli tapped the haft of his axe thoughtfully, all the while keeping a close watch on the sleeping elf. It was sometimes difficult to tell whether or not the elf was asleep. Like all elves, Legolas slept with his eyes open, and it was always unnerving to glance over and find him looking at you when in truth he really wasn’t looking at you but at something else that only he could see. Still, after studying his opponent carefully during his watches, Gimli felt that he could label Legolas as either asleep or awake with a fair amount of accuracy. And the dwarf was reasonably certain that the elf was now asleep.

Boromir was due to relieve him on watch within the hour. The man had an uncanny ability to wake himself just before his scheduled watch, but as of yet, he showed no signs of stirring. A slow smile crept over Gimli’s face as he continued to study Legolas. The elf was usually quite careful when he slept, especially if he knew Gimli would be on guard sometime during the day. But his caution had slipped this time, and his water skin lay far enough away that Gimli was certain he could make off with it without disturbing the elf. That left the dwarf with one last question: what did he do once he got it?

Taking a few puffs on his pipe, Gimli ran several ideas through his head, but none seemed to fit. The hour was passing, Boromir murmured something as his sleep grew lighter, and Gimli knew he had to act quickly or not at all. And then the idea came. It was a simple idea but sometimes the best ideas were simple ones, and this particular idea was guaranteed to produce desired results. Wasting no more time, he stole quietly to the elf’s side, seized the water skin, and went to work. He finished just before Boromir woke for his watch, and the man roused to find Gimli peacefully smoking his pipe and watching the horizon.

"Anything to report?" Boromir questioned.

"Naught that I’ve seen," Gimli responded, the picture of innocence. "All remains quiet."

Boromir grunted, something that Gimli had learned meant the man was satisfied, he would take over the watch now, and the dwarf could get some sleep. Boromir never said much to any of them, even to Aragorn. Gimli could sense the man’s uneasiness around Races not his own and wondered if this would change over time. From the dwarf’s own observations, Boromir carried a mixture of suspicion and hesitant deference for Gandalf, grudging respect and a bit of envy for Aragorn, condescension and amusement toward the hobbits in general, confusion and bewilderment toward Frodo in particular, uncertainty and almost a hint of awe for Legolas (though for the life of him, the dwarf couldn’t understand why the elf would be held in awe), and a reluctant honor and curiosity for Gimli himself. The poor warrior had joined a company with only one other man, and that other man would oust Boromir’s father as ruler of Gondor. It was an awkward situation, and Gimli felt a flash of pity interrupt his plots of revenge. Still, there was very little he could do to put Boromir’s mind at ease. The man would simply have to figure it all out for himself. "I shall see you tonight, then," Gimli said, moving toward his chosen plot of ground. "If you have need of anything, call me."

Boromir grunted again, and Gimli translated it to be a means of expressing thanks for the offer but that the offer was unneeded. Deciding that two could play the non-verbal game, Gimli shrugged, nodded, and lay down, leaving Boromir to translate that message for himself. And good luck to him, Gimli thought with a hidden smile as he began to drift to sleep. Because even I’m not sure of what I was trying to say.

* * * *

Sam had the last watch of the day before the others would wake, fix a cold breakfast, and prepare for the night’s marches. This particular watch was typically shorter than the other watches, because many of the Company would wake ahead of schedule and begin preparing early. Today was no exception. Fifteen minutes after Sam had relieved Boromir, Aragorn woke and left the group to scout ahead. Boromir had decided to use this last bit of time before nightfall to sleep, but it was obvious that his sleep was a light one and he would wake the moment everyone else began to stir. Pippin roused himself not long after Aragorn departed and joined Sam, engaging the other hobbit in a bit of quiet conversation. Their talking, though hushed as only hobbits can make it, woke Legolas who stood, stretched, and decided to follow Aragorn in case the Ranger would like some assistance or merely some company. After another few minutes had passed, Gandalf seemed to be stirring, Merry was awake but relishing the fact that he didn’t have to move anywhere for another hour or so, Gimli was snoring, and Frodo, for once, was sleeping peacefully.

An hour later, Aragorn and Legolas came back to find Merry getting to his feet, Boromir polishing his sword, Sam starting breakfast, Frodo blinking sleepily, Pippin poking through his pack with an air of concern, Gandalf evaluating the weather, and Gimli leaning against the trunk of a tree looking thoroughly bored.

"No sign of spies on the road ahead," Aragorn informed Gandalf when the wizard noted his return. "It may be that we have lost them for now, though my heart tells me this is not the case."

"They are merely set back," Gandalf agreed with a sigh. "It will not be long before they hound our tracks again. Tonight we shall have to move faster. Our pace has become leisurely of late."

"Okay, Sam, give it back."

Aragorn and Gandalf looked up from their discussion in the direction of the hobbits. Sam was giving Pippin a confused look and the indignant Took was shaking his pack menacingly.

"Give what back?" Sam asked.

"You know very well what. You took my Long Bottom leaf!"

"You had Long Bottom leaf?" Frodo broke in. "How did you get hold of Long Bottom leaf? I thought we used ours up in Rivendell."

"You mean you’ve had Long Bottom leaf and haven’t been sharing with the rest of us?" Merry demanded.

"Oh, that’s harsh, Mr. Pippin," Sam complained. "I’ve had to make do with what little I could scrounge up, seeing as elves have no call for pipe-weed, and here you have a collection of Long Bottom leaf!"

"Had a collection of Long Bottom leaf," Pippin growled.

"What makes you think Sam took it?" Frodo asked.

"Because he slept closest to my pack," Pippin said with a glowering look at the accused hobbit.

"If I’d known you had Long Bottom leaf, I would have asked for it first," Sam protested. "I can loan you some of my pipe-weed if you need it, Mr. Pippin, but I promise that I have no Long Bottom leaf."

"If he did, he’d probably share it," Merry added darkly.

"Well, if he didn’t take it, who did?" Pippin demanded.

"Are you sure you remembered to pack it?" Frodo asked. "You were late getting up yesterday, and you packed in a hurry. Perhaps you left it."

"No, I distinctly remember putting it right here next to my change of shirts. I know I did because I wondered if the smell would need to be washed from my clothes."

Frodo peered into the Took’s pack for a minute and then looked up. "Well, you’re right. It’s not here. But Pippin, if Sam says he didn’t take it, then he didn’t. And I know I didn’t take it. Merry, did you take it?"

"I would have if I’d known about it," Merry answered.

"So Merry didn’t take it, Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli all have their own, and Boromir and Legolas don’t use it." Frodo looked at Pippin and shrugged. "It’s just not here. You must have left it somewhere."

"But I didn’t…" Pippin’s protest trailed off suddenly when a hacking sound filled the camp. All eyes quickly found the source of the coughs to be Legolas, who had dropped to one knee and was shuddering violently. One hand clutched his throat, another grasped at his chest, and he doubled over in a very un-elven position.

"Legolas!"

Aragorn was immediately at the elf’s side, but soon found there was little he could do to help. Fortunately, the coughs seemed to be subsiding and Legolas managed to straighten just enough to catch Aragorn’s eyes and motion him to something on the ground. Puzzled, Aragorn picked up the elf’s water skin, studied it briefly, sniffed it once, and then tasted the water around the rim experimentally. A strange look came over the Ranger’s face. He first glanced at Pippin, then at Gimli who looked a little too innocent, and then back at Legolas. Legolas was caught in another round of violent coughs, but he sensed the looks and managed to throw a deadly glare in Gimli’s direction.

"Pippin, I think we may have found your missing pipe-weed," Aragorn said quietly, emptying the contents of Legolas’s water skin.

Pippin stared, Sam blinked, Frodo sighed, Merry glanced at Gimli, Gimli tried to appear surprised, Boromir turned away muttering under his breath, and Gandalf leaned wearily on his staff. "I see," the wizard murmured. He grimaced when Legolas clutched his stomach and started to heave. "Will he be all right?"

"Once he expels it from his system, he’ll be fine," Aragorn said, putting a supporting hand on the elf’s back. "Perhaps you should take the Company on without us," the Ranger added with an almost imperceptible jerk of his head toward Gimli. "We can catch up after a bit."

"There is danger in separating," Gandalf warned. "How long does he need to recover?"

Aragorn eyed Legolas who was still coughing convulsively. "Not long, but long enough that the rest of you can get a good start on the night’s travels. As I said before, we will be able to catch up. Have no fear of that."

Gandalf sighed and nodded. "Very well. But make haste when you come. It is safer for us to stay together than to break apart."

"We will not take long," Aragorn assured him, turning his attention back to the elf.

"Come," the wizard said to the others. "The night is passing, and we have far to travel."

"Long Bottom leaf," Pippin muttered while hoisting his pack over one shoulder. "Of all the things he could have put in that water skin, why did it have to be my Long Bottom leaf?"

"Serves you right for not sharing," Merry growled.

* * * *

Around midnight, the Company reached a small clearing and Gandalf called for a brief halt in the hopes that Aragorn and Legolas would make an appearance. There’d been no sign of either one since the group had left them at camp, and the wizard was becoming concerned. Both were quite capable of dealing with almost any problem that might come their way, but in these uncertain times with the danger of the One Ring looming over all hopes of the future, Gandalf was reluctant to go on until he’d received some sign that they were still safe.

To his credit, Gimli did appear somewhat remorseful. Gandalf supposed he should be grateful for that much. All of the Company seemed concerned with the continued absence of their two comrades, and there were more than a few dark glances thrown Gimli’s direction. And while Gimli might not mourn the loss of Legolas, he did respect Aragorn.

The group sat in an awkward silence, straining ears and eyes for signs of the Ranger and elf. Gandalf wondered if that would do them any good. Rangers and especially elves could move silently and stealthily if the need pressed. Aragorn and Legolas would probably not be noticed until they walked out of the surrounding trees into the clearing.

It was Boromir whose voice eventually broke through the night air, shattering the stillness like a swinging sword in a room filled with precious glass.

"Perhaps one or two could break from the group and start a search," the warrior suggested. "They need not wander far. Just a sign or token of Aragorn and Legolas would be enough to set our hearts at ease."

Gandalf looked at the remainder of the Company and raised one bristling eyebrow. Gathered in the clearing was one proud warrior of Gondor who fought more on the open plain than in the woods, one cold wizard who had advised against breaking up in the first place, one dwarf from the sparse slopes of the Lonely Mountain, one pony who was quite content to graze in peace and quiet, and four well-intentioned but bumbling hobbits. Humoring Boromir by mentally arranging a variety of pairings from the remainder of their Fellowship, Gandalf reached the conclusion that splitting the group further would be disastrous. Besides, the two best qualified to lead a search party into the surrounding forests were the two who were missing.

Boromir, watching Gandalf evaluate the members of the Company not missing, quickly reached the same conclusion and revised his earlier recommendation. "Or perhaps we could all go back and look for them."

"There may be nothing wrong. And they both travel faster than we are currently traveling," Gandalf mused. "Were we to continue on, they could easily catch us. Were we to turn back, we might run into them and so allay our fears, but the journey would be lengthened."

"You need not continue your debate," a voice suddenly called from the concealment of the trees. Boromir’s hand strayed to his sword hilt, the hobbits grouped together, and Gimli laid his hands on the haft of his axe. But Gandalf instantly recognized the voice and relaxed.

"It is long since we left you," the wizard said as Aragorn emerged from the dense forest. Legolas followed behind him. "Did you tarry for some reason?"

The Ranger frowned and looked back at the elf. Legolas shook his head slightly in answer to an unspoken question. Aragorn eventually turned his gaze back toward Gandalf. "I think this is best discussed as we walk. If you are all rested, we should resume the journey."

Only a flicker in the wizard’s dark eyes betrayed his surprise and concern. Keeping his face a mask of deceptive calm, he nodded and turned to the rest of the Fellowship. "We shall rest a few more minutes, and then we must continue. There are still many leagues to cover, and every minute of delay is a minute in which our Enemy grows ever stronger."

"I wish Gandalf would say something with a bit of cheer now and then," Sam muttered to Merry. "Something like ‘oh well done’ or ‘we’re winning today.’ All this doom and gloom is making me shiver."

"Well, look at it this way," Merry suggested. "If he keeps making things look bad, then the good things that happen will seem even better."

"Providing there will be good things," Frodo murmured ominously.

**In the reckoning of the Shire, each month had 30 days and the first and last day of the year were days outside the normal calendar, called Yuledays. This meant that December 30 was the next to last day of the old year and January 1 was the second day of the new year. See ROTK Appendix D.

Yuleday,** 3019

Gandalf propped his back against a convenient rock, sighed, and shook his head. "I had hoped to elude them for a longer period of time."

"There was only one set of tracks," Aragorn said quietly, almost speaking to himself. "It might be a simple scout sent by the pack to search for warmer climes."

"You know the likelihood of that as well as I do," Gandalf responded with a meaningful glance at Frodo. "Wargs. Of all the creatures to first test this Fellowship. You’re certain it was a Warg and not a mere wolf hunting for food?"

It was relatively early in the morning, but the rest of the Fellowship had already fallen asleep. After Legolas and Aragorn had rejoined the company around midnight the previous night, the Ranger had talked quickly and quietly with Gandalf as they journeyed. Shortly after that, the wizard had stopped the discussion and declared that he and Aragorn would be taking the first and second watches together in the morning. No more would be said on the subject, though many questions were put to Gandalf, Aragorn, and Legolas. Eventually, the rest of the Company gave up—though Boromir continued to mutter angrily beneath his breath—and hoped that the recent mystery would be explained in time. And now Gandalf and Aragorn sat together and took counsel on the wolf tracks that Aragorn had found shortly after he and Legolas left the camp.

"It was a Warg," Aragorn said solemnly in answer to the wizard’s question. "It was too large for an average wolf and the length in stride bespoke a hard body used to carrying burdens. Legolas also recognized it for a Warg track, and the elves of Mirkwood have had many with the Enemy’s wolves on the borders of their land."

"And you scouted the terrain before the rest of us woke?" the wizard asked. When Aragorn nodded, Gandalf sighed wearily. "He must have come on us shortly afterwards. Yet we saw no sign of him when we left you and Legolas."

Aragorn grimaced and took out his pipe, feeling the need for a smoke. "There may be no cause for concern," he pointed out. "As I said before, there was only one set of tracks. Elrond’s scouts reported that the main packs were still east of the mountains. This could be an exiled Warg. No howl has been raised at our presence and we may be but a passing interest to this creature."

Gandalf steepled his hands and studied the Ranger. "A passing interest? How many times did you say this Warg had circled our camp?"

"But he has yet to signal his comrades," Aragorn pressed.

"Yet," Gandalf noted. "And there is no further sign of him. Perhaps he has gone to signal them now."

"According to the trail Legolas and I followed last night, the Warg eventually turned west toward Rivendell. He was not traveling toward a pack. A Warg pack that close to Rivendell would not have escaped our notice."

"There are other reasons for him to turn west. Perhaps he was looking to see if our party had others further back. Perhaps he has gone to rally more scouts. Perhaps he was hungry and found game, putting aside our pursuit for a while until he satisfied his hunger. In any case, it is very likely that this Warg will soon put others on our trail."

Aragorn rubbed a tired hand across his weathered face. "Unfortunately, that was what Legolas and I concluded as well. It seems we have not shaken pursuit after all."

"As long as we travel with the Ring-bearer, pursuit will never be far behind," Gandalf sighed. "It remains for us to stay one march ahead of those who hunt us. And for us to do that, we must travel faster."

"Perhaps I should scout for this Warg while the others sleep. I may learn more of his movements and intentions," Aragorn mused. "If I find him, I could put an end to his fell life before he can contact his pack."

"You might find more of his tracks, but I doubt you will find him," Gandalf said. "If he does not wish to be seen, then you will not see him." The wizard looked at the dark trees that sheltered their Company and shook his head. "No, in this I think we must wait. Scouting Warg or chance wolf, we must endure him for a little longer. My heart tells me his intentions will be revealed soon."

"Should we speak of this with the others?" Aragorn asked, glancing specifically at Boromir.

Gandalf pursed his lips with indecision. "They suspect something. Legolas will not speak of it if they ask him, but their fears may be doubled by their ignorance. I think…I think it best if we caution them tonight before we set out. Perhaps we should warn Boromir and Gimli directly, but the hobbits, at least, should be told no more than necessary. They have fear enough as is." Gandalf was silent for a moment, still thinking the matter over, and then he seemed to give himself a shake and return to the present. "Well. We have talked long and hard, but have gained little new counsel. Let us close this discussion for now. I will take the last of the first watch and the whole of the second watch. You, Aragorn, should rest."

Aragorn chuckled slightly. "I may be in need of rest, but so are you, my friend."

The wizard brushed off the Ranger’s concern with a wave of his hand. " Have no concern for me. I have much on my mind, and it is doubtful that I could sleep anyway."

"But my mind is also filled with thought. If you wish, I will take half the second watch."

Gandalf shook his head firmly. "I am not in need of sleep this day. Rest. We will talk again tonight."

The Ranger was tempted to continue the debate, but he recognized the tone of finality in Gandalf’s voice and knew further protests on his part would be in vain. "Far be it from me to argue with a wizard," Aragorn said, signaling his surrender. Gandalf snorted at this and the Ranger smiled. "Until tonight, then."

Aragorn rose, found a suitable place to rest on the perimeter of their camp, and settled himself on the ground. He pillowed his head on one arm and positioned the other arm near Anduril’s hilt in case he should he have need of his sword during the day. With a last glance at the profile of the thoughtful wizard, Isildur’s heir closed his eyes and fell swiftly into sleep.

* * * *

Frodo rubbed his hands together and cupped them over his mouth, hoping to heat them with his breath. The sun was high in the sky, but its rays of warmth did not reach the small group of weary travelers huddled beneath a copse of trees. Frodo sighed and pulled his cloak tightly around himself, wishing for the bliss of sleep where he could be ignorant of the cold, the danger, and his burden. He could feel the cold touch of gold upon his chest, and its presence stirred a wealth of strange feelings and thoughts. Already, Frodo hated his journey. He was growing more aware of the Ring and that frightened him. With each passing day, the Ring became more prominent in casual thought. As of yet it was not an overwhelming concern, but it was a constant reminder of the unique danger and power that was his and his alone.

And the Ring set him apart. He was different from the rest of the Company in a way that did not extend to his fellow hobbits. Most of the others were uneasy around him. Casual conversation was hampered by a mixture of curiosity and fear. He would be forever known as the Ring-bearer whether this quest ran ill or not, and that was also something he was coming to hate.

So lost was he in thought that he did not realize his watch had come to an end until a soft touch on the shoulder roused him. Frodo jumped and spun, his hand straying to Sting.

"Whoa, Frodo," Pippin yelped, scrambling back a few feet. "Easy. I’m just here to relieve you."

Frodo blinked and then relaxed. "Sorry," he murmured. "You took me by surprise. And I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been."

"Don’t worry about it," Pippin said, relaxing in turn. "I probably should have said something."

"No, I should have been aware of the time," Frodo said with a shake of his head. "I hadn’t realized my watch was over. If you hadn’t awakened…" The hobbit trailed off and looked at Pippin. "What’s going on? You never wake up for your watches."

"I had problems sleeping," Pippin sighed. "So I decided I might as well save you the trouble of coming over to rouse me." He glanced behind him, spied a convenient log, and sat down. "You can relate to that, Frodo, can’t you?"

"Relate to what?"

"Problems sleeping."

Frodo shuffled his feet a bit and looked away. "Perhaps."

The Took snorted. "Perhaps? Definitely, I’d say. Every time I take the watch, half of my time is spent watching you toss and turn. Cousin Frodo, what is wrong? What bothers you so much that you can’t even escape it in your dreams? It’s the you-know-what, isn’t it?"

"The you-know-what?" Frodo questioned, hoping to elude the conversation. At Pippin’s pained expression, he gave up, knowing exactly what the other hobbit was talking about. "What if it is?"

"Look, I’m just trying to help," Pippin said. "I’m your friend, Frodo, and as a friend, I’m telling you that you can’t keep this locked up inside. You’ve got to talk about it. The more you hide it, the worse it will grow until it is truly your burden alone. You were given this Fellowship so that wouldn’t happen. We’re here not only to protect you but also to help you bear you-know-what. So let me help. Talk to me."

"I don’t know if…I don’t think here and now is such a good place to discuss this," Frodo hedged.

"If not now, then when? And if not here, then where? The road won’t get easier, and it won’t get prettier. And if you don’t feel like talking to me, then talk to Sam or Merry or Gandalf or Strider. But talk to someone!"

Frodo was silent for a long time, looking toward the east and thinking. Pippin was right. He did need to talk, if only to find some way of putting his thoughts and feelings into words. And yet who could possibly understand the burden he carried? Who could possibly know what he was going through on a daily basis? "I’m not sure where to start," he finally said, knowing it was a weak answer but unable to offer anything else.

"Well, let’s start by answering a few questions," Pippin said. "Is the you-know-what causing your sleeping problems."

"I’m almost sure of it."

"Good. We’ve made progress. Next question. Do you have any theories as to why the you-know-what won’t let you sleep?"

"Maybe. Not really. It’s just…I can’t seem to get away from It," Frodo stammered, trying desperately to express what he felt. "Even when I sleep, I feel that It’s looking at me. Watching me. Waiting for me to slip. And when I do, slip that is, there will be no one left to pick up the pieces. I…I’m afraid that when I sleep, something will happen."

"That’s why we post watches," Pippin explained. "It’s so nothing will happen, or if something does happen, we’ll be warned."

"But that doesn’t help!" Frodo exclaimed, forgetting the rest of the sleeping Fellowship as he began to pace and wave his arms. "None of that helps. I know that’s why we post watches. I know that’s why Strider goes scouting every night before we march. But it doesn’t matter, because the forces we’re dealing with are beyond our control. Even if we see them coming, what good does it do? How does it help us to get some forewarning before we’re killed?"

"You speak as though we have no chance. Is that what you really believe?" Pippin asked curiously.

"Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know anymore," Frodo sighed, slumping onto the log beside the other hobbit. "All I really know is that I hate this burden and wish to be back in Rivendell before a comfortable fire listening to Bilbo recite poems from his book."

"And knowing that things will get worse before they get better doesn’t help, does it?"

"I thought you were trying to cheer me up."

Pippin shrugged. "I can’t give what I don’t have."

Frodo smiled slightly. "Thank you for trying anyway."

"You’re most welcome. Do you feel any better now?"

Frodo thought about that and found, much to his astonishment, that he did feel better. The Ring was still cold against his chest, the sun was still a pale gleam in the sky, and he was still somewhere in the wilderness in lands he did not know. But despite all this, it seemed a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. "I do feel better, Pippin," he finally said.

"Good. Now remember this little talk we’ve had and remember that I’m here. I can’t take your burden away from you, but I can help you by providing a listening ear whenever you need it. And so can the others. Just don’t keep things quiet so long that you can’t even sleep. And speaking of sleep, you’d better get some. I think Gandalf wants to pick up the pace. Strider said something to him last night, and after that he looked like he was ready to carry us if we didn’t move faster."

"I suppose you’re right for once, Pippin," Frodo said with a slight grin.

"For once?"

"Hmm. Yes, it does seem unlikely, doesn’t it?" Seeing the look on the Took’s face, Frodo laughed and felt more of his cares and worries slip away. "Thank you again, Pippin. Hopefully I will sleep easier tonight."

"My pleasure, Frodo," Pippin answered. "And I’ll have you know that I’m always right."

Frodo chuckled, laid out his blanket, and tried to make himself comfortable. Before long, sleep overtook him and he drifted into a world of misty dreams.

* * * *

Gimli awoke with a jerk, fearful that something horrible had been done to him while he slept. He felt frantically at his beard, reassured himself that it was indeed still there, then reached for his axe. Yes, that was there, too. Clothes? No, nothing had been done to the clothes. Narrowing his eyes, the dwarf sat up slowly, expecting to be assailed at any moment but a nameless something. Reaching for his water skin, he sniffed cautiously and then tasted it. Yes, that was fine, too. Gimli scowled and looked around. Legolas would have done something during the day to retaliate for the pipe-weed in the water last night. But what?

The dwarf glanced about the stirring camp, wondering what the elf could have possibly done. Yet there was no sign of any tampering. Legolas himself was sitting next to Sam, humming softly as he aided him in breakfast preparation. Aragorn looked as though he had just returned from his daily scouting routine and was speaking quietly with Gandalf, who was eyeing the surrounding woods with a great deal of mistrust. Frodo and Pippin were packing up their belongings. Merry was sorting through one of the bags of food under Sam’s direction. All was at peace with the exception of Boromir, who was stalking the camp’s perimeter like a predator on the prowl.

Gimli wondered if the man still felt slighted by Aragorn’s refusal to explain his secretive conversation with Gandalf. Despite the Ranger’s lineage, Gimli had noted that Boromir was drawn to the other man as a drowning sailor might be drawn toward a light on the shore. In this strange Company of varied Races, Boromir was desperately trying to anchor himself in a familiar environment. But with Aragorn continually placing his trust in Gandalf, Boromir was feeling…betrayed. Gimli wondered if he should mention this to Aragorn or Gandalf and then noticed that the two in question were motioning him toward them.

Curious, the dwarf rose and joined them. Boromir was also beckoned over, and Gimli felt some of his fears for the man die when Aragorn began talking to them about what had happened the previous evening, but they were quickly replaced by new fears.

"When Legolas and I left the camp last night, we came upon a set of tracks that had not been there before," Aragorn reported, his voice low and secretive. Gandalf kept a close watch on the hobbits and Legolas skillfully kept them busy with breakfast and other menial tasks. "We believe them to be Warg marks," the Ranger continued. "In my scouting this evening, I did not come upon any new tracks, but we should be wary. It may have been a scouting Warg and he may even now be reporting to his pack."

"If this is the case, we must hasten our journey," Boromir said quietly, glancing at the hobbits. Gimli searched the man’s voice for any telling emotion, but the warrior from Gondor carefully kept his voice neutral. Gimli could not tell if the man was upset at being denied this information or grateful that it had been shared. Perhaps a little of both.

"Indeed, but how that is to be accomplished remains to be seen," Aragorn answered, also looking at the hobbits. "They are not used to such travels and hardships. We must be patient."

"Patience could lead to our deaths and the ruin of all Middle Earth," Boromir countered. "There is a time and a place for it, but now is the time for speed. They must be made to travel faster."

"What would that accomplish?" Gimli asked suddenly. "If Wargs are indeed on our trail, they will catch us whether we hurry forward or wait for them here. We cannot outrun them on foot no matter how hard we press this Company."

"But there are places of greater safety that we may reach," Boromir pointed out.

"But would we reach them before the Wargs reach us?" Aragorn asked. "On this side of the mountains, there is little in the way of shelter, and I doubt we shall make the passes before we hear the howls of the pack. As I said before, we must be patient. We must travel faster, but we must do so by degrees. It is no use to waste energy now when it might be needed in battles to come."

Gandalf shifted suddenly and Aragorn fell silent. Beyond the wizard, dwarf, and men, Sam was putting the final touches on their cold breakfast and Merry, Pippin, and Frodo were watching the others curiously. Legolas shrugged as if to say he could think of nothing else to keep them further occupied.

"Breakfast is ready," Sam announced. He looked around and for the first time noticed the tension in the air. "That is, whenever the rest of you are ready for breakfast. It can wait."

"We are ready now, Sam," Aragorn said, moving forward and helping himself to dried fruit and salted meat. "And you have our thanks for the meal."

Gimli took his own breakfast with some trepidation, fearing that Legolas had devised a malicious trick and that it awaited him in his meat or his fruit. But breakfast passed without incident—much to the surprise of everyone—and before long, the Fellowship was on the trail, journeying through the dark night toward the mountains.

* * * *

Around midnight, Gandalf called for a halt and watched as the hobbits broke out what they termed "walking food." This consisted of anything that could be eaten with little preparation and was readily accessible. The wizard had once catalogued how much a hobbit could eat in a day, and even now, it never ceased to amaze him. The elves might be renowned for the glory of their feasts, but the hobbits should carry equal renown for their ability to eat everything at an elven dinner and more. Gandalf wondered what would happen when the "walking food" ran low and the hobbits were forced to go without for a while.

Turning his attention away from the hobbits, Gandalf next rested his gaze on Boromir and Aragorn, who stood talking together. That was a good sign. If Aragorn did become the king, he would need the support of his steward and that would eventually be Boromir. A close friendship might not be necessary, but a working relationship was vital. Fortunately, it seemed they were beginning to develop one, though awkwardness continued to hamper their efforts.

Next up for evaluation was Legolas. The elf and dwarf had been strangely quiet all night, and Gandalf wondered what new plot was afoot. Having had the final say yesterday, Gimli was wisely refraining from further acts. But Legolas…it was not like the prince to ignore the gauntlet that Gimli had thrown. Something was underway, and Gandalf desperately hoped that whatever it was would prove harmless enough. They could ill-afford to bring the Wargs down upon them through some mishap between a quarrelling dwarf and elf.

This brought Gandalf to the other half of the pair. Gimli was studying the elf closely whenever it seemed that Legolas was not paying attention. The dwarf also feared retribution, and Gandalf couldn’t help but smile at the elf’s cleverness. The wizard had no doubt that vengeance would be forthcoming, but making the dwarf wait for it was cruel and genius.

Gandalf also noted, with some amusement, that Gimli seemed tired. The dwarf had been casually boasting of his endurance the other day, but it appeared now that his endurance had been put to the test and found lacking. Small trails of sweat wound their way down from his temples, and his breath was heavy and forced.

"Aragorn?"

Legolas’s low tenor broke though the silence like the breeze whistling through the treetops, barely noticeable and yet instantly commanding the attention of those who noted it. Gandalf moved toward the elf even as the Ranger did, and a shiver of foreboding swept through the old wizard’s frame.

"Do you see something?" Aragorn asked quietly.

"Nay, but I hear movement," Legolas whispered, watching the surrounding forests with all the venerable knowledge and experience of an elf raised in the woods. "Something stalks us, but this something is skilled beyond the measure of an ordinary creature."

"Could you flush it toward us as you did with the spiders that day in Mirkwood when we were hunting?" Aragorn wondered.

The elf swung his pack down, readied his bow, and smiled grimly. "Your wish is my command, my liege."

Aragorn smiled back, clapped the elf on the back, and slid Anduril out of its scabbard as the Legolas slipped into the forest.

"What do you suppose is happening?" Pippin asked, watching the activities with interest.

Merry shook his head darkly. "Whatever it is, Strider and Gandalf don’t look happy about it. And Strider has his sword out."

"I thought his sword was broken," Pippin wondered aloud.

"It was mended in Rivendell," Boromir explained quietly, coming up behind the hobbits and also watching the proceedings closely.

"What is happening?" Gimli asked, joining the group. Sam and Frodo were also looking on silently.

"It might be just me, but it’s almost as if they’re hunting something," Merry said slowly. "I used to go after foxes in the woods west of Buckland with my cousins, and it looks like they’re trying something similar."

"You may be right, Halfling," Boromir said. The man stood with them a moment more and then moved toward Aragorn and Gandalf. Gimli considered joining them as well, but his back was screaming at him and his legs felt they could not move a single unnecessary step.

"We know so little of this land," Frodo murmured. "What could they be hunting?"

"Food?" Sam suggested hopefully, having noted that their supply of provisions could be increased.

"No, not food. There will be time enough to look for food later," Gimli murmured, giving in to his weariness and plopping to the ground. This exhaustion was strange, and the dwarf was becoming concerned.

"What, then, do you think it is?" Pippin asked, but the dwarf made no answer. He continued to watch Aragorn.

For his part, Aragorn’s senses were straining for any hint of the unseen. Only dimly aware of Boromir’s questioning glare behind him and Gandalf’s silent support, he stared into the woods and listened for any sign of the stalker or of Legolas. Shortly after the elf’s departure, he had heard the sounds of stealthy movement that had caught the attention of the elven prince. But not long after that, all sounds had ceased.

"Wait for me," Aragorn eventually whispered, starting forward.

"Aragorn…" The wizard’s voice was an unspoken warning.

"Legolas may need help," the Ranger answered. "I will not be long." He started forward again and then stopped. A cry echoed out of the woods, there came the sounds of a scuffle, and then everything fell quiet again. After a minute of tense silence during which none dared to move, Legolas emerged from the undergrowth, shaking his head and cursing quietly beneath his breath.

"I saw him," the elf told Aragorn. "And it is as we suspected, but he has gone now, and I doubt he will return this night." Legolas sighed and looked away. "I should have been faster."

"He is alone and thus more wary than usual," Aragorn answered. "I doubt any of us could have driven him. He would be doubly on guard."

"We can do no more about him this night," Gandalf said. "Come. It is time we were underway again."

The wizard turned and walked toward the hobbits and Gimli, Legolas picked up his pack and shouldered his bow, Aragorn sheathed Anduril, and Boromir glowered angrily off to the side, wondering why Aragorn put more trust in wizards and elves than in his own kind.

* * * *

"A simmering stew with potatoes, fresh carrots, onions, pork, and the Gaffer’s special secret ingredient."

"A stew? Come on, Sam, you can do better than that," Pippin scoffed. "What about a big turkey stuffed with bread and greens and a big bowl of apples?"

"Apples?" Sam shook his head. "The turkey’s fine and you’re all right with the stuffing, but where did you get the apples? You don’t serve apples with turkey."

"I had apples with turkey once," Merry commented.

"No, I agree with Sam," Frodo announced. "Apples don’t go with turkey. What was it Nob and Hob said? Apples for walking?"

"That’s right, Mr. Frodo," Sam nodded enthusiastically. "Apples for walking. It’s yams you’ll want with that turkey, not apples, Mr. Pippin."

"You know what you’ve all forgotten?" Merry piped up. "Mushrooms. Mushrooms go with any meal."

Behind the hobbits, who were now talking about food rather than eating it, Gimli staggered in a weary daze. His pack pulled at him, his shoulders ached, his legs dragged, his back moaned, and all his energy seemed spent. Every moment was a painful drudging experience, and the night dragged on as though it would last forever. Gimli was vaguely aware that Gandalf, Aragorn, and Boromir were regarding him with open concern, but he was too tired to view this as an affront to his pride. He wished only for this endless journey to cease and leave him to collapse on the path.

Gandalf called a halt to the marches earlier than usual. The others noticed this and also noticed Gimli’s exhausted state, but the dwarf himself remained oblivious. When his foggy mind finally comprehended that they were setting up camp for the day, he dropped like a stone and refused to move. Having already set up his own bed, Merry wandered over with the intention of moving Gimli’s pack over with the rest of the packs. But when he tried to lift it…

"What do you have in this?!"

The dwarf managed to open heavy eyelids and send the hobbit a glare. "I know how to pack for a long journey. The night’s travels must have tired you."

"Let me see," Pippin offered, trying to sling the pack onto his shoulder. His efforts were pitifully unsuccessful and he quickly gave up. "All right, now I want to know you have in here."

"Cloak…some food…" Gimli mumbled, closing his eyes and wishing the hobbits would go away and leave him alone. A rustling caught his attention and he opened his eyes again. "What are you doing?"

"Well no wonder your pack is so heavy," Pippin exclaimed, peering into the dwarf’s bag.

"Is this normal for dwarves?" Merry wondered. "I know they like to mine and they probably know a lot about different kinds of rocks, but on a trip like this, do you really want to carry them with you?"

Gimli stared dumbly at the hobbits until something deep within his mind clicked. "Rocks?"

"Rocks?" Boromir echoed from across the camp. "You’re carrying rocks?"

"Big rocks, too," Pippin observed.

Aragorn and Gandalf turned grim expressions on Legolas. The elf, who was in the process of arranging his own bed, managed to project an impressive air of innocence that fooled no one.

"Rocks," Gimli muttered, directing his own dark glare at the elven prince.

"Merry, you have first watch," Gandalf announced, trying to divert attention away from the elf and dwarf. "The rest of you, get some sleep. We’ll have to make up for lost time tomorrow."

"We may also have to make up for a lost elf," Gimli growled beneath his breath as weariness ultimately overcame him and he drifted into dreams.

**In the reckoning of the Shire, each month had 30 days and the first and last day of the year were days outside the normal calendar, called Yuledays. This meant that December 30 was the next to last day of the old year and January 1 was the second day of the new year. See ROTK Appendix D.

January 1, 3019

With a miserable shiver, Merry Brandybuck tried to readjust his layers of cloaks and blankets, but no matter what he did, it seemed that the bitter wind found new ways of boring through his coverings. His watch was nearing its end and Legolas would be taking over soon, but at this point, Merry wondered if he would be able to fall asleep. Considering the way he felt now, he would probably be awake for Legolas’s watch, Boromir’s watch, Sam’s watch, and Gandalf’s watch.

Trying to shake off some of the cold, Merry abruptly stood and started to pace, hoping that movement would thaw his frozen blood. With effort, he managed to make his numb, protesting legs obey his commands and carry him about the camp, weaving an irregular circle around his comrades. The increased exercise worked for a bit, but eventually, the cold slowed his walking and he felt winter’s icy fingers once again.

So distracted was he by his plight that he didn’t notice movement behind until something dropped onto his shoulders. Startled into jumping, the hobbit whirled, laid his hand to his sword, and then stopped. "Legolas?"

"If you did not want the extra cloak, you could have said as much," the elf told him with a slight smile. "But I thought you would be glad of the gift."

"Oh, I am!" Merry exclaimed, glancing at his shoulders and discovering that the elf’s cloak now encircled them. The thin material seemed a surer block against the wind than all of the hobbit's other coverings, and he felt his body heat warming the interior of the light covering. "It’s very warm," he said with some astonishment.

"Of course it is warm." Legolas sounded indignant.

"No, I mean…thank you. Thank you very much. I…won’t you be cold?"

"This weather does not bother me," Legolas answered casually. "It must be very cold to affect an elf."

"Well, it is cold enough to affect a hobbit," Merry said bitterly. "Much too cold for me, anyway. Will it get warmer soon, do you think?"

The prince glanced up at the sky where the dark storm clouds that had once threatened from afar now loomed above the sleeping travelers. "There will be heavy rain tonight," Legolas finally said. "I fear it will slow our travels. Beyond that, I cannot tell. The weather is uncertain around the mountains, and the great peaks have much control. Their favor will be a telling point, and some of them have no love for elves or dwarves. Dark is their history and evil their roots. Whatever the weather be now, it will grow worse ere we make the mountain passes."

"I think I was looking for something more optimistic," Merry confessed. "What about beyond the mountains? Surely the weather will be fair further south."

"Perhaps, but the land will grow in peril and fair weather will avail us not. For as we move south, every step we take draws us closer to Mordor. In southern lands, we may wish for this cloud cover to hide us from unfriendly eyes."

"Sam was right," Merry muttered under his breath. "There needs to be more optimism on this journey."

With his sharp ears, Legolas picked up this grumbled comment and laughed. "Alas, I fear you hobbits have fallen in with grim and dour beings. Gandalf knows too much and has fought too long, Aragorn is too touched by the Elder race and too experienced in battling the enemy, Boromir has seen too much and has loved too little, I have lived too long and have defended my home too often, and Gimli…Gimli is a dwarf," the elf finished as though that explained everything.

"Oh." Merry wasn’t quite sure what to say in response to this, but he did know one thing. He couldn’t continue to stand in the cold. "So have you come to relieve me from my watch? It is still early for you to be awake."

"I…felt something," Legolas said hesitantly. "And I could not sleep. It was…" He trailed off, unsure as to whether or not he should continue. Ultimately deciding against it, the elf shook his head and turned back to Merry. "It does not matter. Do you wish to rest now? I will finish your watch and then take my own."

"That does sound good," Merry said. "Do you want your cloak back?"

"Tonight," Legolas said. "Until then, may it keep you warm."

"Thank you," Merry beamed. The gesture touched him and the elven cloak was surprisingly comfortable. "Well, I guess I will see you tonight. And if you need anything…Strider?"

Merry stared across the camp as the lanky Ranger rose and stretched. Sensing eyes upon him, Aragorn turned and frowned when he noted both Legolas and Merry up. "It is not yet time for your watch, my friend," Aragorn said to the elf.

"And you do not have a watch today at all," Legolas answered quietly. Something caught his attention and he turned his eyes away from Aragorn. "It would seem that Mithrandir’s sleep is troubled as well." The elf nodded his head toward the wizard, and Aragorn and Merry watched while Gandalf twitched awake. Opening his flashing eyes, the wizard’s brow furrowed when he caught sight of Legolas, Aragorn, and Merry.

"There is a reason we stop for sleep," Gandalf said, rising and joining the group. "Why do you not use this time for resting. Even you, Legolas, should not yet be awake."

"I have offered to relieve Merry early," the elf explained. "He was just now retiring for the day."

Merry blinked, realizing the elf was hinting that now was a good time to leave. "Yes, that’s right," he quickly said, taking his cue. He didn’t know what had disturbed Strider or Gandalf, and he realized that he really didn’t want to know. For now he was quite content to be a simple passenger on the trip, trusting in their wisdom for his survival. "I’ll be going now. To sleep, that is. And thank you again, Legolas."

The elf nodded and watched with Aragorn and Gandalf as the hobbit found a resting place near the other hobbits, rolled himself up in Legolas’s cloak, and relaxed as he slipped into a world of dreams. After waiting a few more minutes, Gandalf turned back to the other two.

"Now, perhaps you can tell me what is happening," the wizard said, his eyes warning that evasive answers would not be welcome.

"Dae prestintin a erion," Legolas said in Sindarin, wary of speaking in the common tongue for fear that Merry might still be awake. "Law iston, dan gostan…" The elf trailed off uncertainly and glanced at the Ranger by his side.

"Ha i draug," Aragorn said heavily, also using the elven language. "Anglenna ad."

Gandalf sighed and nodded. He glanced around the camp and then inclined his head toward the path the Fellowship had followed the previous night. "Tol."

Picking up sword and bow as a precaution, Aragorn and Legolas silently followed the wizard until they were a safe distance away from the others. Glancing back, Aragorn noticed that Boromir was stirring slightly and felt a pang of guilt that the man was not included in their conference. He was a warrior and well aware of the dangers that plagued them. Yet if this could be taken care of quickly and quietly, it was best that few knew of it. And while Boromir and Gimli now knew of the Warg, they still did not know how closely he trailed them. And he was quite close. Dangerously close.

"He must be eliminated," Gandalf said without further preamble, obviously sharing Aragorn’s thoughts on the matter. "Or if he is not eliminated, we must prevent him from contacting a pack. His motives may have nothing to do with us, but we cannot afford to take that chance."

"He is alone and wary, though," Aragorn pointed out quietly. "He will not be easy to take. Legolas tried late last night, and he slipped away from him. How shall the rest of us hunt a wolf that can hear even the approach of an elf?"

"Perhaps I was too eager and not careful enough," Legolas offered. "Another attempt could be made, or we could bait a trap for him."

"A Warg would not fall for a simple trap, nor can we take the time to fashion one and lie in wait," Gandalf stated. "We must lure him into the open and then we must hunt him."

"What do you suggest?" Aragorn asked.

"A simple plan," the wizard answered. "It is dangerous but no more so than journeying further with a Warg on our trail. However, it will involve splitting the Fellowship. One group will travel ahead while another group travels behind. The wolf will either be split between the two groups or will try to cut one group off. Aragorn, you will lead Boromir, Pippin, Merry, and Gimli in the first group. Legolas, Frodo, Sam, the pony, and I will follow you but we will stay at least one hundred meters behind you. Hopefully, our hunting friend will reveal himself in this, and when he does, we must be ready."

"How will we coordinate between the two groups?" Legolas wondered. "For when one party gives chase, the other must be informed if we are able to drive him."

"And what of mishap? What if someone in the latter group was to meet with some accident along the way? How would you tell those of us in the first group without further endangering the Ring-bearer?" Aragorn added.

"As I said before, the plan is dangerous. But I see no other way to draw this creature into the open. Currently, he may hunt us at his leisure for we stay together and have no feasible means of hiding our trail from him. He has the advantage, and unless we change our habits, he will continue to have the advantage." Gandalf sighed and shook his head. "If either of you have a better idea, now is the time to present it. In the absence of an alternative, though, I move that we create a system of signals whereby we can communicate between groups."

"Whistles?" Aragorn questioned.

"Perhaps. Smoke and flares, also, would work. But however it is done, it must be in such a way that we do not attract the attention of other spies. If we can avoid the Enemy up until reaching the mountains passes, our chances are greatly improved."

"Whistles then," Aragorn said with a glance at Legolas. The elf nodded in agreement.

"We have used such signals before with success," the prince said. "Shall we change our system?"

"No," Aragorn said after a moment of thought. "It is doubtful that the enemy will have taken the time to understand hunting whistles used occasionally by some of the Mirkwood elves."

"Then may I suggest you rest, Aragorn?" Legolas said. "The Warg may be near, but he is mad if he thinks to attack on my watch. At least for now, you can sleep without fear."

"And that is a luxury we will not have for much longer," Gandalf predicted ominously. "Well then, Aragorn and I must seek such rest as we may find on this dark day. But keep your bow at the ready, Legolas. He may grow bold while we slumber, and if you are offered a shot, be ready to take it."

"Trust in the bolts of the elves," Legolas promised with a tight smile, pulling an arrow from his quiver and sighting along its smooth, straight shaft. "Long have my people hunted the fell demons and beasts of the Misty Mountains. If this Warg dares to show himself, it will be his last appearance."

The afternoon was cold and cheerless, and despite his fur-lined cloak, Boromir found himself shivering in the chilly air. As silent as a stone sentinel, he stood on the edge of camp, watching the surrounding forest with the habitual wariness of a soldier. Before lying down to sleep, Legolas had warned him that the trailing Warg had crept close to camp this day, but the elf felt that the wolf had departed not long before Boromir rose. For his part, Boromir accepted this information with a nod and secret doubts. He was coming to trust the elf’s superior senses, but the voice of his inborn suspicion concerning other races was difficult to ignore. Whatever Aragorn’s feelings on the subject might be, Boromir was far more inclined to trust in the wisdom and judgement of man than in the intuition and insight of the elves.

Speaking of Aragorn…

The son of Gondor’s ruling steward glanced over at the Ranger. To his surprise, he found Aragorn looking back at him. Boromir blinked but gave no other sign that he was startled. Aragorn smiled slightly as though he knew his gaze was disturbing and rose.

"It is a cold day," he said quietly.

"It is," Boromir responded in kind. He was not about to ask what purpose Aragorn had in rising. If the Ranger wish to share that information, so be it. But Denethor’s son was not going to beg for it.

"Your watch has passed quietly," Aragorn continued, joining the other man on the edge of the camp.

"You speak as though you have been awake for much of it." Boromir told himself that this was not asking for information but merely demonstrating his ability for insight. True, it opened the door for Aragorn to explain why he was awake, but at least Boromir had not come right out and demanded the reasons for the Ranger’s actions. In any case, he did not think himself capable of demanding anything from this man, and to ask was to show weakness. But why cannot I demand things of him? Boromir suddenly wondered. Am I not heir to the rule of Gondor and the staff of the steward? Am I not second in the council of Minas Tirith, submissive only to my father? Who is Aragorn that I should fear him so?

"In truth, I have been awake since the beginning of Legolas’s watch," Aragorn answered, heedless of Boromir’s thoughts. "He told you of the Warg, but he did not tell you that the Warg’s presence woke him from his sleep before his scheduled watch. It also woke Gandalf and myself. I have been reluctant to sleep since."

Boromir frowned. "I was not aware of this creature."

"You have not hunted Wargs before. They have a…a feel about them. They are as shadows creeping upon your mind, and in daylight it is easier to sense their approach. But only those who have fought them are truly aware of them." Aragorn folded his arms across his chest and studied the dark woods touched by frost. "I am surprised Gimli did not wake, though perhaps he has not had cause to fight the wolves as his fathers did."

"It is a mystery to me that something in the north can be as much of a threat as the minions that issue forth from the Black Gate where Minas Tirith stands guard."

"As I said before at the Council, Boromir, Minas Tirith does not guard all roads, and the Enemy has many allies. Think of the fortress of Dol Goldur. For years, Sauron ruled southern Mirkwood from its fastness and Gondor was powerless to stop it. Nor could Gondor anticipate the treachery of Saruman and it cannot now guard against his minions that may breed at Isengard. The world is wider than you think, Boromir. Gondor is great, but Mordor is greater still."

Boromir was silent at this, considering Aragorn’s words. And it bothered him that he could not refute their logic. His pride in his country demanded that he rise to defend it, but how could he argue against such facts? Once more, he considered this man who stood next to him and possessed the alleged sword of Isildur. Not even in Rivendell had Boromir given much credence to the myth of Aragorn’s genealogy, but now…

"Tonight we are trying to draw the wolf out," Aragorn said, abruptly changing the topic much to Boromir’s relief. "We will split the Fellowship into two groups. You and I will lead Gimli, Merry, and Pippin ahead while the rest lag behind. Hopefully we will force the wolf to reveal himself in his attempts to track all of us. Legolas and I have a system of whistles that we have used before in similar maneuvers. That should serve us well now."

"Is it prudent to separate?" Boromir questioned before he could stop himself. "We would leave the latter group with no protection."

Aragorn’s eyebrows shot up. "No protection? They will have Gandalf and Legolas. What better protection could you desire in these dark forests? Even an army of the Last Alliance would do no better than the combined forces of a wood elf and a wizard."

"I hope your trust is not misplaced," Boromir said quietly. "But remember that they are not men. They are not our kind." And with that, Boromir strode away, vanishing into the trees before Aragorn could fashion a response.

Frodo woke to a small commotion that was steadily growing in volume and chaos. The scuffle of feet and the ring of an axe quickly drew his attention, and he sat up with a start, reaching instinctively for Sting. When he saw what was happening, he sighed and rubbed his eyes, wondering at the counsel of Elrond in putting an elf and a dwarf in the same company. Elrond himself was part elf. He should have known better.

Legolas and Gimli glared at one another from opposite ends of the camp with Gandalf and Aragorn restraining the elf while Boromir, Merry, and Pippin held Gimli back. The dwarf’s axe had been wrested from him and lay near Frodo, but that did not prevent Gimli from continually lunging at the elf who, for his part, was trying equally hard to get at the dwarf. "What is happening?" Frodo whispered.

"Quite a story to be sure, Mr. Frodo," a voice from behind answered.

Frodo turned around and studied Sam’s thoughtful face. "Do you know how this started?"

The other hobbit shuffled his feet and nodded. "More or less. I was making breakfast ready and Strider had just come back from scouting. Legolas was awake and he was doing something with his arrows when Gimli made some comment or other about Thraunduil and elven women. I don’t know exactly what it was that he said, but Legolas went all silent and then he rose and said something about Gloin screaming in Mirkwood’s dungeons. I guess he was referring to old Mr. Bilbo’s story, but I don’t rightly know. Well, then Gimli lunged and Legolas lunged right back. Strider tried to break them apart and then Gandalf and Boromir were there and before I knew it, Merry and Pippin were pulling Gimli back with Boromir and Legolas was over there with Strider and Gandalf."

"Oh." Frodo wasn’t quite sure what else to say.

"It’s such a shame it woke you," Sam continued. "You were sleeping peacefully at last, Mr. Frodo, but then this happened and there wasn’t anything I could do about it and…"

"Forget it, Sam," Frodo sighed. "It’s time I was up anyway."

By now, Aragorn’s constant talking to Legolas had calmed the elf to the point where he could be released, and Gimli was no longer jerking against Boromir’s firm grasp so he had also been let go. But neither one moved a step and continued to glare at each other across the camp.

"Gandalf?"

Aragorn’s deep voice cut a path through the tension, but no one relaxed. The wizard he had addressed continued to watch Legolas closely until the elf finally turned and met his gaze. Something passed between the two, but whatever it was did not agree with the elven prince. With a final glare at Gimli, he turned and stalked back to his bow and quiver, anger resonating from him as heat from a fire. Gandalf next turned to Gimli and held his eyes for the span of a few seconds. The dwarf shuddered, grumbled something in his own tongue, and turned away, retrieving his axe and moving to the edge of the forest.

"Perhaps it is best if we take breakfast on the trail this evening," Aragorn suggested quietly.

Gandalf nodded and turned his dark eyes toward Sam. "Can this be arranged, Master Samwise?"

Quailing beneath the wizard’s gaze, Sam nodded hurriedly. A brief smile from Gandalf relaxed the poor gardener and Sam was able to formulate words to accompany his nod. "I can put a walking breakfast together and it won’t take more than a minute."

"Thank you," Gandalf said, softening his eyes and attempting to further calm the hobbit. When Sam smiled back in return, the wizard nodded and then turned his eyes to the rest of the group. "While breakfast is being prepared for us, I will tell you what the plan is for tonight. We are departing from our normal procedure, for I fear we may be followed. If this is so, hopefully we can draw our pursuers into the open with this strategy. Aragorn and Boromir will take Gimli, Pippin, and Merry on ahead. The second group, comprising Frodo, Sam, Legolas, and myself, will depart shortly afterward. Because we will be in small groups, it is essential that everyone has their weapons at the ready." Gandalf glanced around the group to see if he still had everyone’s attention. Pippin appeared to be daydreaming and the wizard fixed a dark glare on him until the hobbit came back to the present and wilted beneath Gandalf’s baleful look. With a grunt of satisfaction, Gandalf nodded. "Let us be off, then. Aragorn, Boromir, you and your group are first. We will follow after."

Aragorn shouldered his small pack, for Rangers traveled lightly and he had brought few provisions, and started off into the forest, glancing back to see that Boromir, Pippin, Merry, and Gimli were following. Boromir would not make eye contact with him, but he did follow, taking up rearguard as Merry and Pippin took position between the two men. Gimli walked alongside Aragorn and ere long, they had vanished into the trees.

With a sigh of frustration, Gandalf shook his head and turned to the remainder of the Fellowship. The wizard had not missed the new tension between Aragorn and Boromir that materialized sometime during the night, but he hoped they could forget whatever quarrel lay between them. He was more hopeful of their getting along than he was of a certain elf and dwarf. This was further confirmed when he caught a glimpse of something in Legolas’s hand. The elf concealed it quickly when he sensed the wizard’s eyes on him, but Gandalf saw enough to recognize what it was the elf hid. Gimli would be missing his pipe tonight.

"How long shall we wait?" Frodo asked. He had also seen the stolen pipe but was unsure if broaching the subject was a safe move.

"We do not want them to draw too far ahead, but neither do we want to be just behind them," Gandalf answered. "We shall a quarter of an hour and then follow. That should give Aragorn enough time to find the proper trails and draw the attention of any pursuit that may be watching us."

"What do think is watching us?" Sam asked with a shiver, glancing at the surrounding forest.

"I have my suspicions, but night is not a good time to hear talk of fell things," Gandalf said evasively.

"I do not think we are watched now," Legolas said slowly. He stood apart from the others and scanned the forest quietly, using both eyes and ears to map out the surroundings. "All seems quiet and peaceful for the moment. It has been so since I woke."

Gandalf nodded to acknowledge the hidden message. The Warg had not been here in the morning. Where it went to was anyone’s guess, but it had not been around camp and it was not here now.

They waited a bit longer, the silence broken only by the swishing of Bill’s tail and an ominous rumble of thunder overhead. Upon hearing the thunder, Sam had grumbled something under his breath and started digging through his heavy pack. Gandalf had been unable to catch all Sam’s words, but he had heard a mild curse about the rain. Raising his eyes to the cloud-covered sky, he silently acknowledged the truth of Sam’s prediction. It would rain tonight.

After a few more minutes of waiting, during which anther rumble of thunder was heard, Gandalf stood. "Let us go," he said quietly. "The others have been given enough time. Stay close and stay alert. We may see things tonight."

And with these foreboding words echoing in their minds, Frodo and Sam rose and followed Gandalf, leaving Legolas to walk in back, a guard in the dark against any that might walk behind them. A flash of light lit the sky as they left the camp, and crack of thunder shook the ground. Murmuring a curse of his own, Gandalf pulled his cloak tighter around himself and picked up the pace.

They had been traveling for the space of about four hours in silence, having seen nothing and felt nothing, when they heard a faint whistling like unto a bird. It was difficult to hear above the howling of the wind, which had risen in force as the clouds gathered, but it was discernable. Gandalf glanced back at Legolas who had stopped at the whistle and cocked his head. The wind whipped his hair about his face, but he ignored it as the whistle came again. "They have found something," the elf eventually said, looking at Gandalf. "They are stopping to investigate."

"Was that Aragorn then?" Sam asked, huddling against Bill’s side as the wind wailed about them.

"It was," Gandalf said shortly. He watched the forest closely and then turned back to Legolas. "How far away would you say they are?"

"Perhaps half a mile," the elf estimated. "He says the shadow lies between us."

"That would explain it," Gandalf said to himself. "Tell him we feel it also but not to pursue. Let us lull it into a false sense of security. Perhaps it will grow bolder."

Legolas nodded and lifted his head to answer, but at that moment, a terrible crash of thunder bore down on them and at that signal, the clouds dropped their load of rain. Bill reared in fright and Sam seized the lead rein, struggling to bring the pony under control. Frodo raced to help him, but it wasn’t until Legolas stepped in and sang soft words to the horse, barely audible beneath the torrent of rain, that the pony calmed. Dripping wet, Sam and Frodo collapsed and huddled together.

"This rain would be better if I could watch it through a window," Sam muttered miserably. Frodo nodded wordlessly beside him and shivered as cold water began soaking through all his outer coverings.

"We will never catch him in this," Legolas called to Gandalf, pushing wet hair out of his eyes and keeping a firm hold on Bill’s halter.

"We must regroup," Gandalf said, tipping his head and watching as water poured off the brim of his hat. "Frodo! Sam! Come. We must rejoin the others."

Slipping and sliding in the mud, Frodo and Sam hurried after Gandalf, trying to stay close enough to see him through the curtain of falling water. Legolas followed after them, leading Bill behind him and stopping often to persuade the pony onward.

To Frodo and Sam, it seemed as though they walked forever through the blinding wall of rain. Gandalf’s gray cloak vanished and appeared before them sporadically as the wizard wound his way through dripping underbrush. They could no longer see Legolas or Bill behind them and Gandalf seemed to be drawing further ahead. Leaning against one another for support, they struggled to move faster. They were conscious of Gandalf turning and waiting for them once, but they were not allowed to rest. The wizard was in haste, for this rain would wash away all evidence of the other group’s trail and if they had turned aside, they would be nearly impossible to find.

A shrill whistle suddenly shot up from their left, freezing the small group in its tracks. "Aragorn!" Gandalf called hopefully, trying to make himself heard above the wind and the rain. There was no answer but in pausing to wait for one, they stood long enough that Legolas was able to catch up, leading a miserable pony behind him.

"They are this way," Legolas shouted, moving off to the left. "Aragorn has found shelter."

"Shelter?" Sam wondered. "In these woods? With rain like this, it better be a house at least."

"I shall be thankful that we are all together again," Frodo mumbled, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself.

"Hurry," Gandalf told the hobbits, moving behind them. "Follow Legolas."

Quickly obeying his instructions, the hobbits raced after the elf, who proved even harder to follow than Gandalf. Were it not for Bill sinking deep into the mud at times and leaving hoof prints, they might have become lost, for Legolas left very little imprint and blended well with his surroundings, making him almost impossible to see. Still, they managed somehow, and with Gandalf’s constant encouragement behind them and Legolas stopping now and then to encourage Bill before them, they eventually crashed into a small clearing.

"Aragorn!" Legolas cried, spotting a figure on the other side.

"This way," the Ranger called back, disappearing into the woods. Legolas hurried after him and the hobbits slid after the elf with Gandalf picking up the rear and watching the dark forest behind them. After another few minutes of harsh travel through the storm, Legolas disappeared into a copse of trees. Hoping this was the shelter Aragorn had found, Sam and Frodo rushed after him. They found themselves with the remainder of the Fellowship in the middle of many trees that grew so close together their branches were laced one with another. It was far from Sam’s idea of a shelter, but when compared with the outside world, it was cheerful and cozy. The thick branches and leaves overhead diverted part of the rain and here the company huddled together, listening as thunder continued to roar around them. Gandalf pushed his way through the trees and joined them after another minute.

"We will have to try again tomorrow night," Aragorn sighed as Gandalf approached. "It does not seem likely that this storm will pass before morning."

"It is very likely that we will camp here," Gandalf agreed. "The storm may pass by morning, but I fear another will follow. Can you think of other places of refuge we might pass that lie close to this?"

Aragorn glanced around as though trying to get his exact bearings. "There is a small stream not far from here," he finally said. "Along one bank, is has carved a small cave out of the rocks, but it is not large enough to hold all of us."

"If it holds only the baggage, that would be something," Gandalf said. "We will need dry clothes if we are to survive. And we could rotate turns within the cave. How long will it take to reach?"

"Five, maybe six hours," Aragorn guessed.

"Then let us head for that tomorrow night," Gandalf decided. "For now, let us prepare to wait out the storm here and also so spend the day. It is the weather and not Sauron who has beaten us today."

Water was running in rivulets through Gimli’s beard and down his back. He had managed to find a rock up out of the mud on which to set his pack and was sheltering some of his pipe-weed from the rain in the hopes that it would dry. Pippin had managed to get his pipe started and Gimli was now looking for his own, feeling that the pipe-weed had dried sufficiently for him to light it. Unfortunately, his pipe didn’t seem to be anywhere in sight.

Starting to worry that perhaps he had left it somewhere, Gimli went through his pack again but still with no success. His pipe was simply not there. Perhaps he had left it. The dwarf went through his evening packing activities, trying to recall if he’d done anything specific to the pipe. And actually, he had. He’d been smoking it when he’d implied that Legolas was an illegitimate son. And after Legolas had said that prison bit about his father Gloin, he’d lunged, he’d had his pipe in hand, he though he remembered it being knocked from him, and after that…hadn’t Legolas stooped to pick something up just as Gimli’s group had left camp?

With a gleam of suspicion in his dwarven eyes, Gimli straightened and turned to find Legolas. He spotted the elf near the pony, stroking its neck and speaking soft words. The animal was still agitated and the continuing thunder that rolled above them was not helping matters. Through narrowed eyes, the dwarf watched the two, searching for any sign that the elf had taken his pipe. And he soon found what he was looking for.

Literally.

The end of his pipe could be seen peaking out of the top of Legolas’s pack, which was slung over the pony’s neck. With an angry glower, Gimli stalked over, startling both Legolas and Bill, and seized the pipe. Turning on the elf, he caught a flash of merriment in the prince’s bright gray eyes before it was quickly replaced by alarm as Gimli lunged.

Aragorn, Gandalf, Boromir, Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Merry, and Bill the pony all watched and time seemed to slow. Gimli leaped for the elf, Legolas started to slide out of the way as he had before, and then the unthinkable happened. Legolas’s left foot slipped in a puddle. Down he went, arms pinwheeling madly as he struggle to regain his balance. He landed hard, but Gimli landed harder and the elf grunted in pain as the dwarf’s heavy frame drove all air from his lungs. Time then abruptly resumed its normal pace and the rest of the Fellowship, recovering from the shock of seeing an elf off balance, threw themselves at the struggling forms.

By the time they were finished, Bill was snorting on the other side of their shelter, Merry’s cloak had ripped, Pippin though a tooth was loose, Sam was spitting mud, Frodo was marveling that the Ring was still on its chain, Gandalf’s staff was missing, Boromir was trying to clear his horn of muddy water, Aragorn was dizzy, Gimli couldn’t stand, Legolas’s bow needed a new bow string, and the elf himself was incensed, furious, embarrassed, and affronted as only a young elven prince can be.

"That was different," Merry commented, staring up at the trees from his position in the mud.

"I could do with fewer differences," Pippin muttered, playing with his tooth.

"But we were taught to celebrate our differences."

Legolas struggled to his feet, dripping with mud and water. Flashing eyes the color of dark storm clouds sought out the dwarf and for a small moment, Gimli was afraid. "You…" the elf started, his voice low and dangerous, brimming with hatred and promises of vengeance.

"Not now!" Aragorn interrupted firmly, recovering enough to also get to his feet though he swayed slightly. "We will deal with this later. Both of you!" he added with a warning glance for the dwarf.

"Would it be possible to enjoy just one peaceful day?" Frodo asked quietly, rubbing the back of his head where he thought he felt a bump forming. "It’s already raining. Must we really make the situation worse?"

"The hobbit speaks wisely," Boromir said. "I for one would like to enjoy a moment of peace without worrying about the spies of the enemy hearing or seeing incidents such as these."

"Let us set the watches," Gandalf said wearily, finally finding his staff partially buried in the thick mud. "Aragorn, would you join me for the first and second watch? I have much I would discuss with you."

"Of course," the Ranger answered, wishing the world would stop spinning around him.

"Frodo, you will follow us. Pippin and Gimli, you have the last two. I suggest you all try to rest, even though the elements are not favorable at this time."

"Well, seeing as I’m already as muddy as I’ve ever been, I think I’ll just sleep here," Sam sighed, propping his head up on a rock and ignoring the squelching sound made by his body as he shifted to find a comfortable position.

"How can you do that, Sam?" Pippin asked with some amazement.

Frodo’s gardener thought about that for a moment before shrugging. "I don’t rightly know. All I really know is that I’m exhausted and nothing is going to stand between me and a good sleep. Not even you, Mr. Pippin."

"Hold onto that thought," Frodo recommended, settling down next to him. "There will probably be places worse than this on the journey ahead."

"Thank you for that optimistic thought," Merry said with a sleepy yawn. "I’m sure we shall all rest better now."

"You are welcome," Frodo murmured, closing his eyes and, despite the cold and wet, managing to fall into a dreamless slumber almost immediately.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Dae prestintin a erion. Law iston, dan gostan…— Something disturbed me and I rose. I do not know, but I fear…

Ha i draug. Anglenna ad—It is the wolf. He approaches again.

Tol—Come.

January 2, 3019

"And so we sit again and seek counsel," Aragorn sighed, taking a long draw of some rather damp pipe-weed. The rain continued to pour down through the trees, soaking everything it could reach. Though not as heavy as the cloud burst during the night, the storm was still severe and Aragorn was tempted to suggest the possibility of a fire. He didn’t because of the remote chance that this was no ordinary storm and the Enemy hoped they would reveal themselves, but it was still a fervent wish.

"Our old counsel has not held," Gandalf answered, wiping mud from his staff. "Therefore, I suggest we look for new counsel. And circumstances have changed somewhat." The wizard eyed the dark sky and the dripping leaves over head. "The weather, for example, seems to have turned against us."

"It also seems to have driven off the Warg," Aragorn pointed out. "Neither I nor Legolas felt any sign of him this morning." The Ranger paused and sighed at the mention of the elf. Shortly after the hobbits had fallen asleep, the elf had taken off. He would not be restrained, shrugging off all attempts to do so with deceptive strength, and he had not returned since. He would be back, Aragorn knew that much. But the elf’s pride needed to simmer, and until he could hold civil discourse with his companions, he would remain in the woods. With a shake of his head, Aragorn turned his mind again to their conversation. "I still do not feel this Warg. Perhaps the rain has also washed away our trail and our scent. He will have a more difficult time finding us if he is indeed gone."

"A difficult time, yes, but he will find us eventually," Gandalf said. "In fact, knowing our general location, it will probably not be more than a day or so before he hounds our tracks again. And there is the weather itself to consider. I had hoped to journey further south tonight or the next night, but if the streams begin to swell, it may serve us better to stay to the north where there are better crossings."

"In crossing streams, I think the hobbits and possibly Gimli will be the only ones at a disadvantage, and the hobbits at least will not object to being carried across. Barring that, they and Gimli can ride the pony. It will take longer, but we will be able to continue on our trail southward. And if you speak truly and the Warg quickly finds our scent again, we will not want to waste time wandering in the northern country. South is the most direct route, and I would vote for that."

"As would I. Our counsels agree then," Gandalf said. "All that remains now is to take thought for the Warg and the pursuit he may set to us. My heart still holds misgivings as to his motives. It is unlike a Warg to trail for so long without making some attempt at an attack. I fear he may be holding back because the main pack is not far behind."

"There have been signs of only a single Warg," Aragorn said. "Nowhere in this land do I feel the presence of a pack. Legolas has not said anything of that kind either, nor have you. Perhaps this is an injured Warg, or one that is overly cautious. And I still think the theory that he is an exile holds weight."

"If he had been injured, then Legolas would have been able to kill him two nights ago," Gandalf said. "A wood elf does not miss what he is hunting, yet the Warg was able to escape Legolas’s bow. No, he is in good health. As for being overly cautious, if that were true he would not be trailing us in the first place. And he drew quite close yesterday. Close enough to wake those of us who felt his presence."

"Then perhaps he is an exiled Warg and hunts us for purposes other than those of the Enemy."

"And what purposes would those be, Aragorn? Know you of any? Food? There is far easier prey to be found in the forest. Vengeance? He would have attacked long ago, not caring whether or not he perished so long as he ended the life of one who had offended him. Curiosity? He would have tired of us by the end of the first day." The wizard shook his head and looked out into the damp forest as water dripped from the brim of his hat. "No, it seems clearer with each moment that he is a scout or a spy. He has been sent to follow us and to mark our position. When the main pack arrives, they shall come on us swiftly and we shall be hard-pressed to drive them off."

"Then how do you propose we stop him?" the Ranger asked. "How shall we discourage him from following us and how shall we prevent other Wargs we might encounter from doing the same?"

"First of all, we must look at the problem one Warg at a time. It is no good worrying about the future if we cannot take care of the present. And as for the present, we must wait until the Warg returns. But we must also have ready a plan to spit him when he arrives. This is where you come in. I am learned in lore, but I fear that you are the wiser in hunting."

"Then perhaps we should hold counsel with Boromir and Legolas," Aragorn suggested. "Even Gimli may have suggestions for dealing with a following wolf."

"Perhaps," Gandalf mused. "But we would have to wait for one of that party to return from the woods."

Aragorn grimaced and looked to the surrounding trees. "He is angry, and well he might be. He fell before his foe, and his pride will sting for many days."

"So long as his pride does not lead us to trouble, he is welcome to it," Gandalf muttered. "But it is safer with the group than alone. A prince he might be and an accomplished hunter and archer, but he is still young as elves reckon the passing of years and he has much to learn. I fear what this journey may do to him and to the dwarf as well if they do not change their ways. A long road is hard, but it is harder still when you travel it with an enemy."

"I do not see any hopes that they will become friends," Aragorn remarked.

"They do not need to be friends. They simply need to cease to be foes. And they may surprise you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. There are many similarities between them that neither can see right now." The wizard sighed and wiped the last bit of mud from his staff. "Well, we cannot worry about that now. Let us return again to talk of the Warg. Have you any ideas at this time?

Aragorn was silent for a moment as he considered the problem. "I think," he said at length, "that Legolas had wise words yesterday when he suggested a trap."

"But you know well that we cannot stop to build one."

"I am aware of that, but we may not have to. A trap can take many forms, and as a Fellowship we ourselves might be a far more effective trap than any we might construct. I think our problem comes in luring the Warg into our grasp. Somehow, we must bait him and force him into revealing himself. We tried last night and failed in part to the weather, but as I now consider this, I do not think separating would have drawn him into the open. We must use bait, and I have in mind a way."

The Ranger fell silent for a moment. He was an odd sight, soaked with rain and caked with mud, but still there was a hidden air of royalty. Gandalf could not help but smile as he considered this muddy, weary, weathered man. He looked for all the world like a wandering vagabond, but in his eyes was light of purpose and destiny that might make an ordinary man quail to see. Even among his own people, rarely had there been a man of such strength and nobility. It gave the old wizard hope, for if fate had played a hand in raising Aragorn, surely it would not abandon them on their quest to destroy the Ring. "What is this other way of which you speak?" Gandalf finally asked when Aragorn remained quiet.

"I do not think the hobbits will approve," he eventually answered, glancing at Sam in particular. "But we are reaching a point of desperation." He looked at Sam once more and then shook his head. "Here, then, is my idea. This Warg is unlike ordinary wolves, but he is still a creature of flesh and blood. He has needs and wants, and he must pause to hunt, drink, and sleep. I have noticed that there is little game around here, and unless he has been most fortunate, he has had little to eat. I suggest…" Aragorn paused again as though coming to a difficult decision. With a deep breath, he plunged ahead. "I suggest we stake our pack animal away from our camp during the day in the hopes that the Warg will take the chance at easy prey."

"You are right," Gandalf said slowly after a moment of awkward silence. "The hobbits will not approve. I am not altogether certain that I approve."

"One could stand watch hidden within the cover of the trees, and the pony need not be far away," Aragorn reasoned. "I do not offer this choice gladly, but I see no other way at this time. When I hunted Wargs through Mirkwood with Legolas, we had large hunting parties capable of moving silently through the trees. All would separate and encircle an area where the wolf was suspected of hiding. Then the circle would start to close. The elf that saw the Warg first would send up a signal and all would converge. The Warg would then panic, he would make a mistake, and an elven arrow would find its mark. Here, we have not the advantage of numbers, nor do we have stealthy hunters. What we do have, though, is bait."

"I do not see how you will explain this to Sam," Gandalf said bluntly. "Nor do I have any desire to be present when you try to do so. But," the wizard continued, "I think your plan has a chance of success. However, I would not have us try this until the weather clears. Arrows and blades may go awry in the rain and I doubt that Sam will forgive you should he lose Bill."

"Then this is our plan?" Aragorn questioned.

"Until we can engineer a better," Gandalf said.

"Good. If that is indeed the case, I have a favor to ask. I would seek Legolas in this rain. Will you take the remainder of this watch?"

"Think you that he desires company?" Gandalf questioned.

"He may not desire it, but he is in need of it," Aragorn answered, rising and shaking his cloak out. "And he is in need of wise words, as well, or as much wisdom as I can give. Specifically, words concerning actions toward a certain dwarf, for I fear that unless he is stopped, he will seek retribution that may be his own undoing."

"Then seek him quickly, for as I said before, it is safer to remain with the group," Gandalf said.

"I will return ere the watch is over," Aragorn promised just before he disappeared silently into the trees. Gandalf sighed, shook his head, and took a lengthy pull on his pipe. It was already turning into a very long day.

* * * *

Perched high in a tree, his face turned upward into the rain, Legolas removed his quiver of arrows and leaned back against a broad trunk. Much of his fury was now being washed away, but smoldering pride still clamored for vengeance. The dwarf had simply gone too far, and Legolas was determined to see him pay. He didn’t know what form this payment would take, but he promised himself that it would be endlessly satisfying. Visions of a beardless dwarf running around in a frenzied panic entertained his thoughts as the crisp rain continued to fall.

A snapping twig about fifty yards away caught his attention. Other than that noise, the woods were completely silent. Reaching for his bow and drawing an arrow from the quiver that hung on a nearby branch, he moved away from the trunk and further out onto the limb, easily balancing himself on the narrow perch. Sharp, gray eyes studied the surroundings woods and after a bit, the elf relaxed, though he was not pleased by what he saw. Shoving the arrow back into the quiver and stringing the bow over his shoulder again, he resumed his seat and watched the progress of the intruder.

He wondered whether or not he should call out to Aragorn or if he should simply let the Ranger wander past. The only reason for Aragorn to be out in this downpour was the elf’s continued absence from the group, but company was the last thing Legolas wanted right now. That was the very reason he had left the Fellowship in the first place. A spark of anger flared in the elf’s heart but died quickly. Aragorn did this out of concern for a friend with whom he’d hunted the servants of the Enemy and in whom he had confided during many cold, cheerless nights around a small fire in the dark places of Mirkwood. It would not be fair to allow him to continue to wander. Of course, there was the small chance that he would be able to find the elf on his own, but Legolas doubted it. He had left the ground not far from where the Ranger was currently tracking, and even Aragorn could not follow an elf’s trail in the trees. Legolas was mildly impressed he had followed him even this far, for elves make little imprints and the rain would have washed away much evidence of his passing. But there he was, stubbornly reading the signs that indicated where Legolas had gone and continuing to trudge on as the rain continued to pour down.

He should be back in the shelter, the elf thought to himself as he watched the man shiver. He then had to silently laugh for calling their campsite a shelter. It was merely a collection of trees where the rain could not penetrate as well.

With a shake of his dripping head, he moved down a branch and squinted through the rain at Aragorn. The Ranger had reached the spot where Legolas had taken to the trees, and he was clearly frustrated and angry. Doubtless he has many words to say to me, the elf perceived. He thought a moment more and then made his decision. If angry words are to be said then let us say them. I would not have him dwell on his anger all morning and then release his rage tonight.

Seizing and shouldering his quiver, the elf jumped lightly down from the tree and started toward the Ranger. He debated about whether or not it would be wise to surprise Aragorn. It would be great fun, but it would also be dangerous if Aragorn reacted as though threatened. In the end, fun won over caution and Legolas slipped silently from tree to tree, making use of the foliage as one who has lived for centuries in the forest. Aragorn seemed to sense his approach and turned, but he bore the expression of one both puzzled and exasperated. Legolas hid a smile and moved closer, wondering how quickly he would have to dodge when Aragorn swung at him.

He looks as though he wishes to call for me, Legolas thought as he moved closer and was able to see more clearly through the rain. Of course he cannot, for that would alert our enemies. But I do not think I have ever seen him so…frustrated. Legolas was beginning to have second thoughts about startling the Ranger, but he was too close now to back down. Besides, in some ways this could be compensation for the early morning’s embarrassing fall. Aragorn might not be responsible for what had happened, but to the elf’s mind, scaring the Ranger would serve as a strange form of retribution. Besides, the others would never allow the punishments he wished to inflict upon Gimli. This might very well be his only chance at some kind of vengeance.

Aragorn now looked into the trees as though seeking for some sign of the elf. Legolas shook his head at that while he continued his stealthy movements. The Ranger should know better than to attempt the tracking of a wood elf in the forest. Once an elf took to the trees, finding him was nigh unto impossible. Aragorn knew that as well as anyone, but still he tried to search. His movements tentative and uncertain, he started moving toward another tree that had a large branch within easy jumping distance of his first tree.

Wrong direction, Legolas thought wryly. I chose not the easy way. But I suppose that to you, Aragorn, all paths in the trees are difficult. The elf glanced at the tree he had actually jumped to and the slender limb that had served as his landing point. From here, it did not look as though it could support his weight, but elven movements within the trees were not always bound by what could and could not be done. Sometimes it was more a question of what the tree would and would not permit. And this tree had quite willingly stretched out its slender limb and strengthened it to provide a place for Legolas to land.

Directing his attention back toward the wet, wandering Ranger, Legolas crept closer. He thought he caught a muttered curse as Aragorn realized the futility of his search. But the man had to know that he was watched. An elven gaze was not an easy thing to miss, and Aragorn had an uncanny knack for sensing when he was being observed. Deciding that the time for hiding was probably over, Legolas moved out of the dripping bushes and stood quietly behind the Ranger.

With another muttered curse, Aragorn turned around as though to head back, saw Legolas, and flinched violently. A smile played with the corners of the elf’s lips at the same time a flash of anger flickered in the Ranger’s dark eyes. "That was not the wisest thing you have ever done, young prince," Aragorn said quietly, his voice too controlled and too calm.

"My friend, there is no conceivable rational you could use to justify calling me ‘young,’" Legolas replied, deciding to temporarily divert the conversation. "Among my own people, it is true enough, but I have lived far longer than you or anyone else in the Fellowship save Gandalf."

Still annoyed, Aragorn folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. "Did you seek your own death by coming behind me? Or had you another motive?"

"What of yourself?" Legolas returned. "What motive had you for following me?"

Sensing that he was not about to win a word game with the elf unless he turned this into an all-day activity, Aragorn relented and shook his head. "I followed you because I needed to speak with you. And also, I was concerned. Even apart from the Fellowship, it is known to the Warg that you are a member of it and he will seek your death if he can contrive it."

"Then he will have to learn how to conduct himself in a forest better than a wood elf can," Legolas said easily. "He is used to the high mountains and the hidden valleys where trees are sparse and thin. I think you need have no fear on my part."

"I fear not only for your safety but for your actions," Aragorn said, a note of warning entering his voice.

"My actions?" Legolas sounded puzzled, but he actually had a fairly good idea of what the Ranger might be referring to.

"Or future actions, perhaps," the Ranger amended, "as they pertain to a certain dwarf." He paused to study the elf, but Legolas’s face did not change. Only in his eyes did there come a hint of emotion, and then it was but fleeting. Aragorn shook his head slightly. "You cannot continue this ridiculous quarrel. You are a danger to the Quest and the Ring-bearer."

"Perhaps that is true of the dwarf," Legolas said, his eyes beginning to narrow. "But as for me, I have not forgotten the true reason for our journey. My actions have never once betrayed us to Enemy spies or called down Enemy arrows. Nor will they ever."

"So you say, but in these dark times, even small mischief might go awry. You say I cannot call you young, but these pranks are childish! What misfortune has this particular dwarf brought upon your house? You did not even know him until three months ago."

"Does that matter?" Legolas questioned.

"Does the Quest matter?!"

Gray eyes storming over with anger and indignation, Legolas tightened his jaw. "I know the importance of what we do, as does every elf from here to the Undying Lands. Do not preach to me on the importance of that which Frodo bears! It carries with it the future of the Eldar race and ultimately our undoing, for either way the Quest bends, our days in Middle Earth are ended."

"Then let them end with honor and victory!" Aragorn said.

"You think I would have it any other way?" Legolas demanded.

"If you would not, then show it," Aragorn challenged, growing angry in turn. "The dwarf is not your enemy. Save your cunning for the true foes. We shall have need of it ere our quest is through."

For a long, awkward moment, elf and man stood facing one another in a test of wills. It was Legolas who eventually looked away. "This morning’s actions can not go unpunished," he murmured, a hint of his father’s stubbornness entering his voice.

"Legolas, you are immortal," Aragorn said, completely exasperated. "You have years uncounted to roam at will through Middle Earth and Valinor. One small embarrassment in the wilderness does not merit your concern. One hundred years from now, none will remember this incident. Is the safety of Middle Earth truly so trivial that you would throw it away for your pride?"

"Your concerns are unfounded," Legolas said flatly. "I will not endanger us."

"You cannot be certain of that. Anything you do might be a danger."

"Our very presence is a danger to the Ring-bearer, yet we are still with him," the elf shot back.

The Ranger ran a tired hand over his face. "If I cannot convince you, will you at least promise me one thing?" he asked wearily.

"What is that one thing?"

"Do nothing today or tonight. Wait."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because we are already in bad circumstances," Aragorn answered bluntly. "We do not need the two of you making it worse."

"Then I suggest you speak to the dwarf."

"Legolas!"

The elf scowled, but he eventually nodded in grudging assent. "Very well," he said, though he was clearly not happy about the situation. "You have my word that I will do nothing today and I will do nothing while night endures."

"Thank you," Aragorn sighed. "And I will talk with Gimli during his watch." Wiping the dripping rain from his forehead, the Ranger glanced around the forest. "Will you come back to the Company now? There is safety in numbers, and the rain is less beneath our trees."

"Less, but not abated. And once you are wet enough, it makes little difference where you stand."

"True, but there is still safety."

"The forest is quiet today," Legolas said evasively. "All the creatures are sleeping through the storm. If danger does approach, I shall hear it soon enough."

"For my sake then," Aragorn tried. "At least as a sign of unity. The hobbits, I think, feel safer when we present ourselves as a group rather than as quarreling foes."

"The hobbits are asleep."

"Frodo and Pippin have watches."

"So does Gimli."

Aragorn finally threw up his hands. "Then would you humor me? Or would you at least show some interest in a mission for which Elrond deliberately chose you?"

Legolas studied the Ranger and finally nodded. "If that is truly your wish, then I will come back. But do not expect me to hold discourse with the dwarf. Though I have given my word not to initiate mishap, I will act in self-defense."

"You shall have no cause to do so," Aragorn assured him, turning back toward the meager camp as the elf fell into step beside him. "I intend to speak with him and extract from him the same promise you gave me."

"The word of a dwarf," Legolas said with a derisive snort.

"The word of a dwarf is more reliable than that of most Races," Aragorn said sharply. "They have a fierce sense of honor, and their stubbornness and pride rivals that of the elves."

To this, Legolas made no response but fell silent at the Ranger’s side, watching the surrounding trees and occasionally wiping his face free of rain. At least we will have peace for a while, Aragorn thought. Though I doubt not that at sunrise tomorrow, they will be at it again. Still, as Gandalf had already said, a feud spanning thousands of years could not be mended in a day or even a week. But at least it could be put aside for a small time. And I suppose I shall have to settle for that, Aragorn sighed. For I see no hope that the two of them shall ever be more than bitter foes.

* * * *

Boromir did not like the rain. He never had, and he didn’t see this opinion changing in the near future. He didn’t care for mud, either. Oh, he’d endured many military campaigns in the shadows of the Ephel Duath Mountains when they were cloaked in cloud and rain and hail blew hard against the face of every man. But that didn’t mean he’d enjoyed those particular outings. In fact, those were the times when he usually turned command of the main regiment over to Faramir and took control of the scouts, who slipped in and out of the undergrowth and avoided much of the moisture that hounded the troops in the open.

Turning over with an ill temper in the squelching mud, he wondered if there was a piece of him somewhere that was not thoroughly soaked through to the bone. He decided there wasn’t and sighed heavily. Perhaps things would improve once they got underway. He had to snort in derision at this rather optimistic thought. He had been partially awake when Gimli had taken over on watch, and he had listened with interest to the conversation Aragorn had endured with the dwarf, eventually receiving a promise that Gimli would not take action against Legolas for one day and night. It had been something of a learning experience for Boromir as Aragorn had used expressions and phrases that the dwarf immediately responded to, but they had held no particular meaning for Boromir. It is as I felt before. He is too sundered from his own Race and knows too much of elves and dwarves. And even hobbits, it seems!

Boromir rolled over again, stubbornly ignoring the clinging mud as he did so and looked for Aragorn among the dozing Fellowship members. The Ranger was nowhere to be seen, and Boromir quickly noted that the elf was also absent. Scouting, most likely. He chooses strange companions, if Legolas was indeed a choice. I suppose the presence of a wood elf might aid him in these dark forests, but how shall elven counsel ever rival that of a man’s?

A string of imaginative dwarven curses caught his attention and he cast his eyes toward Gimli. Gimli was attempting to smoke some pipe-weed—a substance that never failed to send shivers of disgust down Boromir’s spine—and he was failing miserably as the rain relentlessly doused any spark of flame that he might manage. It was probably not the best start to their day, though there was still an hour left before the company was expected to rise. Still, in his small time with Gimli, Boromir had quickly learned that the dwarf’s fiery temper was to be avoided at all costs, and it looked as though this continuing rain was making that temper shorter than ever. Promise or no, Legolas had best be on his guard. Of course, the elf seemed perfectly capable of defending himself through both words and actions providing there was sure footing beneath him.

The man shook his head as he recalled the mishap of the early morning. That had been something Boromir would not soon forget. The gasps from Aragorn and Gandalf, the bewilderment and gleam of victory in Gimli’s eyes, the flash of complete surprise and confusion followed by burning rage for Legolas…it had all happened in but a few seconds, but those few seconds spoke eloquently about the personalities of his companions, giving Boromir more to go on than all his observations in Rivendell had provided. I wonder how it shall all play out, Denethor’s son pondered, surrendering to his wakefulness and sitting up with a slight stretch. If nothing else, it shall be interesting.

"You are up early," Gimli observed, his voice bitter and angry.

"I saw no reason to lie in the mud once I woke," Boromir replied, carefully giving the dwarf a wide birth as he strode around the camp and worked the stiffness from his muscles. "Know you where Aragorn or Legolas are?"

"Aragorn is scouting," Gimli said, making no mention of the elf.

"I see," Boromir said slowly, trying to decide how to read the omission of Legolas. Did that mean that the elf was scouting with Aragorn or that the dwarf didn’t know where he was?

The question was answered by a low, rather dangerous-sounding voice behind the man. "As for me, I am right here."

Turning with a jerk, Boromir’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Legolas leaning against a tree on the edge of camp. He had not seen the elf and it is doubtful that he would have had not Legolas announced himself. "How long have you been there?" Boromir demanded.

"Long enough."

"He has been there since the beginning of my watch," Gimli spat, glaring at the elf who continued to watch him with eyes that could pierce a dragon’s soul.

Boromir despaired of understanding either one of these strange beings and walked away, moving to his pack and trying to clean it of the thick mud. After a few minutes, he gave up and turned back only to find that dwarf and elf were still staring at each other, neither one giving ground though it looked as though Gimli longed to. A staring contest, Boromir despaired. And father says that Faramir and I can behave childishly at times!

Sounds of a clearing throat interrupted the staring contest and three sets of eyes turned to Aragorn who had just returned from scouting. "I believe that both of you promised me something," he said with a dark glower.

"So we did," Legolas replied coolly. "And I at least am true to my word."

"What do you mean by that, elf?!" Gimli demanded.

"If you cannot understand it, then that is your loss," Legolas answered.

"Perhaps this morning’s fall has rattled your mind and you make no sense when you speak," Gimli challenged.

A flash of rage bright enough to compare with Denethor’s anger flickered through the elf’s eyes, and Boromir felt a quick surge of respect for Legolas. Anyone who could summon as much ire as his father was able to summon deserved at least a nod from him. "You would do well to watch yourself, Durin’s son," Legolas said softly, and his tone sent shivers down Boromir’s spine. "I fear there is more substance in your beard than there is in your head."

"Enough!" Aragorn interjected sharply. His voice caused Pippin to stir and roll over while Gandalf murmured something less than complimentary. The Ranger gave them no heed and continued. "Taking no action against the other includes derisive remarks."

"That was not part of the agreement," Gimli said.

"It is now," Aragorn warned. Both Gimli and Legolas sent him dark looks, which the Ranger returned with skill and anger.

By the staff of the stewards, Boromir thought bleakly, stomping into the surrounding forest as nature called to him. He had no intention of being caught in the crossfire should something develop from this current confrontation. He shook his head, still pondering the personalities with which he was forced to travel. I fear that once more, he ultimately decided, it will be a very long night.

* * * *

"507."

"508."

"509 and 510."

"Pippin and Merry!" Frodo warned, his voice sounding tired and haggard.

"511."

"512 through 526."

"Merry and Pippin!" Frodo tried again.

"I’m truly sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam mumbled as he led a dispirited pony behind the Ring-bearer. "But on my honor, I didn’t know they would take my suggestion to heart!"

Tired of listening to muttered complaints about the weather from both Merry and Pippin, Sam had suggested they count the number of large raindrops that hit their feet instead of grumbling. He now seriously regretted his actions. The continual stream of numbers was beginning to grate on everyone’s nerves.

"Aragorn, a moment please. And if I could have quiet from everyone else…"

Gandalf’s rather pointed suggestion succeeded in silencing Merry and Pippin momentarily, but Sam and Frodo both knew that this reprieve would not last long enough. Digging into one of Bill’s many bags and finding a collection of dried meat, Sam munched away, trying to think of a time when he’d been dry and comfortable. He watched the shadowy figures of Strider and Gandalf curiously, wondering what they were saying and if they were talking about finding shelter. He had to admit that his idea of shelter differed vastly from Strider’s idea of shelter. Their camp during the day had not been dry in the slightest, but when compared to the rain outside their collection of trees, it had been a rather bitterly pleasant place to sleep.

"533," Pippin whispered. Sam felt like slugging him but didn’t because one: it would be improper and inappropriate, and two: it would interrupt the travel of food from his hand to his mouth.

Not constrained by these reasons, Frodo went ahead and sent Pippin sprawling into the mud. Merry laughed delightedly but quickly stopped when faced with Frodo’s dark glare. But when Pippin turned an outraged expression on the entire group, even Frodo couldn’t help but smile slightly.

"Come," Gandalf announced abruptly, pulling attention away from Pippin’s muddy form. "We shall turn south and follow the course of this stream. Aragorn can lead us to a place where the bank has been undercut. It may provide us with a shelter of sorts."

"Now he qualifies his shelters," Sam muttered. "And if this is a ‘shelter of sorts,’ and yesterday was a ‘shelter,’ I wonder how wet we’ll be by tomorrow evening."

"Have no fear, Master Samwise," Aragorn laughed quietly, having overhead the hobbit’s grumbled remark. "This shelter shall provide more cover. The problem comes in its size, for not all of us will be able to fit within. But we will be able to store the baggage, and if nothing else comes of it, we may have dry garments to don tomorrow."

"The river is running high this year," Legolas interjected softly. "And the rain makes it worse. Will your shelter still be there or shall the river have risen above it?"

"That is something we will have to see," Aragorn answered coolly. The hobbits didn’t miss this strange degree of tension between elf and Ranger. As Sam thought about it, he realized the two had barely spoken a word to one another since they’d started the journey, and that was odd, because they were usually sharing some private joke or speaking softly during halts. He wondered what the reason could be for this and ultimately decided that he really didn’t want to know. He only wished they could make amends quickly because he liked Strider and he wanted to get to know Legolas better. It seemed wrong that they should be upset with one another.

The Fellowship trudged on through slick mud and thick rain for perhaps another two hours before Aragorn called a quick halt. Wiping water from his face, he walked forward into the trees and disappeared from all save the eyes of Legolas. Straining his sight, the elf could make out the silhouette of the Ranger approaching the riverbank where the water was flowing swiftly. Aragorn glanced up and down the stream, looking for something, and then he moved forward again. There was another pause, and then he turned back toward the company. At length, he stepped out from the trees and addressed Gandalf, though his words could be easily heard by everyone.

"The river has not drowned this shelter as Legolas feared," he said. "But it is smaller than I remember, probably due in part to the rising water. We shall be able to store the packs there and lay out clothes for drying, but I fear that with the supplies inside that there shall be no room for the rest of us. For ourselves, we must seek a different site or endure this storm here as best we can."

"Baggage without a guardian is a dangerous thing, even here in lands without inhabitants," Gandalf mused quietly. "Two must stand watch: one for the packs and one for the company." He was quiet a moment more, studying the weather thoughtfully. "Legolas, Boromir, and Aragorn. You shall rotate through guarding the packs. You three are all familiar with swift rivers and their danger, and you are used to longer watches and difficult circumstances."

"Then let us store the baggage and set one to watch while the other two go one with the rest of the Fellowship," Aragorn said. "This way, two will know where the Fellowship lies and we may meet up with you again when darkness falls."

Gandalf nodded, accepting the Ranger’s council. "Unload the pony. Let us work on storing our packs here, and then we may proceed the faster to a place of better shelter."

"See, Sam?" Merry spoke up. "Now it’s a ‘better’ shelter."

"But better than what?" Sam wondered with a sour glance at the sky. "Not better than a house, that’s certain."

"Even if it was better, how could we tell?" Pippin asked, pulling a large sack of food off Bill. "We’re really too wet to notice a difference."

Once again, Sam seriously considered slugging Pippin.

* * * *

The clouds had gone from a dark gray to a lighter gray, which meant the sun was rising though none could really tell. Boromir had stayed with Bill and the luggage while Legolas and Aragorn traveled on with the rest of the group, searching for some place where they might be reasonably dry. Without the pony and the packs, they were making good time, but they had yet to find a place where they might comfortably spend the day. Frodo was beginning to wonder if the river might not be the driest place to sleep when Aragorn suddenly stopped and swung left through the forest.

Puzzled by his abrupt actions, Gandalf halted and the rest of the Fellowship stopped behind him. It did not take long for Aragorn to return, and he bore a weary but grateful smile. "I have found something that might pass for a shelter," he reported. Ignoring Sam’s audible groan, he beckoned them to follow.

A few minutes later, they were facing a rocky overhang that offered refuge from the rain so long as the wind did not blow. Considering the fact that the wind had been gusting on and off throughout the previous day, this was not much. But it is better than nothing, Frodo allowed.

"I think we need to work on our definitions," Sam stated, eyeing the rocks. "My version of a shelter isn’t the same as everyone else’s version of a shelter."

"No, Sam, I think you and I are on the same page," Pippin said. "That is not a shelter."

"Would you have us construct a house for you?" Gimli asked. "Or perhaps a hobbit hole with lush furnishings, a warm bed, and a hot bath to go with it?"

"I’d settle for a warm bed and a hot bath," Merry said. "You can keep the furnishings."

"It is either this or the trees," Gandalf said, moving beneath the overhang. "And I have chosen this."

"Then Legolas and I will leave you," Aragorn said. "Take comfort, my friends, in the fact that your bed will be drier than ours. Until morning."

"Until morning," Gandalf answered with a nod.

Aragorn turned to go, but Legolas stood still, his head cocked and his eyes closed as though listening. The Ranger turned to him with a confused expression and moved as though to speak, but at that moment, the elf’s eyes popped open. He set an arrow to his bow with a speed no mortal eyes could follow, and then the bolt screeched through the morning air.

An outcry from Gimli and gasps from the hobbits followed. Almost afraid to look, Aragorn and Gandalf tracked the arrow’s flight path until their eyes rested on the dwarf. He was pinned to a nearby tree by his beard, the arrow securely nailing it in place. Aragorn turned an outraged expression on Legolas only to be met with a smile. Shouldering his bow, the elf met the Ranger’s challenging eyes with a cool calm as he folded his arms across his chest.

"The sun has just risen," he said simply.

January 3, 3019 (Day)

"You might have killed him."

"Would that have been a waste?"

"Legolas! He is a member of the Fellowship."

"He was in no danger. The wind was steady, he was resting, and the arrow was well crafted. It would have been impossible to miss that shot. Even a hobbit could have made it."

Listening to the conversation of his companions, Boromir wondered if he should hazard a guess as to the subject of their conversation. Instinct and common sense told him it concerned Gimli, but he was reluctant to ponder as to what an arrow might have to do with the dwarf. But at least one good thing was born of the argument between Aragorn and Legolas. Boromir could hear them coming and would not be taken by surprise.

"There is always a degree of uncertainty with arrows, even elven arrows! Elrond chose the dwarf! The least you could do would be to show him some form of acceptance as a member of this Fellowship."

Definitely about Gimli, Boromir decided, studying the surrounding trees and wondering if they could be bent to form a kind of lean-to.

"I honored your request, Aragorn, and I did not act until sunrise. Now would you please honor my request and let this matter fall?"

"I cannot let this matter fall because this matter happens to concern all free creatures from here to the Gray Havens."

Still listening to the conversation with part of his mind, Boromir decided that if the trees would bend beneath his weight and he used the straps from the group’s scabbards and quivers, he could probably form a rough shelter. It would be about as effective as their shelter from the previous day, but in this rain, something was better than nothing. Laying his horn and shield to the side, Boromir gauged one slender tree and leaped, catching hold of a large branch. Pulling himself up, he started to climb higher, hoping that near the top he would be able to pull the tree over towards another tree and lace the two together.

"We have already discussed the matter of all free creatures from here to the Gray Havens, and I have already assured you that my actions will in no way endanger them. I know perhaps better than any save Gandalf what lies at stake. My people have fought this menace since the dawn of time, and since my birth I have fought alongside them."

"I, too, have been trained since birth to fight, and I would not see my training go to waste because of the actions of a foolish elf."

"Foolish elf!? And what of man, Aragorn? What of your own ancestors? The Ring might have been destroyed long ago were it not for them."

"Well do I know that, and long have I labored to correct their mistakes. I warn you, do not make mention of that again. I am not my fathers."

"Nor am I. Let me handle the dwarf in my own way and in my own good time. Cease to pry into affairs that are none of your concern."

Boromir was now quite high in the tree, and it was starting to sway from side to side. Clinging to a limb while he waited for the swaying to cease, Boromir reflected on the fact that he had never heard Aragorn and Legolas argue. Not like this, anyway. Differences of opinion there had been and always would be, but angry contention was something new, and it caused Boromir to shiver. They were only a few yards away from the campsite now, and if they looked up, they would probably be able to see Denethor’s son dangling from a tree. But both were too locked in their private quarrel to worry about trivial things like their surroundings. Or the fact that Boromir’s current situation was slightly precarious.

"The Fellowship is my concern and the safety of the Ring-bearer!"

"And the safety of the Ring-bearer has no connection with my actions toward a greedy, gold-grubbing dwarf. If anything, I do Frodo a favor!"

"You do Frodo a disservice as well as bringing down the spirits of the entire company!"

"I am not responsible for the emotional well-being of those around me. They choose to feel the way they feel, and it is foolish to think I should hold any sort of accountability for that."

Boromir was not in the habit of asking for help. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d done so. He’d once asked Faramir to draw an arrow from his side. He’d asked Denethor for the interpretation of the dream he and his brother had shared, something that ultimately led him to Imladris. He’d asked another guard to stand watch with him at Henneth Annûn because a large company from Harad drew nigh and Boromir feared he could not watch all roads at once. And he’d asked Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth to command the forces at Pelargir while he led a quick raid northwards into the forests of southern Ithilien. But other than those rare occurrences, Boromir was a fiercely independent man who chafed at the possibility that he might need aid. Yet as he hung from a tree upon a branch that was making rather disturbing cracking sounds, he realized he might need to request help yet again.

"Whether you admit it or not, you are an integral part of our group and your emotions affect those around you. You are an elf, Legolas! How can you think you would have anything less than a great effect?"

"Well do I know that I am an elf, and that should say something to you. I know what I do, and I tread my own paths cautiously."

Legolas and Aragorn were now directly below Boromir, but they were so intent upon one another that both elven archer and Ranger failed to realize that Denethor’s son seemed to have vanished from the campsite. Such a failure was a unique occurrence in Middle Earth and one worthy of note, but Boromir was too preoccupied to appreciate the significance of this event. Hoping he could avoid asking outright for assistance, he cleared his throat significantly and tried to knock some leaves down onto the two below him.

"You tread recklessly when you fire arrows at innocent dwarves!"

"Innocent?! May I remind you that…Boromir?"

Boromir sighed in relief at the same time he tried to look a little more competent in the trees. "I trust the others found sufficient shelter?" he called down.

Below him, Aragorn nodded slightly, his face showing obvious confusion. Legolas looked equally bewildered, but a smile was playing with the corners of his mouth and a twinkle of merriment glistened in his gray eyes.

"That is good," Boromir said, wincing as a shuddering crack ran along the limb to which he clung. "I would hope that drier bodies will result in better spirits." He wondered just how long it would take them to realize he needed help or if he would have to speak of it.

"Might I inquire as to what exactly you are doing?" Aragorn finally said after a moment of awkward silence.

"I was hoping to lash some of these trees together near the top where the trunks are slender," Boromir said as another crack sounded. He glanced anxiously at the point where the limb sprang from the trunk and with a sinking heart realized he had but moments to live. "We might be able to provide ourselves with some shelter this way," he continued, trying vainly to keep a note of grim fear from his voice.

"Legolas…"

"I see it."

Boromir swung slightly, trying to see what Aragorn and Legolas were doing down there. He could still see the Ranger, he could even see Bill where the pony was hobbled off to the side, but he had lost track of the elf. He wondered where Legolas had gone and then his thoughts were abruptly sidetracked by an ominous creak.

"You have not done this often, have you?"

Boromir gasped and nearly lost his grip as a voice sounded just above his head. Looking up, he caught sight of Legolas who was attempting to maneuver himself closer to the dangling man. "How did you…were you not on the ground a minute ago?"

"I was," Legolas answered, swinging off a limb and neatly catching another all in one smooth motion. "And if we do not act quickly, you will be on the ground in less than a minute." Now only a few branches away, Legolas studied the surrounding limbs, attempting to find a place that would hold both his weight and Boromir’s.

"Can you get to the tree next to you?" Aragorn shouted.

Legolas gave it a quick glance and shook his head. "That tree is wary of Boromir and does not seem inclined to lend us its aid."

"What does a tree know?" Boromir demanded, trying to decide whether to be confused, angry, or resigned to his fate.

"That you are too heavy to be this high," Legolas answered, jumping up one more branch and turning around. Wrapping his legs around the trunk behind him, he stretched out on his limb and extended his hand down toward Boromir. "Can you reach me?"

Boromir gingerly pulled himself up, but at that moment, his branch gave out. With a yell, he found himself falling and then his fall was violently arrested. His cloak constricted around his neck and his hands flew to it to prevent it from choking off his airway. A surprised grunt from up above and a small exclamation of surprise was all the reaction Legolas gave as he tightened his flimsy hold on the end of Boromir’s cloak and struggled to keep the man from falling.

"Now what?" Boromir managed to croak out as he started to strangle.

"Is there anything you can grab?" Legolas asked through gritted teeth.

Reaching out with one hand while the other tried to keep his airway open, Boromir’s flailing arm found a sturdy limb, and he quickly seized it. "Let go," he told Legolas.

With a sigh of relief, the elf let the cloak drop. Boromir felt the noose around his neck loosen and as he started to swing, he grabbed the limb with his other hand as well. Feeling about with his feet, he found a larger branch off to the side and jerked himself over. Hooking a leg over it, he managed to pull himself into a sitting position. With a shudder as the adrenaline in his system started to fade, he leaned back against the trunk and closed his eyes.

"If you are both done, I suggest you come down," Aragorn called. "I think we have played in the tree long enough."

"Actually, I believe Boromir had a good idea," Legolas responded, starting to climb higher in the tree. "Though I am at a loss as to what we could use to lash these trees together. But up here, there are branches that might be intertwined if we could find something akin to a rope."

"I was thinking that the straps from the packs or from your quiver might serve," Boromir said wearily. He opened his eyes and looked for Legolas, but the elf was too high and too at home in the trees. Only when he moved could Boromir find him.

"Aragorn? Catch."

The Ranger moved away from the tree trunk where he had been considering going up to check on Boromir. A quiver sans strap plummeted toward him and he moved back slightly to grab it. "Can you make it work?" he asked.

"We shall soon see."

Branches were now shaking violently above as Legolas sought to craft some sort of roof in the treetops. Feeling vibrations in the trunk, Boromir decided that the ground would probably be the safest place for him. With a great deal of care, he started down the tree.

After several long minutes of cautious climbing, Boromir found himself back on solid ground and enduring a rather amused look from Aragorn. "The elf is very high," Boromir said gruffly, trying to direct attention away from himself. "Is he safe up there?"

Aragorn’s amusement seemed to grow and he smiled as he glanced upward. "He is a Silvan elf. He is probably safer there than he is down here."

High above, the branches suddenly shifted with a note of finality and rain ceased to fall upon the two men below. There was a slight sound of movement, and then nothing. Boromir scanned for signs of Legolas, but he found no sign of the elf until—

"I think that will serve us well."

Boromir barely managed to keep from jumping as he swung around to discover Legolas behind him. Noting his surprise, the elf’s eyes danced with merriment and he smiled.

"My apologies, Master Boromir," the prince said with a slight bow. "I did not mean to startle you. Next time, I shall conduct myself in the manner of a dwarf so as to alert you of my presence."

A mixture of anger and chagrin warred within Boromir as he considered how to respond to that, but Aragorn beat him to it.

"Dwarves can move quickly and silently if they have great need."

Legolas looked as though Aragorn had just solemnly stated that the Misty Mountains were really large piles of cram discarded by the Beorings and left to harden over the process of thousands of years. "Perhaps to a man a dwarf might move with a degree of silence," the elf said at length, his eyes searching Aragorn’s face for signs that the Ranger might be ill.

"If you would allow him the opportunity, Gimli might surprise you," Aragorn said.

Legolas’s eyes flashed. "And how would he do that? With an axe while I am unawares? Or perhaps while I sleep?"

"He would never even consider such things," Aragorn responded. "Though I now wonder about you, seeing as you are the one doing the suggesting. And you were also the one to loose an arrow at him this morning."

"My arrow was released with skill and over a thousand years worth of experience," Legolas shot back.

Boromir sighed and stalked away. He was curious about the constant references to archery and if he listened long enough, his questions might be answered, but ultimately, he really didn’t want to know. He was growing weary of this animosity between elf and dwarf, and now there was contention between Legolas and Aragorn to deal with. It seemed the Fellowship was breaking before it had even truly formed.

Picking up three small twigs and breaking one so that it was shorter than the others, Boromir started back to his two arguing companions. Clearing his throat loudly, he managed to get their attention. "I suggest we draw lots for watches," he said. "And then I suggest that the two of us not on watch get some rest."

Legolas and Aragorn sent one another rather dark glares, but the elf reached forward and drew a twig from Boromir’s hand. Aragorn did likewise and found himself with the short one.

"Well," Boromir said with a clap of his hands, "now that this is settled, I will expect to be awakened in two hours, for longer watches will earn us better rest when we are sleeping. And after my turn, I shall wake you, Legolas." Quickly turning away before Aragorn or Legolas could protest his sudden assumption of authority, Boromir wrapped himself up in his damp cloak, settled against the trunk of a tree, and forced himself to go to sleep.

Legolas glanced between Aragorn and Boromir for a moment and then sprang into the branches of the tree that Boromir had attempted to climb. Aragorn sighed, shivered at the cold breeze that was beginning to blow in from the north, and wandered over toward Bill who was quite possibly the only member of the company within a mile who was not upset or annoyed with him. The morning was not off to a good start.

* * * *

"I wonder if there isn’t a bit of magic Gandalf could do that would make this wind skip over us," Sam muttered miserably, huddled beneath layers of blankets and feeling as though they did nothing for him.

Merry, who was on watch at the moment, shrugged and glanced at the wizard. "Maybe it doesn’t feel as cold to him as it does to us," he offered. Gandalf had taken the first watch and roused Merry for the second, though Merry had actually been awake. In fact, all of the hobbits had been awake and were still awake. The only two finding any rest in this storm were Gandalf and Gimli. The wizard had fallen asleep almost instantly after turning watch duty over to Merry and was now even snoring slightly. And as for Gimli, the dwarf might have been safe and dry in a cozy cavern for as soundly as he slept.

"Well, it wouldn’t feel as cold to me if we could get rid of that wind," Pippin said, seconding Sam’s opinion. "And that would get rid of the rain, too. We’d be drier, warmer, and then maybe I could go to sleep. How do they do it?" he demanded, peeking over his mound of blankets to scrutinize Gandalf and Gimli.

"Because they know how much they’ll need it," Frodo answered wearily. He was bone-weary, but like the other hobbits, he could not sleep under these conditions. "Maybe somebody could offer us a bit of a song. Maybe that would warm us up."

"A mug of ale would go a long way for warming me up," Sam said. "But I suppose I won’t get it for a long ways. And like as not, it won’t be near as good as what we had in Bree or even in Hobbiton."

"I think the elves should make ale," Pippin decided, shivering violently and pressing himself against Sam and Frodo in an attempt to share their meager body heat. "They make wonderful bread and wine. Why can’t they expand to other things? I’d give gold for an elven tankard of ale!"

"You don’t have gold," Merry pointed out.

"You know what I mean," Pippin said. "What about it, Frodo. You’re the official elf-friend. Why can’t the elves make ale?"

"Maybe wine is good enough for them," Frodo said, pulled into the trivial conversation despite himself.

"Wine is fine for feasts and banquets and all, but, begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, wouldn’t you get tired of it after a while? And anyway, it doesn’t seem fitting for a good old-fashioned home-cooked meal," Sam opinioned.

"Well, there’s your problem," Merry answered. "The elves don’t have good old-fashioned home-cooked meals. They have banquets, feasts, or nothing. So they really don’t have a need for ale."

"What a waste of good talent," Pippin groused. "Do you think we could talk Legolas into brewing us some ale?"

"With what, Mr. Pippin?" Sam demanded. "Do you see anything around here that could be put into any sort of worthwhile brew?"

"I didn’t mean now, Sam, I meant later. We’ll be getting into warmer lands soon and then we’ll have better pickings. At least, I hope so. I don’t know if I can take any more cold weather."

"Legolas said something to me the other day about things getting worse before they get better," Merry remembered.

"I didn’t need to hear that," Frodo moaned. "I could have gone the rest of the journey without hearing that."

"But we all know it," Merry countered. "So why not say it? Let’s get it out into the open. It’s bound to get worse before it gets better. Take those mountains off in the distance. Mordor is on the other side of them, right? And that’s where we need to go. Exactly how are we going to do that? Somewhere around here, we’ll have to cross them. And I wager that won’t be an easy crossing."

"We could use snow to make ale," Pippin mused thoughtfully.

"As long as we can toss you into the pot, too," Frodo grumbled. "And don’t talk about snow. It’s already raining. You’re just tempting fate."

"Do you hear that?" Sam asked abruptly.

The other hobbits fell silent immediately, having learned even in the Shire to trust Sam’s ears. But the only sounds that came to them were that of wind and water. They shifted and looked at one another, but Sam was now standing, his blankets wrapped tightly around his shivering frame. He moved forward, daring the falling rain, and paused.

"What is it?" Frodo asked, getting to his feet and starting toward Gandalf in case he needed to be woken.

"I…well, I can’t rightly say, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered slowly, his face a study in confusion. "But it sounds like a…a big animal."

"A big animal?" Pippin echoed, fearing that the weather had driven poor Sam to madness.

"No, not just any big animal. I think it’s a…well, it’s a mean one. And it’s roaring."

"Roaring?" Merry frowned and moved out into the rain next to Sam. "I still don’t hear anything."

Deciding that Sam’s big, mean, roaring animal probably needed investigating, Frodo walked over and shook Gandalf. The wizard was awake instantly, reaching for his staff and surging to his feet with such speed that Frodo toppled over into the mud.

"What?" Gandalf demanded, trying to work out exactly what had shaken him from his sleep.

"It’s Sam," Frodo explained from his position on his back. He was dirty enough already and lying around in mucky water really wasn’t doing any harm, so he decided to stay there and collect his bearings. "Sam says he can hear something and it sounds like roaring."

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed immediately and he strode to Gimli’s side, waking the dwarf by rapping his staff against Gimli’s chain mail. "Up," the wizard commanded. "We may have visitors."

Gimli groaned in response, but he did open his eyes and struggle to a sitting position, reflexively reaching for his axe as he sensed the tension in Gandalf’s voice. "What visitors might those be?" he asked, turning his eyes to the surrounding forest. "And what would possess them to be out in this weather?"

Gandalf did not answer but moved into the rain to stand with Merry and Sam. Now that he was more alert, he was more puzzled than alarmed. His first thought upon waking had been that the Warg had drawn nigh and was signaling the rest of the pack, but as he cast about for signs of that, he realized that nowhere could he feel the presence of the wolf.

"What is it that you heard, Samwise?" Gandalf asked at length, his puzzlement turning to irritation as he continued to find nothing out of the ordinary.

"Roaring, and I still hear it," Sam answered. "It’s coming from up there."

The hobbit pointed toward the river that raced in the distance. Gimli had deigned to get to his feet and now stalked out to join them, hoping that whatever had disturbed everyone could be dealt with quickly so that he might sleep. He needed his rest to plot a fitting revenge for Legolas. The arrow in the beard demanded severe retribution, and Aragorn had hustled the elf away too quickly after it happened for the dwarf to take action then.

"I see nothing," Gimli grumbled after a quick glance at the woods. He eyed Sam with a baleful glance, wondering if the hobbit’s imagination had run away with him and woken them all up in the process.

"You won’t see anything. There’s nothing to see," Sam answered, becoming slightly frustrated. "I can hear it, not see it! Whatever’s making that sound is out there now and it wasn’t out there earlier. That’s all I know. And the sound is roaring."

"Roaring…" Gandalf suddenly stiffened, finally catching the sounds that had first commanded Sam’s attention. "Not roaring," he whispered, horror filling his face. "The river! The river is flooding!"

"Strider!" Pippin cried. "They’re all right next to the river!"

"Hurry!" Gandalf ordered, racing forward and praying that the sharp ears of Legolas and Aragorn would alert them to their danger just as Sam had been alerted. If not, they would never be warned in time."

* * * *

Aragorn paced restlessly beneath Legolas’s improvised canopy. Something was amiss, but he had yet to place what. The Warg had not returned, he was certain of that. And no orcs were near, of that he was also certain. Ringwraiths? No, he would have sensed those long ago, and their presence would have roused Legolas and Boromir. But something…something was not right. Something that eluded the Ranger’s sharp eyes but still managed to warn his senses.

Listening was something of a lost cause. With the river only a stone’s throw away, Aragorn could hear little above its constant roar. It was loud and fast this day, and Aragorn hoped that its crossing would not prove to be too difficult a task. He had recommended to Gandalf that they continue the southern journey and cross the river at one of its many fords, and he still stood by that counsel, but the continuing rains were a sobering note to an already dreary and despairing quest.

Hobbled off to the side, Bill suddenly gave a snort and started forward, jerking at his hobbles and neighing in fright. Aragorn hastened to his side, and once more attempted to discern what was wrong. But to his mortal senses, all was as it should be. No dread of evil darkened his heart, no suspicious noise sounded from the forest around them, and no shadow of movement caught his eye.

That only held true for another few seconds, and then Aragorn reached for his sword and swung his gaze upward. Something was moving in the trees, but it didn’t take long for the Ranger to realize it was Legolas. Relaxing, he released his sword hilt and frowned as he tried to follow the elf’s movements. From what little Aragorn could see of him, Legolas seemed agitated. Perhaps he also suffered from feelings of misgiving. That would be the logical explanation for the fact that he was taking no care to conceal himself, trusting in his innate elvish ability to alert him to imminent danger. Of course, it is doubtful that a gaze other than that of a Ranger would have been able to follow Legolas as he skillfully followed a trackless path through a maze of branches. Though stealth was last on his list of priorities, Legolas was an elf and moved noiselessly and gracefully, seeming to be an extension of the forest rather than a visitor that climbed higher and higher into the trees.

Trying to calm Bill, Aragorn impatiently waited for the elf to find a better vantagepoint and survey the situation with far-seeing eyes. Leaning against the trunk of a broad tree, Boromir stirred slightly and mumbled in his sleep, picking up on the tension around him but not awake enough for it to completely rouse him.

And then everything seemed to happen at once. Despite the hobbles, Bill reared and whinnied, breaking Aragorn’s hold on his halter and awkwardly dashing away. Boromir started and sat up slowly, attempted to discern what was happening around him. And Legolas dropped straight out of the trees, landing low in a cat-like crouch and making no attempt to hide the horror on his face.

"The river is flooding!" he cried, turning and racing toward the bank.

"What?!" Boromir jumped to his feet and followed the elf, shaking off the last remnants of sleep as he did so.

"The river!" Legolas repeated, leaping down the rocky bank and skidding to a halt next to the overhang where they’d stored the baggage. "Hurry! It will be upon us soon!"

Knowing all too well that without their winter clothes and extra food they wouldn’t last another week in the wild, Aragorn hastened to help the elf, forming a chain with him and Boromir. Legolas would seize a pack and toss it to Aragorn who tossed it to Denethor’s son who flung it as far as he could away from the river. As for the river, it was slowly rising, and Aragorn could now feel vibrations under foot that spoke of the flood barreling toward them. They were faint, but they were growing quickly.

"How soon?" Aragorn shouted above the sound of rain and rushing water.

Legolas tossed up a pack heavy with dried meat and paused to glance up the river. His eyes widened slightly, and he immediately dove back under the overhang, grabbing wildly for anything his hands would reach. That was answer enough for Aragorn who shouted a warning back to Boromir. Boromir grunted—a typical response for him—and continued to throw the baggage. He would not leave until the other two were clear.

"We can’t save the rest of it," Legolas yelled, seizing one more pack and starting to climb back up. "We must get clear of this area!" In his haste, a rock turned underfoot and he stumbled, sliding back down the bank.

"Come on!" Aragorn ordered, reaching a hand down to the elf and pulling hard as soon as he felt Legolas seize his arm. Then Boromir was beside him, taking the pack from Legolas and seizing the elf’s other hand. Legolas was pulled clear of the bank and together the three of them turned and began running.

But they had tarried too long. Aragorn heard a short oath from Boromir, a sharp intake of breath from Legolas, and the next thing he knew a wall of water hit him like a cave troll wielding a mithril club. The river rushed over his head and he was swept downstream with horrible speed, smashing into rocks, knocking against trees, and tearing through shrubs now all at the mercy of the raging water.

Flailing about, he somehow managed to get his bearings and stroked for the surface, but he fought against swirling currents and strong undertows caused by the boulders and tree trunks over which the flashflood was sweeping. His air began running out, and stars sparkled before his eyes. With a rather detached observation, he decided that the stars reminded him of the fireflies that danced on the lawns of Rivendell in the summer evenings. As a child he’d chased them, challenging Elladan and Elrohir to beat him in the game, and for all that they were far older and more mature, they could not forebear to join him.

His head glanced against a granite boulder and he was knocked from his daydream and back into reality. Realizing he had moments before he would be forced to take a grasping breath of water, Aragorn tried once more to break the surface. Kicking out with his feet, he pushed off riverbank and shot upwards, letting the currents sweep him about so long as they did not sweep him back down. And just as his eyes began to dim while his clamoring lungs screamed in protest, the waters above him parted and he thrust his head into wonderful, glorious, beautiful air.

With a gasping heave, he choked on sprays of water and rejoiced over the gift of breath. Struggling to remain afloat while his heavy cloak and sword threatened to drag him back down, Aragorn looked around for possibilities of a place to land. The western bank looked promising and he started swimming toward it, clutching at floating logs whenever he could and stopping often for rest. He was dragged beneath the water three more times, but each time he managed to resurface and each time the bank seemed a little closer. Inch by gasping inch, he closed the distance between himself and shore and finally managed to find a place where his feet could touch the bottom. He did not stand, though, for the rushing river would not permit such actions, but he was close now. And so he swam forward until the water only reached his knees, and on all fours, he threw himself from the river, exhausted, drenched, and shivering.

For a long time, he lay there, making no effort to exert himself and sucking precious air into his lungs. Rain continued to pour down on his back and his head throbbed where it had hit the rock. At length, summoning what strength remained to him, he attempted to stand. He managed to get to his knees, but that was as far as he could go. He lacked the energy for anything else and with a despairing moan, he sank back onto the wet, muddy ground. He knew he should begin looking for Boromir and Legolas, or at least Gandalf and the others to tell them of what had happened, but his eyes were closing of their own accord. All efforts at staving off unconsciousness were in vain, and it was not long before the Ranger fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * * *

In silent desperation, one wizard, one dwarf, and four hobbits raced toward the campsite of their companions, hoping that they would find them safe and unharmed. Gandalf kept throwing irritated glances over his shoulder, unspoken demands that the hobbits increase their pace, but even Gimli was having trouble keeping up with the wizard’s long strides. They simply could not move faster despite the fear each one carried in his heart.

When the flood hit, they knew it. The rushing river could be seen from a distance and its roar could not go unheard. Moans of large trees as water slammed against their trunks echoed through the forest, and the grinding of great boulders now relegated to a riverbed was loud in their ears.

"What have I always told Mr. Merry about rivers?" Sam asked as he tried to push his short legs to greater speeds. "I knew something like this was going to happen!"

"Faster!" Gandalf shouted back at them. "If you have breath to speak, you have breath to run!"

But then Pippin cried out and veered to the side, jumping into the wet underbrush and disappearing instantly from view. Gimli shouted ahead to Gandalf who came to a skidding and angry halt, glaring into the surrounding forest for a glimpse of the now-missing Took. And then Pippin was racing back, reappearing almost as quickly as he had vanished, and behind him, jerking his head restlessly against the lead rope, came—

"Bill!" Sam cried, hurrying to the pony. "Bless me, Bill, look at you! You haven’t a dry spot on your entire body!"

The pony snorted and shook himself, flinging water everywhere. His hobbles had broken and only one lace around his right forefoot showed they had even existed in the first place. A shivering wracked his body and the pitiful horse buried its nose against Sam, exhausted from his flight and still frightened by the suddenness of the flood.

"They would not have let the pony run alone," Gimli said, his ominous words throwing a shadow onto Sam’s joy of having found his horse.

"I fear you are right, Gimli," Gandalf said, his voice soft and thoughtful. "They would not have left the pony alone." He shook his head, water raining down from his gray beard, and then turned. "Come," he urged, moving back into a run.

The others trailed after him, considerably more depressed now than they had been moments ago. Even Gimli’s powerful gait seemed to be faltering. In silence they ran, each cringing to think of what might await them when they found the camp by the river. But none of them could be truly prepared for what they found when at last they reached it.

Water still rushed over the former campsite, though now it was only ankle deep. The hobbits, wizard, and dwarf sank deep into the ground as they walked, making each step a mucky, wearisome struggle. They found a number of packs mired in deep mud. It looked as though they had been thrown there in haste. And high in the tops of a tree, the hobbits’ sharp eyes could make out what appeared to be the strap to Legolas’s quiver. Some of the boughs had been pulled together, creating a canopy that, for the most part, blocked the rain. Gandalf discovered the quiver itself lodged in a nearby tree. It looked as though it had been placed there for safekeeping during the day. The wizard shook his head sadly. The quiver and all its arrows had indeed been kept safe, but what of the owner?

And that was the great problem they met as they sloshed through what had now become a muddy quagmire. Nowhere could they find sign or token of Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas.

"Gandalf!"

It was Gimli’s voice near the south end of camp that attracted their attention. The group gathered together around him and the dwarf slowly lifted an object that had been partially buried by mud and debris and lodged between two trees growing closely together.

"Boromir’s shield," Frodo murmured, looking at Gandalf and awaiting his reaction.

The wizard stepped forward and took the shield from Gimli, examining the back and the straps that would have wound around the warrior’s arm. "This was torn from him," the wizard said at length. "See how the leather here is pulled and stretched. He clung to this before the water swept him away. But I do not think he held others. It is not stretched enough for that. Boromir was alone when he fought the flood."

"What of Aragorn and Legolas?" Merry asked quietly. Gandalf made no answer.

"Almost half of the baggage is over there," Sam observed, breaking the silence that settled over them like a shroud. He nodded toward the pile of packs that were sinking even deeper into the mud as they spoke. "Most of the food is saved and almost all the winter clothing is still here."

"It seems they tried to save the most valuable things before the flood could take them from us," Gandalf murmured.

"But what about them? Did they save themselves?" Pippin asked.

"I do not know," Gandalf answered quietly, surprising them all in admitting this, though if they had thought about it, there was no way for Gandalf to know otherwise. "I do not know if they survived or where they might now be," he continued. "One thing is clear, though—they are not around this campsite." The wizard looked about, seeming to weigh several decisions, and then shook his head. "Gather the baggage. And Pippin, see if you can retrieve Legolas’s quiver strap."

"What?!" the young hobbit demanded.

"Retrieve the strap," Gandalf repeated. "Sam, load Bill with the remainder of the packs. Gimli and Merry, track further south. See if you can find any more of our baggage, but stay within calling distance. Frodo and I will stay here to aid Sam."

Pippin looked as though he were about to set up a very loud protest at being made to climb the tree and secure Legolas’s quiver strap, but one look from Gandalf’s flashing eyes beneath bristling brows and he decided that high in the tree would actually be safer down in the mud. With a muttered grumble and a glare of his own, Pippin began slowly and cautiously climbing the tall tree.

By the time that Bill was loaded again and Gimli and Merry had returned, finding only a few extra pots and pans that had been stowed originally on Bill rather than in Sam’s pack, Pippin had reached the thin leather strap that tied tree branches together and formed a semi-shelter. He was making a concerted effort not to look down, but he was very aware that the ground was a rather long distance away. Clinging tightly to the shaking branches, he began unwinding the strap, hoping desperately that no wind would come up and blow him from his perch. A gasp of horror and amazement from Sam did not help his situation and he felt himself freeze up.

"You’re almost finished," Merry called encouragingly. "Don’t rush it, Pippin, you’ll be fine."

"If I’m so fine, why don’t you come up here and join me," Pippin grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut as a soft breeze whistled through the treetops. His stomach was doing a rather interesting dance, and he wondered if Sam’s breakfast would taste as good coming up as it had going down. Those below probably wouldn’t appreciate it, but at the moment, Pippin was not inclined to be generous to those who were still safe and sound on solid earth.

"If you would finish your task, you could come down," Gandalf said.

Pippin was severely tempted to turn his stomach loose, but he couldn’t for that would jeopardize his hold on his precarious perch. And though revenge and retribution were tempting, the will to live was more compelling. Gritting his teeth, he finished freeing the quiver strap and began backing off the branches toward the tree trunk, moving with painstaking slowness.

"What is our next move, Gandalf?" Gimli wondered while they waited for Pippin.

"We shall return to our camp," the wizard said. "And there we shall light a small fire." The others blinked in amazement at this and Gandalf went on to explain the reasoning. "The clothes must be dried no matter what the danger, for if we die of cold, the spies of Mordor will find us regardless. And when our missing companions are found, they will need the fire. Also, I suspect we could do with a bit of light. The dark clouds overhead have sapped our spirits, and a small fire might go far in cheering our hearts."

"But what about Strider, Legolas, and Boromir? Aren’t we going to search for them?" Frodo gasped.

"Not immediately. The fire and dry clothes are our first priority, for if we find them without such things, it will do them no good. Once things are properly underway, we shall separate. Some will stay at camp while others go on the hunt."

Gimli glanced around as if to indicate to the wizard that numbers and strength were not in their favor. Gandalf sighed, knowing that all too well. He currently planned to leave Gimli at camp with Frodo and Sam while he, Merry, and Pippin searched for Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas. It was the best plan he could come up with on short notice, and he didn’t think another would be presenting itself soon. He didn’t like the notion of splitting, particularly since that gave the hobbits only one capable warrior for each group, but there was nothing else to be done.

"Will they make for our camp?" Merry asked. "Or do you think they’ll come back here?"

"Aragorn will make for our camp," Gandalf answered with reasonable certainty. He’d hunted with the Ranger before, and Aragorn’s first instincts would lead him to the driest campsite. Even though he would be tempted to search for Legolas and Boromir on his own, he would realize that he had to meet up with the remainder of the Fellowship and assure them of his survival as well as secure their help in finding the other two. Gandalf was also fairly certain that Legolas would do likewise. When separated, elven warriors were taught to make for a rendezvous point, and Legolas would probably employ that strategy here. As for Boromir, Gandalf had absolutely no idea what he would do.

"Just a few more feet, Pippin," Frodo called, watching the progress of the young Took. It was actually ten more feet, but considering how high Pippin had been, ten feet seemed like just a few.

"No elf will ever convince me to climb up a tree again," Pippin vowed, sliding down the trunk and landing with a rather strange plopping sound in the mud. "I don’t care if there are orcs, ringwraiths, trolls, or anything else behind me. No more trees."

"Come," Gandalf ordered, turning south. "It will be nightfall by the time we reach our former camp, and then we must work swiftly to dry blankets and cloaks. I fear we will need them ere the night is over."

"Thank you, Pippin, for getting that strap," Pippin said to himself, aiming his words at Gandalf’s back as he trailed behind the wizard. "You know, Pippin, for a hobbit you are incredible in the trees. I appreciate all the effort and trouble you go to on our behalf, Pippin. Even though it was only a quiver strap, I’m sure Legolas will be thankful, Pippin."

"Shut up, Pippin," Merry chimed in.

"You made a remarkable elf up there," Frodo said, jumping in before Pippin could redirect his anger.

The Took sniffed and nodded. "No need to thank me. I was only doing my duty as a member of the Fellowship."

Sam rolled his eyes, Frodo sighed, Merry shook his head, Gimli chuckled quietly, and Gandalf looked over his shoulder. "Are you coming or do you prefer to stand here chatting in the cold and wet?"

Straightening his waistcoat and running fingers through his dark hair, Pippin nodded. "Proceed. Pippin the Elf will follow."

"Fool of a Took," Gandalf muttered to himself as he turned and began walking again.

January 3, 3019 (Night)

Dusk had fallen and with thick clouds covering the sky, the darkness of night was swift in its arrival. Cold winds off the mountains whistled through the trees, and the sound of a raging river flooding its banks echoed in the valleys at the foot of the towering mountains. Rain continued to pound the earth with no sign of slowing its relentless onslaught.

Coughing up water and spitting mud, Boromir raised his dripping head and groaned, ultimately deciding it was better to lie still than to move. With muddled thoughts, he began a self-inventory, running through what bumps and bruises he could feel before moving on to possibly more serious injuries. He had two lumps on the back of his head and his knee felt as though it had been severely wrenched. A throbbing in his lower back informed him that his spine was out of alignment and the palm of his left hand was robbed raw where he had clung stubbornly to his shield before the force of the water bore him away.

Still, all these were but minor concerns. What disturbed him more was a feeling that he was short of breath and the sharp stinging in his right side. Broken ribs, he decided grimly. And if I do not take care, they will puncture the lung. Once bound tightly, the ribs would trouble him little, but until such time, he would have to watch his movements carefully. Thankfully, nothing else seemed to be broken, and his mind was clear enough that he did not fear a concussion.

Rolling gingerly to his left side, he tried to conjure up his last few moments of consciousness. The water had hit them hard, and before he truly knew what was happening, he’d been struggling for his life. He remembered the hard jolt to his shoulder when his shield snagged itself between two trees, and he remembered hanging on to the leather straps for what seemed like time without end. But the river had been too strong. He’d been carried away, struggling against the current that dragged him beneath the water’s surface. He’d surfaced once or twice, just long enough each time to steal a breath of air, and then he would be dragged under again. But all the while, he’d managed to keep his wits and he’d continued to strive for the banks, though in truth his sense of direction became clouded.

He remembered being knocked into a large tree and pinned there by the force of the flood. He could remember grasping the great trunk and shinnying up its length until he again could hold his head above the rushing waters. His grip had begun to slip, but before he was dragged downstream, he was able to catch sight of the western bank and push off the groaning tree. More trees and rocks awaited his crashing form before he could drag himself clear of the water, yet somehow he managed it. Once safely clear of the river, he’d collapsed like a dead thing, and to all the world he might as well have been dead. It was only now that he summoned the strength to stir, and he was currently rethinking this new policy, pondering the merits of lying still a while longer.

But the cold breeze that stole across his shivering body convinced him otherwise. If he did not find shelter and warmth soon, he would not last more than a few hours. He had seen the greatest soldiers succumb to the cold during night battles along the Anduin. A wet warrior in chill weather was a dead warrior, and Boromir was not about to let an act of nature claim his life. When he went, he intended to die by the sword, defending Minas Tirith from the grasp of the Nameless One.

With cautious movements, Boromir managed to rise to his knees. His back cried out in protest and his fractured ribs sent spasms of pain along his right side, but he endured it and held his ground, determined that he would not sink back into the mud like one of Sauron’s foul creations. When the pain had passed enough for him to collect himself, he worked on rising to his feet. This was a bit more of a challenge, and his knee wobbled traitorously beneath him. The injury to his leg was worse than he’d originally believed, but it was still not debilitating. Nothing a strong brace could not repair. Eventually achieving a standing position of sorts, he swayed dangerously and closed his eyes as a sensation of vertigo took him. Reaching out and leaning against a tree, he shuddered and waited for the dizziness to pass.

It never really did pass, but after a few minutes, it went down in intensity. Deciding he would have to settle for this, Boromir opened his eyes and looked about. It was night now, the clouds still loomed overhead, and the rain continued to pour. He did not know this country as Aragorn and Gandalf did, and he realized that if he set out in the wrong direction, he could be lost for weeks. Only it would not be weeks because the cold and wet would finish him first. But how was he to know which direction was the right one?

And then the solution came to him, as pure and simple as the blossoming of a flower amidst a field of despair. "The river," he murmured quietly, relieved and yet disgusted with himself for not having seen it earlier. The river was a path he could follow. Tracing it back upstream, he would eventually return to the day’s campsite. It was the most logical course of action for him at the moment since he had very little idea of his whereabouts and no idea of where the other campsite was located. Aragorn and Legolas had been the two to go on ahead with the rest of the group while he had kept watch on Bill and the baggage. In truth, the river was his only choice and his only chance.

Pushing off of his tree and shoving down feelings of nausea from his stomach, Boromir put one shaking foot in front of the other and began the long trudge upstream through muck and mud. His injured knee protested loudly, his back complained ceaselessly, his stomach informed him that he had swallowed far too much river water, his ribs continued to rob him of breath, his skinned hand throbbed slightly, his head pounded greatly, and to top it all off, he was now shivering violently.

"What I need now is Aragorn’s Warg," Boromir said to no one in particular, stopping for a brief rest and shaking with cold. "It would be the perfect way to put a permanent end to this night."

But the Warg did not appear and Boromir continued to trudge onward, not knowing how far the river had dragged him or what he would do once he found the former campsite. If no one was there, he did not think he retained enough muscle control to build a fire even if he could find dry tinder amidst all this rain. His trembling hands were numb and if he were forced to defend himself, he did not think he would be able to hold his sword. But he had few options available to him, so through the mud he pressed. And all the while, the cold breeze flowed over and around his body, chilling him further and further.

After a mile or so of this seemingly endless upstream wandering, Boromir wondered if he should cry out. It would bring down any enemy spies, but it might also bring his companions. He was beginning to feel a sleepy haze creep over his mind, and some distant part of his brain had immediately identified it as a sign that he needed help and he needed it soon.

This was confirmed when he suddenly realized that his eyes were closed. Opening them quickly, he found that he had somehow ended up on the ground. Had he fallen? He did not remember falling. Had he sat down? He didn’t remember that either. He wondered if he should get up and try again, but he was so tired. So very tired. And it was bitterly cold. Why not wait a bit? He was sure to warm up again once he received some much needed rest.

In the back of his mind, an annoying little voice started ordering him to stand and keep moving. It was quite insistent and ignoring it was not really an option, but neither was obeying it. He didn’t have the strength to stand and his limbs had conspired against him. They would not obey his commands.

A numbing cold swept over him, he continued to shiver violently, but the sleepy haze was back. What thoughts he could manage were clouded and uncertain. The clamoring voice in the back of his mind gradually died down, and Boromir finally allowed his eyes to slide shut, too exhausted and too frozen to care what the consequences of this might be.

* * * *

Gandalf watched the growing darkness over the land and eyed the flame that Gimli was nurturing, silently marveling at the ability of the dwarf to maintain a steady fire with only wet wood to work with. But at the same time, his instincts cried out against it, predicting the arrival of countless enemies should the fire be allowed to continue. He reminded himself that this was out of necessity and that when they found the others, they would be in desperate need of warmth. If it is a choice between countless enemies or three dead companions, I would choose the countless enemies and save the companions, Gandalf told himself firmly. He truly believed this, but his instincts refused to listen to the voice of reason and loyalty, continuing to protest the warm flame that was steadily growing larger under Gimli’s expert care.

The hobbits had arranged every spare blanket and cloak around the fire, and steam was rising as the fire’s warmth began to dry the garments. The fabric was so thoroughly soaked with water that it was doubtful that it would dry completely before the garments would be needed. But at least they would be warm, and at least they would be drier than whatever Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas were currently using for a cloak.

The wizard sighed, hoping that those three could be found quickly. If they were not, he did not think they would be able to last the night. Legolas might, for as an elf he had a much higher tolerance for cold, but if he had been injured by the flood, this tolerance would go down while his body relegated energy to the healing process. And there was the continuing weather to consider. It was cold, everything was drenched with water, bitter winds were whispering through the woods, and it was still raining. Even an elf might have a difficult time keeping his body heat in the face of both cold and wet. And as for a man…

They all know basic survival techniques, Gandalf reassured himself. They know to keep moving, to avoid sleep, to find somewhere with as much shelter as possible. But even as he said this, he knew that a mind affected by the cold did not think clearly. Even basic survival techniques would be difficult to remember for an injured, frozen, weary traveler.

But none of this could be helped now. They had to focus on what could be done and go about achieving that. Glancing once more over the camp, Gandalf nodded. They could do little more here and it was time for some of them to go. "Sam, start a stew or a tea over the fire. It should be as hot as you can make it and still be able to drink it. If Aragorn, Boromir, or Legolas come back while I am gone, wrap them in blankets, place them near the fire, and get as much hot fluids into them as you can."

"Are you going to search for them alone?" Gimli asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

For answer, Gandalf turned to Merry and Pippin. "Come, you two. You shall accompany me. Bring spare blankets and cloaks. They need not be the driest, for under this rain, they will not stay dry for long," he added as the two hobbits obediently got to their feet.

"I was enjoying the fire," Pippin muttered beneath his breath.

"I thought you were the elf," Merry ribbed. "Elves never complain."

Gimli snorted at this. "Elves complain much, my dear hobbit. You have just never taken the time to listen."

"What would you know of elves?" Merry asked, gathering a pile of cloaks together. "The most you can do is harass them."

Gimli shrugged, caring little about the accusation. It was accurate enough, and the dwarf saw no shame in this. "I know enough of them, young hobbit. And as for complaints, it is in his glance, his manner, the tone of his voice…listen closely and you will find that our elf is ever at odds with those around him."

"Let us be off," Gandalf said, interrupting the conversation. "Remember what I have told you," he said, looking at Frodo, Sam, and Gimli. "If they return on their own, they will be cold, wet, and probably incoherent. You must care for them quickly and promptly. They must be kept warm, and if possible, they must be kept awake."

"Have no fear on their account," Gimli promised. "They will find safety here."

Gandalf nodded, hoping that this would be the case and that he, Merry, and Pippin would not be forced to bring all three of them back to the campsite. He doubted they would be able to accomplish the latter in time to save them all. "Farewell, then. Stay alert, all of you. The fire may draw our friends, but it will draw other things, too." And with that, he turned and strode into the darkness. Merry and Pippin followed quickly.

"Just like Gandalf to part with that kind of remark," Sam said, placing a kettle of water over the fire for heating. Gimli chuckled quietly in response, but Frodo said nothing. A strange feeling was growing over him—a feeling of awareness and malice. Gandalf was right. In spite of the rain, the fire was drawing other things.

* * * *

"Legolas?"

Legolas groaned and shivered, feeling as though a blanket of ice encased his body. Pulled from dark dreams into an even darker night, he blinked his eyes and wondered at his blurred vision. Was that normal?

"Legolas!"

Slowly, his vision began to clear. Shadows hovered over his shaking form and a bitter wind tousled his wet hair. His leg hurt, as did his left wrist. He tried to remember how he had injured himself, but his mind was not cooperating and wished to sink back into unconscious bliss. Deciding that this was probably for the best, Legolas allowed it, feeling his body relax in response.

"No, Legolas, I won’t let you do that. You must get up! I can’t support both of us."

Who kept speaking to him? Didn’t they know that he needed rest? With growing annoyance, the elf summoned his mind back from the comfortable world of dreams and into the harsher world of reality. He tried to speak, to tell whoever was there to leave him be, but he found he could not form words. He could not hold his shaking jaw still.

"Awaken! I was taught that elves are the superior beings. Don’t let that be wrong. You must get up!"

Something was shaking his arm and his throbbing wrist slapped painfully against his frozen body. Struggling for greater awareness, Legolas tried to pull away or strike back—he didn’t know which of the two he could manage or even which of the two he eventually attempted—but found himself groaning at the effort it took to even manage a faint, ineffectual tug.

"That’s right, Legolas, fight me. You can do it. I am but a mortal. Show me your superior elven strength and stamina. Rise!"

Rise? For what purpose? Had he possessed the energy, Legolas would have shaken his head in disbelief. He was frozen, tired, and injured. What good would standing do him? Beyond that, he didn’t think he could stand. Better to lie here quietly while—

"Legolas! Legolas, Mirkwood is under attack! Your father and brothers need you. The orcs are almost upon them!"

That got his attention. Legolas felt rage flare through him, bringing with it the fiery heat of anger and granting him strength from some hidden reserve. Transferring that strength to his uninjured right arm, he pushed himself up, coughing as he did so and feeling the soreness of his lungs in the strength of his coughs.

"That’s right, Legolas, you must rise. Your bow is needed."

Closing his eyes and concentrating all his attention inward, the elf mustered his waning energy, and with halting effort, he got to his knees. Someone was holding him now, steadying him as he swayed and continued to cough. It felt as though he had inhaled a lake. When had that happened?

"Just a bit more, my friend. On your feet. On your feet and then you can rest."

No, he could not rest. Not when Mirkwood was under attack. Who was this being that commanded him to rise? He was not an elf. What was his purpose in Mirkwood? Did he bring danger to the kingdom? With a final effort, Legolas surged to his feet, staggering and swaying immediately. His companion pressed him against a tree for balance, and leaning his head forward against the dark pine, Legolas made a rather disconcerting discovery.

This was not Mirkwood.

He blinked slowly, wondering what new trick and danger threatened. Turning his head, he frowned and then focused on a concerned face that hovered but inches from his own. "Aragorn?"

The Ranger sighed and a flicker of relief flashed briefly in his dark eyes. "You worried me, Legolas. When I first found you, you would not respond."

"You…you were the one who…we are not in Mirkwood." It was certainly not his best response, but his muddled brain was so confused that he could not form a more coherent answer.

Concern crept back into Aragorn’s eyes and he studied the elven prince closely. "Do you know where we are? Do you remember what happened?"

Turning around so that his back rested against the pine, Legolas closed his eyes and thought. "South of Imladris," he finally murmured, his memories returning slowly. "We were hit by a flooding river."

"Thank the Valar," Aragorn murmured. His sharp eyes studied the pale elf, making use of what little light filtered through the dark clouds overhead. "Are you able to travel? We must find the rest of the Fellowship."

Legolas nodded, opening his eyes and pushing off the tree trunk. "Where shall we go?"

"Their campsite," Aragorn answered. "I believe I know where we are, and our destination is not more than a mile or so away. Can you manage it?"

"Of course," the elf answered, annoyed at his chattering teeth. He took one step forward and instantly fell, his left thigh refusing to support him. Aragorn tried to catch him, but the Ranger was exhausted enough that even the slight weight of the elf threw them both off balance and into the mud.

"I take that as a no," Aragorn said, pushing himself out of the clinging muck. He looked over at Legolas who was struggling to get back to a sitting position and quickly noticed the expression of pain on the elf’s face. "You are injured."

"No more so than you," Legolas returned. Despite the chills that racked his body, he had not failed to notice that the Ranger kept clutching the back of his head as though it pained him.

"My own discomfort will not interfere with traveling," Aragorn informed him, moving next to the elf and stopping him from further attempts to rise. "What ails you?"

"Left leg and left wrist," Legolas confessed, realizing that Aragorn would not allow him to move until he had been examined. "I believe the wrist is sprained. I do not know what troubles the leg."

He watched while his arm was lifted and then winced slightly as Aragorn’s probing fingers examined the questionable wrist. "In this, you are correct. Nothing is broken," the Ranger said, his soft voice blending with the sound of constant rain. "It is badly sprained, though. When we return, I shall fashion a brace for it." He glanced at the elf, dark eyes meeting gray ones. "You may find that drawing your bow will be uncomfortable."

Legolas looked away and attempted to shrug, but he was shaking too hard for any movement to be discernable as anything other than shivers. "It will heal soon. Elves recover quickly."

"And for that you are lucky," Aragorn said. "Lie back down, Legolas. Hold still and let me move you."

Legolas closed his eyes and sank into the mud, barely noticing it since he was already soaked through to the bone. He relaxed his muscles and allowed Aragorn to push him onto his right side. Gentle hands touched his leg and the elf could not hold back a sharp hiss of pain. Aragorn paused for a moment, giving Legolas a chance to collect himself.

"Ready?"

The elf nodded, his eyes shut tight as he prepared for another onslaught of pain. Aragorn began the exam again, starting with the thigh and moving down to the calf, pressing gently and grimacing every time Legolas caught his breath. The elf did not cry out again, but it was clear that with every touch, he was in pain.

"I do not think it is as bad as it seems, but the cold makes it worse," Aragorn eventually said. "Your leg is rubbed raw from top to bottom. There is severe bruising around the thigh and the muscle is probably pulled. In addition to that, it is stiff with cold and swelling has caused it to tighten. It is currently a painful, bruised knot, and I am not surprised you fell when you put your weight upon it. I do not think you will be able to use your left leg for walking until that muscle is given a chance to warm up and loosen."

"So tell me, Aragorn, should I then wait here until summer returns and warms the muscle?" Legolas asked, unable to hold his sarcasm and bitterness back.

"No, you should not," the Ranger replied, checking his own tongue as he realized the shame Legolas felt in the injury. "You would slow our journey considerably, though I doubt not but the hobbits would be grateful for the rest." Aragorn glanced around, running options through his mind, and then came to a decision. "Come, Legolas. You were able to stand once. Let us see if you can do it again."

The elf sighed, a sound so soft that the Ranger’s sharp ears were barely able to catch it, and then he began to lumber awkwardly to his feet. Aragorn hastened to help him and after a few stumbles, Legolas was upright once more and leaning heavily on Aragorn for support. "If you truly wish me to travel," Legolas said, closing his eyes and turning his head away, "I fear I will need help."

"Then you shall have it," Aragorn said gently, understanding that it was not in the elf’s nature to ask for assistance. "Come. Lean on me and we shall travel these dark forests. It is better, in any case, that two should walk together instead of one alone."

Legolas made no answer to this but doggedly started forward, staggering every time his left leg was asked to hold even some of his own body weight. Aragorn tried to take as much strain off the elf as he could, but he was also tired. In silence they walked, and eventually, the Ranger was leaning on the elf almost as much as the elf was leaning against him.

"We cannot go much further," Legolas whispered at length, shaking his head as an unnatural need for sleep crept over his mind. "The cold and wet will have us ere long."

"We cannot give up, my friend," Aragorn said, forcing them to continue. "We have perhaps half a mile to go."

"It is half a mile too long," Legolas murmured, sinking toward the ground. Aragorn tightened his grip on the elf and roughly pulled him back up, but his strength was ebbing and if Legolas went down again, the Ranger did not think he would be able to hold him.

"Not now," Aragorn said firmly. "Not now and not ever. We push on. I did not think you were one to surrender."

"I am not," Legolas answered, a trace of anger in his voice. "But against the impossible…" The elf trailed off and began to fall once more. Aragorn tried to brace against this, but he had little energy left and ultimately ended up on the ground with the shivering elven prince.

"Legolas!"

To his growing horror, the elf made no answer.

Trying to hold his shaking hands steady, for the cold had nearly claimed him as well, Aragorn turned the elf over and began slapping his face, hoping desperately to elicit some kind of response. "Legolas!" he cried, not carrying what enemies he might bring down upon them. "Legolas, you must awaken!"

But this time, the elf was beyond hearing. In walking to this point, he had pushed himself as far as he could be pushed, and now his body was shutting down. Aragorn cursed loudly and looked about, knowing there was none around to help him but desperate to save his friend. And that’s when he saw it.

He had not been able to see it before, for from a standing position, low branches blocked the view, but from the ground, it burned brightly in the darkness. It was a beacon he could follow, a light against the shadows that surrounded him. The cold he had fought off for so long seemed to recede, and the flickering, dazzling sight before him called cheerfully, beckoning him onward. It reached for him, calmed him, healed him, and promised that greater healing awaited him if he would but follow its light. It was beautiful. It was glorious. It was hope unlooked for.

It was a campfire.

* * * *

"Someone’s coming!"

Together, Frodo and Gimli surged to their feet, the dwarf seizing his axe should it be needed. Both watched Sam as he stared out into the darkness, his sensitive ears registering heavy footfalls and haggard breath.

"Can you tell who or what?" Frodo asked, joining his friend on the edge of the campfire’s light and braving the pouring rain.

"Not yet, sir," Sam answered, moving further out. "But I think it’s hurt. It’s moving slowly and it doesn’t sound well."

"But you don’t know if it’s Aragorn, Boromir, or Legolas?" Frodo pressed. Sam shook his head.

"If it is, they’ll be needing our help," Gimli said. He took his axe in both hands and glanced at the hobbits. "Wait here. I’ll meet it out there before it can draw closer. And if it is one of our missing companions, all the better for then I can help him."

"What if it isn’t?" Frodo asked as Gimli strode forward with all the confidence of a mountain dwarf.

"Then we shall find out soon enough," he called back, disappearing into the night.

Once beyond the glowing campfire, he paused and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. For a dwarf, he had unusually keen vision in the dark. While he would never challenge the eyes of an elf or even a hobbit, his night vision had served him well in the past and continued to do so now. And as his eyes adjusted, he began to make out a dark form partially obscured by the trees. As Sam had said, it appeared hurt and was moving with painstaking slowness. Sensing there was no danger, Gimli hurried forward and gasped when the figure’s face looked up at him.

"Aragorn!"

"Gimli?"

The Ranger’s voice was but a shadow of its normally powerful baritone. His entire body shook violently against the cold that seeped through his drenched clothes and slowed his feeble movements.

"Come," Gimli said, wasting no time. Shoving his axe into his belt, he planted his sturdy dwarf legs and hauled Aragorn over his shoulder, staggering beneath the weight of the heavy man but managing to stay upright. "We have a campfire waiting and hot soup. Dry clothes and warmth are what you need."

"Legolas…" Aragorn moaned, struggling slightly.

"The elf is not here," Gimli answered briskly, feeling slighted that Aragorn had mistaken him for the tree-loving, arrow-shooting prince. "Don’t move. You make this more difficult."

The Ranger groaned pitifully and seemed to go limp. Fearing for his wellbeing, Gimli hastened back as quickly as the slippery mud, the rain, and the weight of the man would allow him. The campfire glowed brightly and before long, he could make out the silhouettes of the hobbits as they awaited his return.

"It’s Strider!" Sam cried out when Gimli drew near.

"Hurry," Gimli ordered. "Sam, get the soup. Frodo, make a place for him by the fire where he can rest. Get the driest blankets and cloaks and make a bed. We must warm him quickly."

The hobbits sprang into action with a speed that surprised the dwarf. By the time he’d managed to get Aragorn next to the fire, a bed of the driest and warmest blankets had been prepared, heated cloaks were waiting, and Sam had ready a mug of the soup.

With Frodo’s help, Gimli lowered Aragorn into the waiting blankets. Together they wrestled him out of his water-soaked shirt and tossed it next to the fire where it could dry. "Wrap the cloaks around him," Gimli instructed. "Wrap them as tightly as you can. Here, let’s move him closer to the fire. Sam, see if you can get some of that soup into him."

"Legolas," Aragorn suddenly groaned as they were maneuvering him about.

"Always the elf," Gimli groused.

"Legolas isn’t here," Frodo said, ignoring the dwarf. "Don’t worry, though. Gandalf will find him."

"No. No, not here. Out there."

Frodo frowned and stopped Sam as he came forward with the soup. "What do you mean?" he asked Aragorn. "Do you know where he is?"

"Left him," the Ranger answered dimly, still not fully aware of his surroundings. "Left him to find help. He can’t move."

"They must have been traveling together," Frodo realized.

"We have to go get him!" Sam exclaimed, almost dropping the soup.

"We can’t leave the camp and we can’t leave Aragorn," Gimli broke in, hoping to calm the hobbits with words of reason. "The packs and blankets must be watched. Legolas will probably make it in on his own."

"And if he doesn’t?" Frodo challenged. The hobbit still had a strong sense of uneasiness as though something waited just beyond the firelight. If Legolas was as weak as Aragorn had implied, the elf would be no match for whatever enemy awaited them. Frodo was surprised that the Ranger had survived the journey. "The two of you can stay," Frodo stated, standing up and loosening Sting in its scabbard. "I’m going to look for him."

"Absolutely not!" Gimli protested, also standing. "None of us should be wandering in that rain and darkness alone, least of all you. If we lose you, we lose the quest!"

"But we can’t abandon him," Frodo shot back, his eyes hardening with resolve.

Gimli stood silent for a moment. He looked at Aragorn who was reflexively swallowing the soup as Sam spoon-fed him, he looked at Sam who was watching Gimli and Frodo carefully when he wasn’t feeding Aragorn, and he looked at Frodo who seemed prepared to dash off into danger and shadow without a second thought. "I’ll go," the dwarf said at length. "Keep your swords ready and try to keep Aragorn awake. If he is aware enough, he will help defend you if danger draws near."

"You’re certain?" Frodo asked, his eyes unsure and suspicious. "We are speaking of Legolas."

"You would accuse me of murder?!"

Frodo stepped back, aware that he had gravely insulted the dwarf. "I just thought that maybe you’d feel more comfortable if someone else went."

Relaxing slightly but with anger still glinting in his eyes, Gimli shook his head. "I am a dwarf," he said proudly. "We do not leave a companion to die, even if that companion is an elf." Pulling his axe back out, he turned and started into the darkness. "Stay alert and stay safe," he called over his shoulder just before he vanished into the surrounding gloom.

* * * *

Gandalf leaned wearily on his staff and tipped his head, watching as water poured from his dripping hat. In the company of Merry and Pippin, he’d journeyed back to the original flooded camp and they were now following the river downstream, hoping to discover baggage, food, or missing companions. To show for their efforts, they had acquired two extra blankets drenched with water, some bruised apples, and one of Sam’s spare shirts.

It was not encouraging.

The wizard was vaguely aware of Merry and Pippin as they searched the underbrush around him, enduring the ongoing rain without complaint. But as the night dragged on and they still found no sign of Aragorn, Boromir, or Legolas, the hobbits were slowly becoming frustrated while Gandalf simply became colder. But if he was cold, then the group swept away by the river would be nearly frozen. He kept this thought foremost in his mind and doggedly continued the search, knowing that if the missing three were not found this night, it would probably be too late for them. Even now, time was growing scarce.

The search continued vainly, the rain poured down miserably, and the wind blew relentlessly. Gandalf shook his head as he considered the course of events. The Fellowship had expected orcs, trolls, wolves, capture, torture, and death, but here was something none of them had anticipated. Who would have thought that two of the best warriors from the Race of Man along with the elven prince of Mirkwood would have been lost to a flooding river in a rainstorm?

Not lost yet, Gandalf corrected himself, using his staff to pull himself through the thick mud. There is yet hope, though it may grow dim. There is always hope.

Unfortunately, he did not think he convince the weary hobbits of this. To their credit, they were still silent in their misery but Gandalf read in their eyes and their faces that they were giving up. There had been no definitive sign that Aragorn, Boromir, or Legolas was near, and the dark and cold were beginning to tell on their spirits. They longed for firelight and warmth, and it was not to be had out here in the rain. But they could not abandon their companions to certain death. Merry and Pippin understood this, else they would not still be out here, but it was still a difficult chore.

And then Merry gave a great shout. Gandalf nearly jumped out of his boots in surprise and was almost bowled over when Pippin came charging into him. "He’s found something!" the young Took exclaimed. "Merry’s found something!"

Gandalf had figured that much out for himself, but he was grateful that Pippin seemed to have leaped out of the consuming bowls of melancholy. Following the hobbit quickly, it was not long before he caught sight of Merry hunched over something.

"It’s Boromir," Merry whispered, looking up as Gandalf drew near. "He’s still breathing, but he’s cold and I can’t get him to wake up."

Kneeling swiftly by the warrior’s side, Gandalf checked his vital signs and grimaced. They did not have much time. "Roll him onto his back," the wizard ordered quickly, taking a water skin and murmuring soft words of incantation. The water within the carrier began to swirl and mix, building in heat and energy. "Raise his head," Gandalf instructed.

"What are you doing?" Pippin asked, alarmed at Boromir’s pallor and lack of response.

"If we are fortunate, I am saving his life," Gandalf answered brusquely. With care and caution, he began pouring the warm liquid into Boromir’s mouth. He sighed with relief when the man swallowed in reflex, and so the wizard continued the process. When most of the water was gone, Gandalf shouldered the skin and stepped behind Boromir where the hobbits were propping him up. "Let us move him into a sitting position. With luck, he will awaken soon."

"And without luck?" Pippin wondered.

"Without luck, he will have to remain here," Gandalf said quietly.

The hobbits sat in silence for a bit, pondering what that might mean, and then Boromir coughed suddenly. Moving to support him as he began to sway, the hobbits braced themselves against his back while Gandalf stepped into the man’s field of vision, grasping his shoulder and hoping that Boromir would regain consciousness soon.

Fortunately for all of them, Gandalf’s hopes were realized. Boromir’s eyes fluttered open slowly and he groaned, one hand instinctively flying to his side. Listening to his breathing, Gandalf realized that something was off about it and immediately suspected broken ribs. That will make this more difficult.

"Mithrandir?" Boromir murmured, trying to fix his wandering gaze on the vague blur before his face.

"You must come with us," Gandalf said firmly in a voice that even Elrond would fear to contend. "You must somehow rise and walk. Can you do this, son of Gondor?"

Boromir seemed to straighten and a sparkle of resolve and defiance lit his eyes glazed. "I shall not fall to this. Let us go."

The task of actually getting Boromir to his feet was not as easy as the man seemed to think it would be. He was the heaviest member of the Fellowship even though Aragorn was the tallest and it was no small feat for one old wizard and two small hobbits to help this staggering warrior burdened with sopping cloak and large sword to his feet. But somehow, after several tries and several muddy failures, Boromir was up. His right knee trembled and jerked, but he was up.

"Now what?" Merry asked.

Gandalf had been thinking the same thing. Boromir might be standing, but he was not truly awake and was bound to lapse back into unconsciousness soon. The heated water touched with a hint of energy would do much for him, but it would not be enough. Reluctantly, aware that the use of power would draw the attention of unwanted eyes, Gandalf put a hand on Boromir’s shoulder and began to whisper. It seemed as though a soft halo of light surrounded the warrior, and the man’s eyes closed as he was surrounded by bliss.

"Did you heal him?" Pippin asked.

"Such power is not in me, I fear," Gandalf answered. "I have put him into a trance. He will make it back to camp now, but who can say whether or not the strain will kill him. Still, I do not see another way."

"So should we go back or keep looking?" Merry asked. "Aragorn and Legolas are still out there."

Gandalf sighed and looked at Boromir. "Dawn is but several hours away. And Boromir is in need of immediate assistance. If the others have not found their way back, I fear we can do nothing to help them now except perhaps by finding their remains in the morning." The wizard closed his eyes briefly and then quickly composed himself. "Come. We must return swiftly to camp and see that Boromir is given true warmth and nourishment, for without it, we may not have even reached him in time."

* * * *

Of all things to be looking for in the middle of a storm, I am looking for an elf! Gimli shook his head at the irony of it all and willed his legs to travel faster. He was not at ease with leaving the hobbits alone in the camp, but there had been no other way short of physical restraint to keep Frodo from dashing off alone. The dwarf fought off a shiver and hastened his swift jog. The rain drummed against him and the slight breezes were bitterly cold, but he tried to ignore them. He had a purpose to this journey and the sooner he accomplished that purpose, the sooner he could return to the fire and the hobbits.

He’d reached the area where he’d found Aragorn and discovered that there was some luck left in Middle Earth. The muddy ground clearly showed the prints of Aragorn’s halting progress toward the campfire. He had but to follow these footsteps to find the elf. The task was simple enough, but Gimli was aware of a few key problems. For all he knew, Aragorn and Legolas might have been swept to the other side of the river. If that was the case and Aragorn had crossed the river in returning to camp, Gimli would be forced to cross the river to search for the elf. The prospect was not exactly thrilling. There was also the possibility that Aragorn had been hallucinating and Legolas had never been with him. Gimli had seen that occasionally in dwarves who were rescued from extreme cold. The mind was a strange thing and played tricks when the weather turned bitter. Or there was the possibility that the tracks might vanish further on where the ground became rocky. If that happened, the dwarf did not know what he would do. He had no desire to search the woods blindly for a lost elf, especially at night and in the rain.

So far, though, there was a clear trail of tracks, it did not lead across the river, and he had not gone far enough to believe that Aragorn had hallucinated the entire thing. But another problem was slowly taking shape in Gimli’s mind. What would he do when he found Legolas? The elf did not trust him, and accepting help from the dwarf would be difficult at best, impossible at worse. Gimli really couldn’t blame Legolas, for if their situations were reversed, he would feel the same. In fact, he was unsure of his own feelings regarding lending the elf his aid. This was, after all, the same elf that had insulted him, insulted his father, nailed him to a tree, stolen his pipe, filled his pack with rocks, and soaked him with Pippin’s water skin. Why shouldn’t he be made to suffer a little more?

Gimli quickly shook his head. His thoughts were running along dangerous lines, and perhaps Frodo had been right to doubt him. He was uncomfortable with retrieving the elf, but he could not, in good faith, have sent the hobbits! Beyond the dangers of the forest, they would have faced the additional problem of transportation. As strong-hearted as they might be, they lacked strength of limb and they would not have been able to support Legolas on the journey home.

Concentrate, the dwarf ordered silently. Concentrate on the task. Schooling his mind, Gimli continued to follow Aragorn’s tracks in the dark night. They were now more difficult to see and the rain that ran off his head was not making things easier. But he pressed on, calling on the legendary endurance and tenacity of the dwarves. He had taken a mission upon himself and he would not rest until he was clearly convinced that Legolas was beyond his reach.

So intent was he on the footprints that he did not see the mound before him and tripped roughly, landing with a splash in the puddles. Spitting muddy water, Gimli turned and cursed, but then he froze. Somewhere in his mind, something clicked. He had not tripped on a log or a tree root. His foot had connected with something soft and yielding. Almost afraid to look, he glanced back and saw, lying motionless on the ground, the frozen figure of the elf.

Gimli hastened to his feet and moved to the elf’s side, frowning as he did so. Aragorn had been shivering violently when he’d been found, but Legolas lay completely still. Kneeling beside Legolas, Gimli turned him onto his back and shook his shoulder gently.

Legolas did not stir.

The dwarf cursed again, and at that point, something strange happened. All contempt for the being who’d nailed his beard to a tree in the early morning vanished. Legolas’s still face, taut with pain and cold, stroke a chord with Gimli, and he felt a strange sensation of sorrow and loss. Sorrow for the changing of the world and loss for the elves who even now were fleeing Middle Earth. It was a strange emotion and one that the dwarf quickly thrust down, but it left its mark in his mind. A concern he’d never thought to feel for an elf arose in the heart of the dwarf. The Eldar were vanishing. He could not let Middle Earth lose Legolas. Beyond that, this was no ordinary elf, or so he reasoned, seeking for a way to logically explain his sudden anxiety. Despite their continuing animosity, this was an elf who’d been his companion now for almost two weeks. They might not be friends, but they were both members of the Fellowship and both protectors of the Ring-bearer. Duty and dwarven custom demanded that Gimli look after his injured comrade. And so cloaking himself with the garb of duty and custom, Gimli tried again to wake the elf.

"Legolas?"

The prince did not so much as twitch. His frown deepening, Gimli shook Legolas harder and tried to think of something that might rouse him from his cold-induced stupor.

"Legolas, it is the dwarf. If you do not rise, I will be forced to slip pipe-weed into your food for the next three days. And that bow? Firewood unless you speak up. Legolas, I am laughing at your fall from the other day. Legolas! Would you have a dwarf survive the journey while you perish here in the mud? We have yet to even reach the mountains!"

But no matter what the dwarf said or what insults he created, the elf remained as still as stone. He was still breathing—Gimli had checked that first—but he was completely unresponsive to any outside stimuli. Realizing that Legolas was probably only moments away from dying of exposure, Gimli took off his own cloak, wrapped it around the elf with more care than he thought himself capable of, and hauled Legolas over his shoulder.

"Come then, Master Elf. Since you cannot move yourself, I will do it for you," Gimli said, turning and jogging back toward the camp. Legolas was much easier to carry than Aragorn had been, for he weighed significantly less. "Do not think that I will forget this moment in the near future," the dwarf continued, making conversation with himself as he sloshed through the muddy terrain. "Your life is in my hands, Legolas, and when you recover, you will owe me much. We will see how you repay this." Gimli smiled to himself. An uncomfortable duty had just turned into a rather sly form of payback for the arrow in the beard. The possibilities were endless.

Dangling over Gimli’s shoulder, Legolas suddenly groaned and shuddered, and the dwarf was reminded that the elf was still in danger. In order to enjoy the fruits of his labors, Gimli would have to make certain that Legolas recovered. There was still much to be done, not least of which was getting back to camp and getting the elf warmed up. Summoning the inborn strength of a dwarf, Gimli quickened his pace and hurried on.

January 4, 3019 (Day)

Never before had dawn been such a glorious sight. Frodo felt the evil menace that watched their camp draw back as if wary of the light. And that was another thing about this particular dawn, especially when contrasted with recent preceding dawns. Light! There was light! The clouds were beginning to break up, and hints of blue sky appeared slowly and cautiously. The sun was not yet high enough to peak over the tall mountains to the east, but its rays could be seen reflecting off the snow and just the confirmation of its continued existence was a joy to Frodo. The rain did continue, but it seemed to be letting up for the moment. Perhaps they were about to have a change of luck.

"Frodo, would you see to the fire?"

Gandalf’s stern voice from behind shook the hobbit from his reverie. Gandalf, Merry, and Pippin had arrived in camp just minutes ago, bringing with them two soaked blankets, a few rather bruised apples, an extra shirt of Sam’s, and Boromir. The shuddering man, only partially aware of his surroundings, had now joined Aragorn next to the fire and Gandalf was wrapping some torn strips of cloth tightly around the man’s chest.

"How is he?" Frodo asked, throwing a few more logs into the roaring flame.

"If we can successfully warm him up, I suspect he will be fine," Gandalf said. "His ribs are cracked, but if bound, they should not provide him with undue trouble. Samwise, is that soup ready yet?"

"It’s a bit hot," Sam answered, checking a bowl he’d just moved away from the fire so that it could cool. "Maybe another minute."

"Legolas," Aragorn groaned, moving restlessly beneath a mound of heated blankets. He had almost stopped shivering but he was still not fully conscious. "Legolas," the Ranger murmured again.

"He’s still not here," Frodo soothed gently, trying to ignore the rising feeling of anxiety. There had been no sign of either Gimli or Legolas after the dwarf had left camp, and Gimli at least should have returned by now, with or without the elf.

"Left him," Aragorn whispered, his movements increasing. "Have to find him. Cold. So cold."

"We’re looking for him, Strider," Merry broke in, keeling next to the Ranger and trying to keep him still. But as weak and tired as Aragorn was, he was still deceptively strong, and Merry soon called Pippin over to assist him. "Just rest," Merry tried again. "Legolas will be here soon."

"And Gimli, too, we hope," Pippin added under his breath, practically sitting on Aragorn’s chest to keep him from struggling. It disturbed him that the strong, crafty Ranger now lay weak and helpless next to a fire. Ever since Weathertop, he’d looked up to Aragorn as a source of protection and guidance. But now, he was the one doing the protecting—or at least part of it—and the Ranger was the weaker individual. It was a role reversal that Pippin did not like, and he hoped he did not have to endure his new responsibilities for much longer. Aragorn was a much better leader and protector.

"How long ago did Gimli leave?" Merry asked Frodo quietly, taking care that Aragorn did not overhear the whispered words.

"I think a couple of hours," Frodo answered, turning his eyes to the surrounding forest. The continuing absence of both the elf and the dwarf troubled him greatly. Legolas’s keen senses were a luxury they could ill afford to do without, and Gimli’s staunch loyalty and unswerving devotion to the mission were of great comfort to the Ring-bearer. Where were they? "I don’t understand it," Frodo murmured, voicing his thoughts aloud. "If Gimli couldn’t find Legolas, he would have come back before now. And if he did find him, he would have returned immediately."

"What if he found him and Legolas couldn’t be moved?" Sam suggested hesitantly, ignoring his own concerns. "Or what if Legolas was farther away than Strider remembered? There are lots of reasons that they aren’t back yet, Mr. Frodo, and not all of them are bad reasons or have bad endings."

"I hope you’re right, Sam," Frodo murmured.

"Boromir!" Gandalf suddenly ordered sharply, startling all of them. "Boromir, you must stay awake!"

"T-tired," the man hissed through chattering teeth as he tried to push Gandalf away with feeble efforts. "Need rest. Just a b-bit."

"Sam, we need that soup. Boromir must be warmed quickly," the wizard called.

"I think it’ll do now, Mr. Gandalf," Sam said, checking the soup once more. To his mind, it was still on the hot side, but if Boromir needed it now, a slightly burned throat was a small price to pay for living. Picking up the bowl and grabbing a nearby spoon, Sam made his way over to where Gandalf was tying off Boromir’s makeshift bandages. "Time for breakfast, sir," Sam announced with as much mock cheerfulness as he could muster.

"Open your mouth," Gandalf said gently but firmly, moving behind Boromir and supporting his lolling head. "Carefully now or you’ll spill. Come, Boromir, you can stay awake." The wizard frowned as Boromir continued to drift away. "Boromir, what would your father say if he saw you like this? Is this how the son of Denethor meets an enemy?"

It was a cruel tactic and Gandalf knew it, but he could think of nothing else to rouse the man. With a murmur that sounded suspiciously like a curse, Boromir managed to open his eyes and blink blearily at them all. "Mithrandir?"

The wizard sighed in relief. "Yes, Boromir, I am here. But if you wish to remain here with me, you must eat. Look to Sam. He has your soup ready for you."

"That’s right, Mr. Boromir," Sam said, nodding and moving the spoon forward. "It’s nice and hot, and it’ll do wonders for warming you up."

"I c-can do this myself," Boromir said with a hint of stung pride. He reached for the spoon but his hand was shaking so hard that Sam drew back and Boromir made a sound that might have been a strangled sob.

"Boromir, you are freezing," Gandalf said, his voice quiet and understanding. "And if we do not warm you quickly, you will be dying. Let Sam feed you. Put away your pride. Lie here and recover. That is the best thing you can do for yourself."

Torn by indecision born of the conflicting forces of pride and common sense, Boromir, Denethor’s son, heir to the steward of Gondor, captain of the forces in Osgiliath, and renowned warrior, finally relented. With a nod, he gave in and allowed Gandalf to support his shaking frame. And when Sam came forward again with the spoon, Boromir closed his eyes and accepted the proffered nourishment. If it was too hot, he did not say. He endured the spoon-feeding in an uneasy silence as one might endure a long night of guard duty when the enemy was known to be near.

"Gandalf, I think Strider’s going to sleep again."

Looking toward Merry who hovered over the Ranger along with Frodo and Pippin, Gandalf swore silently. "Chafe his arms and legs. Open the blankets on his chest and turn him onto his side so that he faces the fire directly. If this does not work and you still cannot rouse him, tell me."

With quick nods of acknowledgement, the three hobbits went to work, pushing Aragorn over, rubbing his arms and legs vigorously, and speaking urgent words to him in the hopes that he would respond. Gandalf heard a muffled groan from their direction and assumed that Aragorn was beginning to wake. That was good. The Ranger could probably be allowed to sleep now without risking his life, but Gandalf didn’t want to chance it. In a few hours, when Aragorn had completely stopped shivering, they would allow him to doze off, but for the moment, it was best to heed the voice of prudence.

"That’s all of it," Sam said, feeding Boromir the last spoonful of soup. "Do you want more now or do you want to see how this settles?"

"More, Samwise," Gandalf answered before Boromir could even think of refusing the offer. "Take the water from the kettle on the fire and when it has cooled sufficiently, we will begin this again." The wizard, shifted Boromir even closer to the fire, wincing at the heat it emanated, and laid him down on a pile of blankets. "Pippin? Would you watch him? Talk to him so that he will not fall asleep."

"Right," Pippin said. He left Aragorn’s side and made his way toward Boromir, ignoring the man’s baleful glare. "So, how about this weather?"

Gandalf shook his head as he stepped away, picking up his staff and moving toward the forest. A dozen yards or so away from the fire, he stopped and sighed, searching the eaves of the wood with narrowed eyes. Someone stirred behind him, and he looked back to see Frodo joining him.

"Where do you suppose they are?"

"I fear I cannot hazard a guess," Gandalf answered, his voice quiet and thoughtful. "By your account, Gimli left about two hours ago, correct?"

Frodo nodded. "He left when Strider told us about Legolas."

"And when found, Aragorn could barely move himself. He would not have left Legolas unless there was no other choice, but alone and unburdened, he might have been able to go a great distance even though weariness had forced him to leave the elf. Legolas could be anywhere, and in the process of finding him, Gimli might become lost himself. Barring that, I can think of no reason save the devices of the Enemy that might have delayed the dwarf."

Frodo shivered, aware again of malicious eyes observing his movements, but the evil seemed distant enough that it should not prove to be a threat. More immediate was his anxiety for two missing comrades. Though sunlight was beginning to creep down the mountainsides and the rain was beginning to relent, darkness and cold still gripped the land. If Gimli and Legolas did not arrive soon, they might not arrive at all.

* * * *

Gimli eased Legolas down from his shoulders and laid him against the trunk of a broad tree. The elf was moaning slightly and had even begun to shiver, which Gimli took as good signs since he had been doing neither earlier. But at the moment, the dwarf needed more. He hated to admit it and he didn’t understand how it could have happened, but somehow in the darkness and the rain, he had missed the trail of footprints that would lead him back to camp.

He was lost.

"All right, elf," Gimli murmured, shaking the dampness from his beard and kneeling next to Legolas. His back ached from carrying the prince, but he forced himself to ignore it. There would be time for retribution later. "Wake up. This is for your life, not mine, so leave your elvish dream world. Legolas! Legolas, wake up!"

Legolas groaned and shifted his head.

"Legolas!" The dwarf took hold of the elf’s shoulder and began to shake him. "I know you can do this, elf. You’re not that far-gone yet. Show me how an elf defies death! Durin’s beard, you stupid immortal, wake up!"

But this time, Legolas remained completely still. Even his shivers of cold began to die away. Realizing how little time remained to save the prince, Gimli slapped the elf across the face and started chafing his arms. The strange concern that had affected him during the night manifested itself again. There were so few of the Eldar lingering in Middle Earth. To lose another elf would be such a grave tragedy. And to lose him to something like the weather… Gimli shook his head fiercely. What was he doing? What had come over him? Concern for an elf was unheard of. Besides, anxiety was doing nothing for getting them back to the rest of the Fellowship. Sternly disciplining his thoughts, the dwarf turned his attention back to Legolas, trying once more to rouse him.

"Elf, I refuse to be lost in this weather. Wake up! Legolas!" But there still seemed to be no response. Gimli was close to despairing and almost decided to simply trudge onward in the hopes that he would blunder back into camp when, much to the dwarf’s reluctant but eternal relief, Legolas sighed and turned his head slightly. "That’s right, keep coming," Gimli encouraged, feeling the euphoric return of hope. "All the way now. Open your eyes." He slapped the elf again, hoping to elicit some kind of stronger response. "Legolas!"

The shivers were returning as Legolas started to drift back into the world of the living. After another minute, the elf groaned and his eyes fluttered a bit. Gimli slapped him yet again and went back to chafing his arms, trying desperately to increase the circulation. And after a minute or two more, his efforts were rewarded. The vacant look of elven sleep disappeared. With a shudder, gray eyes slowly focused on the dwarf. They were clouded and hazy in stark contrast to their usual brightness, but they were focused and there was awareness lurking within their depths.

"Legolas?"

The elf frowned slightly, the expression in his face and eyes revealing obvious confusion. Gimli decided that he would have given gold to know what went through Legolas’s mind as the prince found himself shivering violently, weak to the point of collapse, and being revived by the single most unlikely member of the Fellowship. The elf closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again, perhaps believing Gimli to be a dream. When he found that the dwarf was still there, his frown deepened and the wheels in his cold-fogged mind began to turn, seeking some kind of rational explanation.

"Gimli?" he finally ventured, his voice tentative and suspicious.

Gimli was sorely tempted to explain that he was saving Legolas’s life, but there was no time. He could see the prince weakening visibly by the second. "Listen closely, elf," the dwarf said, continuing to rub Legolas’s arms. "You’ll never hear this from me again, so don’t let it go to your head, but your senses are better than mine. I need you to listen closely and tell me if our companions are near."

The elf blinked, obviously confused by the request. "What?"

"Focus! Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir, and the hobbits," Gimli said, watching Legolas closely and forcing down feelings of rising frustration. "Where are they? Are they close by?"

The elf’s brow furrowed with bewilderment, but he seemed to concentrate slightly and turned his head to the side as though listening. "I…they are near…" Legolas trailed off and shivered, his concentration broken by the cold that stole the very breath from his weary body. His expressive eyes began to cloud over and the absent look of sleep returned. Realizing what was happening, Gimli cursed and shook the elf hard.

"No, Legolas, concentrate. Stay with me. You said they were near, but I need to know how near and where. Can you tell me? Can you answer that?"

"Tired," the elf whispered, his head lolling forward onto his chest.

"I know you’re tired and I promise you that I’ll let you go back to sleep in a minute, but first you must answer my question: Where is the rest of the Fellowship? Legolas?" Gimli cursed yet again as the elf’s breathing began to slow. "Legolas, you can’t do that yet. You have to answer my question." But this time, Legolas seemed to be drifting even further from the reaches of the living world. His skin took on a sickly gray color while overtones of blue colored his lips. Much to Gimli’s alarm, Legolas’s eyes then slid shut, something that even the most ignorant and prejudiced dwarf would recognize as a serious warning sign, and Gimli was far from ignorant. Renewing his efforts with increased fervor, he shook the elf so hard it was a wonder he did not break any bones. "Legolas! Listen, Master Elf, I will not leave you alone until you answer me! At least show me in what direction our comrades lie."

Barely conscious, Legolas willed his reluctant eyes back open, compelled by both the urgent tone in the dwarf’s voice and his own irritation. He blinked, attempting to clear his vision, and shook his head slightly. The world seemed to be encased in an impossible fog, though how this came to be was something the elf could not clearly remember or understand. All he knew was that he was bitterly cold and the only thing he wanted to do was to sleep. Hoping this would convince the dwarf to leave him alone, Legolas turned his eyes directly west, shivered, and nodded. "That way," he whispered.

"Thank you," Gimli said, seizing the elf around the waist and hauling him back over his shoulders. "Go back to sleep. I have no doubt that Gandalf will wake you later."

Legolas said nothing in response and did not even attempt a feeble protest about being carried, instead slumping limply over the dwarf’s shoulder as though he were still unconscious. Feeling that time was almost up, Gimli hurried forward, crashing through underbrush and slipping in mud. Wet leaves slapped against his face and branches dragged at his corselet of mail. Legolas lay heavy and unmoving across his shoulders, but the dwarf could dimly feel the rise and fall of the elf’s chest. His breathing was shallow, but at least it was still there. That was something. Despite the fact that the elf himself seemed to have given up, his elven stamina was still hanging grimly to life. But Gimli could sense that this grip would soon give, and then there would be no hope for Legolas.

As he continued to run, Gimli wondered what Legolas had meant in saying that the rest of the Fellowship was near. Near was a very relative term, particularly for an elf, and could mean anything from a few feet to several leagues. Gimli was beginning to suspect that Legolas had been speaking in terms of the latter. He decided there should be some sort of law or provision prohibiting members of the Eldar race from using vague terms like near, loud, or ominous. Beings with gifted senses should be confined to concrete statements of measurable facts. That would also cut back on elven poetic tendencies, which wearied dwarven ears and took time away from more practical matters. With a shake of his head and a shift of his cramping shoulders, Gimli resigned himself to the fact that he was still lost in the forest. Shortly afterward, he crashed through a copse of trees and found himself face to belt with Gandalf.

Frozen in surprise, dwarf and wizard stared at one another for a few seconds before recovering, and then both started to speak at once.

"Where have you—"

"I’ve been looking everywhere for—"

They stopped, stared again, and Gandalf eventually took control of the conversation. "Foolish dwarf, where have you been?!"

"Is it my fault that this elf could not make it back to camp on his own and we became lost as a result?" Gimli demanded. "I have been searching this cold, wet, dripping forest for you, in the dark and the rain no less, and now that I’ve found you, all you can do is—"

"Peace," Gandalf interrupted, realizing the diatribe could last for some time. "How is Legolas?"

Gimli grunted and pulled the elf off his shoulders so that Gandalf could examine him. "Cold and tired. He would not stay awake."

Holding his hand over the elf’s mouth, Gandalf frowned. "There is no warmth in his breath. The core of his body is almost devoid of heat." The wizard felt for a pulse and found it to be shallow, rapid, and uneven. "There is little time left," he murmured, his alarm and concern rising exponentially. "Come, Gimli. We must hurry! Speed is of the essence." And saying this, Gandalf scooped the elf into his arms with a surprising display of strength and hastened away. Tired, wet, hungry, and feeling slightly miffed, Gimli was left to follow as best he could.

* * * *

"Any sign of Gandalf?" Frodo asked, directing his question to Merry.

The other hobbit took his eyes from the surrounding forest for a moment and sighed, shaking his head. "Nothing that I can see," he answered, turning back to stare at the trees into which Gandalf had disappeared almost half an hour ago. "Sorry," he said quietly. "I can’t see anything. I can’t hear anything, either. It’s like he’s disappeared."

"He really hasn’t been gone that long," Pippin pointed out, using his words to calm his own fears. "And he knows the area well enough that he wouldn’t get lost. Right, Strider?" Pippin glanced over at the dozing Ranger. "Strider?"

"Mmm…"

"Let him sleep," Frodo admonished. "Gandalf said that he was probably out of danger. So long as he can still wake for dinner, he’ll be fine. And I don’t know any of us who wouldn’t be willing to wake up for Sam’s stew."

"Why is it that you Halflings will p-permit Aragorn to rest b-but you insist on annoying me?" Boromir wondered from beneath a large mound of blankets, his teeth chattering audibly. "Should I n-not merit the same l-level of courtesy and respect as a Ranger of the wild?"

"But he finished his soup, Master Boromir," Sam answered, stirring up yet another bowl of broth. "You’re not quite done. When you are finished, then we’ll let you sleep."

"And how shall we d-determine when I have f-finished?" Boromir challenged.

"Gandalf is in charge of that," Pippin said. "You’ll have to take it up with him."

Boromir murmured something in his native tongue that did not sound like a compliment by any stretch of the imagination and pulled some blankets over his head. Pippin, who had been tasked with seeing that Boromir remained awake, lifted the edge of one blanket and peered inside.

"You better not fall asleep on me," he warned. "We Tooks can be violent if we have to wake someone."

"Warriors of Gondor c-can be v-violent if woken suddenly from a well-deserved rest, Master T-took, so have a care," Boromir grumbled.

"Boromir, you’re still shivering," Frodo reasoned, tossing another log onto the fire. "You can’t go to sleep now because you might never wake up. We have to make certain you’re warm enough so that your body won’t shut down the moment you close your eyes."

"Soup’s ready," Sam announced. "It’s time for more, Mr. Boromir, if you feel up to it."

"I don’t."

"Hold!" a voice shouted from the forest. All four hobbits jumped and Boromir shifted slightly beneath his mound. Even Aragorn stirred a bit, murmuring something about scouting parties and shadows before turning over and going back to sleep. "Hold, Samwise," the voice repeated, and presently Gandalf could be seen racing out from beneath the trees. Gimli jogged behind him and a very still, very pale elf lay motionless in the wizard’s arms.

"You found them!" Pippin cheered.

Ignoring the Took, Gandalf brushed past him and headed straight for the campfire. "Samwise, we must get that soup into Legolas. Frodo, Merry, gather up the hottest blankets you can find." Gandalf knelt next to the fire and laid Legolas on a pile of drying cloaks. "Here, Pippin, strip him of his tunic. Take those blankets and wrap him up tightly. Sit him as close to the fire as possible and start more blankets warming. We’ll rotate them so that as some blankets cool, hot ones will replace them. Hurry!"

The commotion and Gandalf’s urgent, commanding tone managed to burrow through the layers of Aragorn’s dreams and he stirred again, this time even venturing to open his eyes. Furrowing his brow, the Ranger tried to track the camp’s activities despite the clouds that hazed his weary mind and eventually registered the fact that something serious was going on. "Gandalf?" he murmured, too sleepy to put much more into the question other than the wizard’s name.

"Rest, Aragorn," Gandalf commanded, keeping his attention focused on Legolas. He lifted the elf as Pippin wrapped a third layer of hot blankets around the unresponsive prince, and then the wizard propped him into a sitting position and rested him against his side. "Come, Sam," Gandalf ordered, rubbing the elf’s neck and jaw. Under the massage, Legolas’s mouth opened slightly. Sam looked questioningly at Gandalf who nodded. "Feed him the soup, Samwise. He will probably swallow reflexively but if he does not, there are ways of aiding the process."

San hesitated, still uncertain about feeding anyone who was not conscious since the Gaffer had once choked on an artichoke that way, but when the wizard’s bristling eyebrows began to arch, he quickly obeyed and slipped a spoonful of hot soup into the elf’s mouth. When nothing happened, Gandalf began rubbing the elf’s neck just below the jaw and eventually Legolas swallowed.

"I don’t think I’ve seen anything like that, and that’s a fact," Sam said quietly with a touch of awe. "You can do that when he’s not even awake for it?"

"It is a simple enough technique," Gandalf answered. "Another spoonful if you would, Sam. Let us see if he can swallow on his own yet."

The hobbit nodded and quickly gave the elf more soup, watching closely for any discernable change in his condition. When there was not, Gandalf sighed and repeated his earlier actions, eventually forcing the reflexive swallow. There was still no warmth in Legolas’s breath, and coupled with the fact that his eyes were closed, Gandalf knew they were running out of time to warm him.

"How is he?" a voice at Gandalf’s elbow asked.

Gandalf flinched in surprise and turned a startled gaze upon Gimli. The dwarf seemed at least genuinely interested in the elf’s welfare if not truly concerned for it, and that puzzled the wizard. "He is not well, Gimli. If we do not warm and wake him by tonight, I fear things will go ill." Gandalf hesitated, debating about whether or not to proceed, and eventually decided to do so. "You probably saved his life, Gimli. He would not have endured the cold and damp for long if he had been left alone, and it is doubtful he would have survived even until sunrise."

"So long as we must be burdened with his presence, I thought it best to have him living rather than dead," Gimli answered, affecting an uncaring attitude that Gandalf quickly saw through. "He is easier to carry that way."

"Very practical of you," Gandalf said, motioning for Sam to continue with the feeding. "If you wish it, Legolas does not need to know of your involvement in his rescue."

"No, let him learn of it," Gimli said, still trying to sound casual and nonchalant. "He will ask who took part in the saving of his life, in any case, and we have no need for lies in this Fellowship. Such things would drive us apart." And ignoring the not-so-subtle stares that turned his direction at such an announcement, Gimli moved away from the fire, seeking a place of rest that was not a burning oven.

"He swallowed, Mr. Gandalf," Sam suddenly spoke up excitedly. "I saw it. He swallowed on his own."

Gandalf smiled, feeling a bit of hope reenter his heart. "Then continue, Sam. Make certain he swallows every time you feed him, and do not stop until I instruct you to do so. Warm food and drink are his best chance at recovering lost heat."

"Gandalf?"

It was Aragorn again, this time managing to raise himself up on one elbow. He was still shivering slightly, but the color in his face was returning and his eyes were clear and piercing as was the Ranger’s wont. Gandalf sighed in relief. At least there was one patient who was on the mend.

"Rest," the wizard commanded, holding Aragorn’s dark eyes with his own. "You can be of better use to us if you recover."

"You found Legolas," Aragorn observed, pushing himself into a sitting position. "How is he?"

Gandalf grimaced. What exactly did he say to that? He could not lie for the Ranger would see through him faster than the hobbits could devour a meal. But he could not tell the entire truth, for then Aragorn would wish to help and while his help would be useful, it was not truly needed. At least, not yet.

But before Gandalf could say anything, Sam broke in, effectively releasing the proverbial cat from the proverbial bag. "He was too cold to swallow, Strider," the hobbit said, his eyes dark with concern. "But then we started feeding him some soup and now he can swallow on his own. But he won’t open his eyes and he won’t wake up." Sam looked back at the elf who still lay propped against Gandalf. "And I don’t rightly know much about elves, but he seems far to pale to me."

"The soup, Samwise," Gandalf prompted, nodding at the bowl of cooling broth in the hobbit’s hands. Chagrined, Sam quickly went back to his task of feeding Legolas, watching carefully each time to see that the elf swallowed what he was given. Trusting Sam to ensure that Legolas did not choke, Gandalf turned his attention to Aragorn and fixed him with a baleful stare. "I am not a tottering old man who wanders about Middle Earth, taking with me only a staff upon which to lean," the wizard said, his voice chilling slightly for effect. "The elf and Boromir will be cared for, and you will go back to sleep. We will wake you for dinner."

A hint of rebellion stole into Aragorn’s gaze, and he seemed about to protest but something else caught his attention. He stiffened, blinked, and then turned his eyes away from the camp, searching the surrounding forests. At the same time, Gandalf also felt the presence of an evil malice and he, too, turned his eyes outward. Frodo, who was warming blankets by the fire for Legolas, almost dropped the thick cloth in surprise. One hand stole to his breast and he seemed to clutch at something within his shirt.

"Gandalf…"

"Not now, Frodo," the wizard murmured, noting that no one else seemed to be stirred by this foreign presence. He wondered that Frodo should react so to the presence of the Warg, but a quick glance at the young hobbit swiftly revealed the answer. And we have not even passed the mountains, Gandalf sighed. Still, the ability to sense the Enemy may aid him in his quest to destroy the Ring. That is, it may if the Ring does not control him first.

"The rain slows, and life returns to its normal routine," Aragorn spoke, pitching his voice deliberately light and making his words vague enough so that the hobbits, Gimli, and Boromir would not become suspicious.

"If you think to call this normal, then you are as mad as the elf," Gimli declared, deciding that finding a seat free of mud or water was a futile effort. He plopped down on a wet log next to his pack and began looking for his pipe. "I take it that we are not moving tonight."

"We will not move at sunset," Gandalf clarified. "But I think we may be able to move about midnight."

"But Legolas isn’t even awake yet," Pippin said in surprise. "How do you know that—"

"Elves recover quickly," Gandalf said, "and as soon as we are able to move, we must do so. It is dangerous to stay in one place for a great length of time. We have already lingered here far too long." Gandalf fell silent after that and the manner of his bearing forbade further questioning.

So Sam continued to trickle soup down Legolas’s throat, Pippin continued to keep Boromir awake through ceaseless pestering, Boromir continued to threaten the young hobbit’s existence though he was secretly amused by the Took’s antics, Merry become efficient at warming blankets and wrapping them around Legolas, the elf slowly gained back his color though his eyes remained closed, and Gimli smoked his pipe in thoughtful silence with occasional stray glances at the elf as though something puzzled him. Gandalf, Aragorn, and Frodo, on the other hand, were not nearly as light of heart as some of their companions. The Warg had returned, and he drew ever closer, almost braving the light of day as he watched the Fellowship.

He senses were are not all hale, Gandalf realized grimly, his eyes straying to the semi-alert form of Aragorn, the shivering form of Boromir, and the limp form of Legolas. But surely he does not think to attack us. The wizard’s brow furrowed with thought, trying to account for the fact that a creature of darkness was drawing near while the sun yet shone. Perhaps Aragorn was right. Perhaps he grows hungry and thinks to steal from our supplies. Or perhaps to hunt our pony. Gandalf then looked over at Bill who was standing near the fire with his head down and his tail swishing lazily from side to side.

From across the fire, Aragorn caught Gandalf’s eyes and nodded toward the horse. He then jerked his head away from the fire, signaling the presence of the Warg. Gandalf tensed, recalling the Ranger’s plan to lure the Warg into the open by using Bill as bait. Not yet, the wizard mouthed, but he had to admit that the idea was becoming more appealing. The Warg had to be eliminated, and what better way to destroy the creature than by using one of his weaknesses against him? But the plan would have to wait, for such action would call for the involvement of Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli, three of which were somewhat incapacitated.

Deciphering the logic behind Gandalf’s admonition to wait, Aragorn nodded thoughtfully and then turned to watch the world beyond the camp. So much for resting, the wizard sighed. But with the presence of the wolf casting a shadow across the Ranger’s heart, it was doubtful that Aragorn would have been able to sleep even had he desired to do so.

Gandalf sighed again and looked at the thin clouds that covered the sky and the slight that rain that still fell. It would have been a fine day but for the presence of the wolf. And travel during the night would not have been relatively pleasant compared to previous nights, but instead, they would have to wait for some of the Fellowship to recover. I hate waiting, the wizard decided. I have done far too much of it. But he would have to wait yet a little more, and so he settled himself down to endure the remainder of the day. At least the Fellowship was together again. And perhaps, just perhaps, there had been a change of heart in Gimli the dwarf. Travel might even become bearable.

January 4, 3019 (Night)

His first forays in returning to the conscious world were met with limited success and a great deal of pain. It was as though the Fell Winter of 2911* had returned and brought with it the fearsome blizzards that had very nearly starved the elves out of Mirkwood. Legolas clearly remembered one bitterly cold night when he had sought shelter beneath an old pine tree with five other elves. By morning, only half of that scouting party remained in the realm of the living, and they would have all perished had not Thranduil’s search teams found them shortly after sunrise. Wondering if this was a repeat of that tragic event and whether or not he had been rescued again or left to waste away, Legolas tried for the fifth time to open his eyes.

Once more, he encountered failure. He simply did not have the energy or the strength to acknowledge the outside world. But his mind was becoming more alert. As he continued to struggle against the grasp of darkness, fuzzy memories started to surface. He could dimly remember Aragorn’s furious voice commanding him to rise, and he remembered his own inability to comply with that request as well as his rather embarrassing lack of will to even make the attempt. He also seemed to have a vague recollection of Gimli shouting something at him, but that made no sense and he dismissed it as a bizarre nightmare of the unconscious world.

Once again he rallied against the darkness, mustering his strength and energy, but still, he could not seem to get his eyes open. Yet he was making progress. He was fairly certain of that. His fogged senses were slowly returning and his elven ears had begun to pick up sounds. He heard voices, faint and distant as though they hailed from far away, but Legolas suspected this was not the case and that the obstacle in clearly discerning the spoken word lay with him rather than with his surroundings.

Touch was the next sense to recover, and along with it came taste. Something hot slid into the elf’s mouth, and then warm soup was trickling down his throat. A heat in his stomach indicated that this had been going on for quite some time but that he was only now becoming aware of it. So I have been rescued, Legolas decided, feeling his need to return to consciousness abate slightly with this knowledge. But how? Aragorn was as weary as I was. He could not have carried me back to camp, and I wonder if he had the strength to even arrive on his own. And what if the Dúnadan left my side to seek for help and was not found when I was? Concern for his friend quickly rekindled the elf’s desire to open his eyes, and he resumed his struggles, this time making better progress as his body continued to warm.

Now he could feel the presence of heated blankets around his shivering form, and he could also feel rough hands chafing his arms, restoring circulation and providing heat through friction. A faint smell of pipe-weed and pony caught his nose just ere more hot soup slipped into his mouth, and he mentally smiled. Well met, Samwise, he thought with a touch of gratitude and warmth for the hobbit who showed a fascination for the Eldar at the same time that he retained his innocence and his rustic habits.

The hands that rubbed his arms stopped for a moment and then came a faint touch at his throat, feeling for a pulse. Since he was still not up to opening his eyes or responding in any way to his rescuers, Legolas decided to concentrate on learning upon whom he was propped. The hands were callused and large but the prince could sense a subtle and infinite skill within them. They seemed almost elvish in that respect. There was also a faint smell of pipe-weed and…wood? Ah, Mithrandir, Legolas realized. It would appear that I at least am in good hands. But what of Aragorn? And I saw naught of Boromir after the flood!

His inability to communicate with those around him was moving beyond the point of annoyance and becoming a severe source of frustration. He was not used to being shut away, whether by stone walls or physical inability. He was an elf, and the elves had been the first to use the spoken word. They had always been able to converse with others, and the fact that Legolas now couldn’t was distressing. He needed to be able to communicate. Not that the elf sought to monopolize all conversation. Quite the contrary, in fact. He was very content to listen and offer his opinion only when it was requested. But the ability to speak…he needed to know that he could speak if he wished to. It was ingrained in his nature. It was an essential part of his makeup and his personality, and if he did not manage to either open his eyes or speak within the very near future, he felt that he would go mad.

"I think he is waking."

Legolas had guessed rightly. That was Gandalf, and now he heard the stirring of other bodies. Someone’s hand slid across his brow, and judging from its size and its feel, he decided it belonged to Sam. The sound of a popping spine off to his right sent a wave of relief through Legolas. Aragorn! So he was also found. The elf smiled mentally at his method of identification, but it was true that whenever the Ranger stretched, his back always seemed to crack slightly. It was something Legolas had learned when they’d hunted spiders together in Mirkwood. On watch late one night, a stretching Aragorn had jolted the elf from sleep because his popping spine sounded remarkably like the creaking of a carapace.

A muted grumble caught his attention next and it took him a moment to label the voice as being Boromir’s. It sounded more distant than the others’ voices and Legolas wondered at this, but at least he had now accounted for everyone who had been swept away in the flashflood.

"Legolas?"

Everything within the elf froze. It was a small consolation that the other members of the Fellowship also seemed surprised by this new voice, for he could dimly hear their gasps and mutterings. Unfortunately, this also meant that he had probably not imagined what had just happened.

"Legolas, can you answer me?"

There it was again! What was the dwarf up to this time? He was doing a remarkable job of feigning concern, but Legolas was not about to fall for it. Whatever Gimli planned to get out of the elf’s misfortune, he would not get the satisfaction of having fooled the prince. Legolas was far too wise for this simple game, and his opinion of the dwarf’s intelligence dropped dramatically.

"Come, Legolas, you spoke when I was dragging you in out of the rain. I would think that you can speak now that the rain has stopped."

Dragging me in out of the rain?! Legolas felt his brow furrow, an accomplishment that should have been viewed with triumphant, but the elf was too busy trying to figure out what Gimli had meant. Surely he does not…he can’t have…who found me? Attempts to open his eyes were now born of a desperate need to disprove a dangerous idea that was taking shape in the elf’s mind. And driven by a nearly hysterical fear, Legolas finally managed it.

Reluctant, heavy lids lifted from foggy gray eyes that were immediately captured by a pair of deep-set eyes so dark they were almost black. For a moment, nothing happened. Neither dared move, and Legolas suddenly realized that he had never actually looked Gimli in the eyes before. They’d had staring contests, of course, but during such times, Legolas had been blinded by the need to win and had not taken the time to process what he saw. But now…something in those dark eyes intrigued him. There was strength there and a deep courage springing from a soul as complex as his own. Then the eyes blinked and turned away, and the moment vanished, lost in the cold night air that was slowly overtaking the campsite.

"Good evening to you, Legolas," Gandalf said behind the elf, shifting Legolas down onto the ground next to the fire so that he was no longer propped against the wizard. "How do you feel?"

I will not ask what happened. I will not ask what happened. I will not—"What happened?" Curse the Valar!

"The river swept you, Aragorn, and Boromir downstream," the wizard explained, turning dark eyes on Gimli as though suddenly suspicious of something. "Aragorn was able to travel to camp, but you were not so fortunate. Gimli found you later and brought you in."

"You were long in recovering, Master Elf," Gimli added, his eyes twinkling with the knowledge that Legolas was now in his debt. "But it is a relief to see that you are now awake and conscious. I despaired of ever hearing your voice again when I carried you through the dark, the rain, the cold, and the mud."

I knew I should not have asked what happened. "You have my…thanks, Gimli," Legolas said hesitantly, wondering exactly what was going to happen next. The dwarf beamed at him, and Legolas received the overwhelming impression that Gimli was thoroughly enjoying this. The elf shifted uncomfortably, wishing vainly for the strength to rise so that he might put some distance between himself and the gloating dwarf. "What of Boromir?" he asked. He had already heard the man and knew he was within the camp, but he hoped to turn the conversation toward something else with the inquiry. "Did you find him?"

"Merry, Pippin, and I found Boromir," Gandalf answered, turning and signaling to someone who was beyond the elf’s field of vision. "More soup, Samwise. He is still shivering."

Legolas glanced down at his body and discovered—much to his amazement—that Gandalf was right. He was shivering. And now that he considered it, he did feel quite cold. But he could sense his elven healing abilities already kicking in, and he doubted not that he would be able to stand and move about on his own within the next few hours.

"It’s good to see you up, Mr. Legolas," a hobbit’s voice called, pulling the elf’s attention away from introspection. "I was worried about feeding you when you were asleep, but Gandalf said it was necessary and I—"

"Have no fear, Sam," Legolas said with a slight smile. "I am certain that care was taken, and I thank you for your service." Legolas was actually secretly appalled by the idea that he’d been spoon-fed, but if such a thing had been needed, then it had been needed. And the elf was grateful that Sam had been the one to undertake the task. The gardener was not a warrior by any stretch of the imagination, and it seemed easier to admit weakness to one already vulnerable rather than admitting it to one with comparable skills in battle.

"Well, you’re welcome," Sam said, surprised by the gratitude. "It wasn’t difficult and I don’t want you to be thinking that it was any trouble, but—"

"Sam? The soup?" Gandalf broke in.

"Right," the hobbit said, trying to readjust his train of thought. "Anyway, this should be much easier now with you being awake and all. We’ll just find something you can prop your head against and—"

"I think I shall be able to manage this on my own," Legolas interrupted. He would accept help up to a point, but he was not about to endure a conscious force-feeding from a hobbit, especially if it was to be witnessed by a dwarf. "If you would set the bowl down, I shall be happy to partake of your soup."

Sam and Gandalf exchanged dubious looks above the elf’s head and Legolas felt a flash of irritation. Gimli’s slight smile further fueled the elf’s temper and he was casting about his still-hazy brain for something scathing to say when Aragorn stepped into view. "Legolas, if I remember correctly, your wrist is sprained. Would you allow me to examine it?"

"You are supposed to be resting," Gandalf pointed out, sending the Ranger a dark look.

"Boromir is resting enough for both of us," Aragorn replied, glancing at a large pile of blankets on the other side of the fire. Legolas saw the mound move slightly as if in response and then it went still again. "Legolas?" The elf turned back as the Ranger addressed him. "If you would raise your arm…"

The prince sighed, knowing from experience that Aragorn could not be gainsaid once he set his mind on something. And if he were honest with himself, the Ranger’s inspection would probably bring him a measure of comfort. It would be reassuring to know that his wrist was merely sprained and not broken, something about which he was not entirely certain. Eventually nodding, Legolas tried to lift his left arm, but to his surprise and shame, his attempts went nowhere. Confused, the elf studied the traitorous arm, mentally willing it to rise and wincing when the only response was an increase in the shivers that already shook him.

Aragorn smiled slightly and knelt next to the elf. "You see, my friend? You have very little strength, and what strength you have is negated by the trembling of your limbs. Now let us aid you. If it is any consolation, I endured this several hours ago." The ranger turned away and motioned Sam forward.

Legolas narrowed his eyes, a protest forming on his lips, but Gandalf beat him to it. "Aragorn, it is my intention to travel again tonight. It will do us no good if you topple over just ere our departure."

"And what good is an archer if he cannot pull back his own bow?" Aragorn returned, picking up the elf’s shaking wrist and probing gently, searching for possible breaks.

"There are others here who are quite capable of—"

"But there are none here with my skills or qualifications," the Ranger interrupted.

"If I may say something…" Legolas broke in.

"No," Gandalf and Aragorn returned in unison.

"Mr. Legolas, I don’t think you’re going to convince them of anything," Sam advised, taking a position near the elf’s head. "Now, we need to prop you against something so your head is upright and—"

"Allow me to assist you both," Gimli volunteered, moving behind the elf.

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he would suddenly find himself whisked away onto a trackless path in Mirkwood where his only concerns were Wargs and Orcs. But such was not to be the case, and he opened his eyes to discover that the situation remained as it was. Gandalf and Aragorn were facing off over his chest, Sam was offering him a spoonful of hot broth, and Gimli was now holding his head up. He wondered when Merry, Pippin, and Frodo would appear to join the circus, and while they were at it, they might as well wake Boromir and drag him into the chaos. It would be just as productive as whatever it was they were doing now.

As if on cue, three hobbit faces appeared from behind Sam, their curious eyes examining Legolas and evaluating his condition. "Didn’t I tell you that he’d wake up?" Pippin asked, looking at Merry.

"No, I believe that’s what I told you," Merry returned.

"How are you feeling?" Frodo asked, ignoring the other two.

This is not happening, Legolas told himself firmly, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the outside world. But his elven senses were regaining their sharpness and he was acutely aware of the fact that he was surrounded by everyone in the Fellowship with the exception of Boromir and Bill.

Still holding the elf’s arm, Aragorn felt him shift restlessly and realized just how crowded it was beginning to be. He cast a significant look at Gandalf who also realized what was happening and decided a change in tactics was called for. "Frodo, Merry, Pippin, see what you can do about gathering some dry firewood. Gimli, prop the elf’s head against his pack and let us prepare a meal of more sustenance for the rest of us. Sam, you are charged with feeding Legolas. Aragorn, at least take some rest once you are finished here."

"And what of me?" Legolas demanded, now thoroughly disgusted with his own condition as well as the attentions of others. "I remind you that I am perfectly capable of hearing you even should you decide to speak around me rather than to me."

Muscles in the wizard’s face twitched as he tried to keep back a smile. The elf was reacting almost exactly as Boromir and Aragorn had, and in spite of the situation, it was quite amusing. "Recover," Gandalf managed to say without chuckling. "And rest. If you are able, we will move by midnight."

"If I am able?!"

"Eat," Aragorn ordered, taking Sam’s spoon and shoving it into the elf’s mouth.

* * * *

The sun shone brightly over Hobbiton, and cheerful voices called out to one another as the resident hobbits began the market day, gathering in the town center to set up booths and to sample others’ wares. A warm breeze lifted the hair along the back of Pippin’s neck and he sighed, marveling at how good it felt to be comfortable and dry. He wondered a bit at that, trying to remember when he had been otherwise, but the past didn’t seem to exist, and in truth, he couldn’t even recall why he was in Hobbiton. Shouldn’t he have been in the Great Smials digging through some forgotten room after ancient artifacts or looking for hidden doors that would take him to greater treasures and possible adventures?

The breeze brushed against his skin again, but this time it was no longer warm. There was an icy chill to it, and it seemed to him that the sky was beginning to cloud. The voices around him changed from happy and cheerful to tense and concerned, nor did they sound like hobbits. It was as if the voices contained the weight of ages and the fears of all free peoples of Middle Earth.

"Pippin?"

Merry? Pippin looked around for his friend, but he could not find him. The landscape was beginning to blur and the colors ran together as do the colors of a painting that is tipped upward when it is not yet dry. Faces faded from view and the bustling village of Hobbiton became a wash of gray, lost in a sudden gush of rain that burst from the dark clouds. The sun disappeared, and without it, all warmth vanished.

"Pippin!"

He was being shaken violently and he feared an earthquake had come. Pippin could only remember one earthquake and it had been enough for him. He’d raced from the Great Smials along with the majority of the Took family and together they’d fought to maintain their balance while the world around them heaved and shuddered. Bilbo Baggins claimed that a larger earthquake had once hit the Shire, but that had been long before Pippin’s birth, and Pippin found it difficult to believe that an earthquake could be any greater than the one he’d survived.

"Peregrin Took!"

With a jolt and a gasp, Pippin suddenly bolted upright, wrapping his hands around whatever force was shaking him. Thrown off balance by his sudden movements, a hobbit toppled forward and knocked them both into a drying patch of mud. Blinking his eyes and wiping his face, Pippin looked around and remembered where he was. He was somewhere south of Imladris, he was wet and cold, and he had just been roused from a very soothing dream.

"You needn’t shout," Pippin said crossly, getting to his feet and offering Merry a hand up.

"You wouldn’t wake up," Merry returned, ignoring the other hobbit’s assistance and getting to his feet under his own power. "And what was all that about throwing us both into a mud puddle?"

"You startled me," Pippin said, feeling that the fault was Merry’s and if anyone should feel guilty about throwing anyone else into a mud puddle, it should be the Brandybuck. "And why did you need to wake me up anyway?"

"Don’t blame me, blame Gandalf," Merry answered. "He told me to wake you up so we could start moving. Bill is already loaded and almost everyone is ready to move."

Pippin frowned and glanced up at the sky. The clouds were thin and he could dimly make out a few stars, but he could not see enough to make any reasonable guess as to what time it was. "How long have I been asleep?"

Merry shrugged. "Only a few hours. It’s just after midnight, at least that’s what Sam thinks, and things didn’t settle down until well after nightfall."

"So we really are traveling?" Pippin asked, letting his eyes wander over the camp. Gimli was pulling on his own pack, Sam was making a valiant attempt at freeing Bill’s mane of cockleburs, Gandalf stood quietly on the perimeter with his eyes trained on the surrounding wood, Boromir was fastening his cloak about his neck and a tight brace was now wrapped around his knee, Frodo was burying the last ashes of the fire, Legolas was pacing with a slight limp in his left leg, and Aragorn was watching him critically. "I didn’t think they’d recover that quickly," Pippin admitted.

"I didn’t either, but Gandalf was right. Boromir woke up not long after you fell asleep, and from the way he acted, you couldn’t tell he’d been swept down a river. Not long after that, Legolas was telling both Strider and Sam to leave him alone and he kept threatening to take off the brace that Strider had made for his wrist. That’s when Strider started telling him that he’d never heal if he kept that up. So then Legolas said something in Elvish and they had a pretty loud argument for a while, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying and Frodo said they were talking to quickly for him to translate."

"But everything is okay now?"

"More or less, I think," Merry said. "After Legolas started walking around, Strider backed off, but he kept a close eye on him. In fact, he’s still watching him. And then Gimli…" Merry trailed off and looked over at the dwarf. "Gimli asked Legolas if he would shake out his cloak and I thought Legolas was going to nail the dwarf to a tree again. But instead, he got this strange look on his face and went ahead and did it."

Pippin blinked. "Legolas did what? Are you sure?"

"I saw it with my own eyes," Merry insisted. "He shook out the cloak and then he threw it at Gimli and walked away. He wasn’t happy, but…it was strange, Pippin."

"He owes Gimli his life," a voice said behind the hobbits. Frodo walked forward, hitching his pack higher on his shoulders and watching both the elf and the dwarf. "Gimli saved his life yesterday and Legolas owes him for it. Elves have strict customs about life-debts, probably because they’re immortal and life is very precious to them. But anyway, until Legolas repays Gimli somehow, he…I don’t know if I really understand it, but I think it’s kind of like servitude. Only it really isn’t servitude because it doesn’t extend that far."

"So Legolas has to do Gimli favors once in a while?" Merry guessed.

Frodo nodded. "Something like that. It’s actually a little more complex, but that’s the basic idea."

"Didn’t I tell you that Gimli would win?" Pippin said.

Merry scowled. "We haven’t reached the end of the journey yet. And as far as verbal spars go, Legolas is still leagues ahead of Gimli."

"But this beats all verbal wars!" Pippin protested. "This is the ultimate insult and trumps anything Legolas has ever said."

Merry started to argue, but a clearing throat interrupted him and he turned with the other hobbits toward Gandalf. The wizard was surveying the camp with furrowed brows and a strong sense of disapproval. Seeing that he had everyone’s attention, Gandalf lifted his staff and slung his light pack over his shoulder. "I believe it is time to depart."

With a sigh, Pippin quickly found his own pack and hefted it onto his back. He wondered how Sam managed to travel with all the pots and pans he was toting about. He’d lifted Sam’s pack once and had been astonished at its weight. More than that, it was unwieldy. He was surprised that Sam hadn’t gone bouncing down a cliff when the early part of the journey had forced them to do some climbing.

"Master Elf? My axe is on the other side of the camp. Would you fetch it for me?"

Pippin blinked and turned. Was this what Merry had been talking about? Quickly locating both elf and dwarf, he watched with curiosity. Legolas was standing completely still, facing the forest and ignoring the stares that were now being directed his way. Gimli appeared far too casual and blithely hitched his pack up higher on his shoulders. He approached the elf expectantly, but before he could take more than a few steps, Legolas whirled and stalked to the other side of the camp. Picking the axe up and wincing slightly as he was forced to bend his left leg to do this, Legolas hefted it experimentally. His narrowed eyes darted toward the dwarf and then he focused on the axe’s blade as he traced a thoughtful hand over it. Moving back to Gimli, he offered the weapon to him—blade first—and sniffed.

"It is not of elvish make. The balance is off."

Gimli raised an eyebrow at this and stared at the proffered axe. "It is customary to exchange weapons with the haft, not the blade."

"Is it?" There was a challenging ring in the elf’s voice and Pippin felt a shiver race down his spine.

An exasperated sigh then caught the hobbit’s attention and he watched Aragorn walk over, yank the axe from Legolas’s hands, and shove it at Gimli. After sending dark glares at both of them, the Ranger turned away and started into the woods. "There is a crossing we might use," he called over his shoulder. "And I would advise we take it now ere more rains come and the river rises even higher."

"Still think Legolas is winning?" Pippin whispered to Merry, setting out after the rapidly departing Ranger.

"The journey isn’t over yet," Merry returned.

* * * *

"What’s out there, Gandalf? It was here last night, too. What is it?"

The wizard blinked in surprise and looked down, finding that Frodo now walked at his side. This was something new. Fording the stream had not been as easy as Aragorn had anticipated, and Sam had taken a rather nasty dunking. Had he not been holding Bill’s halter at the time, the dunking might have been transformed into disaster, but as it was, he’d come away sopping wet with only a bump on the head to show for it. Frodo had been at his side since then, offering silent support and a steadying shoulder whenever the other hobbit stumbled because of his shivers. They would need to build a fire when they stopped for the day to keep Sam warm, and that was not more than an hour away. So why was Frodo up here now?

Rather than speculating on the subject, Gandalf decided to do the logical thing and simply asked. "How is Sam and why are you no longer watching him?"

"Merry and Pippin volunteered to take over," Frodo answered. "Sam kept complaining about the fact that he was supposed to be looking after me rather than the other way around, and we were all getting a little tired of his gripes. But don’t change the subject," he added, his voice taking on an authoritative tone. It was a mark of his burden and new responsibility that he could do this, for Gandalf remembered a far more submissive, carefree hobbit. "Something is following us and its intentions are not for the best," Frodo continued, sending piercing glances into the surrounding wood. "What is it? And why can’t everyone sense it?"

"It is something that has been following us for some time, now," the wizard eventually answered, choosing his words with care. "We would have seen to this matter earlier, but circumstances conspired against us."

"The flood, you mean," Frodo guessed. "Whatever hunts us is something you’ll need warriors to take care of."

"Precisely," Gandalf said, impressed with the young hobbit’s insight. His trials had forced his mind open and he now saw with a clearer eye. "But if all goes well, I believe that the watches during the day will see an end to this menace. Boromir, Aragorn, and Legolas will have recovered sufficiently by then that we may lure this creature into revealing itself and so destroy it."

The hobbit nodded. "That sounds good, but you still haven’t answered my questions. What is it and why can I feel it when some of the others can’t?"

The wizard looked over his shoulder at the rest of the company. Aragorn was directly behind Gandalf and Frodo, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention to their conversation. His keen eyes were fastened on the forest to either side of them, and one hand rested on Anduril’s hilt. There could be no doubt but that he sensed the Warg. Behind him, Gimli tromped forward with what appeared to be careless ease, seeming to trust that others would sound an alarm should anything threaten their safety. Gandalf knew this to be an illusion, for as a tried warrior, the dwarf was quite aware of his surroundings, but his stance and manner were far more relaxed than the stance and manner of Aragorn. Behind Gimli came Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Bill. Sam was shivering while Merry and Pippin talked ceaselessly to him, comforting the poor hobbit and reassuring him that they would rest soon. None of them appeared to be concerned with their surroundings and even Bill seemed fairly light of heart. Behind them came Boromir, looking just as alert as Aragorn and perhaps even more ill at ease. Was he starting to sense the Warg now as well? As edgy as he was, it was quite possible. And behind him came Legolas, bringing up the last of the line and scouring the woods with piercing elven eyes. His bow was in his hands, and he would stop occasionally to listen.

"Those who have hunted the servants of the Dark Lord can sense our current menace," Gandalf eventually said. "And those who have hunted similar creatures are particularly attuned to this one. As for you, Frodo, that which you bear grants you a measure of new insight. You are beginning to sense when evil approaches, for as we journey further south, your burden will become more powerful."

Frodo was quiet for a moment and then shivered slightly. "So that’s why Sam, Merry, and Pippin can’t tell something’s out there. I wondered for a while if it was just me, but then everyone else seemed to be a little more cautious. And then when it came to our camp in the afternoon and the rest of you took notice…" The hobbit trailed off, suddenly aware that he was more or less speaking his thoughts aloud. "All right, Gandalf," he said, switching gears. "You’ve told me why I can sense it, and I guess I understand that. But you’ve still left one question open. What exactly am I sensing?"

"Evil."

"Evil in what form?" Frodo pressed.

Gandalf smiled and chuckled slightly. They were fortunate to have such a Ring-bearer as Frodo. His tenacity would serve him well in this quest. "It is a Warg, Frodo. A wolf specially bred to serve the Enemy and work with the Orcs who dwell in the mountains."

"A Warg?" Frodo asked, paling a bit.

"A single Warg," Gandalf said. "For now, he is without companions, but we must act quickly before he signals his pack, if indeed he has one. There has been some debate as to his exact nature. But whether he works alone or scouts for a greater darkness, he will not be allowed to continue past tomorrow."

"Oh." Frodo fell quiet, not certain what he could say in response to that, and then he winced and cast a glance over his shoulder. "Gandalf, I know we’ve already been delayed, but Sam is…well, I think that’s the second time he’s stumbled in as many minutes."

The wizard looked back and grimaced slightly. There was still at least a full hour before dawn, but Frodo was right. Sam was beginning to shiver violently, and it would be best if he was warmed now. And beyond that, it wouldn’t hurt to let Legolas and Boromir have a break. Neither had said a word of complaint, but there were signs that their injuries were serving as impediments to travel. The elf’s limp was almost completely gone, but he seemed a bit unsteady as though his leg still pained him. Elven healing or no, the pulled muscle in his thigh would be swollen for several days and it would be wise to let it a rest. And Boromir’s knee was wrenched badly. Aragorn’s brace made it possible for the man to walk and Sam had managed to coax some pain-killing tea into him before they’d set out for the night, but the tea would have worn off several hours ago and in order to heal, the leg really needed to lie still.

"We will stop here for the day," Gandalf announced, gesturing to a small thicket off to the side of their trail.

There was a flash of surprise in Aragorn’s eyes at this announcement, but he looked over his shoulder at the rest of the Fellowship and nodded quickly in understanding. "We’ll need a fire," he said quietly, jerking his head in the direction of Sam and then closing his eyes as his residual headache from the flood protested loudly. There were still times, especially in the darkness, when he seemed to see two of everything.

"Agreed," Gandalf said. "Merry, Pippin, and Gimli, the three of you will see to gathering dry firewood."

The two hobbits gave obligatory sighs at having been tasked with a chore, dropped their packs on the ground, stretched slightly, and then disappeared into the underbrush to hunt for firewood that had not been soaked by the previous days’ rainstorm. Frodo went back to take Bill from Sam who was now so cold he did not seem to know what was happening. Aragorn guided the shivering hobbit toward the thicket while stripping him of his wet cloak. Gandalf moved after them and then stopped, sensing tension behind him.

Gimli was rocking back and forth on his feet and throwing a measuring look at Legolas. The elf was gazing quietly into the surrounding forest and doing his best to ignore the dwarf. Gimli eventually cleared his throat and took his pack off his broad shoulders.

"You know," he began, speaking slowly and deliberately, "I fear all this wet and cold has created an ache in my bones. And it didn’t help that I was carrying a certain elf about earlier today. But I suppose that someone other than the hobbits will have to find firewood, for they can’t bring back enough on their own. But who could be trusted to go other than myself?" The dwarf clasped his hands together and lifted them high above his head, stretching out his back and shoulders. "Legolas?"

"You wish me to gather firewood?" The elf’s voice was curt and soft, and it sent shivers down Gandalf’s spine. He’d once heard Glorfindel use that tone just before relieving an attacking troll of its head.

"If you would," Gimli answered, apparently oblivious to the rising tide of wrath in his comrade. "Of course, you are in no way obligated. I did bring this chill upon myself by searching for you in the rain and the mud."

Legolas tensed and Gandalf took an involuntary step toward them, fearful that Gimli had pushed the elf too far. But his actions were unnecessary for the prince of Mirkwood quickly bridled his emotions. Gracing the dwarf with a deadly elven glare, Legolas dropped his own pack and disappeared into the forest, moving silently and with catlike grace. Gandalf made a mental note to watch for the elf’s return. Gimli might find himself in danger.

"I judged him too harshly," Gimli said, stroking his beard thoughtfully and casually strolling by Gandalf. "He’s really quite a considerate elf."

Gandalf sighed. It had been his hope that Gimli and Legolas could put aside their differences, but it seemed that the flood and the subsequent rescue were only making things worse. It would be interesting to see if elf and dwarf could work together when it came time to hunt the Warg. As the hobbits say, I suppose we will have to dig that hole when we come to it, the old wizard thought with a shake of his head. But at the moment, I’m willing to throw both Legolas and Gimli to the Warg as a peace offering if it means this tension will end. And with this last rather macabre thought, Gandalf followed the others into the thicket and tried to figure out a way to tell Sam that Bill needed to be staked far away from camp during the day.

*By hobbit reckoning, this was the Fell Winter of 1311.

January 5, 3019 (Day)

To say that Legolas was upset would be to severely understate the case. The elf was far more than upset. He was raging. He was fuming. He was quickly approaching a level of anger reserved almost exclusively for Orcs. His bright gray eyes had darkened to the color of ominous storm clouds. His searing glance was capable of tearing the hide from an oliphaunt. His light feet stomped through the forest as might a troop of careless dwarves. And his very presence hummed with a fury that sent all good-natured things scurrying for safety.

Of all the members of the Fellowship to find me in the rain, why did it have to be the dwarf?! By nature, Legolas was a rather quiet elf, speaking only when it seemed his input was needed, but he now felt like screaming his rage and his frustration to the mountains. Let the spies and servants of the Enemy flock to him. He would gladly fight them all if only to assuage his anger.

"By the Valar, a plague upon the dwarves," he hissed aloud, wishing that he had paid better attention to his older brothers when they’d attempted to teach him the fine art of swearing in Quenya. He’d exhausted all the known curses in both Sindarin and Silvan, and he now wondered if a good oath or two in the most elegant elvish tongue might be able to relieve him of some of his tension.

Choking back a roar of frustration and almost overwhelming anger, Legolas balled up his fists and slammed himself bodily into a nearby tree, pressing his forehead against its smooth trunk and praying for some semblance of sanity to return to his mind. He longed to lock his nimble fingers around Gimli’s throat and squeeze until the dwarf could no longer clamor for air. He envisioned Gimli’s dark eyes pleading for an act of mercy that only the elf could deliver, and he saw himself smile serenely in response and then tighten his grip.

"Ah Elbereth," Legolas murmured, still leaning against the tree. Aragorn was right. I am beginning to lose control. I play games with life, and it is I who owe the life debt.

But the dwarf was coming dangerously close to crossing the fine line that defined the boundaries and requirements of a life debt! The gift of life was treated with great respect and honor among the elves because of the simple fact that they were immortal. They lived forever unless another killed them or unless they chose to die by grief. Thus, one who saved an elven life gifted that elf with possibly thousands upon thousands of years in which to continue to live and roam Middle Earth. Such a profound gift demanded some form of grand reward, but a life debt to a dwarf…it was unthinkable! What significance did life have to a dwarf? They were concerned with nothing but their search for gems and minerals. How could they possibly understand the exquisite nature of an elven life and how could an elf be bound to one of those shrunken creatures?

Firewood, Legolas told himself firmly, pushing away from the tree and trying to push his thoughts away, as well. I am here to gather firewood. We will need it for Samwise.

Yet who had tasked him with gathering firewood in the first place? That dwarf was treading upon thin ground. Legolas was a reasonably even-tempered elf with a fair amount of patience as was customary among the Eldar, but he did not think he could endure one more provocation. He knew his limits, and it would not be long before the dwarf pushed him too far. And when the sparks began to fly, it was anyone’s guess as to what the outcome would be, for Legolas did not think he should be held accountable for any actions he might take against the bearded creature.

But perhaps today would be better. After all, the last few days had been difficult for all of them and the dwarf’s obstinate behavior might very well be caused by weariness. Perhaps today would witness a change in that behavior. Perhaps Gimli would mellow, realizing just how far he was testing the limits of Legolas’s patience. Perhaps some agreement might be reached as to how to conduct and resolve the issue of the life debt. Perhaps the dwarf would simply back off.

"And perhaps he will also learn to fly," Legolas spat caustically, shoving his more optimistic side to the back of his mind. He started to kneel with the intention of gathering sticks for the fire, but his left thigh protested violently and he ended up using a rather awkward lunge instead. Another black mark was added behind Gimli’s name on Legolas’s mental tally sheet, and the elf gritted his teeth against a new wave of righteous indignation. That dwarf was going to pay. Legolas didn’t know how and he didn’t know when, but Gimli was going to regret ever crossing the youngest prince of Mirkwood.

* * * *

"No, no, no, and no."

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his still-aching head. The current argument seemed to have gone on forever, and neither participant was any more willing to bend now than he had been when the argument first began. Aragorn had to admit, though, that it did make for an interesting picture. Gandalf the Gray, tall and bristling with hidden power, faced off against one small hobbit gardener, still shivering fiercely with cold but refusing to back down.

The Ranger wondered if they should have avoided this conversation entirely by simply not telling Sam about the Warg trap. They could have waited until the hobbit fell asleep and then quietly taken Bill away from the camp. But such a decision might have led to several complications, especially if their plan failed and the pony met with an untimely death. No, it was probably best that they had told Sam. The trick now was to get his consent.

"Sam, I assure you that Bill will be under surveillance at all times," Gandalf said, his voice patient and soothing, but it seemed the hobbit was no longer truly listening.

"You tell us there’s a wolf out there, and that’s upsetting to be sure, but now you tell us that you’ve known about this wolf for days and haven’t bothered to let us in on the secret," Sam exclaimed, pacing back and forth while waving his arms about in the air. "And here I’ve been letting Bill wander for grass with his hobbles on and all when there’s something about as might eat him! And what’s worse, now you want me to let him wander even further away! Well, I won’t have it, Mr. Gandalf. You can say all you like, but you’re not sending my pony out into this forest to be eaten by who knows what! I’ll not stand for it!"

Aragorn sighed and stretched, wincing at the resulting inevitable pop in his back. Sam was certainly justified in his anger. There were actually several secrets that some members of the Fellowship had kept—and were still keeping—from other members, but in matters requiring as much delicacy as the Ring required, sometimes even secrecy within the group was necessary. And there had been little reason to alarm the hobbits earlier when the Warg proved to be no immediate threat. Aragorn shook his head. In any case, none of this mattered anymore. The rest of the Fellowship now knew of the Warg and also of the plan to lure it into the open using the pony as bait.

"Is there a way we might construct this trap without using Bill?" Legolas asked, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

Aragorn noted that this was a marked improvement over the elf’s earlier mood when he had returned from gathering firewood. He had practically dumped the bundle of sticks on top of Gimli and then stormed to the other side of camp, seething with a rage so palpable that none had dared approach him for quite some time. After a while, Legolas’s anger had cooled to the point that walking near the elf did not feel like walking next to Orodruin, but even the innocent hobbits could sense that the elf was still very upset. Aragorn was waiting for an explosion of some kind, but for now at least, the Legolas had a civil tongue in his head and appeared to be somewhat concerned with their current situation. He wondered how long that would last.

"And how would we do that?" Gandalf asked the prince. "Are you willing to serve as bait?"

"If need be, yes," the elf said easily. "But I do not think he would seek to attack me when there is weaker prey about." Legolas threw a quick but rather obvious look at Gimli when he said this, but he turned away and continued before anyone could say aught. "Rather, I wonder about the possibility of using dried meat or something similar."

"Remember that this is a Warg, Legolas," Aragorn spoke up, deciding he should say something to remind Legolas that he was still here and still keeping an eye on him. "He was raised upon the flesh of men and elves. He will not settle for old meat, and were it not for the fact that this Warg is probably starving, even Bill would be beneath his notice."

"Then let’s keep Bill beneath his notice!" Sam exclaimed.

"Would you explain again exactly how you were planning to protect Bill?" Frodo suddenly asked. He’d been unusually quiet since the announcement that the pony was to be used as bait, and Aragorn wondered what thoughts the Ring-bearer had pondered.

"It would involve splitting the Fellowship again, but as there is no river nearby, we hope it will not prove as disastrous," the Ranger answered with a grim smile. "Legolas will be closest to Bill—probably above him, in fact—and will guard him with the bow. For the first hour, Gimli and I will be on either side of the pony and hidden in the brush, ready to attack should the Warg make an appearance. At the end of that hour, Boromir will relieve Gimli and we will watch for two hours before Gimli relieves me. After another two hours, I will relieve Legolas and borrow his bow and quiver. Two hours after that, if the Warg has still not attacked, we will return to camp and resume watches as usual for what little remains of the day. In the meanwhile, those of you here will have to care for your own safety as the rest of us will either be resting or elsewhere."

"No one is going to be elsewhere," Sam said heatedly, his facing taking on an expression of extreme stubbornness. It was a rather unlikely look for this particular hobbit and had the situation not been so dire, it might have been vastly amusing. "Three of you were almost drowned in a river only two nights ago," Sam continued, his eyes flashing with an inner fire that was so comical it nearly cost Aragorn his composure. "I’ll not be trusting Bill’s safety to guards who are still recovering!"

"Well, one of them wasn’t swept down a river," Frodo pointed out. "You’re fine, aren’t you, Gimli?"

Gimli snorted indignantly. "A dwarf is always fine, Master Hobbit. If need be, I could guard this pony on my own."

Aragorn’s sharp ears heard Legolas mutter something highly offensive beneath his breath. The Ranger cast a stern glare in his direction, but the elf was deliberately not looking at Aragorn.

"Good. And everyone else seems to be recovering quickly. Boromir, you’re feeling much better, aren’t you?" Frodo continued.

Boromir raised his brow at the question. "Remember, Frodo, that I have served Gondor for many years and have faced hardships much worse than what happened two days ago. I swam Anduin with my brother during the raid on Osgiliath, and in that adventure, I faced the arrows of Orcs as well as the pervasive darkness of the Nameless One and his hooded Riders, neither of which were present for my latest river encounter."

"In other words, you’re fine," Pippin summarized. Boromir threw him a dirty look.

"And what about you, Strider?" Frodo continued, turning to the Ranger.

Aragorn nodded slowly, hoping that whatever Frodo was doing would convince Sam to allow their plan. "I feel much better this morning than I did yesterday morning, and I will be able to hold my own in the event of an attack. Like Boromir, my experience has included trials far more trying than a soaking in a cold river."

"You see, Sam?" Frodo said before turning to the last member of the somewhat impromptu trap team. "And Legolas? How are you doing?"

Legolas smiled slightly, pushed himself off the log he’d been using for a seat, and stretched. "Elves are quick to heal, Master Frodo. My own misfortunes will give me no more trouble. Behold!" And with movements faster than mortal eyes could track, the elf had strung an arrow to his bow, pulled it back, and sent his bolt hurtling through the air. A yelp of surprise and alarm escaped Gimli’s lips and all turned to see where the elf’s arrow had flown. Still quivering slightly, the arrow had lodged between Gimli’s legs in a tree against which the dwarf was been leaning.

For one eternal moment, no one dared move. And then it seemed that all the demons of Melkor’s reign were set loose. Gimli’s roar of rage could be likened to a wrathful Smaug, and Aragorn immediately threw himself at the understandably irascible dwarf to prevent a physical confrontation. Boromir joined him in restraining Gimli and between the two of them, they managed to keep the dwarf away from the elf. For his part, when Gimli lunged, Legolas had remained absolutely still, as though awaiting the attack, and had seemed even eager to test his recovering strength against the dwarf. He was not taking the offensive in turn, but he was most definitely not trying to placate his opponent.

Aragorn sighed even as he tightened his hold on Gimli. They did not need this. Perhaps Gimli was abusing the life debt, and perhaps Legolas was justified in his anger, but needless threats and unnecessary risks were foolish, childish, and dangerous. Elven skill or no, Legolas’s wrist was sprained and had his grip on the bow slipped just a little… Aragorn stopped that train of thought well before it arrived at its inevitable station. At least one thing was now abundantly clear. They needed to use the pony as bait if only as an excuse to keep the elf and dwarf apart and silent.

"Gimli!" Gandalf said sharply, raising threatening eyebrows. "Calm yourself, Master Dwarf. And Legolas, that was among your more foolish actions."

"But it did demonstrate that I am on the mend, did it not?" Legolas said easily, not the least bit inclined to be apologetic. "The arrow sailed true, the distance was judged correctly, and no harm came of it. We may all rest assured that I am in good health."

"Then allow me to show you that I am also in good health," Gimli spat, no longer struggling against Aragorn and Boromir but still tense with only partially controlled anger. "If you will stand still, I shall lob my axe in your direction and we shall see how our skills compare."

"Silence, both of you!" Aragorn ordered with a dark glare at Legolas and a hard shake of the dwarf’s arm before releasing Gimli. "The morning wanes and we have still not come to a decision as to our activities this day." And we must also make time for another talk, the Ranger added mentally, vowing to speak to with both Legolas and Gimli individually later in the day. This pointless feud was getting out of hand.

On the other side of the camp, while Merry and Pippin had watched the proceedings with wide eyes, Frodo had taken Sam aside and was now whispering urgently. The other hobbit eventually nodded at whatever was being said, though it appeared that he did so with great reluctance. "Alright," Sam grumbled as he turned away from Frodo, his tone bitter and angry. "Alright, you can use Bill, but if anything should happen to him…"

"Nothing will happen to him," Gandalf assured the worried hobbit. "Bill will be as safe as you are, perhaps even safer. You have no cause to fear for him."

For some reason, the phrase famous last words came to Aragorn’s mind. He wondered what that might portend, but he did not voice his thoughts aloud. Sam’s consent had been won at great cost, and he did not want the hobbit to reconsider. "Thank you, Samwise," the Ranger said, moving to Bill’s halter and giving the somewhat nervous pony a reassuring pat. "We shall be certain to take care of him. Legolas? Gimli?"

Elf and dwarf glanced warily at one another, and then Gimli summoned a very friendly and very contrived smile. "Master Elf, I believe that my pack is…" Gimli trailed off with a blink and a snort. Rather than allowing the dwarf to finish the sentence, Legolas had finally hearkened to the old Numenorean saying that discretion was sometimes the better part of valor. The elf was now no longer anywhere near the camp.

"I will see you in an hour, Boromir," Aragorn sighed, shaking his head at the elf’s sudden and rapid departure. "Come, Gimli. Let us establish our positions and the finer points of our routine. We have a trap to set."

* * * *

Concealed by a wall of leaves, Boromir decided that he’d been in council sessions with more action than this Warg trap. At least in Minas Tirith, he’d been able to entertain himself by making bets with Faramir over which councilor would become hoarse first. Such an activity was certainly not smiled upon by Denethor, but it did provide Boromir with a motive for paying attention during the meetings. Otherwise, he might allow his mind to wander and rely on Faramir to summarize the important bits later, for Denethor’s eldest son had no patience for petty disputes and political maneuvering, being a man of action rather than a man of words. This is not to say that Boromir had no interest in council proceedings or was ignorant of what went on. There were certain debates in which he was quite active, and his quick mind and sharp wit had won him respect from many of the elders in Minas Tirith. But as a general rule, Boromir preferred to let Faramir sort through the details of whatever domestic dispute or city ordinance they were debating while he went back to planning the next offensive to launch from Ithilien or Pelargir.

Boromir glanced at the sun and estimated how much time was left to this trap. He’d relieved Gimli almost two hours ago, and the dwarf was due to return any time now and spell Aragorn for a bit. Then Aragorn would relieve Legolas and after that, they only had to wait another two hours. If the Warg decided not to accommodate them, they would return to the main camp. Secretly, Boromir was of a mind that they should return now. He had felt no hint of the Warg and had heard nothing other than the occasional slight movement from Aragorn, who stood guard on the other side of the clearing. Boromir wasn’t exactly certain of Legolas’s location, but he guessed the elf was to his right perched high in a large pine. He thought he’d seen movement up there earlier, though it was difficult to be certain. And as for the bait of this little trap, Bill was peacefully munching on the tender grass that had sprouted up in the wake of the rainstorms. He showed no sign of fear and gave no indication to suggest that there was a wolf nearby.

Perhaps this creature is less a wolf and more a fox, Boromir sighed, wondering if they would be forced to do this tomorrow in the event that they did not catch their quarry today. This endless waiting was certainly not the most tedious task he’d ever undertaken, but it did rank near the top. He wondered how Aragorn and Legolas were managing to keep so silent, for they’d been here an hour longer than he had. Shifting slightly and easing pressure off his still-aching knee, Boromir sighed and rubbed his neck. This would probably be easier if I hadn’t nearly drowned two days ago. He was on the verge of standing up and attempting to talk Legolas and Aragorn out of continuing this since it was obviously doing no good when something…changed.

Boromir never would be able to identify exactly what changed. It was as though darkness fell over the sun, but there were no clouds in the sky. The air seemed to chill, but the temperature had not altered. It was like the shadow of the Black Riders who had risen from Minas Morgul and driven the forces of Gondor back across Anduin, except that this shadow was different. It was not nearly as strong, but it was subtle. This was a darkness that would wait until one’s guard went down, and then it would advance. Boromir shivered, realizing that this was the feeling of an approaching Warg. This was what Gandalf, Aragorn, and Legolas had felt earlier. And he now understood a little better why both Aragorn and Legolas were willing to devote seven hours to the purpose of trapping this creature.

Boromir also noted that he was the not the only one who felt a change in the environment. Bill’s head had jerked up, and the pony was now watching the surrounding forest nervously. He jerked one forefoot against his hobbles as though testing their strength, and then he froze, watching and waiting. His nostrils flared wide, and his ears flipped about, attempting to track elusive sounds in the underbrush. Dark, expressive eyes turned this way and that, searching the shadows beyond the clearing but finding nothing.

With silent, slow movements, Boromir loosened his sword in its scabbard. He passed a hand over his boot knife, reassuring himself of its presence, and then rested his forearm on his sword hilt. The tedious game had now changed to a waiting game that Boromir had played frequently with the hosts of Mordor. The enemy was close and a confrontation was not far away. This was more to Boromir’s liking, and despite the circumstances, a smile of anticipation found its way onto his haggard face.

Out in the small clearing, Bill snorted once and stomped, clearly nervous but uncertain as to what threatened him. Boromir caught a hint of subtle movement on the other side, and he tightened his hand on his hilt before realizing that the movement was Aragorn. Yet the Ranger’s restlessness was warning enough, for the heir of Denethor had come to trust the other man, at least as far as senses were concerned. Aragorn could see and feel a great deal more than most, and in matters of woodcraft, it seemed he rivaled even the elves.

But as alert as Boromir was, nothing prepared him for what happened next. Like an evil shadow barely skimming the earth, a bolt of dark gray shot from the underbrush only two meters from his position. He barely had time to lay his hand to his sword before the Warg was flying toward Bill. The pony screamed and reared, but he stood no chance against the fury of one of Sauron’s most powerful servants. Teeth bared and muscles primed, the bolt of fur and fury raced toward the defenseless horse and—

The high-pitched whistle of an arrow filled the air and seemingly in mid-spring the Warg jerked to the right with a howl of pain. An elven arrow shuddered in its shoulder and the creature turned aside, screaming its rage. Another arrow whistled in, but the Warg sprang away and leaped from the clearing. The arrow struck the earth next to Bill where the wolf had been only moments ago, and for his part, the pony reared again in fright and confusion. His hobbles broke asunder and he fled, disappearing into the underbrush.

"Valar!" Aragorn swore, emerging from his side of the clearing.

"He is faster than any Warg I have ever hunted!" Legolas exclaimed, dropping from his tree and landing in a low crouch.

"Then I thank Eru for the swift reflexes of elves," Aragorn said, bending to the ground as Boromir joined them. "You have at least wounded him and he leaves a trail of blood. Come! I will follow while you race ahead. Listen for the whistles and I will direct you."

Legolas nodded, shouldered his bow, and leaped into the trees, vanishing as quickly as the wolf had. Boromir blinked, wondering what had just happened and what they were doing now. And what of Bill? Surely someone had to go after the pony.

"Boromir, come!" Aragorn’s command shook Boromir from his thoughts and he looked at the Ranger with an air of confusion. "Come!" Aragorn said again. "Legolas draws ahead and will need to know the direction of the Warg. We must keep this enemy from doubling back."

Still not entirely understanding their strategy, Boromir hurried after the departing Ranger who was already on the trail of the wolf. His mind turned rapidly, but he had not been taught to hunt with elves and could not fathom what Aragorn and Legolas now did. Yet he could not ask outright, for such a weakness in Gondor’s first captain was unthinkable. He would have to gain a knowledge of their plans through observation. Pushing the pain from his wrenched knee and cracked ribs to the back of his mind, Boromir hastened to catch up.

Aragorn raced before him, hunched over as he followed an intermittent trail of blood. A whistle suddenly sounded from ahead, and had Boromir not known better, he would not have ascribed it to a man or an elf as it sounded too natural. But he suspected it was Legolas and his suspicions were confirmed when Aragorn straightened and whistled back. The Ranger’s own call was almost perfect in its mimicry of a songbird and Boromir felt yet another surge of respect for the man who bore Narsil reforged.

"What did you say?" he hissed. This was an acceptable question to ask as the whistles were more or less a foreign language to Boromir. It showed not weakness on his part but understandable and excusable ignorance.

"Legolas related his position and asked for a bearing on the Warg," Aragorn answered. "I told him the wolf was moving southwest so far as I can read the trail."

"Can he get ahead of this creature? You saw how quickly it moved!"

"He can take a more direct route than the Warg will take, and even if he cannot head it in its flight, he can draw close enough to shoot. If we are lucky, his pursuit will cause the Warg to circle. Legolas will signal us if he feels the Warg is turning and we will break away from the trail so that the elf might drive him toward us."

Boromir gave Aragorn a rather skeptical look, trying to imagine exactly what his father would say if either he or Faramir presented a plan in which one of them would trail a band of Orcs while the other tried to outrun them and eventually signal the trailing partner if it seemed that the Orcs turned to the right or the left. Glancing back, Aragorn saw the look and laughed.

"We have done this several times in Mirkwood. It works consistently so long as at least one member of the hunting party is an elf. Do not try this with only men for company."

Boromir nodded, filing this new information away as one of the many obscure facts he’d learned since traveling with the Fellowship, and then jerked his head up. Another whistle was drifting out of the trees, and Aragorn acted immediately. Veering left, he took off at a sudden run that left Boromir straining to catch up.

"Drift to my right!" Aragorn shouted, looking back over his shoulder. "Legolas has managed to turn him and we must cover more ground. We cannot let him slip by us."

Slightly irked by the Ranger’s authoritative tone, Boromir nevertheless moved forward and began running abreast on the right side of the other man, keeping a sharp watch ahead of him. The feeling of a slinking menace was now so intense that it seemed as though night had come prematurely. He heard Aragorn draw Anduril from its scabbard and he pulled his own blade in response. A sudden, sharp whistle not more than fifty feet away froze both men and they skidded to a halt, senses primed.

Perhaps one second later, the brush parted and a panting, bleeding wolf stumbled into view, intent on escaping the archer that stalked its back. Together, Aragorn and Boromir surged forward. Sensing the attack, the Warg jumped back, narrowly missing Boromir’s thrust and ducking beneath Aragorn’s swing. Teeth bared, the Warg lunged with a roar and Boromir threw himself to the side. The wolf flew by him, his teeth catching part of a sleeve, and then something hissed past the man’s ear with a high-pitched whine. The Warg let out a sharp howl as an arrow lodged securely in his upper back, Aragorn rushed forward with Boromir right behind him, and two swords quickly imbedded themselves in the wolf’s sides. With one last roar and a defiant snarl, the Warg sagged to the ground and shuddered, eventually lying still.

For a moment, nothing happened. It was as though the whole of Arda held its breath. Boromir felt rooted in place, and judging from Aragorn’s lack of motion, he felt likewise. Together they stared at the creature that had haunted the trail of their Fellowship.

The spell was broken when Legolas dropped out of a tree nearly on top of them. Glancing curiously at the two men as though puzzled by their inaction, he bent over the wolf and retrieved his arrows. "It would seem your trap was successful," the elf observed, turning to Aragorn.

"If only such simple measures could always ensure success," Aragorn sighed, shaking his head. "Come, let us return. We are all in need of sleep and…" He suddenly trailed off and groaned, bringing his hands up to rub his temples. "Bill," he whispered. "Bill is still out there. He broke his hobbles."

"Sam will have our heads if aught should happen to him," Legolas murmured.

"And we cannot carry the bulk of our baggage without him," Boromir added, wondering if his headache could possibly become any more painful. "Shall we look for him now or alert the others?"

"He may return on his own," Aragorn said, sounding rather skeptical of that possibility.

"Or he may not," Boromir said, sounding far more certain than the Ranger.

The three stared at one another over the body of the Warg, plagued by indecision and doubt, until Aragorn sighed and bent down to wipe his sword on the wolf’s pelt. "We must return and tell the others," he said quietly. "Gimli is due to relieve my watch soon and he will wonder what has become of us if we abandon the clearing to search for Bill. Besides, the rest of the company should learn that the Warg is dead. It may help their spirits."

"Not Sam’s," Legolas warned. "His first concern will be Bill, and we have no way to assure him that all is well with the pony. We have no way of knowing that ourselves."

"We have no other choice," Aragorn answered. "I agree that this will affect Sam more than any other member of the Fellowship, but I feel he has a right to know."

"I do not disagree with you," Legolas said quietly. "I was simply reminding you that Bill is more than a mere pack animal. To Sam, he has become a friend."

"I know," Aragorn murmured, standing and sliding Anduril back into its scabbard. "And not just to Sam." He paused for a moment and then shook his head. "Come. Let us return to camp."

Falling into step beside Legolas as they followed the weary Ranger, Boromir sighed and took a deep breath, feeling the pull of healing ribs. The chase had left him more or less intact, which was something of a marvel since he’d been running across unfamiliar ground. His knee, also, felt as though it had held up, though a dull throbbing pain indicated that he should probably rest it.

Glancing at the elf walking beside him, Boromir wondered if he felt any ill effects from the flood. His complexion was paler than usual and the man thought he caught a discreet yawn, but other than those small signs, Legolas seemed to have completely recovered. If he watched closely, there was almost a slight limp in the Legolas’s stride whenever his left leg touched the ground, but it was so miniscule that it might have been mistaken for the unevenness of the terrain. And there was the fact that his left wrist was still tightly wrapped, but it did not seem to hinder the elf for he had handled his bow without so much as a flinch in camp that morning. Which is more than can be said for Gimli, Boromir though to himself with a hidden smile.

So intent was he on examining his companion that Boromir abruptly stumbled into Aragorn, who had stopped cold in front of the two. Legolas blinked and shook his head slightly, as though bringing himself out of a trance, and arched a slender eyebrow at them.

Looking over his shoulder at Boromir with a hint of irritation, the tired Ranger sighed and then bent down to the ground, sweeping aside some of the foliage as he did so. "What do you make of this, Legolas?"

He yawned. I’m certain of it, Boromir thought, watching the elf closely as he knelt rather awkwardly next to Aragorn. And aside from being tired, the elf’s leg also seemed to be giving him some trouble, for he winced when he bent it beneath him. Perhaps Legolas was not as infallible as he seemed.

"Boromir?" Aragorn questioned, inviting the man to join them.

Boromir was not certain his knee was quite up to kneeling, but he walked to the side of Legolas and bent down as far as he was able. Unfortunately, it was enough to see what Aragorn had found, and a hiss escaped him at what his eyes beheld. "It can’t be," he whispered, glancing around the forest with deep suspicion. "Shouldn’t we have sensed this or seen signs of it earlier?"

"The rain probably washed away many of the tracks, and as for our senses, we can only feel their presence, not their numbers," Aragorn sighed, running his fingers over the imprint in the soft mud. "It’s too large to belong to the wolf we just killed."

"And the ill feel of a Warg has not diminished," Legolas added, running a hand over his face in a rather unelven gesture of frustration. "It remains as strong as ever with no sign of fading."

"And now we have given it prey to stalk," Aragorn sighed, standing and loosening Anduril within his scabbard. "Come. The Fellowship must be told that there is a second Warg. And we have a pony to find."

January 5, 3019 (Night)

"You what?!"

Merry flinched and turned away from the furious demon that Sam had become. Aragorn’s announcement about Bill—coming just after everyone had been roused from a rather restless sleep—had probably not been the best way to start the late afternoon. They were gratified to hear that the Warg would no longer trouble them, but the news about Bill…that was something else.

Still, Sam was taking the situation fairly well, at least in a relative sense. The raging gardener had not reduced Strider, Legolas, and Boromir to an odd assortment of body parts. That was something of a victory for Sam’s restraint, and Merry made a mental note to compliment him on it as soon as he stopped shouting.

"I knew it. I knew this would happen. But did I listen to myself? Of course I didn’t! The Gaffer, he warned me too much about listening to myself, but there are times, like as not, when I’m the most sensible one around. And now poor Bill’s paying the price. He’s lost in this horrible forest and I don’t doubt but what he’s hungry and alone and—"

"Easy," Frodo interrupted gently, approaching Sam with the same caution that Bilbo had once used to approach Smaug. "I’m sure we can find him without too much trouble. Strider can track just about anything, and a pony can’t be too difficult. We’ll find him quickly and then we can start our journey. Right?" Frodo turned to the other members of the Fellowship for support in this.

"We can certainly not leave without him," Gandalf said slowly, eyeing the pile of baggage next to the remnants of their campfire. "If we continue on our present course, we will have need of his aid in transporting our packs. And there is the fact that he has proven himself a loyal friend. Yet there is also a need for haste. The flood slowed our journey by at least two days, and the rain added to the delay. Time is too precious to be thrown away carelessly."

"You would call a search for Bill careless?!" Sam demanded.

"I said not so," Gandalf returned, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But we must watch out time carefully. Aragorn, can you estimate how long a search for Bill might take?"

There was a slight pause before the Ranger answered. "I would say two hours," he said at length. "But it is difficult to be certain, for he could have fled in several different directions once leaving our presence, and he may have doubled back or crossed a stream, making it more difficult. Beyond that, he could be very near or he could be very far. There is simply no way to tell for certain. The three of us did attempt to track him before returning to camp, but his trail was lost when it led onto a rock shelf and we could no longer follow him."

Gandalf nodded, allowing himself a small sigh before he turned and addressed the rest of the Fellowship. "I fear this delays our journey yet again, but that cannot be helped now. We shall separate into teams and search for Bill while leaving a small guard here with the baggage."

The sudden clearing of a throat behind the wizard stopped him and Merry frowned as he studied the strange, uncomfortable look on Strider’s face. His confusion and curiosity grew when he noticed a very similar look on Boromir’s face. Turning to Legolas, he tried to read the elf’s expression, but the prince was inscrutable. Typical, Merry thought disparagingly. Elves are never any good if you need information.

"There is one more thing I feel we should know," Aragorn said, and Merry turned to watch the Ranger expectantly. "We did kill the Warg, but as we were returning, we came upon another set of tracks."

"Another set of tracks?" Gimli echoed with a raised brow.

"There is another Warg out there," Boromir murmured, folding his arms across his chest. "Larger than the first."

"But perhaps that will aid in finding him," Aragorn said quickly before alarm could spread, though it seemed that alarm was much faster than the Ranger. "His larger size will be more difficult to conceal in the underbrush and he will not be as fast or as wary as his comrade was."

"There’s another Warg out there?!"

Merry wondered if it was possible for Sam to explode much like one of Gandalf’s firecrackers. It certainly looked as though he was about to. And while it would make for an interesting sight and something to talk about years down the road, Merry couldn’t see it being very healthy for Sam. Unfortunately, Merry didn’t know what he could do about the situation. He sent a rather urgent look over to Frodo, but the Ring-bearer seemed just as baffled. None of them had ever seen Sam this upset, and it was taking them all by surprise.

"We should have expected this with an elf on the watch," Gimli grumbled.

Merry blinked, froze, and then glanced fearfully at Legolas. He supposed that was one way of diverting attention from Sam, but he wasn’t sure this was an improvement. The elf had gone completely still, one hand clutching his bow so tightly it was turning white. His bright gray eyes were closed to the world and his breathing was short and shallow. It seemed he was drawn as taut as his bowstring, and the slightest touch would snap him in two. Or snap someone else in two, Merry thought with a quick look towards Gimli. The dwarf didn’t seem to realize just how much wrath was building in Legolas, but Merry doubted that his ignorance would continue for long.

"Bill is lost and alone and there’s another Warg out there?!" Sam yelled again.

Merry backed away from the Fellowship and tried to make an impartial assessment of the current situation. Legolas was still standing as silent and resolute as a lone tree, but his breathing was getting faster and Merry was reminded of ale casks that are jostled too much on their journey to the inn. Eventually, enough pressure builds and they break their casings, spilling the contents over everything and providing their transporters with an impossible mess. Gimli, who was most likely to be the recipient of the impending explosion, didn’t seem to sense his imminent demise. Either that or he was confident in his ability to deal with whatever Legolas saw fit to send his way. Merry wondered if that was a wise attitude. The elf seemed quite capable of dealing out death and destruction. As for Sam, that hobbit was beginning to turn an interesting shade of red as his anger at Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas started to reach dangerous levels. Merry had never before seen that particular color on a hobbit’s face, and while it certainly did not set him at ease, it was a rather interesting and curious thing to look at.

Having finished his assessment of the Fellowship, Merry came to a conclusion. They were in trouble. If things didn’t start to resolve soon, the company would break apart before they ever crossed the mountains. Unfortunately, Merry had no idea what to do in order to ease the tension within the group. He didn’t know enough about the problems between elves and dwarves to even consider approaching Legolas or Gimli, and Sam wasn’t likely to listen to anyone other than Frodo at this point in time. And Frodo didn’t seem to be willing to step forward, possibly waiting until the storm died before acting. But if you wait too long, you might be too late, Merry thought to himself.

"Three teams," Aragorn suddenly announced, breaking the tense silence with words before Legolas could break it with an arrow. In fact, Merry though he caught a glimpse of the elf’s hand straying to his quiver, but Legolas pulled it back before anyone else could notice. "Merry, Pippin, and Gimli will guard the baggage. The rest of us will make for the rock shelf where Bill's trail becomes lost. From there, we will split into two groups. Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam will move east. Legolas, Boromir, and I shall go southeast. Those directions shall lead us to the easiest trails in this area, and it’s likely that Bill will have found his way onto one of them. In the event that we discover nothing, we shall meet back here at midnight."

"You left him alone with a Warg!" Sam wailed.

"Three teams it is," Gandalf said. "But I suggest we split our paths here so the noise of our travels is less, for Bill might be startled by crashing in the underbrush." Aragorn nodded, accepting the wisdom in this, and Gandalf turned to the two hobbits now relegated to his care. "Frodo, Sam, come with me. If we start now, we should be able to find Bill and still get in several hours of travel ere morning."

"Come on, Sam," Frodo said, his voice soft and soothing. Putting a tentative hand on Sam’s shoulder, he began to guide the other hobbit toward Gandalf as the wizard struck out into the underbrush. "We’ll need you on this hunt. Bill knows you and he’ll come to you if he feels you’re near. I bet he wants to see you just as much as you want to see him."

"Stay alert," Aragorn warned as he started on his own path into the forest, taking a more southerly route. Legolas had already disappeared, hidden by the shadows of the trees, and Boromir was not far behind. "Remember that there is still one Warg left and that he is on the hunt."

"Fear not for us," Gimli said. "These good hobbits have a dwarf with them, and he shall not fail them as an elf might. Or already has, in the case of the pony."

"Legolas!"

Merry cringed upon hearing the sharpness of Boromir’s tone and he could only imagine what the elf had tried to do under cover of the forest canopy. Catching a glance at the anger, frustration, and weariness that raced across Aragorn’s face, Merry decided he was quite glad that he was not in a leadership position. The constant feud between Legolas and Gimli was making life difficult for all of them, but to be the one constantly stepping between the two of them… The hobbit shook his head. It was unfathomable to him, and he didn’t even want to think about what it had become like since Legolas had incurred a life debt. The tension between the two was becoming dangerous, and if something didn’t give, both were going to snap.

"You’ve been very quiet this evening," a voice at his elbow said.

Merry jumped and swung around, frowning as he discovered Pippin. "I might say the same of you, Cousin Took."

"Everyone else was busy talking, so I thought I’d let them make their grand plans without help from me. It’s good practice for when they need to make serious decisions and I’m not around to aid them."

Merry snorted and then began to laugh, feeling some of the tension drain away. "Don’t let Sam hear you say that. To him, this is serious, and if one of those teams doesn’t find Bill, I can’t imagine what he’ll do."

"Have no fear, young hobbits," Gimli said, taking his axe out and inspecting its sharp edge with a critical eye. "There are no better trackers and hunters to be found than the Rangers, and as their chief, Aragorn has skills ordinary men cannot even begin to fathom. The pony will be found, the Warg will be killed, and we will continue our journey."

"I hope so," Pippin said, flopping down onto a large bundle of rolled blankets. "Because if they don’t find Bill, we’ll have to leave some of this stuff here, which means less food later in the trip."

"You’re impossible," Merry informed him. "But at least one good things comes of all this. Let’s eat. It wouldn’t do if the others came back and found that we’d starved to death."

"You’re absolutely right!" Pippin exclaimed, a large smile making its way onto his face. "And we have all the food right here. Come on, Merry, let’s break out some of that spicy meat that Sam’s been hoarding."

"Hobbits," Gimli grunted, shaking his head and hiding his own smile. If nothing else, it would be an interesting night.

* * * *

Sam stormed behind Gandalf in a furious rage, heedless of all that went on about him. His thunderous mind barely registered the fact that brambles were tearing at his cloak and that he was actually beginning to drift away from Gandalf’s towering form and off onto his own path. For the last fruitless hour of searching, he’d replayed the early morning conversation over and over again. They’d promised Bill would be safe! They’d given their word! Legolas would be right above him. Aragorn would be right beside him. Boromir would be right behind him. There was nothing to worry about. The pony was as safe as any of them were. There was no need for concern or fear. What could possibly happen?

"Sam?"

"The worst! And I’m the one as let it happen!"

Frodo blinked and stepped back. "Sam, I…did you know you were wandering off the path?"

"Was I? Bill wandered off the path, too, but like as not, I’m the only one who cares. I don’t think that…" Sam suddenly stopped and looked at Frodo, his face paling. "Oh, sir, I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean to talk so and—"

"Sam, it’s all right," Frodo broke in, taking hold of Sam’s arm and leading him back toward Gandalf who was waiting for both hobbits with an unreadable expression on his face. Had Sam not been so upset, he might have seen a flicker of compassion in the wizard’s dark eyes, but as it was, he was lucky to even notice that Gandalf was looking his direction. "You’re upset and that’s understandable," Frodo continued as he coaxed Sam back to the trail. "But if we’re to find Bill, we have to stay focused."

"You’re right, Mr. Frodo," Sam sighed, dismissing the fact that Frodo had been one of the individuals encouraging him to send the pony out into the Warg trap. In the gardener’s mind, his master could do no wrong and if there was a fault in the matter of Bill, it lay somewhere else. Not with Strider, that was certain. And not with Gandalf either. But if they weren’t to blame, then who was? Maybe—

"Sam? Sam, we have to get going."

Sam shook his head, trying to refocus his attention on his surroundings rather than his thoughts. His anger was beginning to simmer and once Bill was safely with them again, it would probably vanish completely, though he would certainly be reluctant to let anyone use the pony as bait again! "I’m sorry, sir," Sam mumbled, attempting to order his feelings into something slightly less chaotic. "It’s just that…I don’t rightly know how I feel about all this. And Bill is still out there with that second wolf or Warg or whatever it is and—"

"We’ll find him, Sam," Frodo promised, still guiding the other hobbit after Gandalf as Sam had not quite come back to himself. "Bill’s too smart to wander far away, and he’ll probably come looking for us. We just have to be alert enough to meet up with him."

"You’re right again, Mr. Frodo, as usual," Sam sighed. "I’m sorry to be such a burden but I—"

"Sam, will you just shut your mouth and start listening for Bill?" Frodo laughed, and in his laugh was perhaps the first real hint of merriment that had entered his voice for days. "Didn’t the Gaffer tell you to stick your foot in your mouth when you opened it? Do that now and it will help us a great deal more."

"Are the two of you coming or would you rather wait here until this age of the world passes away?" Gandalf demanded, looking sternly at the slower hobbits but there was a twinkle of mirth in his eyes that took away the sting of his words.

"Coming," Frodo responded, pulling Sam along with slightly more force than he’d previously used. "Now Sam, you’ve got better ears than I do, so you’ll have to concentrate on listening for Bill. He can’t move much in this underbrush without making some noise, right? So you’re in charge of listening."

"I can do that, sir," Sam said, thankful that Frodo was giving him something that demanded his concentration.

"Good," the other hobbit said, clapping Sam on the back and releasing his arm. "Then let’s hurry so we can get in a bit of traveling tonight. Gandalf’s right. Time is an issue and we don’t want to take any longer than we have to, for both our sakes and Bill’s!"

Sam nodded, feeling his anger begin to drift away and adopting a concentration normally reserved for pulling weeds away from delicate flowers. As Frodo had charged, he began to listen closely for any sounds that might indicate Bill’s direction, and he kept a sharp eye out. He was aware of Frodo hovering at his side, a constant presence should any comfort be needed again, and he felt a flash of guilt. He was supposed to look after Frodo, not the other way around. Sam was on the verge of saying something to that effect as well as attempting a polite way of asking Frodo to back off when Gandalf uttered a short oath.

Sam and Frodo both came to an abrupt halt and looked curiously at the gray-clad wizard. Neither had ever heard Gandalf swear before and it earned the old wizard their complete and undivided attention. A shiver of fear crept down Sam’s back and his stomach began to twist, fearing the worst for Bill. Gandalf was staring into the forest, but his eyes were unfocused and it seemed he was reaching out with senses beyond those of mortals. For a long moment, nothing dared to move. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath.

And then Gandalf surged forward, breaking into a job and sweeping offending underbrush out of the way with his staff. "Hurry," he ordered over his shoulder.

"What is it?" Frodo asked as he and Sam took off after the wizard. "Has something happened to Bill?"

"To my knowledge, the pony is still safe. But he will not remain so unless we make haste," Gandalf answered cryptically.

Sam gulped and tried to pump more energy into his weary legs. "Hang on, Bill," he panted beneath his breath as he tried to follow the wizard’s shadow through the darkening night. "You just hang on and we’ll find you. No harm will come to you, I promise. Not with Sam Gamgee on the job."

* * * *

"Aragorn…"

"I feel it."

Legolas glanced over at the two men in his party and made a mental note to ask the Ranger at a later date about the perceptions of his Race. He had felt the presence of the second Warg several minutes ago, but it seemed that Boromir and Aragorn only now noticed it. To Legolas’s mind, there was no appreciable difference between now and when he had first sensed the creature, and the elf wondered why the delay in noticing the wolf. He was aware that elven senses were far more acute than the senses of men, but perhaps there was also in men an element of time required for the perception of evil. Legolas had sensed it immediately, but maybe a buildup of sensory perception was needed for Aragorn and Boromir to recognize a Warg’s approach. It was an interesting possibility and one Legolas felt was worth pursuing as soon as they had finished with their current task.

"Legolas?"

"Close," he answered, calling to mind the conversation he had subconsciously followed while he was considering the factor of time in relation to men’s perceptions. "Close and yet not close enough. It would seem he is wary of our presence."

"You have no bearing on him?"

"Nothing certain," the prince said, feeling as though he was being used as a rather elaborate compass. Still, there was nothing to do for that. After all, he did possess the better senses, and at the moment, he could best serve the Fellowship by using those senses to find the creature that hunted them.

"What of Bill?" Boromir asked, and Legolas could hear a certain reluctance in the man’s voice as though he was loath to admit his mortal shortcomings. "Can you find any signs of him?"

The elf paused and narrowed his eyes, searching the surrounding forest. They had been out here for over an hour now and the rockiness of the ground was making it difficult to track the pony. They had come upon hoof prints once, but it seemed that as soon as the trail was discovered, it disappeared. The area was not good for tracking and even Aragorn’s woodcraft had met its match. Yet if they did not find Bill soon, it was almost certain that the Warg would. Unable to catch find any sign of the pony with sight, Legolas turned his attention to his keen elven ears, willing them to hear anything that might remotely resemble the sounds of a pony traveling through dense brush. And at the edge of his senses, teasing the limits of his elven hearing, he finally heard it.

"Due east," he announced, taking the lead and picking out a path through the trackless wilderness. He heard Aragorn and Boromir begin to follow him, making far more noise than he did as they were forced to crash into the brush while he seemed to drift effortlessly through it. It was something he had never noticed until Aragorn complained of it once in Mirkwood, and since then, it had become a source of puzzlement to Legolas. The way was open for travelers if they knew where to look and where the limbs of brush would give way. Was it beyond a man’s perception to sense this? The elf shook his head, realizing just how little he knew about the Race his people had allied with from time to time.

"Legolas, stop!" Aragorn suddenly commanded. The elf froze, surprised by the authority as well as the hidden fear in the Ranger’s voice, and looked back curiously. Aragorn wore a strangely blank expression, and he appeared to be listening intently. "The Warg," he whispered. "Where is the Warg?"

Legolas blinked, realizing that in the process of musing over the differences between man and elf, he’d lost track of their quarry. Refocusing his senses while furiously berating himself for this lapse in awareness, he abruptly realized what Aragorn had already guessed. "His presence is growing stronger as we draw closer to the pony," the elf whispered.

"He must be hunting Bill," Boromir stated, brushing past Aragorn and hurrying forward. "Come! We have no time to lose."

Filled with a new sense of urgency, Legolas quickly overtook Boromir and passed him, breaking into a sprint that threatened to leave the two men behind. He felt the pull of healing muscles in his thigh but he ignored them. If the Warg reached Bill before they did, they would face a world of ill ramifications. The Warg would feed and find himself stronger, Sam would never trust any of them again, they would be forced to leave much of the baggage behind, and they would lose a pony that had become more than a pack animal. To many of the company, Legolas included, he had become a dear friend.

The sense of evil was growing stronger now, as were the sounds of a pony floundering helplessly through thick forest, and Legolas increased his pace, drawing further ahead of the men who followed him. The elven prince had led many scouting expeditions and fought in many skirmishes along the border of Mirkwood. He had lost friends and comrades to the blades of Orcs, but he had never yet lost a companion to the teeth of a Warg and he didn’t intend to start now. Swinging his bow off his back, he seized an arrow and set it to the string, searching the forest carefully as he ran, for the Warg was now very close. He could dimly hear the sounds of Aragorn and Boromir as they crashed through the brush behind him, and he winced with the knowledge that there would be no opportunity to take this Warg unawares. They would have to catch him in the open and hope for the best.

A sudden whinny of surprise and alarm reached Legolas’s sharp elven ears, and his breath caught in his throat. The thudding of hooves came next, and using the sound to create an image in his mind, the elf mentally traced out the path of Bill’s flight and altered his course slightly, hoping to intercept the pony and so intercept his pursuer. If the Warg was hungry enough that he was wholly concentrated on Bill, there was still hope for this to work.

Bill neighed again, his voice filled with fear and panic. Legolas increased his speed and leaped into the trees, trusting that Aragorn and Boromir would be able to follow the pony’s cries much as the elf was. Completely at home in the trees, he leaped from branch to branch as easily as if he raced across sand. The trees sensed his need for haste, and limbs lifted and parted for him as he shot through the forest canopy. The dark shadow of the Warg was becoming so strong that Legolas could almost follow the creature by its presence alone.

And then the bushes to the side of the elf parted abruptly, making room for a frantic pony who burst through in a frenzy of hooves and fur. With a snort of fear, the horse raced directly beneath Legolas’s position, and right on his tail came a large Warg in hot pursuit.

Legolas was so surprised by the wolf’s sudden appearance that he actually failed to shoot upon first sight of the animal. Most Wargs kept exclusively to the shadows, even while on the hunt, yet here was one taking the direct route in chasing the pony. It was either very confident or very hungry. And looking at its gaunt form, large though it was, Legolas decided on the latter. With little food in this portion of the wilderness, there had certainly not been enough prey to satisfy two Wargs, and this particular Warg was now ravenous.

Loosing his arrow as the wolf passed beneath his position, Legolas also let out a shrill whistle as a warning to Aragorn and Boromir. If the Warg was willing to chase down a large pony without keeping to the safety of the underbrush, he would be more than willing to attack a man.

As if sensing the imminent attack, the Warg roared and swerved to the side. Legolas’s arrow grazed his side and the wolf howled indignantly, picking up his pace and circling back to see who had dared attack it. Legolas was more than prepared for this response and swiftly notched another arrow, drew, and released. Yet again the wolf swept to the side, but this time he was not so lucky and the elven arrow lodged in his shoulder. Yelping at the sudden pain, the Warg snarled ferociously and raced away, knowing it could not outwit a foe in the trees. Legolas let one more arrow fly and heard a whine of agony as he hit the wolf’s hindquarters, but it did not slow its escape and the creature vanished into the forest.

Dropping from the trees and tracking the blood it was leaving, Legolas hurried forward with his eyes trained on the ground and his senses alert for any disturbances. Traveling quickly, he suddenly skidded to a halt and listened intently as voices drifted to his ears. Turning his head in the direction from whence they came, he called quickly. "Mithrandir!"

"Legolas?" the answering voice called.

"I have found Bill and the Warg. Hurry, for they are both on the run!"

The elf’s sharp ears then heard hobbit voices raised in both fear and relief, but he paid them no mind and went back to tracking his quarry, easily following the trail of blood. It was then that a loud oath, the ring of swords, and the sounds of a struggle came to his ears, and the prince hastened forward, fearful of what he would find.

"Aragorn! Boromir!"

There was no answer and the sounds of a struggle died away, leaving a cold fear in possession of Legolas’s heart. No longer following the Warg’s path, he hurried to the position where he had last heard his friends. It seemed certain that they had met with the wolf, and Legolas hoped he was not too late in coming to their aid. Furiously berating himself for not having killed the creature when it first came into view, Legolas passed through the dense underbrush like a wind rushing through tall grass.

Bursting through a dense thicket and into a small clearing, he skidded to a halt and caught himself on a convenient tree. Aragorn and Boromir stood before him, with Aragorn gripping the halter of a panicking pony and at the same time trying to wrap a strip of torn cloth around Boromir’s left forearm just above the gauntlet. Relief rushed through the elf and he allowed himself to sigh as his fears for their safety drained away. "When you did not answer, I feared the worst," he said, looking pointedly at the Ranger. "Are you well?"

The two men looked up as the elf spoke and an apologetic smile found its way onto Aragorn’s face. "We are fine, though not unscathed. Forgive me for not answering your call, but Bill’s nerves are not as steady as one might like them to be. And you, Legolas, might have warned us that this Warg was larger and faster."

"We already knew he was larger, and since I did not succeed in killing him, you were to assume that he was faster," Legolas answered with a slight shrug, walking over and whispering soothing words to Bill. The pony calmed somewhat, but his ears stayed flat against his head and wide eyes stayed fixed on the surrounding forest. Realizing it would take time for Bill to relax, Legolas stroked the horse’s neck gently and turned to examine the long gash on Boromir’s arm.

For his part, Boromir seemed rather embarrassed to be wounded and was muttering something about it not needing attention. By contrast, Aragorn had him firmly by the arm and was insisting that it did need attention and at the very least needed to be bandaged. It was not a severe injury and the bleeding had almost stopped, but it looked painful and Legolas winced with sympathy. He’d been hurt himself by Wargs in Mirkwood, and their bites were slow to heal, even for elves.

"How did this come to be?" Legolas asked, taking Bill’s halter from Aragorn so that the Ranger might more easily see to Boromir.

"It was my fault," Boromir answered with a disgusted shake of his head. "I had seized Bill and was trying to keep him from bolting. Thus I did not see the wolf coming. Aragorn shouted a warning, but in trying to calm the pony, I did not move in time. Thankfully, I received no worse than this."

"You were distracted by another concern, and I should have better guarded your back," Aragorn said. "The fault is equally mine."

Legolas groaned and rolled his eyes, recognizing the start of something he and Arwen had come to call the Ranger Responsibility Syndrome. It seemed that Rangers as a whole—and Aragorn in particular—could never understand the simple fact that it was not always their fault when something went wrong. Sometimes the blame rested with another while sometimes there was no one to blame and things just happened, good or evil. But for reasons unfathomable to Legolas, the Rangers couldn’t accept this and insisted on being accountable for any wrongdoing in Middle Earth regardless of their own involvement or lack of involvement. Judging from their speech, it appeared that Boromir also had a touch of this problem.

"Bill!"

Fortunately, they were interrupted before Aragorn and Boromir could begin arguing about whose fault it really was. An excited hobbit suddenly broke from the trees and wrested Bill’s halter from Legolas. The elf quickly stepped back as Sam wrapped his arms around the pony’s head and sobbed quietly against the broad neck. With the hobbit back, Bill seemed to calm even more and his ears pricked up as he nickered gently.

"Oh Bill, I knew you’d be all right. Mr. Frodo said that you were a resourceful horse and I wanted to believe him, but in these words you can’t be too sure, now can you?"

"I see you have discovered our pack animal," Gandalf commented as he arrived at the scene, smiling at the reunion between hobbit and pony. Frodo trotted up behind him and grinned broadly upon seeing Sam and Bill. His eyes then strayed to Aragorn and Boromir and the smile quickly vanished.

"What happened?" the Ring-bearer asked.

"I did not react quickly enough," Boromir answered.

"I failed to guard his back," Aragorn corrected.

"The Warg came this way," Legolas said, glaring at his two companions. "And because of his anger, he managed to injure Boromir."

"Where is the Warg now?" Gandalf asked, also well aware of what was taking place between the two men.

"We injured him, but he still managed to flee," Aragorn sighed, tying off the makeshift bandage on Boromir’s arm.

"He is still alive?" Even as he said it, Legolas realized that this was a question he should have asked when he first came upon the two men. But he had not felt the menacing presence of the Warg, and a Warg does not easily relinquish his prey. Since the wolf was no longer attacking—or at least stalking—the pony, Legolas had assumed that the fell creature had been killed. It was an erroneous assumption and one that would have had the prince’s mentors and trainers shaking their heads in dismay, but nevertheless, it had happened.

"He fled west," Boromir answered, flexing his arm and testing the give in Aragorn’s wrappings. "I tried to delay him, but this cursed injury hampered my movements."

"And he has not returned to hunt Bill?" Gandalf asked, fixing his gaze on Aragorn. The Ranger frowned and then his eyes widened.

"He has found other prey."

Legolas cursed, turned, and raced into the forest. His sharp ears caught the sounds of Aragorn and Gandalf in hot pursuit while Boromir, Frodo, Sam, and Bill took up the rear, demanding to know the reasons for this sudden haste. But Legolas did not slacken his pace for his friends, for he now knew exactly where the Warg was heading and exactly what the Warg was after.

I pray your axe is a better weapon than it appears to be, Master Dwarf, and that you are something of a competent warrior, Legolas thought, thinking of the poor hobbits left in Gimli’s care. Because you will be their only defense when the Warg attacks.

* * * *

With a sigh, Gimli slid his newly sharpened axe into his belt and stalked to the edge of camp. Aside from the rather remarkable fact that the hobbits had actually stopped eating before the food ran out, the evening had been uneventful. Pippin was now dozing quietly, Merry was watching the stars and humming softly to himself, and Gimli was becoming thoroughly bored.

The others had been gone for almost two hours now, and during that time, Gimli had neither seen nor heard the presence of any living creature aside from himself and the two hobbits. The forest on all sides was peacefully quiet with no sign of tension or darkness that would herald approaching danger. In a strange way, it reminded the dwarf of guard duty at home in the Lonely Mountain, for very few foes escaped the Beorings, even fewer escaped the elven archers in Mirkwood, and almost none made it past the vigilant men of Dale. As such, the routine guard duty that all dwarves were forced to serve from time to time was among the most tedious, boring, and hated chores in the entire mountain.

Not that Gimli was quite ready to complain yet. In truth, he was actually glad of the respite. They’d not had a quiet evening since… The dwarf frowned and tried to remember the last time he did not have to watch for an elven prank or a flooding river. Five days out from Rivendell, he eventually decided. That was my last night of peace. After that, the elf began to cross the line.

Gimli, of course, dismissed the fact that he had also "crossed the line," for in his mind, he had only been retaliating. The dwarf firmly believed that he had not started the feud and that all fault rested with the elf. If he were told that Legolas believed exactly opposite this, he would have snorted and mumbled something about elven self-righteousness. An impartial figure like Gandalf or Aragorn might have labeled both elf and dwarf as the cause of their present argument, but here was one thing that both participants had in common. Neither was willing to believe that both were to blame.

"How long have they been gone, Gimli?"

From the edge of camp, the dwarf turned around and looked toward Merry who was still staring at the sky. "Two hours by my count," Gimli answered. "For a scouting party, that is not long. Unless favored by fortune, it is likely that they will be gone for some time yet."

"Two hours," Merry murmured to himself. "I don’t know that before leaving the Shire, I could have spent two hours simply watching the stars. I guess traveling changes a person. Or in this case, a hobbit!"

"Very few things can change one the way an adventure can, and I don’t doubt but that you are experiencing the effects of such changes. But I would remind you that the first half of these two hours was spent eating, and if I am any judge, that is not a great change from your usual habits. If given the opportunity, I suspect hobbits would make the day one long meal."

"I see nothing wrong with that," Pippin murmured, turning over and pillowing his head on his pack. Merry launched a small rock in his direction but missed. Gimli chuckled and turned back around to watch the forest.

It was very quiet this night. There was little wind and even the creatures of the forest were silent as though resting in the peaceful stillness. The moon was bright and bathed the trees in a silver glow, giving it an almost elven beauty that even a dwarf could appreciate, though that dwarf might be reluctant to admit it. Resting one hand lightly upon the haft of his axe, Gimli leaned back against the slender trunk of one of the trees and sighed. Had anyone else been around, he would not have been caught in such a position. But Pippin was falling asleep and Merry was still staring at the stars, leaving Gimli more or less to himself on the edge of the campsite. And alone, he was allowed a chance to relax as he had not done since arriving at Rivendell with his father, Glóin. The constant presence of elves since that time had always grated on his nerves, and even during moments of relative peace, as in the beginning days of the Fellowship, Gimli had never felt truly at ease. But with the elf of their company off chasing Bill and the Warg with the others…

Gimli suddenly frowned and his grip on the axe tightened. His peaceful moment had shattered and something dark had entered the forest. It was a change so subtle that had he not been completely relaxed it is doubtful that he would have noticed it. He backed up, eyeing the woods distrustfully and noting that the peaceful stillness had turned into a tense silence. Something waited and something watched. The small camp was pondered with malice, and Gimli had a fairly good idea as to the origin of this malice.

"Merry, Pippin, on your feet," he said quietly, keeping his voice calm and low but still interjecting a note of command that would catch their attention. "Ready your weapons and stand near me. Face outwards and watch the forest."

To his credit, Merry was instantly on his feet and prodding Pippin to do likewise. The other hobbit grumbled, but apparently sensing the tension in the air, he asked no questions and gave no complaints. Silently, Merry and Pippin joined Gimli in standing near the baggage, waiting for the shadow in the woods to manifest itself. Minutes dragged by that seemed to stretch into years on end, and eventually, it was too much for the hobbits.

"What’s going on?" Pippin hissed. His voice was no louder than a whisper, but in the complete stillness it sounded as though he had shouted. Gimli and Merry both cringed, turning stony looks on Pippin who shrugged sheepishly but still had the cheek to look expectantly at Gimli in the hopes of an answer.

With a shake of his head, the dwarf grimaced and turned back to the forest. "The Warg," he murmured, becoming more certain of his feelings with each passing moment. He had never truly sensed a Warg before, but the contrast between now and the relative peace he’d enjoyed earlier could not be mistaken. So this is what father meant when he spoke of a Warg’s presence, the dwarf reflected. And this must be what set Aragorn and Gandalf on edge several days ago.

"The Warg wouldn’t attack us, would he?" Merry whispered. Like Pippin, the hobbit’s voice sounded unnaturally loud and Gimli winced.

"If he does, he shall soon have more on his mind than hunger," the dwarf promised, his grip tightening on the haft of his axe.

What might have been interpreted as a laugh came from the bushes to one side. It was a muffled sort of growl that startled all three, and as one they swung toward the sound. A shadow moved beneath the moonlight and then vanished. His muscles tensing, Gimli stepped forward slowly, inching his way along while all his senses strained for a sign of the wolf’s intentions.

"Stay behind me," he whispered to the hobbits. "And be ready."

More minutes dragged by and it seemed as though several ages of Arda passed. Once again, it was too much for the hobbits who were novices as to the wilds of Middle Earth. Pippin lowered his sword and looked at Merry, who shrugged and cleared his throat. Gimli sighed, and looked over his shoulder with the intention of sending both hobbits a deadly glare, but his fierce expression turned to one of surprise and alarm when he caught sight of what was leaping from the darkness behind them.

"Down!" he roared, lunging at the hobbits and shoving them to the side even as he flung himself to the ground.

The Warg sailed overhead and spun as soon as he hit the earth, his gleaming teeth bared in a terrible grimace. A deep gash was bleeding along the side of his neck and two Mirkwood arrows jutted from his body, one in the shoulder and one in his hindquarters. With ears flattened against silver fur, the hound of Sauron snarled and snapped his jaws, his tail lashing from side to side and yellow eyes gleaming with hatred. Like a nightmare from the twilight, he lifted his head and howled, voicing his rage and anger to the empty night and summoning all who served Sauron to rally to his aid.

Not about to let the wolf finish his call, Gimli rushed forward with a ready axe and a dwarven battle cry. The blade swung down, its sharp tip catching the moonlight in its arc, but it met with air as the Warg sprang aside. With a growl and a flash of teeth, the creature leaped at Gimli, and the dwarf was barely able to bring the haft of his axe up to meet the charge. A jaw capable of crushing bone seized the sturdy handle and with a suddenness that took Gimli completely by surprise, the axe was wrenched from his hands. Only instinct saved him from what happened next. Pressing the advantage, the Warg’s teeth sought the dwarf’s throat but Gimli threw himself backwards, rolling to his feet in one smooth motion and seizing his axe on the way.

But this wolf was faster than any opponent the dwarf had faced before. Coming to his feet, Gimli’s eyes darted to the place where the Warg had last been only to find it empty. He heard the hobbits shout a warning, but he did not turn in time and found himself knocked to the ground with the axe flying from his hand. Slightly stunned, he rolled to his side just in time to see the Warg leap, jaws gaping and tongue lolling. In some detached way, Gimli knew it would be the last thing he ever saw and he silently cursed the fate that had led him down this road. His ears caught the sound of crying voices, something let off a high-pitched whistle, a howl split the night, and then a great weight fell upon his chest and the world went red.

Red?

Gimli lay completely still, certain he had perished, and then he heard Aragorn’s commanding baritone as well as Gandalf’s curt instructions. The weight on his chest was lifted and a damp cloth touched his face. Batting hands away, Gimli seized the cloth himself and wiped his eyes, realizing as he did so that he was wiping away blood. Frodo’s voice sounded from nearby and he was answered by Boromir. The rest of the Fellowship had returned. But what had happened to the Warg? How had he…

A silent terror suddenly shook the dwarf and he opened his eyes and pushed himself to a sitting position, fearful of what he might find. The Warg lay to one side of him, its silver form limp and lifeless. An arrow protruded from its throat, having pierced the main artery, and a pool of blood was collecting beneath the wolf. Afraid to look but knowing it had to be done, Gimli glanced to his other side.

The bright, gray eyes of a smug-looking elf met him, and Legolas smiled with an infuriating calm, inclining his head slightly. "My debt is repaid in full, Master Dwarf. A life for a life. I would advise you to see to your appearance, though the sight of you might be enough to hold all our enemies at bay."

"Enough of this," Gandalf interrupted, sending a stern glare in the elf’s direction. "The Warg has sounded an alarm and we must depart this area immediately. All of you, load the baggage quickly. We cannot afford to waste time."

"Come then, stunted one," Legolas said. "Despite your condition, we must away." So saying, the elf turned, but as he did so, his bow, clasped in his left hand, swung around to slam solidly into Gimli’s head.

Unprepared for the blow, the dwarf grunted in surprise and put his hands out to prevent himself from falling backwards. He heard Frodo’s breath catch, he heard Aragorn’s swear quietly, but above all these sounds, he heard a quiet chuckle on the part of Legolas. He nearly charged the elf then, but the warning glare from Gandalf stayed his hand. Promising himself that there would be other opportunities, Gimli finished wiping his face free of blood, gathered up his belongings, and readied himself to continue the journey. His eyes watched Legolas carefully, and his mind began to plot. The elf would not be let out of his life debt so easily. Not if Gimli, son of Glóin, had anything to say about it. And with this thought firmly in the mind and heart of the dwarf, the Fellowship at length moved away from the camp, disappearing quickly into the forest so as to escape the notice of any spies who might have been summoned by the call of the Warg.

January 6, 3019

When dawn came to the wilderness east of Rivendell, it went for the most part unseen. Heavy clouds had rolled back in and ominous thunder echoed off mountain peaks. There had been no rain yet, but the threat was heavy and most in the Fellowship feared a second drenching was not far away. Legolas was dubious, claiming the winds did not feel right for rain, and Aragorn shared this view, adding that the direction of the clouds would probably not force them to drop their loads of moisture. But the hobbits were not so optimistic. Sam, in particular, was no longer so trusting of assurances from Aragorn and Legolas, and he eyed the clouds distrustfully as though expecting to be assailed by rain at any moment. Gimli was also skeptical of claims that rain was probably not in the near future, but his reasons had more to do with animosity toward a certain elf rather than distrust in keen senses. Boromir was acting typical in his refusal to comment on the rain debate that had been popping in and out of their discussions as they traveled, so none knew how he actually felt on the subject. And Gandalf had given his opinion early on that the weather was unpredictable near the mountains and that rain or no rain, it did not affect their journey and was not worth worrying about. The hobbits disagreed with the latter part of this statement.

But so far, the predictions of Legolas and Aragorn had proven true, and though ominous, the clouds had held their peace. Gandalf found a nice campsite beneath a squat tree that would provide—as the wizard put it—adequate shelter for the Fellowship should the clouds prove traitorous. Sam had muttered something about the definition of a shelter and was seconded by Pippin, but nothing more had come of it and the group had settled down, eating breakfast and setting up blankets for rest.

"Have we volunteers for watches?" Gandalf asked after a bit, settling himself against the base of the tree and lighting his pipe. Their watch rotation had been severely disrupted by the rain, the flood, and the Wargs, so it seemed logical to simply begin anew rather than picking up where they had last left off.

"Legolas and I shall take the first two together," Aragorn immediately said.

Gandalf blinked and studied first the Ranger and then the elf. There was something in Aragorn’s eyes that would not be gainsaid and it did not take long for the wizard to guess Aragorn’s motives. Legolas, on the other hand, seemed surprised at his sudden assumption of two watches and had turned to Aragorn with a frown, apparently considering what might be the reasoning for this. Deciding to force the issue ere the elf could unravel the situation, Gandalf turned his attention to the prince.

"Does this suit you, Legolas? Are you well enough to sustain two consecutive watches?"

A quick flash of irritation moved through Legolas’s eyes but was quickly concealed, and the elf nodded slowly. "I am more than capable of taking two watches this day, though I fail to see the reasoning behind it. I admit that these lands are strange to me, but I sense the presence of neither enemies nor unfriendly eyes. Yet if Aragorn believes it necessary, I will take two watches with him."

"So be it," Gandalf said, hoping the Ranger would be able to set the elf straight on a few issues ere their combined watch had ended. The wizard was of half a mind to take Legolas and Gimli aside himself, but in his role as a leader, he was reluctant to directly involve himself in their conflict. Should the need come to obey his orders quickly and without hesitation, they could not be hampered by an elf and a dwarf who had come to have resentment toward the mediator of their dispute. Aragorn understood this well and had taken upon himself the duty of standing between the two ere sparks could fly, but the role was taking its toll on him. One way or another, this pointless feud had to end.

"I’ll take the third watch," Merry volunteered. "I don’t sleep very well in the middle of the day, anyway."

"I can take the last watch," Sam said. "It will give me a chance to start breakfast a bit early and maybe add some flavoring to it if I’m not rushed."

"Very well," Gandalf said, puffing away contentedly on his pipe. "Just remember that there is to be no fire. Even in the event of a downpour, we cannot afford to give ourselves away, especially after the Warg revealed our position last night."

Sam grumbled something under his breath but nodded. Legolas seemed to catch the muttered words and turned away, hiding a smile. Aragorn chuckled and stood, stretching his arms above his head. "Then may I suggest that the rest of you take what sleep you can find. We shall have to travel quickly tonight, for we must put distance between ourselves and whatever spies have been alerted by the Wargs."

"Do you think it will rain today?" Frodo asked, making a pillow out of his pack and pulling two blankets up to his chin.

"It is difficult to say this close to the mountains," Gandalf answered, resorting to his earlier opinion. "The weather can change seemingly at a moment’s notice, and it is beyond our skill to judge."

"But I would say that rain is unlikely," Aragorn added, studying the sky. "It is true that the weather here is subject to abrupt change, but if things stay as they are, rain should hit further north and avoid us."

"Nor is aught that goes on two legs," Sam muttered, nestling himself into a collection of blankets.

"What was that, Sam?" Pippin asked curiously.

"Tom Bombadil," the hobbit answered quietly with a yawn that threatened to swallow his face. "He said he was no weather-master, nor is aught that goes on two legs."

"True enough," Aragorn said with a laugh, taking the hobbit’s censure as no more than his just due for losing Bill the day before. "Still, in the absence of a master of weather, I fear we must trust to those who go about on two legs, folly though such trust may be. And I know you may trust me in this. Sleep will best prepare you for any weather that may come our way."

"Wise words, Aragorn," Gandalf said, firmly settling himself against the trunk of the tree under which they had taken shelter. "I second your counsel and wish you all a good night. Or a good morning, however you may choose to look at it. Until this evening."

With that, the wizard closed his eyes and wrapped his old, gray cloak tighter about himself. He heard restless moving from the hobbits and hushed voices that eventually quieted as they, too, drifted off to sleep. Gimli’s snores began rising about the same time as well as Boromir’s trademark muttering that marked his entry as well as his exit into sleep. And as these sounds rose and ebbed about him, Gandalf gave himself over to encroaching dreams with the hope that perhaps things would look better in the evening.

* * * *

"If you have something to say, Aragorn, perhaps you should say it so that we may move on to other things."

The Ranger looked up at Legolas, somewhat startled by the elf’s sudden appearance. The rest of the Fellowship had fallen asleep an hour ago and Legolas had left camp shortly afterward, saying he intended to see if the Warg’s howls from the previous night had drawn Enemy spies. Aragorn had said nothing in response to this and only watched in silence as Legolas propelled himself into the trees and left, vanishing like a shadow into the dark eaves of the forest. He had not heard the elf return and had he most certainly not expected him to return prepared to confront the topic of Gimli. Aragorn himself was still mustering his arguments on the matter and was not quite ready to discuss this.

"Did you find aught on your search?" the Ranger asked, hoping the change in topic would not be seen as a dismissal of the issue.

"The woods are quiet and evil does not stir so far as my senses can determine, but that is not what you wished to speak of when you asked me to take a watch with you," Legolas answered, narrowing his eyes. "I would hear your words and have done with it, for this waiting gnaws at both of us and we are ill watchmen to be so distracted."

Aragorn pressed his mouth into a thin line and he studied the elf. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. "Come. There is no need to disturb the others. Let us discuss this elsewhere."

Silently, keeping all thoughts to himself, the elf followed Aragorn away from the camp until they had come to a place where they might speak without waking the rest of the Fellowship. Finding a log lying upon the ground, Aragorn eased himself down, rested his arms on his knees, and looked at the elf. Legolas met the look but said nothing, content for the moment to only watch and gauge the strength of the other much as one opponent would evaluate another.

"It is over, Legolas," Aragorn finally said. "You are even. You owe him nothing and he owes you nothing."

"You tell me nothing I do not already know."

"Do you? Then I suppose you did not mean to hit him in the side of the head with your bow? Legolas, you insult me. I may not be an elf, but my senses are keen in their own right and my intuition has rarely failed. Every slight to him will be met with a greater offense to you. Can you not see the cycle? Do you not see the danger you invite upon us all?"

"Would you have me stand idle, Aragorn? Would you stand idle?"

The Ranger sighed. At least this could be construed as progress of sorts. Legolas had not openly refuted the fact that his ongoing feud with the dwarf was dangerous. But the elf raised a very pertinent question. How did one end something that had already swept beyond any hope of control? "You need not acknowledge the presence of the dwarf," he finally said, at a loss for any other solution.

"I do not."

"That is not true, and if you think otherwise then your thoughts are clouded. Every time you take some action against him, you acknowledge that he exists and that his presence is wearisome for you."

"Nay, say rather I remind him that an elf is in this company and will not be silent in the face of dwarven arrogance," Legolas said coldly.

"Then what shall we say of elven arrogance?" Aragorn demanded. "Can you not let this end where it stands? Must you continue to endanger Frodo and that which he carries?"

Legolas’s eyes smoldered and his glance became as a searing brand. "I challenge you to name one instant in which I have put this company at risk."

"Last night," Aragorn shot back, rising to his feet and advancing on the elf. "You followed the Warg back to camp in an effort to kill it, yet when you arrived, what did you do? You shot it through a vein in its neck. I know where you stood and the heart was open as a viable target. The throat was a far smaller target, but that is the target you chose. Why? Had you missed even slightly, the Warg would not have died so quickly and Gimli might have been mauled or worse."

"The Warg wished to taste of dwarven blood," Legolas answered with something akin to a shrug. "I simply reversed the situation. The dwarf tasted of a wolf’s blood."

"Legolas!"

"Listen well, Aragorn. You and Gandalf may lead this company, and you may be Isildur’s heir, but I have seen more years than you will ever behold. I know my limits and I know my skills. Do not doubt them and do not interfere in things that do not require your involvement."

Aragorn felt a flash of rage surge through him and he stepped forward until he was but inches from the elf’s face. Dark gray eyes met eyes sired from a line of stubborn Sindarin princes, and the Ranger exhaled slowly, attempting to control his anger. "Arrogant fool," he hissed. "You play games with a dwarf on a quest that, for good or ill, will change Middle Earth forever. You have complained of your father’s stubbornness and greed, yet you fail to see it in yourself. Think, Legolas! Your only motivation in prolonging this feud is for the sake of your own wounded pride."

A strange look flitted across the elf’s face, but it came and went so quickly that Aragorn could not interpret it. Then it was as though a door shut, and Legolas become completely unreadable, putting into place the impenetrable emotional wall for which elves were famous. "Have you any more to say, Aragorn, or have you spoken to your satisfaction?"

Aragorn sighed in exasperation. "Whether or not I have spoken to my satisfaction depends upon you." He stopped, inviting comment upon that, but Legolas remained silent, his gray eyes a void of expression. "Make me a promise, Legolas," the Ranger finally said when the stillness began to stretch into minutes. "Do nothing that may threaten Gimli’s life."

"I have done naught that would threaten the dwarf’s life."

"Do nothing that, if done by a man, would threaten his life," Aragorn amended.

"And why should I be bound by mortal standards?"

"Because Gimli is mortal!"

The elf cocked a brow at that, but much to Aragorn’s surprise, he eventually nodded. "Very well, then. For your sake and the sake of a company, I shall limit my vengeance. I do this as favor to you, Aragorn, because of our friendship. But do not press me too far, for I have limits."

"As do I," the Ranger said evenly. "But I thank you for this at least, though I wish it were more. You cannot see how foolish this is, and that grieves me."

"Are we finished?"

"I fear that we are, for it seems you will not see reason," Aragorn sighed.

"Then I shall return to the company, for they have been without guard," Legolas said, turning and walking away from Aragorn. Left alone in the solitude of the trees, the Ranger rubbed his face and ran a tired hand through his tangled mass of hair. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. It seemed they would never get over the mountains without the Fellowship being divided by Wargs, a pony, or a feud between an elf and a dwarf.

* * * *

Pippin yawned, stretched, and rolled over, encountering a rock that bore into his side. With a sigh, the hobbit pushed himself up and glared at the offending stone, wishing for the soft mattresses of Rivendell. The day before, he had slept with a root in his back, and the day before that, he hadn’t slept at all because he was out looking for Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas. Well, he actually had slept later that night, but he’d only managed to get a few hours worth of rest before Merry woke him up.

"My mother told me a story once about a hobbit whose face froze like that."

Pippin transferred his glare from the rock to Merry. "The Brandybucks are full of stories. You probably have one that says if you play around on boats long enough you can breathe underwater."

Merry made a show of thinking about that and eventually shook his head. "No. If we have a story like that, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Pippin, but my mother also told me that a face would freeze like that. I don’t think it’s just the Brandybucks who have these stories. Even the Gamgees talk about things like that."

Deciding that the world was against him today, Pippin muttered something uncomplimentary beneath his breath and flopped back down, careful to avoid the rock as he did so. It was late afternoon near the end of Sam’s watch, which mean that within the next few minutes, Gandalf or Aragorn would start insisting that everyone get up. Pippin wondered who was already awake beside s Merry and Sam, for many of the Fellowship seemed to make a habit of rising early. A quick glance around the camp revealed Aragorn and Legolas were missing. That was normal. Those two usually went scouting sometime during the last watch of the day. Frodo was still asleep, which was something of a marvel since Frodo usually woke when Sam did, and Sam had taken the last watch. Boromir was also asleep but he was stirring restlessly and would probably rouse himself in the near future. Gimli was snoring softly and didn’t look like he would be doing anything in the near future. And Gandalf…it was always difficult to tell with the wizard. Sometimes he was truly asleep but sometimes he was merely thinking and only appeared to be asleep.

"If you paint a picture, young hobbit, it will last longer."

That answered that question, Pippin thought, turning his eyes away from Gandalf. The wizard was awake, he was thinking, and he was in a sour mood this morning. He probably hasn’t had a good smoke for a while. The hobbit pushed himself off the ground and pulled his pack over from where it had been serving as a pillow. "Could you use some pipe-weed, Gandalf? I have a few extra leaves saved."

The wizard’s dark eyes flashed his direction, but then his expression softened. "Thank you, but no, Pippin," Gandalf said, giving the hobbit the barest of smiles. "I shall be fine without it."

Pippin shrugged and stood up, stretching out the kinks in his back. Sleeping on roots and stones for a week and a half had not been particularly pleasant and he was beginning to pay for it. His spine was out of alignment again and he hoped Aragorn would return soon so that the Ranger could fix it for him.

"So what’s for breakfast, Sam?"

"It’s not breakfast, it’s supper," Sam answered testily. "I don’t care that we all just woke up, the time of day is still supper."

Pippin exchanged an amused glance with Merry and then turned back to Sam, who was now searching through the supplies of food. "All right, what are we having for supper?"

"Something cold, by all accounts, but I don’t know as we have anything left that would taste good that way," the gardener answered, tossing one pack aside and moving on to another. "More likely than not, we’ll have to start in on that dried meat that Boromir’s been packing. We finished the perishable goods off four days ago."

"Do you mean that really spicy meat?" Merry asked, his face paling.

"The really spicy meat that he was carrying in the bottom of his pack?" Pippin added, wondering if there was a safe place to hide in the immediate vicinity.

Sam blinked, confused by their questions. "That’s it. Although, I don’t know as it’s all that spicy. The Gaffer has a recipe for potatoes and pork that’s so spicy it will curl the hair right off of your feet!"

"I don’t think you want to start in on that meat," Merry said. "It’s probably gone bad."

"It was salted and dried, Mr. Merry. I don’t see how it could have gone bad."

"Well, we are in the Wilds," Pippin reasoned, estimating the distance between himself and the nearest climbable tree. "Strange things happen out here and—"

"The two of you didn’t…you wouldn’t…you did!"

"Did what?" Merry asked, backpedaling rapidly.

"Sam?" A bleary-eyed Frodo stuck his head up and eyed the other three hobbits. "What’s going on?"

"Mr. Frodo, do you remember that meat I picked out from Rivendell’s larders and asked Boromir to carry? That spicy meat that didn’t have to be cooked and would do quite well for supper right about now?"

Frodo sighed and buried his head beneath his arms. "Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Merry and Pippin ate it."

"We were hungry," Pippin protested, now a safe distance away from Sam. "And we were being forced to guard the packs. It was tiring work and—"

"You ate the meat while guarding the packs?!" Sam fumed. "While the rest of us were out looking for Bill and hunting a Warg, you were eating our supper?!"

"What’s done is done, Sam," Frodo sighed, sitting up and yawning. "But I’ll remember this for future reference. Don’t think that the two of you will ever guard the packs alone again." The Ring-bearer got to his feet, stretched, and clapped his hands together. "So, what are we having for breakfast?"

Sam threw up his hands and stomped off, muttering something about fetching water. Confused, Frodo watched him go and then turned back to Merry and Pippin, his eyes questioning.

"Don’t ask," Merry said. "It’s better that way."

"Right," Frodo mumbled with a frown and a suspicious glance at both Merry and Pippin. A rather awkward silence fell, the stillness broken only by dwarven snores and Boromir’s quite murmurs. Merry looked at Pippin, Pippin shrugged and looked at Frodo, and Frodo rolled his eyes and started after Sam, picking up some of the water skins along the way.

"That could have been worse," Pippin said after another few minutes of silence.

"I suppose so," Merry allowed.

"No, really. Look, we’re both in one piece, they haven’t banned us from eating altogether, and it hasn’t rained yet. It could definitely be worse."

"Don’t say things like that," Merry scolded. "You’ll just jinx us. It’s a wonder the clouds don’t open up right now and soak us."

"The clouds shall do no such thing, Master Hobbit, for their moisture is bound for northern lands and Rivendell," an elven voice called. Moments later, Legolas stepped out of the forest, followed closely by Aragorn. The prince glanced up at the sky and shook his head. "Nay, we are too far south to be bothered by these. The winds blow them away even as we speak."

"How can you be so certain of that?" Merry asked.

"I have had many centuries to learn of clouds and their patterns around mountains," Legolas answered. "And beyond that, the trees speak of their departure and sorrow for the lost moisture."

"Trees can be wrong," Gandalf spoke up from the other side of camp, pushing himself up on one elbow and also watching the sky. "As I have said before, the weather here is subject to swift and sudden change."

"Where are Sam and Frodo?" Aragorn wondered, looking about the camp.

"They went looking for water," Merry answered. "They didn’t leave too long ago. They’re not in trouble, are they?"

"I hear their voices," Legolas said. "They are not far and have found the stream that runs to our west. All is well with them."

"Legolas, would you follow after them and make certain that everything stays well with them? We can ill afford to lose either Frodo or Sam through simple mishap or lack of watchfulness."

Pippin couldn’t help but notice the suspicious look Legolas gave Aragorn at this request, but after a moment, the elf nodded and turned away, disappearing into the woods so quickly that Pippin wondered if he had ever really been there. As soon as Legolas was gone, Aragorn moved swiftly to Gimli’s side and shook the dwarf, jumping back quickly when Gimli started to wake.

"Legolas knows what you do," Gandalf said, pushing himself to his feet with the aid of his staff.

"But Legolas is elsewhere, so it matters not what he knows," Aragorn responded, moving back in and giving Gimli another tentative shake. "Gimli? Gimli it is time to rise."

Pippin wondered if he had missed something in the past few minutes because he certainly didn’t know what Aragorn was doing but apparently Legolas did and the elf wasn’t even in the camp anymore. Sighing, he wandered over to the packs of food and peered into one. It looked sadly empty and the hobbit wondered if the Fellowship would be stopping to obtain more food soon.

"Sam will skin you alive if he sees you messing with that," Merry warned.

"Then you’d better stand watch and see that you warn me, or I shall come back to haunt you," Pippin retorted, wondering if someone had perhaps lost or forgotten an apple in the dark recesses of one of the food packs.

"Pippin! Leave off the food until Sam is able to supervise you," Aragorn ordered with a suspicious glance. "And Gimli, I would that you should come with me for a moment. There are words I wish to speak."

The dwarf blinked in surprise but he nodded. Standing, he slid his axe into his belt, straightened the mail he wore even in sleep, and quickly followed Aragorn away from the camp. Curious, Merry watched them go and even went so far as to creep the direction in which they’d vanished with the hopes of overhearing a whispered conversation. But he heard nothing even though he listened intently for some time, and he eventually gave up, walking back while his mind continued to study the problem. "What do you make of all that, Pippin?"

"Make of all what?"

"All these secret conversations. Aragorn taking Gimli aside like that. What do you suppose they’re talking about?"

Pippin shrugged, still roaming through packs of food. "Hopefully, they’re talking about finding a nice inn, a tall mug of ale, and a full plate of venison. Apart from that, I’d settle if they were talking about hunting. I’m ready to eat the clothes off my back."

"I wouldn’t do that just yet," Merry cautioned. "I was talking with Legolas and he says it’s likely that we’ll go up into the mountains. If he’s right, you’ll want to be wearing those clothes on your back rather than eating them."

"So I should starve to death rather than freeze to death?"

"Either way, I doubt anyone will care," Merry said with a shrug and a cheeky grin. "Which do you suppose is worse? Starving to death or freezing to death?"

"Only a Brandybuck would ask a question like that," Pippin said, opening yet another food pack. Success! There is an apple in here. Would Sam really miss it, I wonder? Perhaps he doesn’t even know it’s here. That must be it or else he would have fed it to Bill. I’ll just slip it into my pocket here and—

"Pippin!"

Pippin gulped, sent an incriminating glare at Merry who shrugged helplessly, and then turned around to find himself facing the newly returned Legolas and Frodo as well as an irate Sam who looked as though murder was not far from his thoughts.

"Hullo!" Pippin exclaimed, sending Sam the best innocent expression he could muster. "Nice weather we’re having."

* * * *

"Is it just me," Merry panted, "or are we traveling faster than usual tonight?"

Frodo glanced over his shoulder at the Brandybuck and flashed him a look of sympathy. "I think we’re traveling faster."

"How can they expect us to move this fast on such a meager breakfast?" Pippin asked, wiping a brow that was beaded with sweat despite the cold night air.

"It’s not breakfast, it’s supper," Sam corrected angrily. "And it wouldn’t have been so meager if you and Merry had left well enough alone last night."

Frodo sighed, turned his head, and rolled his eyes. Pippin and Sam had been arguing about this since the start of the march, which was over three hours ago. As soon as Aragorn and Gimli had returned to camp—with Gimli looking slightly miffed and Aragorn looking rather frustrated—breakfast had been eaten, baggage had been packed, and they had set out at a grueling pace. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the other members of the Fellowship seemed to be suffering, but to all appearances, the hobbits were the only ones beginning to stagger. Gandalf strode along without a hint of weariness. Aragorn might have been taking a stroll through a garden. Boromir was casually shining his shield as he walked. Gimli was taking practice swings with his axe in the back of the party. And Legolas was moving even faster than the rest of the Fellowship because he was now running periodic scouting expeditions ahead of them, looking for any sign that the Warg from the night before had attracted other unwanted guests.

Frodo frowned, sending a rather suspicious look at the back of Aragorn’s head. There was probably good cause for these new scouting expeditions, but Frodo couldn’t help but wonder if they might not also be a ploy to keep Legolas and Gimli separated. Neither elf nor dwarf had said a word at breakfast—Or was it supper?—but the looks they occasionally tossed one another were enough to tan an oliphaunt’s hide. At that point, Gandalf had pulled Aragorn aside for a quick conference and the result had been that Legolas was more often than not somewhere in front of the company rather than with the company itself. The general feel of the journey had improved because of this, but Frodo wondered how long it could be maintained. Legolas and Gimli surely knew what was being done and they wouldn’t stand to be manipulated like this for much longer. Beyond that, wasn’t it dangerous for one scout to venture into these forests? Legolas was a wood elf and he’d had plenty of centuries to hone his fighting and tracking skills, but it was still safer with the group than it was without the group. And both the flashflood and the Warg had proved that no one in the Fellowship was invulnerable.

With a sigh, Frodo hitched his pack higher onto his shoulders and decided it did him no good to worry about it. Aragorn and Gandalf knew what they were doing and he trusted their judgement. But at the same time, Frodo was becoming aware that he saw things more clearly now. The reasons for their path or the logic behind stopping at a certain location were lost on the other hobbits, but Frodo was beginning to sense things that Aragorn and Gandalf sensed. He was noticing things that they noticed and feeling things that they felt. The Warg had been only the start of this new development, and the hobbit shivered, all too aware of the heavy Ring as it slapped against his chest. Frodo wasn’t certain if this change was a good thing or not. He hadn’t discussed it with Gandalf and he felt a certain reticence to do so for some reason he could not fathom.

But why shouldn’t this change be a good thing? After all, if his judgement was drawing even with Aragorn’s and Gandalf’s, that was best for everyone. The more collective wisdom available to the Fellowship, the better. And hobbits had been overlooked for too long. They were strong and hardy in their own right. Maybe not in the same way that Boromir and Gimli were strong and hardy, but one didn’t have to be possessed of infinite endurance or rock-hard muscles to be considered a great warrior. Maybe the time had come to prove that hobbits were equals. Maybe he should challenge the wisdom of the elves and the power of the wizards. Maybe—

Frodo stopped cold and shook his head rapidly. Where in the Shire had those thoughts come from?! And as he paused to consider this, it felt as though a shadow suddenly fled his mind, leaving him light-headed and confused.

"Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo blinked and turned to face a concerned Sam. "Yes?"

"Are you feeling all right, sir? I can ask for a quick break if you’d like. We’ve more than earned one in my opinion and, begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, you look like it would do you good. I don’t mean no offense but—"

"Yes, Sam, I think I would like a rest," Frodo said, wondering if it was just him or if the world was actually shifting beneath his feet. "At the very least, I should like to sit down for a moment."

"Mr. Gandalf!" Sam cried, guiding Frodo over to a convenient rock. "Mr. Gandalf, there are some of us as are tired and would like a quick stop."

Gandalf turned around, a scowl beginning to form on his weathered face, but he stopped when he noticed Frodo. "Of course, Samwise," the wizard quickly said. "We shall stop here for a bit and wait for the return of our elven scout. It will be good to know what obstacles in the terrain we might face."

Beside Frodo, Sam grunted and shook his head. "What is it?" Frodo asked.

"Obstacles." The gardener sighed and folded his arms. "So far, we have several different definitions of what constitutes a shelter and even more on how big rations have to be. I wonder what an elf will define as an obstacle."

Frodo laughed quietly, feeling some of his previous melancholy drain away. "There aren’t a lot of obstacles for an elf, that’s true. But I’m sure Legolas will consider hobbits when he evaluates the terrain. In fact, why don’t you ask him yourself? I think he’s coming."

Sam looked about but saw nothing. He turned back to Frodo, his expression a combination of confusion and concern, but before he could say aught, Legolas’s voice called out to the Fellowship.

"I see you are using time to your advantage."

"Not all of us are used to long journeys, son of Thranduil," Gandalf answered with a touch of reproach in his voice.

Legolas’s light laugh could be heard and then the elf appeared, dropping neatly out of a tree and landing almost on top of Gimli. The dwarf jumped, clearly surprised by the elf’s sudden entrance, and then a strange look crept over his face. It was almost a look of impatient restraint, and not for the last time, Frodo wondered what Aragorn had said to Gimli earlier that evening.

"Have you seen or heard aught of the Enemy’s servants?" Aragorn asked, watching both Gimli and Legolas closely, and in his glance was a warning that even the hobbits couldn’t miss.

"Nay, I have neither seen nor heard anything, but it seems to me that the forest is still and watchful. Some evil has been here and its influence is slow to depart."

"Could it be the Warg still?" Boromir asked. "I felt uneasy for a time even after its death."

"The Warg did not stray this far south," Legolas said. "And the feel is not that of a Warg. It is as I said. There is a watchfulness about. Nothing directly threatens us, but all things are wary."

"How is our path?" Gandalf asked.

Legolas’s brow furrowed as he called to mind the details of his scouting run. "I know not precisely what direction we shall take, but there is an area where the trees are dark and the wind speaks of shadows. If we turn our course south and west for a mile or so, we shall avoid this place."

"We shall also find ourselves in the middle of a marsh," Aragorn pointed out.

"I would rather brave the marsh than the darkness," the elf answered. "And from what I saw of it, passage did not look particularly unpleasant."

"Did you actually test the ground or did you remain in the trees?" Gandalf asked.

"I remained in the trees where it is easier to pass unseen," Legolas answered rather indignantly.

Frodo sighed as the three continued their debate. So much for considering the limitations of hobbits. He remembered all too well the trek through the Midgewater Marshes, complete with stinking swamp water, hungry midges, and Sam’s Neekerbreekers. A light-footed elf might find a marshy area to be at best an inconvenience, but a hobbit might sink waist deep with every step and carry the smell of the swamp for several days after the fact. I wonder how acute an elf’s sense of smell is, Frodo mused. Perhaps I can threaten Legolas with my potential stench if he convinces Aragorn and Gandalf to pass through the swamp. Turning to consider Legolas and how such an argument might be taken, Frodo suddenly found his eyes riveted to Gimli and he immediately groaned. Up until now, the night had been so peaceful!

"I don’t see that a little discomfort outweighs passing through a region to which evil is drawn," Legolas was saying, clearly uneasy about the darkness he had felt.

"Perhaps to you it would be but a little discomfort, yet our pony shall be weighed down, it adds several miles to our journey, and we shall be wearied because of it," Aragorn argued.

"Better wearied than destroyed."

"We may be destroyed if we are too weary to fight."

"Aragorn, I tell you that this area is—" But Legolas was unable to finish his sentence for at that moment he started toward Aragorn and Gandalf but found his feet were suddenly entangled by the haft of a dwarven axe. To his credit, Legolas managed a rather impressive spin even as he stumbled, and by so twisting he recaptured his balance. But his eyes spoke of a dangerous anger, and he turned his piercing elven glance on the dwarf who now stood behind him.

"My apologies, Master Elf," Gimli said, shrugging and achieving an expression of innocence worthy of even Pippin’s praise. "I did not look to see where my axe was. You must have tripped over it." He stepped forward and bent to pick up the fallen axe, but Legolas was swifter and quickly snatched it up.

"Those who know not how to use such weapons should not carry them," Legolas hissed.

"You tread dangerous ground, elf," Gimli growled, unconsciously shifting into a combat potion.

"Legolas! Gimli!"

Gandalf’s sharp tone caught their attention and the dwarf backed off slightly while Legolas’s grip on the axe relaxed marginally. Aragorn then moved into view, and an unspoken command passed between the future king of Gondor and the youngest prince of Mirkwood. With narrowed eyes, Legolas thrust the axe blade first toward the dwarf and dropped it. "With an axe so badly balanced as this one, it is more toy than weapon."

Gimli seized the axe quickly, but Legolas had already stalked out of range and resumed his conversation with Gandalf, Aragorn, and Boromir as though nothing had happened. Frodo sighed and shook his head. He should have expected this. He’d known the temporary peace was too good to last. I suppose I should be grateful that there was a truce at all. His mind gradually drifted back to the conversations around him and he sighed again at what he heard. Merry and Pippin were debating about whether interference from Aragorn and Gandalf nullified a match between elf and dwarf, Gimli was muttering angrily to himself, and Aragorn and Gandalf seemed to be overruling Legolas as to the choice of paths while Boromir stayed on safely neutral territory. What a strange collection of travelers we are, he thought. Given our differences, it’s a wonder that we aren’t all at each other’s throats.

A suddenly cleared throat interrupted Frodo’s thoughts and he looked up as Gandalf turned to face them. "Are we all rested?" the wizard asked. Pippin sighed mournfully, Merry mumbled something incomprehensible, Sam shrugged, and Frodo nodded wearily. "Good," Gandalf said, taking their responses to be enthusiastic in the affirmative. "We shall continue due south but we must move quickly. Stay alert, everyone. Legolas has warned us that danger may lie on this route and we cannot afford to be taken unawares. Come!"

And with that, Gandalf once again led the way into the forest. The hobbits struggled to their feet, swung on their packs, and followed the rest of the Fellowship.

January 7, 3019

"We were watched."

Aragorn sighed and looked at Legolas, reading much of the elf’s mood from his tense stance and the way he kept glancing back at the trail they’d followed to reach this campsite. Rather than forcing the hobbits and the pony through the marsh—and had we done so, we would probably still be floundering in it—the Fellowship had elected to take the straighter route despite Legolas’s warnings. It was a risk and Aragorn knew well that an elf’s senses were rarely wrong, yet they’d truly had no choice. Their food supplies were beginning to run low and they could not afford to make a large loop solely for the sake of avoiding a place of darkness. But Legolas was right. They had been watched.

"Do you sense any following us?" Gandalf asked, leaning against his staff and looking back down the trail. His dark eyes seemed ageless this morning, and there was great depth in them as they penetrated the shadows beneath the trees.

"Nay, not yet. All is silent. But our passage was marked and noted for any who would inquire of our whereabouts," the elf said, his face grim. "Those who wish to pursue us will not be hard-pressed to find our trail."

"Then we shall have to proceed with great caution." Gandalf shook his head and then turned around, walking toward the other side of camp and moving around the various pieces of baggage that had been dropped.

Sensing somehow that his presence at Gandalf’s side was expected, Aragorn followed and reached for his pipe, feeling the need for a good smoke. The Ranger’s role as a mediator between Legolas and Gimli was straining his friendship with the elf, and the decision to take a more direct albeit darker route rather than trudge through a swamp was not helping matters either. Striking a quick flame as he sat by Gandalf’s side, Aragorn lit his pipe and turned sharp eyes upon the camp, watching the unpacking with a somewhat detached academic interest.

"Aragorn, would you watch with me this morning?"

The Ranger frowned, catching a strange note in the wizard’s voice, but he nodded, knowing that explanations would be forthcoming in their own time. "Of course. How shall we arrange the other watches?"

"Boromir and Gimli shall take them," Gandalf answered quietly. "After passing through an area of such darkness, it would be well if warriors rather than hobbits watched the camp this day. I suspect Legolas will also join them, for he is wary of our surroundings. It will be difficult for him to sleep."

"I am not hard of hearing," Legolas said testily from the other side of camp where he was now helping Sam unload breakfast as well as watching the trail. "If you have words to say to me, I would that you speak them directly to me rather than about me in secret conversation."

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his head. The elf was not in a good mood this morning. "Peace, Legolas. We meant no disrespect and spoke no secrets."

"Then if you spoke no secrets, would you tell the rest of us what you have been discussing over there?" Boromir asked, apparently sharing Legolas’s ill humor.

"The watches," Gandalf answered, and in his voice was an edge of irritation. It seemed that the bad mood was contagious. "Gimli and Boromir, would you accept the last two watches of this day while Aragorn and I take the first two?"

"Of course," Gimli answered, casually inspecting the blade of his axe. "Do you want the third or the last watch, Master Boromir?"

"The last," Boromir answered. "I have not been sleeping well late in the day and I doubt I shall be able to fall asleep again if I take the third watch."

Gimli nodded. "Then the last watch is yours. Is there aught else we should know?"

"Is there aught else you are capable of comprehending?" Legolas muttered, pulling the last pack off of Bill. Unfortunately, his words carried in the still morning air and Gimli overheard the remark. A shadow seemed to pass over his face and he took an angry step toward the elf, but Aragorn chose that moment to step between them, catching the dwarf’s shoulder in a firm grip before any harm could come of this.

"If the matter of the watches is settled, I suggest we eat and then get what rest we can," Aragorn said, directing a hard glare at Gimli. "We shall have need of it, for we may be watched." Fire flashed in the dwarf’s dark eyes, but he nodded and moved away. With half of the quarreling pair taken care of, the Ranger next directed his attention to Gimli’s counterpart and pinned Legolas with stony eyes. For his part, the elf met the man’s demanding gaze with the look of an offended prince, and Aragorn sighed, recognizing this particular expression.

"Breakfast is ready," Sam announced, interrupting the war of wills between elf and man.

Legolas shot Aragorn a smile of triumph, but Aragorn shook his head darkly. "This is not finished," he whispered, knowing the elf’s sharp hearing would be able to catch his muttered words. "We shall speak of this again."

Legolas’s eyes narrowed slightly at that, but he made no response and instead strode toward the center of camp where Sam had assembled the morning’s meal. With a feeling of rapidly growing frustration, Aragorn started after him but suddenly found himself checked by a hand on his shoulder. Surprised, the Ranger glanced back and found himself looking into the dark eyes of the wizard.

"For now, let him be," Gandalf murmured. "We have more important things to consider other than their pointless feud."

"Their pointless feud is a danger to the quest," Aragorn pointed out, his face twisting with confusion.

"It is, but there are new dangers to be addressed. In light of Legolas’s warnings about being watched, I have reconsidered our course. The path over Caradhras will be watched."

"We knew that ere we ever set out from Rivendell," the Ranger answered, eyeing Gandalf and attempting to discern the reason for this hushed conversation. "All ways south shall be watched, some more than others. I do not like our current path, but for this Fellowship, there is no other way unless we wish to dare the Gap of Rohan."

"There is yet another way that has not been discussed," Gandalf said. "The thought occurred to me while we were still in Rivendell, but it is a dark way and I have been reluctant to speak of it with anyone save Elrond. Yet if the watchfulness of these woods continues to grow, I fear we shall be forced to take this darker road."

Lost for a moment, Aragorn stared blankly at the wizard until Gandalf’s suggestion suddenly hit him likes a swinging sack of troll loot. "You cannot mean Moria!" Aragorn hissed, feeling as though the faint sunlight that had managed to make it through the thick cloud cover died at the mention of the fell name.

"It does give us a direct path to Lothlórien."

"And to death!"

"Not necessarily. And this way is unexpected. The spies and scouts sent to track us will be unable to follow."

The Ranger shook his head in disbelief. "You would risk traversing the darkness of Moria’s caverns rather than climbing through the Redhorn Gate?"

"We shall be exposed to many unfriendly eyes upon the open passes of the mountains," Gandalf pointed out. "At the moment, we have kept our secrecy well, but that secrecy may not hold past Caradhras if we elect to go that way. If possible, we must reach Lothlórien without detection."

"It would also be well if we lived to reach Lothlórien," Aragorn protested. A strange feeling was rising into his stomach and flashes of foreboding were entering his mind. He could say nothing with certainty at this point, but the very mention of Moria filled his heart with dread. It was not dread specifically for the Fellowship, the Ring-bearer, or even for himself, but grave danger lay in the ancient dwarven kingdom. And should they enter, not all would emerge unscathed. And if my feelings are any judge, some of us might not emerge at all.

"Mr. Gandalf? Strider? Are you coming?"

The interruption prevented Gandalf from responding to Aragorn, and he seemed to decide that such a response would do him no good anyway. After only a moment of hesitation, the wizard turned and nodded at Sam. "I fear if we do not come now, Peregrin and Meriadoc shall finish off our breakfast for us."

"We would never eat your food, Gandalf!" Pippin protested with a rather guilty look upon his face.

"See that you keep that vow, young hobbit," Gandalf growled with a twinkle in his eye and a conspiratorial wink at Aragorn. "For an angry wizard is not a sight you wish to behold, and a wizard without food can be prone to sudden attacks of fury."

"That is not entirely untrue, either," Aragorn murmured with a slight smile.

Gandalf snorted. "Perhaps not, which is why I shall now take what breakfast is provided. But I would speak with you further on this, Aragorn. We must be certain of our path ere we venture on to it."

Aragorn nodded reluctantly and dutifully followed the wizard over to the main group, but a shadow had fallen over his mind now and it would not be easily shaken. Doom, it seemed to whisper, and the Ranger shivered. His eyes strayed to the mountains, wreathed in cloud and darkness, and he shivered again. The peaks kept their secrets wrapped in thick shadows, and no clear images came with the now overpowering sense of foreboding. But the foreboding was still there, vague as it was, and such warnings were not to be taken lightly for one of the line of Elendil. And on the edge of awareness, so faint that it could have easily been mistaken for a trick of the imagination, Aragorn fancied he heard drums…

* * * *

Waiting with absolute silence in the top of a tall tree, Legolas closed his eyes and allowed his elven senses to drift into the surrounding area, listening to the song of Ilúvatar as plants and trees whispered to one another. The sky was still overcast, but Legolas could feel the sun above the clouds and he marked its progress as he scouted the area around the camp. Something was amiss, but he could not quite put his finger on what that something was. The previous night’s journey through a dark wood had put his senses on edge and it was quite possible that he was overreacting. It would not be the first time that such a thing had happened, yet it was better to be overly cautious than not cautious enough.

Finding nothing to alarm him in the immediate vicinity, Legolas opened his eyes and slipped down the tree onto the ground, watching the surrounding foliage for any sign of movement. He felt as though he was being watched, but he could not say what was watching him or where the watcher was located. It was rather frustrating for the elf as he was used to being acutely aware of each and every detail in his surroundings, but now he was up against a force he had never encountered before. The Fellowship was regarded with a cold menace, of that much he was certain. Yet no move was being plotted against them. No action was being taken. It was strange, and this strangeness did not bode well with the elf.

With his bow in one hand, Legolas made his way forward, calculating the easiest route back to camp and guessing at the path that evil would most likely choose if an attack were mounted. We should have taken our chances in the marsh, the elf sighed, glancing over his shoulder in the general direction of camp. Aragorn had been right, though. The pony would have been hard-pressed, they would have been forced to carry the hobbits for part of the way, and with these factors slowing them down, they might have ended up camping in the marsh rather than in the thicket where their camp currently lay. And who knows how they would have gotten Gimli through the swamp. Though it would have been interesting to watch, Legolas added to himself with a small smile.

A snapping twig to his right suddenly arrested his thoughts and he turned quickly, but it was only a large squirrel scampering a little too far out on a tree limb. Focus, Legolas told himself sternly with a shake of his heads. Redirecting his attention and firmly disciplining his thoughts, the prince of Mirkwood started to backtrack on the Fellowship’s trail. He moved as a silent shadow, gliding along the path with an inborn grace and agility that the best mortal forester could only envy. All senses were primed and alert for the slightest disruption in the peace and stillness of the forest. Legolas had been a scout and a warrior in his father’s service for centuries, and those centuries of experience now served him well as he searched for the elusive danger that haunted the footsteps of the Fellowship. He was able to track each and every sound, catalogue and identify each scurry of fury feet within the underbrush, and sense the hearts of the trees in this section of the forest. Yet for all his abilities, his sense of foreboding continued to grow but he continued to have no luck in uncovering the cause of his growing alarm.

Legolas was several miles away from the camp when he finally stopped, unable to find anything that would validate his feelings. In some ways, his current sense of malice was very much like the feelings he received whenever he ventured far enough to the south that he could behold Dol Guldur. The dark fortress where Sauron, the Necromancer, had once dwelled,was still an abode of great evil even in the absence of its master. There was always an air of wary watchfulness around the tower as well as a sense of latent evil lying in wait to strike at the first opportunity.

But this current forest was not Mirkwood, he was nowhere near Dol Guldur, and the ancient elven stronghold of Hollin was now only a night’s march away. These dark feelings should not be present, yet try as he might, Legolas could not rid himself of them. Something dangerous was watching them. And yet that something seemed content merely to watch.

I suppose I should be thankful for this reprieve, Legolas sighed mentally. And yet this unnerves me in ways that even a Warg does not. For what reason does this evil wait? Shall it come upon us unexpected in some unprotected place? Is it waiting for us to grow unwary? Is it a scout only, watching from a distance and informing more dangerous enemies of our presence?

The elf didn’t know, and the lack of knowledge disturbed him. Something about this place felt wrong. It was not the feel of a Warg, for such a presence could not be mistaken by one who had hunted for centuries in the Warg-infested forests of Mirkwood. And so far as Legolas could tell, this was not the feel of the dreaded Nine. He’d encountered one or two of them when Sauron still dwelt in Dol Guldur, and he was fairly certain he would recognize the peculiar feeling of dread and inevitability that they inspired. There had been no reports of spiders in this land, the hearts and intents of the trees were harmless enough, and save for the sense of hidden evil, all seemed peaceful.

Legolas folded his arms, leaned back against a convenient tree, and sighed. It appeared his search would yield nothing, and in light of this, it was probably best if he returned to the camp and took what sleep he could. Turning keen elven eyes skyward, Legolas quickly traced the patterns in the clouds and learned the speed and direction of the wind. If the current trend continued, the sky might actually clear by morning. It would be a welcome change for the hobbits, but it would also increase the company’s visibility. Legolas shook his head. There was little he could do about the weather save to report it, but they would have to take extra care in choosing a location for camp on the morrow, even if they did pass the borders of Hollin.

With this final thought, the elf turned and began making his way back to the others. He stayed alert and watchful, but there was still naught to be seen nor aught to be heard. It seemed as though the entire forest lay waiting for a storm, but this storm would be no natural phenomenon. His eyes narrowing as he traveled, Legolas tried once again to determine what it was that was setting off his senses, but as before, he came up empty-handed. Deciding that whatever it was would have to wait until it manifested itself more fully, Legolas strung his bow over his shoulder and started on the last mile before camp at a quick jog.

Strangely enough, the amount of tension in the air seemed to increase the closer he came to the rest of the Fellowship. Coming to a stop and frowning, Legolas pondered the signs and pursed his lips. Taking his bow back out and allowing his free hand to stray to the haft of his silver-hafted knife, the elf began running toward the camp, carefully staying in the shadows and silencing the sound of his light footfalls. There was no sound coming from direction of the Fellowship, and at the very least, Legolas expected to hear Aragorn and Gandalf speaking quietly. With his heart in his throat and the fear that somehow he’d missed the true danger and it had come upon the others in his absence, Legolas burst through the trees and into the thicket.

Aragorn looked up at his sudden arrival, surprise clearly written in his eyes. Gandalf flicked a puzzled glance in his general direction and continued to puff away on his pipe. The elf stopped, turning first to Aragorn, who seemed to have been pacing, and then to Gandalf, who was propped against a large boulder.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked.

With a shake of his head, Legolas dropped his hand away from his knife and slung his bow over his shoulder. "I thought I felt something amiss. My apologies. I did not mean to startle you."

"You are forgiven, of course." Aragorn stopped and glanced warily at Gandalf, but the wizard shook his head. With a curt nod, the Ranger turned back to the elf and attempted to assume a casual air. "Did you find aught of interest in the woods?"

They have been arguing, Legolas realized, wondering what other surprises he might find today. He could name only a handful of people accounted wise that would argue with Gandalf. Aragorn was among them, but he did not dare that road often. "The woods are silent," the elf finally said in answer to the Ranger’s question. "Yet I cannot shake a feeling of ill intent. As I said earlier this morning, our presence was marked and we are still watched. But I could not uncover the source of my feelings, nor could I find any sign of spies. It is strange, and I am troubled."

"Perhaps we should have braved the swamp," Aragorn murmured.

"Sometimes the darker road is necessary," Gandalf said quietly. Aragorn sent him a sharp look, but the wizard did not meet his eyes, instead concentrating on blowing a rather complex smoke ring.

They would not be arguing over our last choice of paths, Legolas mused. Neither of them is one to dwell over what is past and gone. But what is this concerning a darker road? Curiosity was beginning to get the better of him, but Legolas was a prince and as a prince he had learned by experience that some secrets were best revealed at a later date. Deciding this was probably the case, the elf shoved his innate desire to know into the back of his mind. "The weather may change tomorrow," he mentioned, moving to his own pack and pulling out a thick cloak. "If I have read the signs aright, the clouds shall lift by morning."

At this news, Aragorn sighed and rubbed his eyes while Gandalf’s brow raised with interest. "You are certain of this?" the wizard asked.

Legolas frowned. "As I remember words spoken earlier, none that go about on two legs is a master of the weather. I am certain of nothing. However, I am fairly confident that if the wind stays constant we shall see the sunrise tomorrow."

Gandalf nodded, Aragorn sighed, and Legolas once again wondered what they had been arguing about. But it was not for him to enter into their discussion, and elves, above all other races, were not ones to involve themselves in the dealings of others. This trait was possessed to a lesser extent in Legolas because of his youth, but elven isolationism was still a part of his makeup. Wrapping the cloak around himself, he picked up his bow from where he had propped it against a stump and headed back into the forest.

"Where are you going?" Aragorn asked.

"By your leave, I think I shall sleep further up the trail this day," Legolas answered. "You may then continue your discussion without fear of listening ears, and I shall ensure that evil does not stray too close to us. I will not be but a mile away if you wish to scout later today." And I will be absent for Gimli’s turn on guard, the elf added silently to himself.

"I shall find you during the last watch, then," Aragorn said. "Stay safe, my friend. I also feel this shadow."

"Look to your sword, son of Arathorn," Legolas answered as he slipped into the underbrush. "I fear we shall need it ere we reach the other side of the mountains."

* * * *

Despite Legolas’s fears, the day passed quietly enough and even dinner was served without incident. Night was falling now and preparations were being made to start the journey again. At least, Sam assumed night was falling since it was getting progressively darker, but it was difficult to tell because the clouds were thick across the sky. Legolas had commented earlier on how the cloud cover resembled camp when everyone with the exception of Boromir and the elf began smoking. Sam supposed there was no help for that and even less help for Legolas, but maybe they could offer Boromir a pipe sometime in the near future…

Speaking of smoking, the scent of pipe-weed caught Sam’s attention and he turned to see who was indulging, for it was almost time to leave and most had already put away their pipes. His eyes scanning the group, he eventually stopped on Gimli and blinked. The dwarf had his pipe in hand and was puffing away contentedly, looking as though he had not a care in the world. Strange. Didn’t Mr. Gandalf just say as how we were about to head off? I wonder why he chose now to take a bit of a break. About then, Sam noticed something else concerning Gimli that seemed rather puzzling. The dwarf’s eyes kept surreptitiously straying to a point just the other side of Sam. Curious, the hobbit turned to see what had caught the dwarf’s attention and he immediately sighed.

Legolas. He should have known the dwarf would be watching Legolas. Still, Gimli hadn’t actually done anything, and maybe he was just on guard for an elven attack or prank. In any case, it didn’t hurt to think positively for a change. Maybe tonight would be different.

At this thought, a cynical little voice in the back of Sam’s head started laughing uproariously.

The wind suddenly came up cold and bitter as it bore its way through heavy layers of clothing. So much for the warmth, Sam sighed. He shivered and gathered himself more fully into a protective crouch, wrapping his cloak tightly around his shuddering body. At the same time, he thought he caught a snicker from Gimli. Wondering what was afoot and whether or not it had anything to do with the fact that Strider was mumbling something uncomplimentary beneath his breath, the hobbit debated about looking. His Gaffer had always preached about the value of ignorance, but Sam was unusually curious for a Gamgee and after a bit of internal debate, he decided to risk it.

Lifting his head out of his warmth-conserving crouch, Sam quickly met with a rather strange sight. Gimli was sucking his pipe in earnest and sending up a steady stream of smoke in the process. Sam couldn’t help but wonder at this strange waste of pipe-weed. Why was he doing that? What good could that— Oh. Sam sighed and shook his head. The wind was carrying the smoke trail directly into the face of Legolas.

Legolas was doing his best to ignore it, and though it was obviously affecting him, the elf was doing a commendable job. But as the smoke continued to drift his way, his control began to slip. He didn’t turn his head or step out of the way, but he did close his eyes and his jaw tightened slightly. Sam had the sudden impression that the normally unflappable elf was counting to ten.

"Why doesn’t he just move?"

Sam glanced over at Pippin who was also watching the tableau unfold. "Because if he moves, he loses," Sam whispered back, surprising himself with his insight. "That’s just what Gimli wants him to do, but he won’t do it."

"But elves hate smoking," Pippin hissed. "They can’t stand it."

Sam nodded. "That’s why Gimli’s doing it. He knows Legolas hates it. But it’s like I said before—if Legolas moves, then Gimli wins."

Merry nudged Pippin with an elbow. "Didn’t I tell you that Legolas would win?"

"We’re not done yet," Pippin returned.

By now, everyone in the Fellowship had become aware of what was happening, but no one could tactfully do or say anything about it. Gimli could easily deny the fact that he was intentionally puffing smoke in Legolas’s direction, and Legolas could just as easily say that he hadn’t noticed a thing. And it was clear that as long as the wind blew, the dwarf would puff on his pipe and the elf would stand there in stoic silence. Sam sat back and narrowed his eyes. The feud between the elf and dwarf had changed slightly, but Sam was uncertain as to the exact nature of the change. Aragorn had spoken to both of them, and since then, they had not been so confrontational. But that did not mean their slights and insults stopped. Far from it. But when something happened, at least they had not come to open blows. Still, it would be nice if someone could step in now and try to set things right…

Almost as though cued by Sam’s thoughts, someone did step in. Not surprisingly, it was Aragorn, and Sam found himself marveling at the Ranger’s display of cunning and ingenuity. Without saying a word to either elf or dwarf, he casually moved between the two, effectively disrupting Gimli’s smoke stream and providing a shield for Legolas.

"One for the elf," Merry whispered. "Gimli loses."

"Your eyes must be faulty," Pippin responded scornfully. "Legolas had to be saved by Aragorn. Gimli wins."

"What Age are you from?" Merry shot back. "Gimli failed to make him move. The dwarf loses and the Legolas wins."

"It’s a draw," Sam said with a glance at Aragorn who was doing his best to look like he was completely unaware that he stood between sworn enemies. "If anyone wins, Strider does."

"No," Frodo murmured, his voice so low that the other hobbits had difficulty hearing him. "If anyone wins, it is the Enemy that makes such fools of us."

Behind Gandalf, Boromir abruptly stood and swung his shield up behind him. "Will we tarry here all night?" he asked. "The sun has fallen. Is it not time we move?"

"It is time we move," Gandalf replied. It seemed to Sam that the wizard was distracted and not just by the antics of elf and dwarf, but before the hobbit could get any further with that thought, Gandalf shook off whatever mood had fallen over him and got to his feet. "Come. By tonight, we must try to reach the borders of Hollin. There are still leagues ahead of us."

Exactly what I need to hear, Sam sighed. Why can’t the next stop ever be just beyond that second tree? With a tired shake of his head, the hobbit hitched his pack up on his shoulders, took Bill by the halter, and started off the others as they set out on their journey once more.

* * * *

Drawing his tattered cloak tighter over his shoulders, Gandalf shivered and glanced at the sky, watching the clouds closely. "The wind from the north is cold, Aragorn," the old wizard noted.

"So it is," Aragorn replied, his face unreadable as he scanned the surrounding brush with the practiced wariness of a Ranger.

"It will be colder still in a few days when we begin to climb."

"So it will be."

"If Legolas is correct about the weather, and I feel that he is, we shall be highly visible.

"So we shall."

Gandalf sighed and rolled his eyes. He should have seen this coming, though he doubted he could have done anything to prevent it. When Aragorn did not wish to speak of something, he simple did not speak, confining himself to short, concise answers and saying little else. It worked beautifully when dealing with simple men such as Barliman Butterbur, and strangely enough, it also seemed to work when dealing with wiser beings. Even Elrond had yet to devise a way of effectively and consistently breaking through Aragorn’s wall of silence.

The two stood some distance away from the others, waiting in the dark night while Gimli struggled to untangle his chain mail from a thorn bush. It had "accidentally" snagged on some of the thicker branches and was now taking the skills of all four hobbits to free. Legolas stood a safely neutral distance away and appeared appropriately concerned, though laughter danced across his face when he thought no one was looking. Boromir was looking on with the air of one who has suffered much and will probably not be willing to suffer much more. Gandalf grimaced and turned his attention back to Aragorn, deciding to move straight to the point and see if he could force the man to words.

"We may avoid many of these problems by taking an alternate route. There is still—"

"I know," the Ranger interrupted. "But I beg you, do not speak of it. This Fellowship may be split asunder at the very mention of the name."

"We must decide which direction to turn within a few days time," the wizard warned, leaning against his staff as another cold breeze swept by them.

"Perhaps fate will smile upon us." Aragorn did not sound overly optimistic.

"Perhaps. But perhaps it will not. Fate has not often favored us, as you know well, Aragorn."

"No, it has not," the Ranger murmured. He fell silent again, his dark gray eyes troubled, and Gandalf feared he would be unable to rouse him back to words. But Aragorn then shook his head and turned to the wizard, his face unreadable. "Gandalf, I do not wish to argue this with you. I honor your wisdom and heed your council, as have I ever, yet my heart warns against the darker course. There is something in those depths…it does not bode well. I feel there are grave consequences in choosing Moria as a path."

"You will not even consider it as an option?"

"Reluctantly will I do so, and only at your insistence."

Gandalf grunted and decided to let the conversation go at that. In truth, he also favored the mountain passes, though the Fellowship would be highly visible to the spies of the Enemy. Still, it was a more certain course than the path that led beneath the mountains. And yet…

"We will not make Hollin by morning," Aragorn murmured, more to himself than to the wizard at his side. "Already we have lost valuable time, and the hobbits are weary."

"The night is still young. We may reach it yet."

"Do those two not realize the seriousness of what we do?"

It was not hard to figure out to whom Aragorn referred. "They realize," Gandalf answered quietly, watching as the hobbits drew lots and Pippin lost. The disgruntled Took muttered words of protest and then crawled beneath the thorn bush, grunting with every scratch and working quickly to finish freeing Gimli’s chain mail. "It is why they are still with us. We will need them, Aragorn. All of them. But the Enemy’s reach is long. For countless years has he managed to keep the elves and dwarves estranged. Why should this change when we set out to destroy the only thing that will ultimately defeat him?"

"My sight does not reach as far as yours," Aragorn said quietly. "I am more concerned with our present condition. And I see now a dwarf and an elf more intent on playing practical jokes than on destroying the Enemy of all that is good. Nor do they realize when these pranks cross the line from annoyance to danger."

"Much of what they do they cannot help but do," Gandalf said. Pippin was now crawling out from beneath the brush, picking at thorns in his skin and complaining loudly to any who would listen. "The elves have seen only malice on the part of the dwarves. The dwarves have seen only contempt on the part of the elves. Centuries of hatred cannot be set aside, no matter how grave the matter. Think of the Council of Elrond. Even there, Glóin could not restrain himself."

"You speak wisely as ever, Gandalf," Aragorn sighed.

"Let us hope that my wisdom holds," the wizard warned, looking out at their path as Gimli finally shook himself completely free. "And I still feel that the darker way must be included in our debates."

"I suppose that all options should be included in our debates," Aragorn answered as the rest of the Company moved to join them. "But there are some that, to me, seem far better than others."

"And to me as well. But something warns me against Caradhras. I sense malice there, and a cold regard for us. We must be prepared to choose a different way should the mountains prove closed to us."

"And we shall be prepared should that time come. But let us not speak of it yet, I pray you! For now, allow our path to take us where it will. And who knows? Perhaps the choice has already been made."

* * * *

Six…seven…eight… By the Valar, do I travel with children?

Boromir instinctively ducked as pebbles nine and ten descended from above to smack Legolas in the head. The first few had missed their mark, but the last of the barrage had proven surprisingly accurate.

Lore in Gondor speaks of elves and dwarves with tones of great respect, but these two have yet to do anything worthy of honor.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Legolas had been the one to kill the second Warg two nights ago, and he and Aragorn had shown themselves to be a deadly team in tracking and hunting the first Warg. And Gimli’s skill with the axe and sharp senses had saved Merry and Pippin when they were attacked. Yes, both elf and dwarf seemed capable warriors, but once the danger had passed and the Company had enjoyed a temporary peace…

Boromir watched as Legolas suddenly bent down and hefted a rather large rock in his hand. Turning it over, he examined it as though curious as to its design and history. After a while, enduring three more pebbles from the assailant behind Boromir, the elf casually tossed the rock over his shoulder. Boromir noted that the toss was a rather forceful toss and watched it as it sailed overhead until…

Thud.

Gimli’s muted cursings were soft, but it seemed that Legolas heard them, for his shoulders stiffened as though trying to hold back laughter.

"Legolas? Would you confer with me a moment?"

Hearing the Ranger’s voice with a degree of relief, Boromir hoped Aragorn had developed a ploy for keeping the two apart. The animosity was beginning to wear on Denethor’s son, though he had to admit that if Gimli had not put pipe-weed in the elf’s water so many nights ago and caused the Fellowship to divide, Aragorn might not have seen the tracks of the Warg. Still, there had to be another way to track a Warg without involving the childish antics of an elf and dwarf who should know better. Boromir wondered how Aragorn had so much patience in the matter.

Aragorn…

Boromir risked a swift glance backwards and watched as the Ranger and the elf held a quick consultation. Though he was clearly frustrated by their continuing pranks, Aragorn seemed to understand both Gimli and Legolas. How was it that a man could know so much about either race? Aragorn had probably traveled much, but in Boromir’s mind, it was perilous to deal directly with either the dwarves or the elves. The dwarves delved too deeply, loved too passionately, and angered too quickly. And the elves…anything immortal with powers or senses beyond that of a man was to be feared and avoided.

Boromir looked back again. Legolas was nodding at something Aragorn had said and was speaking quietly in return. Then the elf turned and vanished into the darkness, disappearing so quickly it was as though he had never been there. That was another thing Boromir couldn’t understand. Legolas was a prince, a son of King Thranduil in Mirkwood. He was a younger son, yes, but he was still royalty and as such he was accorded honor and respect, even by those of Rivendell. Yet when Aragorn spoke, Legolas immediately listened. He held the Ranger in high regard and heeded his words. What manner of man could command such respect from an elven prince? Who was Aragorn? Elrond had spoken of Isildur’s heir, but Boromir had dismissed those words at the time, believing the line of kings to be a thing of the past and a lost dream of the elves.

Besides, if any group had a right to the throne, it would be the line of the stewards who kept and preserved Gondor for years uncounted after the death of the last king. As a young boy, Boromir had spoken to his father Denethor concerning the throne and the stewards, and if he was honest with himself, Boromir still had yearnings for kingship. Who was this Ranger of the north to think that he could claim what had been protected for centuries by the valiance and courage of the stewards? But then again, if the line of Elendil had survived and Aragorn truly was heir to the throne…and if Andúril truly was Narsil reforged…

"Boromir?"

Boromir started and turned to see the object of his thoughts watching him intently. Aragorn looked as though he knew—or at least guessed—much of Boromir’s thoughts, but the Ranger said nothing to deny or confirm this.

"The others draw ahead, Boromir. Shall we follow?"

Denethor’s son nodded quickly, chagrined at the thought that Aragorn had caught him by surprise. Such was the not the way for warriors of Gondor, but of late, Boromir’s thoughts had drifted far and wide. So much was happening so quickly. He journeyed in the company of elf, dwarf, and halflings. A man claiming to be Isildur’s heir conferred and counseled with the mysterious Mithrandir. The Ring, long thought to have perished from the world, gnawed at his thoughts and made him doubt the advice of Elrond HalfElven. What fate led him down this course and where would it take him?

"You look as one who seeks counsel," Aragorn said as they moved to rejoin the group. "Is there aught I can do?"

"My thoughts are my own," Boromir answered sharply. His tone was harsher than he intended, and he marveled at himself. "That is…I have much on my mind that does not concern the Company," he quickly explained, seeing Aragorn’s look. "I would not wish to burden you with my troubles."

Aragorn seemed to accept this and did not pursue the matter, though Boromir thought he could detect a flash of bridled curiosity and a hint of suspicion in the other man’s eyes. "I have sent Legolas behind us," the Ranger offered by way of conversation. "I feel we are being observed again, but I can not find the source. Perhaps elven eyes will succeed where the eyes of man are foiled. We will cross a stream in an hour or so. Legolas plans to meet us there. He will probably reach it long before we do and might scout ahead as well."

"You seem to know much of elves," Boromir found himself saying. "Have you lived among them often?"

A small smile eased its way onto Aragorn’s rugged features. "I have."

Boromir waited for Aragorn to continue, but the Ranger was silent. Sensing that Aragorn would say nothing else on the subject, Boromir decided to try a more specific track. "What of Legolas? You seem to know much of him."

"We knew each other before this Fellowship was formed," Aragorn said. "I gave Gollum into the keeping of his father’s guards, and Legolas and the scouts under his command aided me when we first sought the creature. We journeyed together for a while and have hunted spiders in the southern forests of his father’s kingdom."

"And I gather you also know Mithrandir well?"

"I doubt if any but Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel know him well," Aragorn answered quietly. "He and I have been friends for some time, but I cannot say much more than that."

"Yet he told you of the Ring long before he told any other," Boromir pointed out, unable to keep a note of suspicion from his voice.

The Ranger shrugged. "There was a need to seek for Gollum, and how should one persuade another to walk in perilous country save the other knows the reason for the journey? I was told by necessity. Had there been another way, Gandalf would have surely held his peace. The matter of the Ring is a perilous matter indeed. The fewer who know of it, the safer are those who still defy the shadow."

Who are you? Boromir was very tempted to simply ask. He doubted the answer would be to his liking if Aragorn even deigned to give him one, and yet his curiosity continued to grow. Who was this man who held the secrets of wizards, the respect of the elves, and the alleged sword of Isildur, forged anew? And what did he mean for the future of Gondor?

Author’s Notes: I’ll be quick here, but I do have a couple things I need to say about this chapter. First of all, this is one of the few places between Rivendell and Caradhras where Tolkien stops to insert dialogue for the Fellowship, so to honor him and the story, I have kept intact everything the characters said during this day and night. You can find this dialogue in the 50th anniversary Ballantine edition of The Fellowship of the Ring, pages 338-342. I should also note that I have added a few lines of my own before and after some of the passages, but I have not inserted anything directly into the spots that are purely Tolkien’s. As I said before, I’m trying to preserve this as a fic that fits within the canon and is solely a missing scene.

Second, I know some of you are looking for action, and in that respect this chapter will probably disappoint you. In preserving Tolkien’s dialogue and the story line, I’ve kept this as a setup chapter that builds tension and does a bit of foreshadowing. Sorry about that. But you will be glad to know that this changes next chapter, so just hang in there. Let the Fellowship have at least a little bit of peace on their first day in Hollin! ;)

Third, many thanks for the reviews!!! I’m glad that most of you seem to be enjoying this. I read everything you review and I really do take the suggestions you give into consideration when I write. It means a lot to me when I have valuable input, so thanks again!!!

January 8, 3019

Much to the surprise of most of the Fellowship—with the exception of Aragorn and Legolas—the morning dawned bright and clear with no hint of the threatening clouds that had loomed over them in previous days. The wind had shifted slightly as well, bringing a warm breeze out of the south. And though the air was cold due to the lack of clouds, it was not the biting cold that the Fellowship had endured when the wind lay in the east and blew down at them out of snow-topped peaks.

With a feeling of smug satisfaction, Legolas lifted the hood of his cloak as the sun slowly rose above the Misty Mountains. His predictions about the weather had borne out and he could not resist throwing a victorious smile at Gandalf when the wizard called a halt and happened to glance back his way. Gandalf’s eyes narrowed slightly but he said nothing and turned back to gaze southward as the rest of the Fellowship gathered around them.

They had stopped on a ridge ringed by holly trees, the dark green leaves swaying slightly in the southern wind as it ebbed and flowed around them. There were a few scattered stones that seemed to indicate the presence of a civilization long gone, and Legolas closed his eyes briefly as he took his mind backwards over the vast history he had learned under the strict tutelage of his elven teachers. The stones spoke of elves, and Legolas was curious as to who had lived here once.

"We have done well."

Legolas opened his eyes again and looked up at Gandalf’s voice. There was an air of relief about the old wizard that suggested a great goal had been accomplished, and Legolas wondered slightly at this. Had Gandalf not believed they would make it even this far?

"We have reached the borders of the country that Men call Hollin," the wizard continued, his voice soft and thoughtful. "Many Elves lived here in happier days, when Eregion was its name. Five-and-forty leagues as the crow flies we have come, though many long miles further our feet have walked. The land and the weather will be milder now," he said with a sidelong look at Legolas that might almost be taken as a grudging concession of victory, "but perhaps all the more dangerous."

"Dangerous or not, a real sunrise is mighty welcome," Frodo sighed, letting his own hood fall back as Legolas had done and tipping his face up into the sunlight.

"But the mountains are ahead of us," Pippin said, glancing around with narrowed eyes. "We must have turned eastwards in the night."

"No, but you see further ahead in the clear light," Gandalf explained. "Beyond those peaks the range bends round southwest. There are many maps in Elrond’s house, but I suppose you never thought to look at them?"

"Yes I did, sometimes," the hobbit protested, and Legolas smiled slightly at his defensiveness. "But I don’t remember them. Frodo has a better head for that sort of thing."

"I need no map," a dwarven voice growled, and Legolas stiffened slightly upon hearing him as he always did. But this time there was something strange in Gimli’s voice…something that spoke of longing, and of a suffering and a hurt that had never fully healed…almost he sounded elvish at the moment… "There is the land where our fathers worked of old," the dwarf continued, his tone softening with quiet reverence. "And we have wrought the image of those mountains into many works of metal and of stone, and into many songs and tales. They stand tall in our dreams: Baraz, Zirak, Shathûr. Only once before have I seen them from afar in waking life, but I know them and their names, for under them lies Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf, that is now called the Black Pit, Moria in the elvish tongue."

This last was said with a sharp look at Legolas as though daring him to reply, but the elf stood silent. Moria was a delicate subject for elves. If Legolas remembered correctly the history he had now dredged up from the depths of his mind, there had once been friendship between Moria and Hollin. But the dwarves had awakened something deep in the caverns of the mountains, and the resulting ruin had been great. What exactly had awakened was lost in the sea of time, at least for the Silvan and Sindarin elves. Perhaps Elrond and Gandalf knew, but all that was remembered in Mirkwood was that the greed for profit and trade that came from finding mithril had driven the dwarves to unleash a grave peril. Thankfully it had been sealed in Moria, barred from the outside world, but it had been one of many things that had begun the feud between elves and dwarves. Moria’s downfall would have been a good barb to throw at the dwarf and Gimli seemed to be expecting it, but in light of Aragorn’s stern warning glower, Legolas decided not to bring it up at the moment.

Somewhat surprised, the dwarf blinked and then shrugged, turning back to his impromptu geography lesson. "Yonder stands Barazinbar, the Redhorn, cruel Caradhras; and beyond him are Silvertine and Cloudyhead: Celebdil the White, and Fanuidhol the Gray, that we call Zirak-zigil and Bundushathûr. There the Misty Mountains divide, and between their arms lies the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget: Azanul-bizar, the Dimrill Dale, which the elves call Nanduhirion."

"It is for the Dimrill Dale that we are making," Gandalf said, pointing out the direction for the sake of the hobbits. "If we climb the pass that is called the Redhorn Gate, under the far side of Caradhras, we shall come down by the Dimrill Stair into the deep vale of the dwarves. There lies the Mirrormere, and there the River Silverlode rises in its icy springs."

"Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nala," Gimli whispered, and Legolas studied the dwarf carefully. This did not sound like the stunted creature that had attacked him over a lost pipe or forced him to gather firewood because of a life-debt. "My heart trembles at the thought that I may see them soon."

"May you have joy at that sight, my good dwarf!" Gandalf said, a strange light in his eyes. "But whatever you may do, we at least cannot stay in that valley. We must go down the Silverlode into the secret woods, and so to the Great River, and then…" The wizard trailed off, falling quiet for a moment.

"Yes, and where then?" Merry prompted.

"To the end of the journey—in the end," Gandalf eventually finished. "We cannot look too far ahead. Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over."

He looked at me when he said that, Legolas thought with a flash of irritation. Why did he look at me? If this concerns the dwarf, Mithrandir should know better than to worry that I might bring harm to the Fellowship.

"I think we will rest here, not only today but tonight as well," Gandalf was saying when the elf turned his attention back to the conversation. "There is a wholesome air about Hollin. Much evil must befall a country before it wholly forgets the elves, if once they dwelt there."

At this, Legolas frowned and allowed his senses to spread out into the surrounding area. Hollin had once been inhabited by elves, but that had been long ago and the prince of Mirkwood had not sensed much in the way of a lingering elven presence. In fact, the area felt strangely vacant and quiet. "That is true," Legolas said somewhat cautiously, his senses still searching their surroundings. "But the elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the Silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them. Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone. They are gone. They sought the Havens long ago."

"Still, perhaps the reputation of these lands shall shelter us," Gandalf said.

"Perhaps," Aragorn murmured, speaking for the first time that morning, and to Legolas’s ears, he sounded wary and suspicious. Keen Ranger eyes swept the area and eventually came to rest upon the elven prince. "Legolas, by your leave, I would have a quiet word with you."

"Of course," Legolas answered, stepping away from the company and moving down the ridge to ensure a measure of privacy. Aragorn followed close behind and the others watched them curiously until Gandalf began to issue orders. The rest of the Fellowship soon became engaged in setting up camp, and Legolas turned his attention to the Ranger. "You are troubled."

"As are you," Aragorn replied. "Gandalf feels this area is safe for us, and I have no wish to doubt his wisdom but my own senses say otherwise. What of you, Legolas? What do you say of this place?"

"As you have already noted, I am also troubled," the elf said slowly, attempting to collect his scattered feelings and make of them an understandable picture that could be shared by words. "And the area of darkness through which we journeyed on the previous night still concerns me. I have not felt at ease since then, and I fear that there are more watchful eyes upon us. Yet I have naught to back this impression, for I have been unable to find any evidence of spies or pursuit."

"And the hobbits will be on watch today," Aragorn murmured, rubbing his face. "Legolas, I hesitate to ask this of you as you were up yesterday and the day before, but would you—"

"Yes," the elf answered, knowing exactly what the Ranger wanted. "Remember, my friend, that I am an elf and require little in the way of sleep. Your request is no great burden. Is there any particular area that you would like me to scout?"

"I am wary of the paths we have already taken. Would you backtrack along our trail and ensure that we are not being followed."

"I can ensure that nothing follows us from the ground, but the air is another matter," Legolas answered. "Hawks have soared overhead, and their manner is not that of birds hunting for food."

"I know it well, for I have also seen them," Aragorn sighed with a glance skyward. He shook his head and then turned dark gray eyes back to the elf. "Be careful, Legolas. Something draws near."

"An elf is always careful," Legolas said, taking his bow off his shoulder. "I shall return this afternoon unless there is a need to do otherwise." And with that, the prince gave Aragorn a quick grin and headed back down the trail, feeling the trees close behind him at his wish for secrecy.

* * * *

It was Merry who suggested the compromise of calling the morning meal supper-breakfast. Sam was not altogether pleased with this, still pressing for it to be called breakfast, but he had to concede that with the majority of the Fellowship still calling it supper, it was impossible to have complete conformity that satisfied Sam’s requirements. The compromise was accepted by all present, and the meal now known as supper-breakfast was prepared and eaten with a surprising amount of peace and even mirth. Pippin was doing his best to annoy Boromir while Boromir was responding with jokes and jests, Merry and Gimli were having a contest blowing smoke rings, Sam and Frodo were discussing the elven languages and laughing over Sam’s halting attempts to learn Quenya, and Gandalf was thoroughly enjoying a morning of rest.

Unfortunately, it seemed that not everyone in the Fellowship shared this sense of peace. Legolas had vanished at Aragorn’s request, and as for the Ranger himself, he was pacing back and forth along the upper ridge of the dell in which they had established camp. Watching him carefully, Gandalf wondered what could be upsetting the man. It was true that elves had not lived in this place for many centuries, but Hollin was close enough to Rivendell that the influence of the elves should not be wholly lost. And Legolas had heard the stones speaking of the elves who had once lived here. Surely, then, Hollin could still serve as a place of refuge for the Fellowship.

If Gandalf had been completely honest with himself, he would have been forced to admit that there was something amiss about this land. There was something that felt different. But the wizard was so relieved at reaching Hollin without a certain elf and dwarf tearing one another apart that he was ignoring the warnings of his own senses. Beyond that, didn’t the Fellowship deserve a respite? They had traveled for two weeks in fear and adverse weather. Why should they not be allowed at least a day in which to rest and recuperate? With this rationale running through his mind, Gandalf did his best to ignore Aragorn’s pacing, Legolas’s absence, and his own feelings that perhaps all was not as it should be. And he managed to do a fairly good job of it until Merry suddenly noticed Aragorn’s restlessness and spoke of it before the rest of the company.

"What is the matter, Strider?" the hobbit asked, puffing out another smoke ring. "What are you looking for? Do you miss the East Wind?"

The Ranger laughed slightly at that. "No indeed! But I miss something." He fell silent for a moment, gazing out at the land, and then spoke again, his voice quiet and somber. "I have been in the country of Hollin in many seasons. No folks dwell here now, but many other creatures live here at all times, especially birds. Yet now all things but you are silent. I can feel it. There is no sound for miles about us, and your voices seem to make the ground echo. I do not understand it."

"But what do you guess is the reason?" Gandalf questioned, holding on to an irrational hope that Aragorn might be wrong in his foreboding. "Is there more in it than surprise at seeing four hobbits, not to mention the rest of us, where people are so seldom seen or heard?"

"I hope that is it," Aragorn said, his voice so low it was difficult to hear. "But I have a sense of watchfulness, and of fear, that I have never had here before."

At this, Gandalf was finally forced to admit to himself that he’d had the same uneasy feelings about Hollin. He had also traveled these lands often, and Aragorn was right. There was usually an abundance of wildlife about, but the wizard had neither seen nor felt any living things save for the Fellowship. I have let my relief in being here overpower my caution, he sighed to himself. Such a thing should not have happened. I can ill afford to drop my guard because I desire a rest. It is fortunate that Aragorn did not succumb to such a temptation.

"Then we must be more careful," Gandalf finally said aloud in response to Aragorn’s warnings. "If you bring a Ranger with you, it is well to pay attention to him, especially if the Ranger is Aragorn. We must stop talking aloud, rest quietly and set the watch."

"I shall take the last one, for Legolas is due to return then," Aragorn said, turning his eyes outward upon the land.

Gandalf frowned but decided he could speak with the Ranger after the matter of the watches had been settled. "Then that leaves three to be filled," the wizard said, turning his attention to the hobbits. "Are there volunteers?"

"I’ll take the first one," Sam offered. "I haven’t watched in a bit."

"Second," Frodo said, chewing on the last of his supper-breakfast.

"And I’ll do the third one," Merry said with a yawn and a stretch. "I think Pippin could use the extra sleep."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" Pippin demanded.

With the watch rotation set, Gandalf stood and let the hobbits argue while he made his way toward Aragorn. The Ranger’s stance was tense and watchful, and his eyes were in constant motion as they swept the landscape. Gandalf hesitated a moment before intruding, but he did not feel that what he had to say could wait. "My apologies for not heeding you earlier."

Aragorn flicked a glance to the side and smiled. "I would that Lord Elrond were present to hear this."

Gandalf snorted. "Galadriel, Thranduil, and Radagast would also find this quite amusing, of that I have no doubt. But I did not speak idly, Aragorn. And I apologize for my lapse in caution."

"Had I not traveled this land so often in the recent past, I would have fallen prey to that same lapse," Aragorn said, dismissing the matter. "We looked for a place of rest and peace, and where better to find it than in a land where elves once lived? But I fear that such peace and rest are lost to us while we travel with this Fellowship."

"As Elrond said, friends shall be found upon the way when they are least looked for. A respite will come, Aragorn. Unfortunately, it seems I looked too early for such a thing." He sighed and shook his head, mentally berating himself for ignoring the warning signs that Aragorn heeded. "I take it that you intend to watch with the hobbits?"

"With Sam, at least," Aragorn confessed. "I trust not this land’s silence, and until we have passed a few hours here peacefully, I doubt I will be able to sleep."

"See that you do not overtax your strength," Gandalf warned. "You are Isildur’s heir and in you the blood of Númenor is strong, but weariness is the bane of all men and we will need you alert for danger."

"It is difficult to be alert when one is sleeping," Aragorn pointed out with a small smile. "How shall we reconcile the need for alertness during the day with the need for sleep?"

Gandalf sighed. "You have had your fun, Dúnedain, and I have readily admitted that my caution and wariness faltered upon entering Hollin. But that does not set my wisdom at naught, nor does it diminish the validity of common sense. You cannot keep watch the entire day. There are enough light sleepers among us, yourself included, that if the watch does go ill, we should still be able to respond effectively to any threat."

Aragorn was silent for a moment and then he nodded slightly. "I promise you that I shall sleep today, but I still desire to watch with Sam. Perhaps when the others are sleeping I may know more of what disturbs Hollin. Too many voices intrude on the silence now."

"Very well, then," Gandalf sighed. "I know better than to ask you to take any more sleep, for when you are decided, your mind is unalterable. I only pray that no trouble comes of this. Remember your promise, Aragorn. And to my mind, sleep is more than a quick doze during the changing of the watches."

The Ranger laughed quietly. "Fear not, Gandalf. I shall sleep, and it will be a sleep that meets even your approval."

"Good," the wizard nodded. "Then I shall leave you and encourage the rest of the Fellowship to retire for the day. Wake me if you discover aught."

"I shall," Aragorn promised. "Sleep well."

"Sleep well yourself, my friend," Gandalf replied with a hard look at the Ranger ere he turned back to the rest of the Fellowship. "And I do mean that."

* * * *

Samwise Gamgee was used to peace and quiet. As a gardener, his work usually took place away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Secluded by the plants and grounds he loved so much, Sam usually saw no other hobbits during the day unless Frodo wandered out for a bit of fresh air. At night, Sam would wander down to the Green Dragon for a drink and some talk, but he never stayed very long and soon found his way home for supper and a soft bed. Such a lifestyle did not lend itself to much in the way of social pursuits, and though Sam did not go out of his way to avoid others, he did tend to be somewhat shy and reclusive during community gatherings. He loved silence, and he loved to work without the distractions of mindless babble.

At least, he thought he loved silence, but Sam now realized he had never experienced complete silence. As the rest of the Fellowship dropped off to sleep, the world became as still as a corpse. The occasional popping of the smoldering fire seemed to echo for miles in the empty land, and Sam was certain that the sound of his own heartbeat would wake the rest of the Fellowship. The hobbit glanced up as a restless Aragorn walked past, and the leaves that crunched faintly under the Ranger’s feet sounded so loud to Sam’s ears that he almost fancied an army was marching by. Over by the campfire, Gimli grunted and muttered something in his sleep, and Sam cringed, feeling as though the dwarf was shouting their position to all within the land. Bill snorted and flicked his tail to the side, and Sam was hard-pressed to keep himself still and not leap up in order to silence the pony. It was so quiet! Sam had never experienced such a complete absence of natural noise, and it was preying upon his nerves like a predator that has found fresh meat.

Sam found a small measure of relief when Aragorn ceased his pacing and took a seat next to the hobbit. The Ranger was still very alert, Sam could tell that, but at least he wasn’t wandering around searching for whatever had caused the silence. As long as Aragorn stayed in one spot, Sam felt that the danger was still some distance away. But the absence of sound still disturbed him greatly, and he could not truly relax even with Aragorn sitting at his side. The fact that the Ranger’s hand was constantly curled around the hilt of Andúril didn’t help matters either.

Still on edge, Sam cast his eyes about and looked for something to distract him. Previously, he had been able to watch Aragorn pace, but now that Aragorn was seated, Sam needed something else to watch. He realized that distracting himself was probably not the best way to conduct a watch, but Aragorn was also awake and the silence was driving poor Sam mad.

Unfortunately, just as there was no sound, there seemed to be nothing of interest to see. He could look at the surrounding holly trees, he could watch Merry twitch slightly in his sleep, and he could count how many times Boromir scowled at his dreams, but aside from that, there was virtually nothing to attract his attention. Beyond the Fellowship members, nothing seemed to live in this area. Even the skies were devoid of life.

Or were they?

Sam frowned, focusing his attention southward. Something in the far distance was moving. It was a dark shadow against the clear blue sky, and it seemed to change shape and height as it began to draw closer. Sam looked to Aragorn and noticed that the Ranger’s keen eyes were also focusing on this strange phenomenon. "What’s that, Strider?" the hobbit asked, wincing at how loud his voice sounded in the stillness. "It don’t look like a cloud."

Aragorn made no immediate answer but remained intent on this shadow that drew nearer. And after a minute or two more, Sam had no need of a reply from the Ranger, for the darkness had drawn close enough that its true composition was revealed. Birds! Sam realized, his eyes growing wide. There must be hundreds of them. But that’s a strange way to fly and no mistake. Are they looking for something? A shiver crept up his spine when the birds came even closer, wheeling and diving as they hovered over the silent land.

A hand suddenly grabbed Sam’s shoulder, and much to his surprise, he found himself pulled beneath a holly tree and shoved far back into the shade. "Lie flat and still!" Aragorn ordered, pressing himself against the tree’s trunk.

The Ranger had acted not a moment too soon. A collection of birds broke off from the main group and swung low over the campsite. Watching intently at the same time that he tried to hold absolutely still as Aragorn had instructed, Sam decided these birds were some kind of crow. But never before had he seen such crows as these. They were huge, and they flew in formation as though they had been trained. Nor did they cry out to one another as crows were wont to do, but they soared overhead in absolute silence, further unnerving Sam. A shadow fell upon the ground as the mass of birds wheeled past, for so great were their numbers that even the sun’s light could not penetrate their formation.

It seemed to take a lifetime, but eventually the cloud of birds turned and set off to rejoin the main group. Sam began to relax marginally, but at that moment, one of the last birds cawed. Terrified that they had been discovered, Sam froze and watched with fearful eyes, yet the large crows did not alter their course and continued into the north and the west, maintaining their pattern of circles and sweeping dives as they went.

Several more minutes crawled by before Aragorn stepped away from the tree, and Sam took this as his cue that movement was safe again. But the strange birds weighed heavily upon his mind, and when Aragorn hastened to the camp and knelt to wake Gandalf, Sam followed closely. After such an unnerving experience, he was leery of being away from the Ranger and his wood-crafty senses.

"Regiments of black crows are flying over all the land between the mountains and the Greyflood, and they have passed over Hollin," Aragorn reported quietly when Gandalf woke at his touch. "They are not natives here; they are crebain out of Fangorn and Dunland. I do not know what they are about: possibly there is some trouble away south from which they are fleeing; but I think they are spying out the land. I have also glimpsed many hawks flying high up in the sky. I think we ought to move again this evening. Hollin is no longer wholesome for us: it is being watched."

A creeping cold went down Sam’s spine at this announcement. The Ranger’s voice had been firm and certain, leaving no room for doubt. But we’ve been watched so often in the past! Sam silently protested. Those Black Riders, they watched us all the way to Rivendell. Don’t we deserve a break now and then?

"And in that case so is the Redhorn Gate, and how we can get over that without being seen, I cannot imagine," Gandalf said with a heavy sigh. Sam thought he saw Aragorn wince at these words, but the moment passed so quickly that he wondered if he imagined it. "But we will think of that when we must," the wizard continued. "As for moving as soon as it is dark, I am afraid that you are right."

"Luckily our fire made little smoke, and had burned low before the crebain came," the Ranger said, glancing at the hot coals that remained from the supper-breakfast meal. "It must be put out and not lit again."

"I can do that," Sam volunteered, feeling the need to make himself useful. "And I’ll see to it that the fire doesn’t smoke when I’m dousing it."

"Thank you, Samwise," Gandalf said, curling one gnarled hand around his staff. "Well, what say you, Aragorn? What of our next path?"

"If Caradhras is watched, then it is watched," the Ranger answered, and to Sam it seemed as though this was a continuing discussion. He wondered if he should be listening in, but at the same time, he realized that there was really nothing to be done about it. With the surrounding forest in a state of dead silence, the hobbit couldn’t help but overhear the discussion.

"There are other paths that may not be as watched."

"We do not know that with any certainty, and against such odds as we would face were we to take the darker way, I would rather travel a lighter road though all the spies of the Enemy be upon it."

Sam frowned as he started to bury the fire in dirt, taking care that no smoke rose to signal unwanted visitors. What was this about a darker way?

"That may be what we encounter, Aragorn," Gandalf said with a sigh. "Unfortunately, on our present course, I see no help for it. We must do our best to escape the watchful eyes above, but we will not be able to evade them for long."

"If the watchful eyes above are content only to watch, I shall be happy," Aragorn said. "It is what these eyes will tell others that I fear, yet if we avoid them for a day or so longer, we shall soon be out of reach of any opponent they might set upon our trail."

"But what of the darkness that Legolas felt?" Gandalf asked. "He seemed to think that watchful eyes had already found us."

"For that night only they might have found us, but as we have discovered no sign that we have been followed, I believe they now know not where we are. Perhaps the crebain were sent to solve this problem."

"Perhaps," Gandalf sighed.

Sam decided he didn’t like it when Aragorn and Gandalf sounded so uncertain. It was far more comforting when they behaved as though they knew all the dangers in the world and were more than ready to confront them. Of course, Sam also realized that much of this was an act put on because of leadership’s necessities, but it was still something of a comfort.

"Fear not, Master Samwise," a quiet voice suddenly said from behind, and the hobbit turned in surprise to find Aragorn watching him with shrewd eyes. "Fear not," he said again. "You travel in a company personally selected by Elrond. No matter how dark the path, we will find a way to prevail."

"I know," Sam answered, surprising himself with his answer and also with the fact that he did know. Somehow, he knew they would make it.

Aragorn smiled and turned away to watch the skies. "Get some rest, Sam," he said. "I shall take the remainder of this watch."

"Remember your promise, son of Arathorn," Gandalf warned with a sleepy yawn. "There is naught that you can do to prevent the spies."

"I keep my vows, Gandalf," Aragorn answered. "I only look for some sign of their movements." The Ranger turned his head and motioned Sam toward the hobbit’s blankets. "Rest, my friend. Tonight we shall have to travel quickly."

After a moment of hesitation, Sam nodded and moved toward his pack, careful not to disturb Frodo as he approached. If Aragorn was willing to take the rest of the watch, then he was willing to sleep. He wondered, though, if he would be able to sleep, for he was still somewhat anxious about the strange crows and the unnerving silence. But he needn’t have worried, for only seconds after lying down, Sam’s breathing deepened and he fell into a dark and dreamless sleep.

* * * *

Gimli woke late in the afternoon. Somewhat disoriented, the dwarf lay still for a moment, curious as to what had roused him from his dreams. He was normally a very heavy sleeper, though he could wake if the situation called for it. But the situation did not appear to be calling for anything, and Gimli frowned, wondering if something in Sam’s supper-breakfast had upset his stomach. The hobbit was an excellent cook, but as their rations had begun to dwindle, Sam had begun to create some rather interesting meals.

However, as he relaxed beneath the afternoon sun, Gimli decided Sam’s cooking was not at fault but rather the extreme silence that had fallen upon this land was to blame. He had listened to Aragorn when the Ranger warned them that all seemed wary and watchful, but he had not fully appreciated just how wary and watchful everything was because the endless chatter of the hobbits had held the silence at bay. Now, though…now the world was quiet as an abandoned mine in the darkest hours of the night.

Soft voices suddenly broke the silence, sounding loud in the stillness though they were actually quite hushed. Curious, Gimli turned to see who might be talking and scowled when he discovered the participants of the quiet conversation. Aragorn and Legolas, the dwarf thought disparagingly. It seems the elf has returned. Why cannot he simply disappear forever when he leaves on these scouting missions? The dwarf rolled back over, fully intent on ignoring whatever might be going on and returning to the world of dreams, but curiosity overrode disdain and he found himself listening to the conversation in spite of his prejudices.

"How many did you count?" Aragorn was asking.

"Five companies directly over our position and three more further west," the elf said, his voice worried. "Each time they came, there were more of them. They know not our exact location, but they have narrowed down the possibilities. And with each flock of crebain, the danger grows."

"I have already discussed this with Gandalf, and we will be moving again tonight. But we are both at a loss as to how these birds might be avoided."

Birds? Gimli frowned and shook his head as concern began mounting within him. Another being might have scoffed at the idea that birds could present a problem to the Fellowship, but Gimli was a dwarf and knew far better. The dragon Smaug had been slain thanks in part to the services of a thrush and Roäc, lord of the ravens, who spoke the tongue of men and dwarves and had long served those of Durin’s line. Unfortunately, not all birds were so helpful, and in these forsaken lands where crows and hawks roamed free, Gimli seriously doubted that the birds passing overhead were possessed of honorable intentions. And if memory serves, the crebain are crows out of the far south. It seems the elf was right, though I will be dead ere I ever admit such a thing. We are being hunted.

"Long have the crebain kept watch over southern Mirkwood where Dol Guldur still sits in shadow," Legolas said quietly. "The elves know not how to drive them, and even my people who are crafty in the ways of the forest cannot forever dodge their searching eyes. They will find us, Aragorn. It is now only a matter of time."

"But if we travel quickly, it may be that they will not find us soon enough to cause any great harm. The Golden Woods lie on the other side of the mountains, and there we may take shelter from any pursuit these crows set on our trail."

"That will have to be our hope, but the crebain are capable of causing their own mischief," Legolas warned. "And the mountains passes are open to any spying eyes. There the danger will be very great."

"Yet what other choice do we have?" Aragorn demanded, and Gimli blinked to hear the sudden strain in the Ranger’s voice. Something the elf said had alarmed him. "Would you have us travel to the Gap of Rohan and tempt the emissaries of Saruman?"

"I know of no course better than the Redhorn Gate," Legolas said. He sounded surprised at Aragorn’s reaction, and Gimli wondered what might have caused it. "I merely spoke words of warning. We will have to take extra care when braving Caradhras. If you do know of another way we might journey, then—"

"Nay, in my mind the Redhorn Gate is the best course open to us, though I agree that it is fraught with dangers. Yet perilous as it might be, there are darker ways into which I will not venture unless there is no other choice."

There was silence for a moment during which time Gimli attempted to decipher Aragorn’s words. Darker ways? As if this quest was not dangerous enough, it seems there has been discussion about taking paths not as open as Caradhras. At least I may rest easy in the knowledge that Aragorn has opted for the mountain passes.

"Shall we wake the others?" Legolas said at length when the silence began to stretch into minutes.

"Yes. We shall be moving this evening, and the Fellowship must be informed. I fear that the hobbits will not be pleased with this change in plans. Sam knows already and I mentioned it to Frodo when I woke him, but I know not if Merry has been told and Pippin has slept the day through."

Legolas laughed quietly. "I fear this shall be ill news for the young hobbit. He seemed most anxious about spending the night here."

"I will confess to desiring a rest myself, but such things are now denied us, it seems. Come. Let us rouse them."

Gimli now realized that he faced an interesting predicament. He could feign sleep and pretend to wake when Aragorn came to shake him—he knew Legolas would never come within touching distance—or he could sit up now and admit to eavesdropping on their conversation. Such a thing would not be so bad and he could easily say he had just woken, but such an action would imply that he had wished to hear Legolas’s words and that he valued the elf’s scouting missions. The dwarf’s pride revolted violently against this, and Gimli chose instead to act as though he still slept. It was a small deception, but it was necessary to maintain his dignity.

The sounds of a waking camp now filled the air, for the moment holding at bay the eerie silence of the vacant land. Gimli felt himself relaxing at Boromir’s familiar grunts that indicated his journey to the conscious world, and he smiled to himself at the sound of Sam’s yawn. If the hobbit was not careful, he would swallow his face one of these days. During one of Sam’s legendary yawns, his mouth was almost capable of doubling as a cave should the need ever arise to take shelter.

"Gimli?"

Attempting to appear groggy and sleepy, Gimli blinked his eyes open and turned enough to see Aragorn’s face peering down at him. "It is time to rise?"

"It is time to break camp and have a bit of supper," the Ranger said. "We shall be moving tonight, I am afraid. Events during the day call for a change in plans."

"And what events might those be?" Gimli asked innocently as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Spies of Sauron have been scouring the land," Aragorn told him. "During Sam’s watch, crebain were sighted, and Legolas tells me that more passed overhead later in the day. We must move, or I fear we may be discovered here. Arise, Master Dwarf. Your services are required."

With that, Aragorn moved on to wake Gandalf while Legolas finished waking the hobbits. The thought occurred to Gimli that now might be a good time to rifle through Legolas’s pack and plant something rather unpleasant deep inside—a branch from a thorn bush came immediately to mind—but the dwarf dismissed this idea after a moment or two. Now was not the time for vengeance, though he promised himself that vengeance would come. But with the spies of Sauron about and the entire Fellowship on edge, it would not be a wise move at the moment. Tomorrow, if naught happens tonight, Gimli promised himself.

"Well if that isn’t a plague and a nuisance!"

Gimli blinked and glanced over at the hobbits to find Pippin getting to his feet and angrily confronting both Legolas and Aragorn. The dwarf was hard-pressed to keep down his laughter, and he could not hide his smile. Legolas and Aragorn—as well as Boromir and Gandalf—had recently been on the receiving end of several grueling hobbit tongue-lashings, and with a grin, Gimli settled himself down to watch this latest one. They always proved to be highly amusing.

"All because of a pack of crows!" the irate hobbit continued, waving his arms about. "I had looked forward to a real good meal tonight: something hot."

"Well, you can go on looking forward," Gandalf sighed, getting wearily to his feet. "There may be many unexpected feasts ahead for you. For myself I should like a pipe to smoke in comfort, and warmer feet. However, we are certain of one thing at any rate: it will get warmer as we get south."

"Too warm, I shouldn’t wonder," Sam muttered with a glance at Frodo, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "But I’m beginning to think it’s time we got a sight of that Fiery Mountain and saw the end of the Road, so to speak. I thought at first that this here Redhorn, or whatever its name is, might be it, ‘til Gimli spoke his piece. A fair jawcracker dwarf-language must be."

Gimli snorted and shook his head. Sam was quite out of his depth here in the Wilds. They had not traveled even a quarter of the distance between Rivendell and Mordor, and dwarf wondered which unfortunate soul would have to break this news to Sam. But what was this about the dwarf-language being a jawcracker?

"Are you certain that we have to move?" Pippin pleaded, looking to Gandalf for help. "Couldn’t we just rest tonight and tomorrow? I promise to move twice as fast if we do."

Aragorn made a noise that sounded like a strangled laugh which could not quite be stifled, and Pippin turned to glare suspiciously at the Ranger. "My apologies," the man said hastily as the corners of his mouth twitched. "I…choked on a piece of dried meat."

Pippin scowled, not fooled in the least by Aragorn’s story, and then turned his attention back to Gandalf. "Well?" he prompted expectantly.

"Help Sam prepare dinner so that we might move out quickly as soon as it is dark," the wizard instructed.

The hobbit threw up his hands and shook his head, muttering under his breath as he stomped across camp to where Sam was unpacking some of the food supplies. Gimli chuckled and picked up his axe, inspecting the blade. Hobbits were always interesting creatures, and life was certainly never dull when one was around. For all their pride in being completely predictable and doing nothing out of the ordinary, Gimli’s experience with hobbits had taught him that nothing they did was ordinary. Most hobbits would have been greatly offended by this observation, and it must be said that much of Gimli’s hobbit experience centered around Bilbo and Frodo, who were not exactly model hobbits. But Gandalf would see much truth in the dwarf’s opinion, and when pressed, such an opinion would probably hold true for all hobbits.

"Aragorn! I cyrch ad!"

Legolas’s sudden shout took them all by surprise, but perhaps more surprising was his sudden lapse into Sindarin, indicative of great alarm. Gimli shot to his feet, his hands tightening about the haft of his axe, and looked at Aragorn, hoping for a translation of some kind. He was not disappointed.

"Everyone, beneath the trees!" the Ranger ordered. "The crows are upon us again."

The ringing command in Aragorn’s voice had everyone moving even before he finished speaking, and the Fellowship was soon hidden under thick bows of holly. The land fell completely silent, and Gimli began wishing for anything to break the oppressive stillness. Close to his position, Boromir shifted slightly and began inching toward the dwarf.

"Lie still!" Aragorn hissed from a few meters away where he crouched with Legolas and Merry. To his credit, Boromir stopped, but he turned a strange look upon Aragorn that Gimli found strangely disconcerting.

But the dwarf was not given a chance to think further upon this, for at that moment a horde of wings descended from above. Flying low over the trees, so low that some of the highest branches were struck by the crebain, they swarmed over the campsite and then vanished beyond it, using the trees to hide their movements. Gimli hissed quietly, his eyes searching the sky. There had been almost no warning, and the crebain had come and gone so quickly! If the elf hadn’t heard them in time to warn the Fellowship…

"They know, Aragorn," Legolas murmured, straightening slightly. "And they seek to come upon us unawares. They fly so low that we cannot see them until they are nearly upon us."

"Do you still wish to linger here, Pippin?" Aragorn asked, his eyes fixed on the sky as he searched for signs of more birds.

"If it’s all right with you, maybe we’d better find a different place to camp," the hobbit answered with a slight tremble in his voice. "Those were big birds."

"They were indeed," the Ranger murmured. "Legolas, can you hear them still?"

The elf nodded. "They maintain their course away from us. Other groups, too, I can hear, but they are further north. There are many out there, all of them flying low and all of them searching."

"All of you, gather the packs and hide them," Gandalf instructed, taking charge of the situation. "We dare not risk the chance that they might be seen. Sam, we will take supper beneath the trees. Keep to the shadows, my friends, for it seems that the search has begun. We will not move until it is completely dark."

* * * *

The night was quiet. Very quiet. Frodo couldn’t remember a night that had been so devoid of sound and life. In the Shire, one could always hear chirping insects or slight rustlings in the underbrush as mice scurried about on foraging missions. And in the Wilds, there were owls, foxes, and even more insects that crept about once the sun hid her face. But now, there was nothing. Not even a breeze.

Frodo shivered and pulled his cloak more securely over his shoulders. He was not cold as the night was actually quite pleasant, but he wished for better coverage. He felt vulnerable and exposed to any eyes that might glance his direction. The darkness seemed darker, the shadows seemed blacker, and there was a watchfulness in the air that had Frodo grasping at the Ring that dangled heavily from his neck. The temptation to vanish from the world was so great that more than once he nearly succumbed. Only the presence of Gandalf and Aragorn seemed to keep his impulses in check, and he would often glance at the two for courage and strength. They walked as silent sentinels in the darkness, but unlike the vacant land of Hollin, their silence was not oppressive. Rather, it was the comforting silence of protection, and Frodo’s heart would rest easy at the thought that their senses were intent on the survival of the Fellowship.

Under Aragorn’s guidance, they had found an old road lain down by the elves that once lived in Hollin. The stone path was now partially overgrown with plants and brush, but long ago, it had probably served as a main thoroughfare. But those days were now gone, and the forest was working to reclaim this road. Forgotten were the elves that built it, or so Legolas had said, and Frodo sighed, remembering the words of Gildor Inglorien spoken when he was still in the relative safety of the Shire. The wide world is all about you: you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out. * The hobbit sighed again. The Shire seemed so far away now, like a faint memory in the distant past. And though he’d had inklings of adventure desires, Frodo felt that he might have been perfectly content to fence himself in. But fate had not been kind, and a golden trinket from his uncle’s journey had come to haunt him, preventing him from fencing in his life and living in peace and comfort.

Frodo clutched at the ring beneath his shirt, feeling its smooth edges through the thick fabric and cursing its existence. Why couldn’t the Ring have stayed with Gollum? At least that creature wanted it. Frodo certainly didn’t. And why did Bilbo have to give it to him? Why couldn’t he have kept it? For that matter, why hadn’t Gandalf taken it? The wizard had known long before Frodo that the Ring was dangerous. Or why not the elves? Surely they could keep it safe. Even another hobbit might be better suited to bear the Ring! But one thing was certain—Frodo wanted nothing more to do with it.

And even as this thought crossed Frodo’s mind, he shook his head and seemed to come back to himself. Gandalf had warned him of this. As the Ring began to edge its way into his mind, it became a detestable thing. Like a predator, it preyed upon his subconscious and he began to feel its influence and resent it for its power. For better or worse, I am the Ring-bearer," Frodo sighed. I took this task upon myself of my own free will, and no one is to blame for that. And with that, Frodo released the ring, smoothed out his tunic, and hitched his pack higher upon his back. Dawn was not far away now, and he only had to struggle a little further tonight.

It had been a remarkably peaceful night even if that peace was troubled by the night’s extreme silence. Nothing had attacked them, the crows had not flown overhead since the sun sank below the horizon, and even Legolas and Gimli had done naught to one another. The uneasy feeling of being watched that pervaded the company was probably responsible for this latter reprieve, and for that, Frodo was intensely grateful. The constant bickering of elf and dwarf was wearing on his nerves, and he was of more than half a mind to leave them somewhere in the wilderness and let them settle their quarrel on their own terms. Hopefully, one would live to catch up with the Fellowship later.

Frodo cracked a small smile at this thought, wondering which one would survive and in what condition that one might be, but his mirth abruptly ended when a deadly chill swept over him like the wings of death. He froze, startled, and high overhead, a shadow hid the light of the stars for a moment and then vanished.

A soft grunt behind him prompted Frodo to start moving again and he sent an apologetic look at Sam, but the feeling of cold evil did not leave him and he moved to Gandalf’s side, praying that the wizard might alleviate his fears. "Did you see anything pass overhead?" he whispered, watching the sky closely.

"No, but I felt it, whatever it was," Gandalf answered. At these words, Frodo glanced furtively at the stars, wondering if the shadow he’d seen was still out there. Seeming to sense his unease, Gandalf turned and gave the hobbit a half-hearted smile. "It may be nothing, only a wisp of thin cloud."

"It was moving fast then," Aragorn murmured from his position opposite Gandalf, and the chill and wariness in his voice sent shivers up and down Frodo’s spine. "And not with the wind."

I cyrch ad—The crows again

*This was lifted from page 113 of The Fellowship of the Ring, 50th anniversary Ballantine edition.

January 9, 3019 (Day)

For the day’s camp, the Fellowship stopped beneath the shadow of a tall, east-facing cliff and took shelter under the holly trees that grew thick at its base. Sam grumbled about the repeated use of the term shelter in describing this area, but aside from that, camp was made with a relative amount of quiet. Unfortunately, peace did not accompany this quiet, for all were still troubled by the crows from the previous day. Everyone seemed possessed of dark thoughts, and a feeling of foreboding had firmly settled upon the Fellowship. Legolas did not offer even one song during supper-breakfast. Gimli failed to rejoice in the elf’s silence. Boromir’s brooding stillness warded off all who might have thought about approaching him. Aragorn was restless and could not seem to leave off his constant pacing. Gandalf’s flashing eyes stopped all questions ere they could even be considered. Frodo periodically clutched at something beneath his tunic, and his face would become strangely blank from time to time. Sam had said nothing to anyone and had hummed no tunes as he prepared the morning meal. Even Pippin was subdued, unloading baggage with the rest of the Fellowship and making none of his usual attempts to shirk assigned duties.

So where does that leave me? Merry wondered, concluding his observations of the dour company. I stand with a plate of uneaten food while my mind wanders over my companions. I guess that I’m as upset as the rest of them. The plate of uneaten food was especially troubling to the hobbit. For as long as he could remember, he had never been so distressed that he could not eat. But now, that seemed to have changed, and Merry hoped this wasn’t going to become a habit. Eating was too important a hobbit custom to be thrown by the wayside because of some silly birds. Still, those silly birds have even Gandalf concerned, the hobbit conceded to himself.

"I consider this a singular event, Master Hobbit," a voice at Merry’s side suddenly observed. "Rarely have I seen one of your kind hesitate before eating. Are you ill?"

Merry blinked and shook his head, realizing that he was still holding a full plate of food and that his mind had wandered off without him. "Just…thinking," he eventually said, turning to Gimli as the dwarf watched with concerned eyes.

"A dangerous pastime for hobbits," Gimli remarked with a small smile. "Perhaps you should pursue safer things, such as eating. Strength shall be needed, for tonight we begin climbing the hills that line the base of the mountains. And it will be a cold night. The wind has returned to the east."

With a sigh, the hobbit nodded and made a show of at least picking at his food. Somewhat sheltered by the cliff face, Merry had not yet noticed which way the wind blew. But glancing at some of the trees overlooking the cliff, back-lit as they were by the lightening sky, it was not difficult to see that Gimli was right. The wind had returned to the east and was blowing out of the snow-capped mountains. Which is probably why it’s so cold right now, Merry thought with yet another sigh. I suppose I should be thankful for yesterday since it was warm, but those birds…it’s hard to be thankful for anything when you’re in constant danger.

"Merry, you are still thinking," Gimli said, his voice soft but firm. "There is a time and a place for that, but this is neither. Eat. The food shall warm you and give you strength for the journey. You can save your thinking for later today."

"Aren’t you the one who always complains about how much hobbits eat?" Merry asked with a forced grin at the dwarf, trying to regain some of his usual levity.

"Perhaps, though I think that job is more Aragorn’s than mine," Gimli answered, returning the hobbit’s smile. "Now, may I leave you to see to my own belongings, or shall I stay and force food down your throat?"

"I’m eating," Merry said quickly, taking a bite of some of the sausage that Sam had prepared. "And I promise that I’ll finish every last bite."

"And I can trust a hobbit to keep such a promise, of that I am sure," Gimli laughed. "Then I shall leave you to your duty, Master Brandybuck. I think Gandalf and Aragorn are looking for volunteers to watch the camp during the day, and I shall add my name to their discussion. I have not watched for a while, and if I am not mistaken, I should take one of this day’s watches. But I expect you to have finished your supper-breakfast and possibly seconds by the time I return."

Merry laughed quietly and dutifully turned to his meal. Once he actually began to eat, he found that his appetite was swift to return, and it was not long before he had cleared his plate and was looking around to see if any food had been left. Much to his excitement, Aragorn had declined supper-breakfast and Pippin had not yet noticed. Seizing upon this opportunity with hobbit alacrity, the Ranger’s meal was soon in front of Merry and disappearing with a speed that would put even Fatty Bolger to shame. It was not long before Merry was more or less full—something that had not happened in days—and the sun had just made it over the mountains, adding some warmth to the air. It was actually rather pleasant, and the morning began to take on much brighter outlook.

Setting his plate aside and patting his stomach appreciatively, Merry leaned back against a rock and studied the mountains. They were beautiful in a wild and untamed sort of way. Sharp peaks and fields of snow were outlined by the sunrise, and to a hobbit’s eyes, the jagged spires seemed an impossible obstacle. He wondered where this Gate was that Gandalf had been talking about the day before. Redhorn Gate, that’s what he said, Merry remembered. It’s probably that mountain that looks a little redder than the others. Must be a different kind of rock. Perhaps I’ll ask Gimli about it later.

"I see you’re having a nice morning." Pippin flopped down next to Merry and sent him an indignant glare. "While I helped unpack the last of the luggage, you’ve been watching the sunrise."

"Someone had to make sure the sun came up," Merry answered lazily. "If no one watches for it, how can we be sure that it will make it?"

"I don’t believe this," Pippin growled. "I’m enduring hard labor at Gandalf’s insistence and you’re waxing philosophic. You Brandybucks are a strange lot, there’s no mistaking that. What was that question you asked me once? Something about an elf and singing?"

"If an elf sings in a forest and no one is around to hear him, does he make a sound?" Merry supplied, closing his eyes and relaxing as the sun’s rays soaked through his cloak and warmed his skin.

"Of course he makes a sound."

Merry cracked his eyes back open and watched as Sam joined them in enjoying the early sun’s rays. "But how do you know he makes a sound?" Merry asked. "No one is around to hear it."

"The elf is around to hear it," Sam answered.

"But how do we know the elf is singing out loud?" Merry responded. "Perhaps he’s singing in his head."

"What a stupid question," Sam said at length after considering Merry’s words. Pippin nodded in agreement and Merry chuckled.

"I think that question came from old Bilbo, if I’m not mistaken. Frodo?" Merry pushed himself off his rock and glanced around for the Ring-bearer, quickly spotting him setting up his bed. "Frodo, do you remember the question about an elf singing alone in a forest?"

Somewhat surprised at being addressed and even more surprised by the question he’d been asked, Frodo looked up blankly and blinked. "Pardon?"

"You remember. ‘If an elf sings in a forest and no one is around to hear him, does he make a sound?’ Wasn’t that something Bilbo used to say?"

Still baffled by the strange conversation, Frodo nevertheless took a moment to think about it and eventually nodded. "Yes, that’s something he came up with after a rather long walk in the late evening. I think he’d met the elves that night, and having elves on his mind, he started to…well…I don’t know exactly what he started to do. But that question was the result of whatever he did with his thoughts."

"See?" Merry said, turning to Sam and Pippin.

"See what? I still say there isn’t a point to that question. And it’s not as if we can’t answer it right now. Legolas! Legolas, if an elf sings in a forest and no one is around to hear him, does he make a sound?"

Pippin’s query produced a variety of results, and Merry decided that Bilbo’s question had been worthwhile if only for seeing so many different facial expressions in a relatively short period of time. Legolas stared at Pippin as though trying to determine whether or not he had been insulted. Aragorn blinked and tilted his head to one side with a blank expression that was normal enough for the hobbits but quite humorous when seen on the Ranger. Gimli appeared completely baffled by the bizarre question, and for once the dwarf was studying the elf with a look that did not imply murder. Boromir’s lips were moving as he silently repeated the question to himself as though trying to make sense of it. And Gandalf was thoroughly and openly puzzled, something that almost cost Merry his composure.

"If an elf sings in a forest…" Legolas echoed slowly, watching Pippin carefully through narrowed eyes.

"And no one is around to hear him, does he make a sound?" Pippin finished, looking at the elf expectantly.

Legolas closed his eyes, shook his head, opened his eyes again, studied Pippin, and eventually turned to Gandalf and Aragorn. Aragorn shrugged helplessly and Gandalf’s brows drew together in consternation. "Peregrin, what is the purpose of such a question?" the wizard asked.

"Merry seems to think it’s important for some reason," Pippin answered, earning himself a jab in the ribs from the other hobbit.

"I didn’t say that," Merry grumbled, deciding that this had been more fun when everyone was looking at Pippin. "I was just talking about something that Bilbo had once told me. It’s supposed to be philosophical, but it’s not really that important."

Gandalf nodded slowly as if in understanding though his face was still curiously and hilariously blank. Legolas frowned and then shook his head, apparently deciding that the odd question was beneath his notice. With both the wizard and the elf dismissing the matter, the rest of the Fellowship returned to whatever they had been doing before the interruption. At least, most of the Fellowship resumed their previous activities. One did not.

"That is a curious question, Master Hobbit," Gimli said, his voice slow and deliberate. "What think you? Does an elf make a sound if he sings alone?"

It was Merry’s turn to be startled by the question, and he eyed the dwarf suspiciously, wondering if this wasn’t some plot to get in a sly jab at the elf. Am I daft? Of course this is aimed at Legolas. But what can I do about it?

Merry was spared the pain of answering his last question, though, because Pippin decided to speak up. "I say yes," the youngest hobbit declared. "If an elf is singing, he has to be making a noise of some kind. Otherwise, it isn’t singing."

"And it isn’t as if no one is around to hear him," Sam added. "He can hear himself, and I’ve heard tell that trees can hear elven songs. So he would have to make a sound or no one could hear him."

"Interesting," Gimli murmured with a quick glance at Legolas. "I would have said that an elf makes no sound when alone, for the fear of the unknown and of being caught without protection would have prevented him from making any noise. Instead, he would creep about in the shadows like a thing of cowardice and shame. However, you make a good point, Sam. If there is an audience, an elf will perform. He cannot help himself, for only by doing so can he maintain the fragile pride that arrogance has built for him."

"A dwarf would know much about maintaining a fragile pride, for a dwarf is ever cut down with almost each action and each word," Legolas said, his voice casual but his eyes hard as the edge of a knife.

Gimli seemed about to respond to that and things might have gone ill, for the dwarf’s hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides. But Aragorn noisily cleared his throat and looked pointedly at both elf and dwarf. To their credit, neither continued the discussion, but dark glares were certainly not in short supply.

"Now look what you’ve started," Pippin hissed.

"What I started? It was Bilbo’s question. Anyway, you’re the one who brought it up."

"Well, you were the one trying to get the sun to rise."

"I didn’t get the sun to rise; it rose on its own."

"Then what was all that about watching to make sure it came up?"

"And it did come up, didn’t it?"

Pippin rolled his eyes, got to his feet, and stalked away, leaving Merry to grin widely after him. He’d missed these inane conversations. They hadn’t had one for a few days, and it was always fun to get the best of Pippin. Most of the time, Pippin had the advantage because his mind just seemed to work better when dealing with the abstract and the superfluous. But there were a few times, and this was one of them, when Merry achieved a victory of sorts. Merry didn’t know if this was a good thing or not, but it was certainly fun.

"If everyone has finished unpacking and settling for camp, it is time to establish the order of the watches," Gandalf spoke up. "And today, those on guard must be especially cautious. I fear we have not left the spies behind, and an alarm must be sounded if we are discovered. And before we have any discussion on this, both Aragorn and Legolas are forbidden from watching today."

Elf and Ranger blinked at this, surprised by both the statement and the sudden authority in Gandalf’s voice. "But if the crebain find us—" Legolas started.

"Then mortal senses will be just as accurate in determining that as elven senses," Gandalf answered. "You have both been up for the last few days and it is time to rest. Even elven princes and heirs of Isildur must sleep sometime."

Legolas and Aragorn exchanged uncertain glances as though wondering what had just happened. For his part, Merry decided that Gandalf had just relegated both warriors to the role of children without so much as a blink. The wizard’s tone and his words had sounded very much like Merry’s mother when she was trying to get him to go to bed. Trying to hide a snicker, the hobbit turned away and composed his face, knowing that mirth would only exacerbate the situation.

"That leaves, then, only four who did not watch yesterday," Boromir observed. "Myself, Gimli, Pippin, and yourself, Mithrandir."

"Then those who will watch have already been chosen. Pippin, you shall take the last one. I shall watch first, for I have need of thought. Gimli and Boromir, you may decide who shall take second and who shall take third."

"Third," Gimli piped up immediately.

Boromir shrugged. "Then I shall take second."

"Good," Gandalf proclaimed, taking out his pipe and lighting it. "As for the rest of you, I expect you to all get some sleep. The terrain shall become more difficult tonight, and we must all be well rested." This last was said with a sharp look at Aragorn and Legolas, something that almost cost Merry his composure once again. His mother had employed a look very similar to the one that Gandalf now used. And just as it had always worked for his mother, it seemed to be working for Gandalf. Legolas nodded curtly, his body language indicating that he had been highly offended but that he would comply, and Aragorn reluctantly inclined his head in acknowledgement of his own defeat. Merry wondered how long it had been since anyone had ordered either Legolas or Aragorn to bed like that.

"I bid you all a good day, then," Aragorn said. He turned away and moved as though to lie down, but then he paused, his eyes sparkling with sudden mischief. "Gandalf, I wonder if you would be so good as to tuck me in. It has been long since I was lulled to sleep by story or song."

"And it will be longer still, for you will get none from me," Gandalf retorted as the rest of the company, including Legolas, began to laugh. "Go to sleep or I shall send you to sleep myself. That goes for all of you," the wizard added with a piercing glance for each member of the Fellowship.

"If you’re looking for a song, Sam knows a great one about trolls," Pippin volunteered, much to Sam’s chagrin. "In fact, he wrote it himself!"

"But Aragorn’s already heard that one," Frodo pointed out with a muffled yawn.

"I would not be adverse to hearing it again," Aragorn answered with a chuckle as he stretched out on the ground, his head propped against his pack.

"Sleep!" Gandalf commanded testily. And this time, his command was heeded by all.

* * * *

Like wheeling specks of shadow contrasted by the bright blue sky behind them, a group of crebain soared over the silent land, working their way steadily northward. Passing swiftly, they would occasionally break into smaller groups, and some would dive toward the ground, pulling up at the last minute and flashing over several miles of rugged terrain before joining their brethren who hovered above them. Then a command would be given and the flock would move on to a different area, repeating the process several times before they eventually vanished from mortal sight far away in the north.

Coming out of a low crouch, Gimli sighed and shook his head. His watch had begun peacefully enough, but this was now the second party of crebain to fly past since Boromir had woken him. Boromir had mentioned that a flock far away in the east, almost next to the mountains themselves, had flown by while he stood guard, but there had been no other disturbances.

They grow ever closer, Gimli thought with a feeling of helpless frustration. His first group had also been quite near the mountains, but the crebain he had just tracked had been much closer to the Fellowship than to the towering peaks in the east. One breakaway scouting party had even come within less than a mile of the ridge against which the Fellowship had camped, and Gimli had been on the verge of waking the others so that they might seek better cover. But at the last minute, the crows had turned and flown back to the main group, giving the company a slight reprieve. But how long shall this reprieve last? the dwarf wondered grimly. It is as Aragorn has said; it is only a matter of time ere we are found.

It had actually been Legolas who’d made that prediction, but Gimli would sooner shave his beard than be caught in agreement with the elf. As such, his memory obligingly attributed the words to Aragorn, and thus all was right with the world. At least, all was right in matters pertaining to Legolas, but the same could not be said for matters pertaining to the safety of the Fellowship. If the crebain drew closer, the company would have to move. Yet movement would easily give them away, and where in this land could they find better shelter? There was no guarantee that the area further south would provide any more protection than their current position. And beyond that, if we move we shall have to keep near the road we took last night, for that is the path that leads to the Redhorn Gate. Yet the road is easily marked from the air, and we shall be easy to see.

Fingering the haft of his axe and wishing that a few of the crebain might line up so that he could release some of his impatience, Gimli searched the skies and began to pace. Dwarves were not adept at skulking and hiding. Open combat was their preferred form of warfare, and they cared little for what odds might be stacked against them in such a confrontation. But with the Ring-bearer to think of, Gimli had forced himself to accept the counsel of Gandalf and Aragorn in moving slowly and attracting as little attention as possible. Yet this sneaking about was beginning to takes its toll on Gimli, and his hands itched upon his axe. At least Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas had managed to release some of their energy upon two Wargs. He had not even been privileged to do that much, for Legolas had killed the Warg that had come upon the dwarf.

Elves always interfere in the affairs of dwarves, Gimli thought disparagingly to himself, disregarding the fact that without Legolas’s assistance, it was very likely that he would be dead. The dwarf glared at the prince of Mirkwood, starting slightly when it seemed as though the unblinking eyes turned his direction. It was merely a trick of light and shadows, as the wind had come up from the east and shook the branches of the tree under which Legolas was sleeping, but it was still rather unnerving and did nothing to improve the dwarf’s feelings toward the elf. And beyond that, son of Thranduil, I believe it was you who had the last say in our little argument, the dwarf mentally added, remembering both an encounter with a thorn bush and a brief rock-throwing contest that had taken place two nights ago. Surely you know that I cannot allow such a thing.

As if in encouragement, the wind came up again and the leaves parted, allowing a brief flash of sunlight to rest upon Legolas’s pack, which lay a foot or so away from his right side. It was far too perfect, and Gimli cast a quick glance in the direction of Aragorn and Gandalf. But they slept as soundly as did Legolas, and the dwarf was left to rationalize his decisions on his own.

It is harmless enough, and the elf more than deserves it, Gimli told himself angrily, disgusted at his hesitation. But even with all the odds in his favor and all the desires of his heart pleading for retribution, something stopped him. He could not say what it was and he could not tell from whence it came, but the dwarf was compelled to obey the warnings that filled his mind. Perhaps it was the presence of danger. Perhaps it was the words of Aragorn. Perhaps it was a combination of these plus other factors. But whatever the cause, Gimli stayed his hand and did not act against the elf.

Having made this rather momentous decision, the dwarf went back to watching the skies, and he continued to watch the skies for the remainder of his watch. After some time, a third group of crows passed over, but they came no closer than had the second group and Gimli saw little need to wake any of the Fellowship for the event. By the time the dwarf roused Pippin for his turn on guard—a task almost as difficult as resisting the temptation to act against the elf, for the hobbit was a sound sleeper—all was quiet again.

Perhaps a little too quiet, Gimli thought to himself even as he gave the bleary-eyed Pippin an encouraging smile and sought his own bed. Still, there was naught to be done about that, and the dwarf eventually drifted off to sleep, wondering why he had elected to spare the elf.

* * * *

Sam didn’t know which was worse—starting preparations on food and then packing it all up before it was even halfway done, or having to go without food altogether. Merry, Pippin, and Frodo would argue that the latter was by far the worst prospect, but Sam had a rather different outlook on things as the unofficially designated cook for the Fellowship. Preparing food for supper-breakfast was more of an art than a duty to the gardener, and being forced to cut the preparation short…well, it was an affront to his pride.

The Fellowship was currently creeping along the base of the cliff, flitting from shadow to shadow with stealth and fear. The afternoon had started out well enough. Legolas and Aragorn had just returned from their daily scouting trip, and all was playing out according to the normal routine when it happened. Legolas had stiffened, his eyes widening and his breath coming quickly. Gandalf had leaped to his feet and commanded everyone to take cover under the lowest tree they could find. Not a moment later, one of the largest groups of crebain that anyone in the Fellowship had ever seen flew overhead, some of the birds skimming so close to the ground that feathers snagged on branches. The entire event lasted no more than a minute or so, and after that the birds vanished. But the company had been decidedly shaken and Gandalf had ordered that camp be moved a mile south in case the birds circled back for a second look.

And if I’m not mistaken, he said to move a mile south about two miles ago, Sam groused, deciding that there were severe differences in the way that hobbits and wizards viewed things. For example, the word shelter seemed to be an area of much disagreement, as did the word obstacle and the phrase just over the next hill.

Fortunately for the disgruntled hobbit, Aragorn’s memory of Hollin led them to a thick copse of trees overlooking a steep gorge, and here Gandalf decided it was safe to stop. "It is not prudent to move before sunset, for eyes from on high shall easily see us should we attempt an early start. As such, let us take what rest we can as well as a bit of supper." The wizard nodded at Sam, indicating the hobbit should again start preparations for the meal.

Wondering how he could explain that one did not simply restart a work of art, Sam grumbled and dropped his pack to the ground, rolling his shoulders slightly. Beside him, Frodo chuckled and clapped the gardener on the back. "I’ll help, if it makes you feel any better."

Sam sighed and shook his head. "It’s not that, Mr. Frodo. I just…" He trailed off, still at loss as to how to put his feelings into words. It was a rather difficult challenge, particularly when he didn’t make much sense to himself, and so Sam eventually gave up. "It’s nothing," he said, waving his hand in dismissal. "I’ll just get supper-breakfast started."

"And I’ll help," Frodo added with a smile. "Even if you don’t want my help, Sam, you’ve got it."

The gardener frowned. "You don’t have no call to be—"

"Sam! Like it or not, you’re stuck with me."

Sam sighed, realizing that as stubborn he was, Frodo could be even worse. "All right, but if you get in the way, sir, there’s no accounting for what I might do."

"Valar have mercy upon me."

Frodo’s calculatingly dry tone managed to elicit a laugh from Sam, and he shook his head. "Right, then, sir. Let’s get this started. Now that everything’s packed up, we’d best stick to things as don’t take too much preparation. We can have some of those berries that Mr. Merry found just before we had to move camp. Strider said they’re fine enough for eating. And there are some sausages in my pack that I kept near the top. We can have that, too."

"But aren’t those sausages the last of our meat?" Frodo asked.

Sam looked about at the other members of the Fellowship, noticed that none of them were paying any particular attention to him, and then moved closer to Frodo. "Don’t tell Mr. Merry or Mr. Pippin, but Strider’s been keeping some dried meat for me in his pack. It should last us another week if we’re careful with it."

Frodo stared at Sam for a minute, and then a smile crept over his face. Not long after that, he began to laugh, trying to keep his mirth quiet but finding it difficult to do so. "Sam, you will never cease to amaze me. A spy, a conspirator, a poet, a camp chef, and now you’ve managed to keep a stash of food hidden from both Merry and Pippin. I don’t know what to call that, but you’ve earned my respect twice over." Frodo backed up and made a bow, much to Samwise’s eternal embarrassment.

"What’s going on?" a curious voice called from the side.

"Nothing, Merry," Frodo answered. We’re just talking about food."

"This day is full of surprises," Gimli muttered sarcastically.

"We’ll let you talk about rocks and you let us talk about food," Pippin said with a sleepy yawn near the side of the gorge. "Strider, I think I can see some more of Merry’s berries down there. Do you know of a way to get into this thing?"

"Aside from the direct route?" Aragorn asked with a chuckle. "If memory serves, the gorge rises up to our level twenty miles or so ahead of us, but unless you wish to travel all that way, backtrack the distance, and then make up for it with a faster march later, I fear those berries will have to go untouched."

"Besides, I’m sure we can find some more berries along the way," Frodo added. "And speaking of food, let’s get this meal started, Sam. I’ll dish out the berries while you cut up the sausage. You do trust me to hand out berries, don’t you?" Frodo added with a wry grin.

Sam shook his head and decided to ignore the comment, instead digging into his pack after the sausage. It took only a moment to find, and the next item he discovered was a knife. Testing the blade, the hobbit found it to be sharp enough for his purposes but decided that he should probably borrow Legolas’s whetstone in the near future. Using a small skillet as a cutting board, Sam went to work.

"Need any help?"

"You just stay on your side of the camp, Merry," Frodo ordered firmly before Sam could respond. "We’ll ask you if we need any help."

"It will be a cold day in the Southfarthing before we ask," Sam muttered beneath his breath, thinking of the spicy meat that Pippin and Merry had finished off while the rest of them had hunted for a Warg and Bill.

"What did you call these, Aragorn?" Gimli asked, examining one of the bright red berries that Frodo was passing out.

"Collameliu. Elrond’s son Elladan has a particular fondness for them, and we would often go out to pick them for lunch or as a treat in the middle of the night while I was growing up," Aragorn answered, his voice soft with memories.

"So it is from Rivendell," Gimli murmured. "’Tis no wonder, then."

"What do you mean?" Pippin asked, leaning over the side of the gorge for a better look.

"The elves in Rivendell are civilized. It is no great surprise to learn that they have edible food."

Sam stiffened and looked up at this comment. Standing slightly behind the dwarf, Legolas’s casual position made it appear as though he had not heard the words, but his eyes were dancing with a dangerous fire as they glanced everywhere except for at Gimli. "Merry, how did Bilbo’s question go?" the elf asked.

Aragorn sighed, Gandalf mumbled something, and Merry looked as though he desperately wished to be somewhere else. Not that Sam blamed him. He wouldn’t have minded being somewhere else either. "It was about an elf singing alone in the forest," Merry eventually said.

"If an elf sings in a forest and no one is around to hear him, does he make a sound? Was that not the question?"

Apparently not knowing what else to do, Merry nodded.

"Ah. Interesting," Legolas murmured, leaning back against a tree and turning his eyes skyward. "I suppose that the elves will be the only ones to ever truly know the answer to that question. But not all answers are within our grasp, I fear. For example, we have one baffling question among our people that concerns the dwarves."

"Legolas…"

Blatantly ignoring Aragorn’s warning tone, the elf continued as though only thinking aloud to himself. "It is strange question, and one for which I fear there will never be an answer. How did it go? Yes, I think I have it now. If a dwarf mines alone in a cave and is buried alive, does anyone care?"

Gimli’s slight rumble indicated that trouble was brewing, but Legolas was not quite done yet. Continuing to ignore the looks directed his way from both Gandalf and Aragorn, the prince folded his arms across his chest and smiled slightly.

"We have another question along much the same line, and I think I also remember it now. If a dwarf mines alone in a cave and a rock strikes him upon the head, is there a mind inside to affect?"

"To compliment that question, Master Elf, if the king of Mirkwood falls out of a tree, will the weight of all the gold that he wears drive him into the earth?"

Deciding that supper-breakfast was more or less a lost cause for the moment, Sam packed away the sausages and sat down to wait this out, knowing it couldn’t last indefinitely. Though they were being ignored now, eventually Gandalf and Aragorn would manage to silence both elf and dwarf. Or perhaps it would be Boromir who stepped in, for he appeared to be extremely uneasy and seemed to have developed a nervous twitch. Either way it worked, silence at least, if not peace, would return and then the meal could be resumed. But this is the second time today that I’ve had to stop in the middle of it, Sam complained silently to himself. If it’s not birds, it’s an elf and a dwarf, and if it’s not the elf, the dwarf, or the birds, then it’s Gandalf.

"At least the king of Mirkwood is able to rise above the earth," Legolas replied coldly, pushing off the tree and assuming a combative stance. "I fear that Dáin has not the ability to even rise from his bed, much less be able to comprehend the light of day. In this, dwarves are much like the servants of the Enemy, unable to endure the sun and forced to delve ever deeper into Arda."

"Legolas! Gimli!"

Aragorn’s words were sharp and filled with warning, but elf and dwarf seemed to be beyond any of the Fellowship now. Gimli had rounded on Legolas, his eyes narrowing and his hands clutching at the haft of his axe while Legolas had shifted all his weight to the balls of his feet and was moving one hand ever closer to the haft of his elven knife.

"You speak of what you cannot possibly comprehend, elf," Gimli spat. "It is for this reason that your people fade. You are too weak to endure the darkness and so cannot fight it. Your journeys to the sea is in reality the shameful retreat of the elves. You must flee because you are not strong enough to stay."

"Your mind is smaller than I first thought," Legolas hissed. "Have you ever considered why your kind burrow beneath the ground? Is this not the way of the helpless when the hunter draws near?"

"If we are to speak of helpless, than let us—"

But whatever Gimli had in mind to say was to be forever left unsaid, for even as the dwarf spoke, a sudden yelp and a terrified scream filled the air. As one, the Fellowship swung around and watched in horror while Pippin, who had managed to get himself a little too close to the edge of the gorge, lost his footing on loose gravel and began to fall. Aragorn immediately lunged, Boromir was running, Gandalf surged to his feet, Merry, Frodo, and Sam were racing forward, but they were all too far away. The only members of the Fellowship with any hope of reaching Pippin in time were Legolas and Gimli. Yet even they were too far from the hobbit. Both elf and dwarf dove for Pippin upon seeing what was happening, and aided by faster reflexes and longer legs, Legolas came within a hair’s breadth of seizing Pippin by the back of his tunic. But fate seemed to be against them all that day, and the hobbit tumbled out of sight.

Frozen in shock, the Fellowship stared at the gorge, unable to comprehend what had just happened. But fate was not yet finished with them as she had another card to play. Sprawled upon the earth next to Legolas, Gimli suddenly stiffened in horror. He shot to his feet, almost knocking Legolas over in the process, and then the rest of the Fellowship saw what had so alarmed the dwarf. The ground beneath him shuddered, and with a wide-eyed look of surprise and fear, he started to turn around even as the overhanging cliff broke away beneath elf and dwarf, unable to support their combined weight. Legolas scrambled backward, Gimli made a desperate lunge, but it happened too fast for either one to reach safety. With a groan and the unmistakable roar of cascading rocks, the earth crumbled away and Legolas and Gimli disappeared.

Another still moment passed, and then Aragorn shook off his shock and sprang to the cliff’s new edge. Immediately falling upon his stomach so as to more evenly disperse his weight, he eased himself forward and peered into the gorge. Sam felt a lump rise in his throat as he watched the Ranger, and at his side, Frodo’s face was pale with fear. A deadly silence fell, broken only by the clattering of a few more rocks that were sent to join their brethren in the base of the gorge. Waiting together for a fell pronouncement, all eyes were upon Aragorn as minutes ticked away and the sun sank behind the horizon. At length, approaching the Ranger with caution, Boromir cleared his throat. Aragorn sighed and began to shuffle away from the edge of the cliff, his face blank but his eyes filled with torment. A safe distance away from the gorge, he rose to his feet, turned to Gandalf, and shook his head slowly.

Sam heard Merry’s sharp intake of breath and almost reflexively seized the hobbit’s arm to prevent him from doing anything foolish. Frodo apparently had the same thought as he grabbed Merry’s other arm, and between the two of them, Sam and Frodo managed to keep the Brandybuck from rushing to the edge of the cliff. But it was a struggle and one that Merry was not willing to give up easily.

"What of them, Aragorn? What did you see?"

It was Boromir’s deep voice that finally broke the tense silence, and at his words, Aragorn sighed deeply and closed his eyes. "The gorge is too deep. I could not see them. Not in this light."

"We have to go down there!" Merry exploded, still pulling against the restraining arms of Sam and Frodo. Sam would not have credited the Brandybuck with this much strength, but as Merry slowly dragged both Sam and Frodo forward in his need to reach Pippin, the gardener quickly revised his opinion.

"Peace, Merry," Aragorn soothed, seeing the trouble that Frodo and Sam were having and coming to their aid. Kneeling before the distraught hobbit and placing his hands upon the small but tense shoulders, Aragorn caught Merry’s eyes and held them. "There is hope yet. The sides of the gorge are not sheer, and there is much foliage in the bottom to cushion their fall. If all goes well, they shall find their way out and meet us where the level of the gorge’s base rises to meet our own elevation." Aragorn then glanced over his shoulder at Gandalf, looking to the wizard for confirmation.

"I suppose it is our only real course of action," Gandalf sighed. "Come, then. We must be off."

"Wait," Sam interrupted, feeling thoroughly confused. "What are we doing? We’re not leaving them down there, are we?"

"We cannot reach them from here," Aragorn explained gently. "Our only choice is to travel to the mouth of the gorge. Thankfully this ravine parallels our path and we shall not be forced to travel far out of our way. And the denser brush shall hide us from unfriendly eyes."

"But what if they don’t meet up with us?" Frodo asked hesitantly. "What then?"

Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged glances. "We shall cross that bridge when we come to it," the wizard finally answered. "Now, let us be off. We now must travel even farther, and the Enemy is growing watchful."

Collameliu—A berry that grows around Rivendell and Hollin. My own invention, so apologies to Tolkien purists. The name literally means "red and sweet."

Author’s Notes: Just as a warning, this chapter doesn’t contain the usual levity and light-heartedness that the other chapters do, but I felt that Gimli and Legolas needed some special attention. Anyway, hope you enjoy this next chapter and once again, huge thanks for all the reviews. They are a great source of encouragement!

January 9, 3019 (Night)

As a dwarf, Gimli was accustomed to many kinds of darkness. He had entered caverns where the only light was that of a flickering torch. He had endured midnight in caves when some mishap caused all lamps to go out and it was impossible to see even one’s hand before one’s face. He had marched through tunnels aided only by the feeble light of day as it hovered in the entrance as though fearful to venture further. Darkness and shadows were part and parcel of normal life to a dwarf, and Gimli had no particular qualms with this. That is, he had no qualms except for once specific type of darkness, and that was the darkness in which he now found himself. It was the darkness of unconsciousness.

It had taken a few moments for him to realize what had happened, and during those few moments of confusion, he had been on the verge of panic. The suffocating darkness of the mind had always held some nameless fear for the dwarf, though why that was he could not say. But now, as memories began to trickle back to him and he remembered the painful tumble down the side of the gorge, Gimli calmed a bit. If his mind could panic, he would probably be fine after a bit, and with a weary sigh, he resigned himself to what he knew had to be endured. Gimli did not like being unconscious. It was a sign of weakness, and dwarves took such weaknesses with an ill grace. In addition to this, Gimli also hated recovering from unconsciousness. The dazed, bleary feelings as well as various accompanying injuries never made it a pleasant experience, and it would take time for his wounded pride to recover.

To make matters worse, Gimli’s recovering senses were beginning to pick up a song floating just the other side of consciousness, and it didn’t take long for the dwarf to recognize the voice of the individual behind the singing. Must that elf be everywhere! he demanded. At the very least he could show some consideration for those of us who are not yet awake enough to cover our ears. In an attempt to ignore the hated song—a song that indicated Legolas was not only awake but also awake enough to sing and sing well—the dwarf tried to turn his mind to other things. But it is a noted and documented ability of elven song to drown out all other distractions, and despite his fervent wishes to the contrary, Gimli found himself being pulled into the bittersweet melody.

The dwarf knew none of the song’s words and the tune was unfamiliar, but there was still something about the melody that captured and held his attention. It was as though he drifted through time and space, reliving a past he did not know, seeing sights of wonder and glory that he had never seen, and experiencing a loss that had never been his. Curiosity began a war against pride and disgust, much to Gimli’s dismay, and he remembered the words his father had spoken against too much inquisitiveness. One of Gimli’s biggest faults lay in his rampant curiosity. Not that curiosity was a stranger among dwarves, but Gimli possessed it to an unusual degree and it now compelled him to listen and seek understanding.

Understanding?! And what am I to understand?! All elven songs are alike. They yearn for what they will never have, and then they throw their grief into music. Why should I be so intrigued about such a thing?

But as usual, Gimli’s curiosity could not be contained, and Glóin’s predictions on its dangers continued to bear out. Gimli had now lost interest in returning to consciousness and getting to his feet. Instead, the prospects of learning the secrets of an elven melody seemed far more appealing, and he began casting about for ways of casually asking Legolas for the translation of this song. And as his mind went about looking for answers, his body drifted closer and closer to the world of the conscious. Before he even knew what had happened, borne upon the wings of an ancient song from the younger world, Gimli was opening his eyes and sitting up.

The song died almost immediately, and shorn of its comforting presence, Gimli’s normal personality rocketed back into place. With a steely glint in his eyes and a dangerous anger directed at his wayward curiosity, the dwarf turned around and surveyed the scene before him. Legolas’s own flashing eyes met his, and the dwarf felt his anger shift in the direction of the elf. But then he saw the form cradled in Legolas’s arms. His anger vanished completely and fear took hold of him.

"Pippin?"

The still figure did not move, and Legolas glanced down at the motionless hobbit as suspicion and distrust faded from his fair face. "He lives, but he took a severe blow to the head," the elf murmured, tracing a gentle hand across Pippin’s brow. "He has yet to wake."

"And you thought singing to him would help," Gimli spat, starting to fold his arms across his chest. Unfortunately, his movements were arrested by a screaming pain from his right shoulder, and the dwarf abruptly realized that something was seriously wrong. Glancing at the questionable arm, he attempted to move it only to find that he had lost all feeling in his hand and fingers and that the limb was unresponsive to any commands.

"I notice that you are filled with answers and counsel," Legolas shot back while Gimli pondered his shoulder. "My most sincere apologies, Master Dwarf, for assuming that an elf would be able to do anything. Shall I give the hobbit to you and watch the wonders of your healing powers at work?"

The sharp words should have roused great anger in the dwarf, but they fell upon deaf ears this day. Part of the reason was that Gimli was still focused on examining his shoulder and coming to the rather grim conclusion that it had been dislocated. But more than that, the sight of a motionless hobbit in the elf’s arms had led the dwarf to ponder on the reasons for their fall from the cliff. The conclusions he had reached were not good, and a feeling of guilt was beginning to rise within Gimli. He should have sensed the disturbance in the earth and the weakness in the rock. He was a dwarf. It was in his nature to note such things. Yet he had not. His attention had instead been focused on arguing with Legolas, and his failure to protect Pippin was beginning to prick his conscience. It also occurred to him that had the elf not been so focused on their argument, he might have reacted swiftly enough to save Pippin and so prevent the fall. Yet even with Legolas sharing some of the blame, Gimli could not acquit himself and the feelings of guilt continued to rise.

Aragorn spoke truly. In prolonging our own dispute, we placed the rest of the Fellowship in danger. Alas that he was right, and alas that we allowed it to progress this far.

But despite his thoughts and his realization of what had happened, Gimli could not quite find it in himself to set aside his quarrel with the elf. Apart from the fact that Legolas was the son of the hated Thranduil, he was also insufferably arrogant and would assume that any retreat on the part of the dwarf constituted a victory in his favor. And such a victory, even if it was only a perceived victory, did not sit well with Gimli. Turning to eye the elf, Gimli cast about for words to say and eventually began to speak.

"As you already hold the hobbit, I shall not take him from you," the dwarf said, retorting to Legolas’s earlier comments. "It would be folly to move him overmuch. Instead, I shall give you a chance to redeem yourself. You may apologize for allowing Pippin to fall into this gorge and then you may carry him as we seek a way out of it."

"Apologize?!"

Had Legolas not been holding the hobbit, he might have attacked the dwarf then. The rage in his face caused even Gimli to take a hasty step backwards, but at the same time, Gimli realized something. Such a remark, though intended to provoke anger, should not have been that infuriating. He is ashamed, the dwarf suddenly realized. He is ashamed because he knows what I know. He knows that our quarrel led us down here.

"I have heard you boast many times that the dwarves are very much tuned to the rumblings of the earth and the groanings of stone," Legolas was saying when Gimli turned his attention back to the conversation. "Should it not have been you who sensed the crumbling of the cliff?"

"And what of superior elven hearing?" Gimli demanded, not about to let the elf shrug off any blame. "Should not you have heard the first pebbles fall?"

"Were not you standing closer to Pippin than was I?"

"Are not you the possessor of superior elven reflexes?"

Elf and dwarf fell silent, both seething with an anger that did not ring completely true, and it dawned on Gimli that they were not actually upset with one another. Rather they were upset with themselves. Yet it seems neither one of us is able to admit it, he sighed. By the Valar, how shall we escape the follies of pride!?

Gimli wondered if he should speak of this, but before he could even begin to formulate words, Pippin groaned in his sleep and Legolas’s attention left the dwarf. Freed from the piercing eyes of the elf, Gimli breathed a sigh of relief as though he had just been released from a grueling interrogation. Irritated at himself for showing such a reaction, the dwarf expectantly waited for some snide comment from the elf, but to his amazement, Legolas kept his silence and said nothing.

Feeling rather confused and also rather useless, Gimli glanced around and decided to look for his axe. This was actually the first thing he should have done upon waking, but his annoyance with the elf had somehow taken priority. Such a thing should not be, Gimli sighed as he began to wander about, peering into the underbrush. Truly Aragorn had reason to fear for us. Yet I wonder if it is not already too late to correct what has happened. Too many things lie between us now.

With a shake of his head, the dwarf grimaced and decided to concentrate on finding his axe, which seemed a far less daunting task than solving the problem of what to do concerning the insufferable elf. The axe was with me when I fell. Of that I am certain, he thought. Therefore, it cannot be too far from the place where I woke. Gimli hesitated for a moment and glanced back at Legolas. It would probably not take long for the keen eyes of the elf to locate the weapon, but the thought of asking for the prince’s aid made Gimli’s skin crawl and he shuddered. Berating himself for even considering the idea, he stubbornly poked around the underbrush, firmly ignoring the ache from his dislocated shoulder and also trying to ignore the presence of the elf behind him.

He eventually found the axe caught in a bush and partially buried by rock. It was an effort getting it out, particularly since he was limited to the use of only one hand now, but dwarven perseverance and stubbornness saw him through. Despite the awkwardness of the task and despite the pain from his injury, the axe was eventually secured again in Gimli’s belt. Mission accomplished, Gimli stalked back toward Legolas and discovered that the elf had resumed his quiet song and was now gently rocking the hobbit.

Gimli sighed, partially in annoyance and partially in resignation because he found himself once more listening to the music despite the clamors of his dwarven pride. There was something strangely comforting about it, and it seemed to clear his thoughts. Unfortunately, clear thoughts brought with them renewed feelings of guilt and shame as well as the realization of some unpleasant facts. He was trapped in a gorge with a comatose hobbit and a singing elf. And with his shoulder in its current state, he would remain trapped in this gorge with said comatose hobbit and singing elf unless he and the elf worked together. Neither option was a welcome prospect, but at least the latter notion of cooperation offered a way out. Besides that, there was his duty to Frodo to consider as well as his duty to the rest of the Fellowship. With a murmured oath, Gimli groaned, prepared himself, and then moved toward Legolas.

"Master Elf, I have words that I must speak."

The singing stopped and Legolas slowly raised his head, his expression guarded and his eyes wary. "Of what would you speak, Master Dwarf?"

He could at least try to make this easier, Gimli groused, forcing himself to stop glaring and adopt a more casual expression. "It seems to me that we have been caught in a rather unfortunate dilemma."

"Dwarven perception will never cease to amaze me."

Gimli bit back yet another surge of anger, and as he did so, he took a good look at Legolas and stopped, startled. Though his tone was sarcastic and bitter, the elf’s face was beginning to take on a look of grudging acceptance. Somewhat encouraged by this, Gimli pressed forward, eager to say what need to be said and so finish the discussion. "I hold no great love for you, that is no secret, and you hold no great love for me. But we are both bound by duty to protect the Fellowship. We must see to Pippin’s needs, and we must rejoin the others. In order to do this…" The dwarf trailed off and hesitated, wishing he could better read the elf’s face. "In order to do this," he eventually continued, "we shall have to work together."

A tense silence fell over them, but after several minutes of a searching stare, Legolas dropped his eyes and looked away. "You speak as Aragorn spoke," the elf sighed, anger now vanishing from his voice to be replaced with something akin to guilt. "And his words are words of wisdom. Would that they had been heeded. In this…in this, I fear that we are both at fault."

"So it seems that we are in agreement," Gimli reluctantly admitted. "Then for the time being, shall we set aside our quarrel?"

"For the time being," Legolas sighed, capturing Gimli with gray elven eyes that warned of assuming too much from this temporary truce. Gimli met the look with his own warning, and satisfied that the issue was settled, Legolas smiled a cold smile and nodded. "We should move soon. Pippin needs more care than what we can give, and the road is uncertain from here."

"Then let us depart, for a dwarf is always ready."

The elf muttered something in response to that, but it was far too low to make out and Gimli decided that knowing what had been said would probably only make the situation worse. Firmly disciplining his mind and trying to adopt a mental attitude of patience, he turned and began walking south, hoping he was moving in the right direction. He would trade his axe for a crossbow ere he ever looked to the elf for guidance.

He’d gone perhaps twenty steps before he realized that Legolas was not following him. Confused, he stopped and turned to find that the elf was examining him with the piercing stare that never failed to turn his stomach. "Is aught wrong?" Gimli demanded, uncomfortable with the intense elven scrutiny.

"Are you able to travel?" Legolas asked, his voice suspicious.

The dwarf frowned and tried to fill his voice with derision. "Is elven memory so fallible? I have just told you that a dwarf—"

"I asked not if you were ready; I asked if you were able."

Gimli would never be able to say exactly what forced the words from his mouth. Perhaps it was the sight of Pippin cradled in the elf’s arms. Perhaps it was the throbbing pain from his shoulder that was beginning to blur his sight. Perhaps it was the fact that his entire arm below the elbow had now gone completely numb and he feared damage to his fingers. Perhaps it was a combination of all these factors. In any event, somehow, despite all his dwarven heritage, he found himself speaking.

"I believe that my right shoulder is dislocated."

Once spoken, the words could not be retracted. Though his voice was soft, he had come to hold a grudging respect for Legolas’s superior senses, and he knew that the elf’s hearing had caught his murmured phrase. To his credit, he managed to keep his eyes locked onto the elf’s, and he watched as something that appeared to be surprise flitted through the bright, gray orbs. Then it was gone, replaced by a look that Gimli knew all too well. The elf was plotting something.

Realizing he had just severely disadvantaged himself, Gimli shook his head in disgust and turned away, intending to continue up the gorge and pretend that the last exchange had never happened. But he had not gone more than two steps when a sudden hand on his good shoulder stopped him. Completely startled, he jumped and started to swing around only to find himself stopped by a grip that rivaled the strongest iron of the Blue Mountains.

"Sit."

Much to his surprise, Gimli found himself obeying that voice. He didn’t exactly know why and his pride was sending up a rather violent series of protests, but nevertheless, he dropped to the ground and felt the elf kneel behind them. A light touched probed the injured shoulder and he could not quite keep back a hiss of pain when Legolas began to maneuver his arm.

"I have nothing to give you that might ease your discomfort," the elf said quietly, his voice carrying a strange mixture of resignation, confusion, and irritation. "I fear this will be rather unpleasant."

"Cease your talking and get on with it," Gimli growled, still trying to figure out why he was allowing the elf to help him.

"As you wish."

An arm suddenly wrapped itself around him and he was pulled back against a strong chest as the elf braced the dwarf against his own body. This was too much for Gimli and he began to pull away, but before he could get far in his attempt, his injured arm was suddenly yanked down, up, and then slammed back toward his body. With a strangled cry, the dwarf lurched forward only to be held upright by the elf behind him. For a moment they were frozen thus, still and silent, while Gimli wavered between unconsciousness and reality. Pride alone prevented the dwarf from swooning as he fought waves of pain and nausea, and after a long moment, his pride was rewarded as the world ceased to spin so violently.

"Master Dwarf?"

Gimli shook his head, sending up desperate prayers to the Valar that the shooting pain would not cause him to lose his supper-breakfast.

"Gimli?"

"My thanks for your aid, Master Elf," he grunted, pushing to his feet and extracting himself from Legolas’s hold. Feeling was returning to his right arm, and though tender, he could tell that it would now mend swiftly on its own. Brushing himself off, the dwarf gestured to the trail south, his eyes glinting with warning should the elf say aught of what had just happened. "Shall we continue? I do not think our companions will wait long for us if they decide to even wait at all."

Something that might have been a smile ghosted across Legolas’s face, but it vanished quickly and he nodded, rising to his feet and moving back to where he had left Pippin. Gathering the hobbit in his arms, the elf rose, turned to the dwarf, and inclined his head. "After you."

"As it should be," Gimli muttered, knowing his comment would be overheard and hoping Legolas would react to it so that he might have a reason to dislike the elf again. But much to his dismay, Legolas did nothing and simply waited for the dwarf to begin. Confused, bewildered, and injured, Gimli had no choice but to begin the march.

* * * *

Boromir was beginning to suspect that he was the only member of the Fellowship with a firm grasp on reality.

This idea had actually been with him for some time, but the actions of his companions this night were doing more to confirm his suspicion than had all previous actions on all previous days combined. They marched parallel to a gorge, the bottom of which even Aragorn could not see, and forsook the clear path of the road that would take them to their destiny. And for what? For the sake of an elf, a dwarf, and a hobbit who had fallen into the gorge just ere sunset. Boromir would have been more than ready to march the length of the ravine had anyone else fallen in, but considering the individuals involved in the accident, the son of Denethor harbored serious doubts about their ability to meet up with the rest of the company. If the elf and the dwarf have not already killed each other, they are probably only moments away from doing so, he thought sardonically with a shake of his head. The only one able to stand between them is Pippin, and I’ll wager half my father’s realm that he will only add to the problem.

Unfortunately, Boromir seemed to be the only one who had realized this, and so they marched haphazardly along the top of the ravine, forging their own path much of the time, in the hopes that they might be reunited with their missing companions.

I had judged Aragorn to be of sounder mind than this, Boromir thought with a hint of disappointment, glancing over his shoulder at the Ranger who had assumed Legolas’s usual place as rearguard. But then, Aragorn had grown up trusting in the strength of the elves, a strength that Boromir viewed to be naught but a myth of the past. To the men of Gondor, any race whose population consisted entirely of walking contradictions was a questionable race, a belief that immediately downplayed anything the elves might have to offer as well as casting doubt upon Aragorn’s judgement in revering them. And the Ranger’s judgement was now called into question again because of his belief that they would be reunited with their companions. It was an impossible dream! Legolas had demonstrated no willingness to let go of his quarrel with the dwarf, the stubbornness of the dwarves was legendary and Gimli possessed this stubbornness in spades, and Pippin’s lack of tact—as well as his uncanny ability to open his mouth at precisely the wrong moment—was certainly not going to help. Insofar as Boromir was concerned, if elf, dwarf, and hobbit did manage to catch up to the rest of them, it would be hard evidence that the Valar still played a very active role in Middle Earth.

With a sigh, Boromir turned away from his pessimistic thoughts and directed his attention up the trail to Gandalf. The wizard had just pushed his way into a small clearing and was stopping, apparently deciding that now would be a good time for a bit of rest. Boromir readily agreed with him. It was no easy task to forge one’s own trail through the thick brush that grew parallel with the gorge, and that last march had been longer than usual.

"What are we doing?" Merry demanded, speaking for the first time since they’d begun the night’s journey. "We aren’t stopping, are we?"

"Yes, we are stopping, Master Meriadoc, because running ourselves into the ground shall not help our friends," Gandalf answered, finding a convenient log and easing himself down. "It is doubtful that Pippin will be moving any faster than we are, if he is even moving at all."

"Why wouldn’t he be moving?" Merry asked, his voice sharp.

An uncomfortable silence fell until Aragorn shifted slightly and sighed. "It was a long fall, Merry. He may have been injured."

"Injured?" The hobbit shook his head emphatically. "Not Pippin. Pippin is never injured. He bounces back from everything."

There was yet another uncomfortable silence as the company tried to find a response to that. Frodo was the first to do so. "I’m sure you’re right. We’ll probably find him waiting for us at the top of the gorge wondering what kept us."

"Right," Merry said with a nod. "Then let’s get going."

"Now half a moment," Sam protested, trying to pick brambles and cockleburs out of Bill’s mane. "We’ve only just arrived here, and if Strider and Mr. Gandalf think that we’re making good time, then that’s good enough for me. Besides, I know for a fact that Bill could do with a bit of rest. There’s not much here in the way of a path for us, and forcing his way through everything is tiresome work for a pony."

"Sam is correct," Gandalf said, addressing his words to Merry. "A few more minutes shall provide us with better strength for the end of the road, and you will be grateful for that strength when it is needed. There are still great distances before us. Sit and rest for a moment. You do Pippin no good if you expend your energy worrying."

Merry mumbled something in response to this, but it was too low to make out. Nevertheless, the hobbit stalked over to a tree and dropped his pack, leaning against the wide trunk while the rest of the company spread out and made use of their brief rest.

"You do not believe we shall see them again."

Boromir nearly jumped out of his skin, completely unaware that Aragorn had come up behind him. Forcing his face into a mask of calm and fighting furiously with the indignation and anger that flared out of his surprise, Boromir turned around and cocked his head to the side. "Why do you say that?"

"It is plain to see for all who harbor the same doubts," Aragorn answered with something akin to a shrug. "You believe that the quarrel between Legolas and Gimli shall spiral into something that neither can control. You believe that they will never leave the gorge."

Boromir frowned. "Earlier, you expressed hope that we would meet them where the floor of the ravine rose to meet our level, yet now you say my mind is clear to those with similar doubts. What is your mind on this matter, Aragorn? Where do your thoughts lie?"

The Ranger smiled and laughed quietly. "You are your father’s son. A neat deflection, that."

Boromir shifted slightly, uneasy with the prospect that Aragorn seemed able to read him nearly as well as did Faramir. "You have not answered my questions?" he pointed out, uncertain of what else to say.

"True enough," Aragorn replied, apparently content to let the shift in conversation stand. "Where do my thoughts lie, you ask? I believe them to be equally balanced between hope and doubt. I hope that Legolas and Gimli may put their quarrel aside long enough for them to leave the ravine with Pippin. I cling to such hope, but hope is not without doubt. And in this case, doubt is unusually strong. I believe there is a chance that we shall be reunited ere long, but there is also a chance that tragedy will come of this." The Ranger sighed and glanced toward the gorge, his eyes briefly illuminated by moonlight as the clouds above them parted. "It is in their hands now, and I shudder to think what that might mean. Hopefully, a need to protect and shelter Pippin shall see them through. But that, too, is fraught with peril."

"I cannot say that I know much of elves, for it seems that lore in Gondor has strayed from fact concerning the Firstborn. But there are many tales in Gondor of the dwarves, and from what I have seen in Gimli, these tales contain much truth. Gimli will not suffer a blow to his pride if that is what cooperating with the elf will take."

"True, but stronger than pride can be loyalty and honor," Aragorn answered. "It is for this reason that I am less concerned with Gimli than I am with Legolas. Gimli has bound himself body and soul to this Fellowship. He will not forsake us. Legolas, on the other hand, is a prince in his father’s realm and has also inherited some of his father’s pride. He is a far more difficult individual. However, he is also rather protective by nature, and he sees the hobbits as helpless. Pippin’s presence might be enough to overcome his stubborn elven arrogance."

"But then again, it might not," Boromir said, finishing Aragorn’s unspoken thought.

"As I said before, it is out of our hands. We can only go to meet them and hope for the best."

"But if the best is but a faint glimmer along the horizon, would it not be better to make straight for the Redhorn Gate?"

"The road here is certain enough that both Gimli and Legolas can follow it with little difficulty. Even Pippin should be able to pick his way out of the gorge and follow our road for several miles after that, but by tomorrow night, that will all change. For part of the journey, the trail to the pass almost disappears entirely, and only one who has traveled it before might find his way. Neither Gimli nor Legolas has been in this area. Pippin has never been outside the Shire before now." Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "No, we must wait for them. And hope is not yet dead. There are reasons to believe that Gimli and Legolas might resolve their differences."

"As you say, Aragorn. You know them better than I," Boromir muttered, still feeling the cold fingers of doubt clutching at his heart. "But the crebain shall return come daylight. If we are forced to wait for our companions, we will not be able to wait for long."

"Are we ready to go yet?"

Aragorn sighed and glanced over at Merry, who looked no more rested now than he did when they’d first entered the clearing. "A moment more, Master Brandybuck," he called. "As Gandalf said, you shall need your strength toward the end of this night. We will begin a rather steady climb."

"Then shouldn’t we be keeping a steady march?"

"We should be keeping a steady march with intervals of rest," Gandalf said. "This is one of those intervals. Peace, Meriadoc. Your anxiety does not help us."

"Stopping isn’t helping Pippin or Gimli or Legolas," Merry returned.

"They’ll have to stop, too," Sam broke in, picking the last of the cockleburs from Bill’s mane. "It won’t do any good to reach the head of the gorge while they’re still in the middle of it. Then we’ll have a long wait with nothing to do, and I don’t know as I could take that."

"Besides, if we keep with a steady pace, we’ll be able to keep moving," Frodo reasoned. "And then the birds will have a harder time finding us because we won’t be in the same spot for very long."

"The hobbits echo my words," Boromir murmured to Aragorn. "Listen to them. We must keep moving. If we do not find our missing companions when we reach the area where the gorge rises, what then? Shall we wait? And if so, how long shall we linger? How much danger shall we risk for the sake of an elf, a dwarf, and a hobbit."

"I have no answers to your questions," Aragorn said quietly. "It may be that we need not worry over such things. Perhaps all will go according to plan."

"Fortune is too fickle a mistress to trust that everything will go according to plan," Boromir argued.

"Perhaps, but upon occasion, she will reward those who trust in her," Aragorn answered. "And since there is naught that I can do to remedy the situation, I shall place my faith in her. A fool’s choice, no doubt, but a choice that has served me well in the past."

"You, perhaps, but shall it also serve the rest of us?" Boromir asked.

"Who can say? Let us put it to the test." And with that, the Ranger smiled and turned away, moving toward Gandalf.

I was right, Boromir decided, watching as Aragorn began speaking with the wizard. I am the only one in the company who has a firm grasp on reality.

* * * *

For some strange reason, Legolas was utterly fascinated by the creature walking before him. He would never admit to this fascination and he allowed none of his preoccupation to show upon his face, but nevertheless, he was very much intrigued. The dwarf was still suffering from a tender arm, but he did not allow this injury to slow his progress as he hoisted himself over logs and scrambled across loose gravel. It greatly surprised Legolas that Gimli should be doing so well, and this surprise had triggered his elven curiosity.

Sure-footed and armed with an inborn grace, Legolas followed the dwarf easily enough despite the sleeping hobbit in his arms. Occasionally a tricky bit of maneuvering was called for and Pippin would have to be shifted about. During these times, Gimli would stop and wait with an air of impatience, but he would say nothing and his eyes betrayed none of his feelings. This was also a source of great curiosity to the elf, who was usually quite good at judging emotions based on facial expressions. But the dwarf had become a challenge to read this day, and the prince of Mirkwood was quite fond of challenges.

That is how I see him, then, Legolas said to himself, trying to account for the fact that he was not feeling his usual irritation around the dwarf. I see him as a challenge. When we return to the company, I doubt not but what his rough speech and uncouth ways shall once again try my nerves and my patience.

His emotions now explained to his satisfaction, Legolas continued to divide his attention between Gimli and Pippin. Unfortunately, while watching the dwarf was somewhat entertaining, watching the hobbit was sobering. Pippin had murmured a few words shortly after their fall into the gorge and he had moaned occasionally during the beginning of the hike, but for the last two hours, he had been completely silent. Legolas did not know what to make of this for he was quite unfamiliar with mortal failings. The fall had failed to knock him unconscious as it had Gimli and Pippin, and he’d been at a loss as to what to do for them. Thankfully the dwarf was hale and walking on his own. Carrying the hobbit was tiring, and Legolas shuddered to think of what carrying the dwarf would do to him.

Pausing for a moment while Gimli navigated a collection of fallen trees and scattered rocks before them, Legolas shifted Pippin in his arms and called softly to the hobbit. As before, there was no response and the elf was now becoming even more concerned. There was no fever, and Legolas assumed that to be a good sign, but if Aragorn was any example of a mortal’s ability to recover from unconsciousness, then Pippin should have woken long several hours ago. Feeling the beginnings of frustration building within himself, Legolas did the only thing he could think of. He began to sing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gimli stiffen when the song began, but surprisingly enough, the dwarf said nothing and continued on his way after a bit. Legolas now followed, carefully scrambling over debris but never ceasing his quiet melody. The prince had noticed once in Rivendell that elven song seemed to have a soothing and quieting affect on mortals. More often than not, after a session of music in the Hall of Fire all mortals in attendance would have to be roused and sent to bed. Legolas now hoped that his song might reach through the layers of unconsciousness and call to Pippin, luring him into a safer state of rest and easing his spirits so that his body might relax and begin to heal itself. Legolas didn’t know if this would actually work, but he could think of nothing else to do.

At length, Legolas made it past the pile of upturned trees and brush. He stopped and glanced up at the sides of the gorge, wondering what had happened to make these cliffs so unstable. They seemed to come across a landslide every mile or so, sometimes more often than that. The elf considered asking Gimli about the structure of the rocks and whether or not that might be a factor, but he discarded that suggestion quickly. It was one thing to travel with the dwarf under a flag of truce. It was an entirely different thing to begin asking for his opinion.

And so the journey continued in a strained silence. Curiosity once again pricked, Legolas began wondering whether or not the silence was grating upon Gimli’s nerves. Dwarves were not know for their patience, and the tense atmosphere that followed them was probably doing nothing for Gimli’s temper. It would not take much to anger him, Legolas reflected, thoughts of mischief beginning for form. But fortunately for both of them, Legolas shook his head clear of such ideas. Now was not the time to be testing a dwarf’s patience. They had companions to find and a hobbit to tend.

"How fares Pippin?"

Legolas nearly jumped, completely surprised by the dwarf’s voice. Gimli had said no word to him since they left the sight of their fall, and in return, Legolas had said no word to the dwarf. But their unspoken vow of silence was now broken, and the elf hurriedly collected himself.

"He still does not wake," Legolas answered, brushing his hand across Pippin’s forehead.

"Strange," the dwarf mumbled. "I would have expected him to be up and about by now. If nothing else, hobbits are resilient." Gimli studied elf and hobbit for a moment and then frowned. "Set him down."

Legolas felt his pride flare to life. He did not take orders from a dwarf, and Pippin had become his charge. Why should Gimli know more about the hobbit’s care than he? Because the dwarf is also mortal, a voice in the back of his mind scolded. Now put your foolish pride aside and set the hobbit down.

With a sigh, the elf reluctantly gave in to common sense and knelt, propping the hobbit against him. Gimli knelt beside them and placed two fingers against Pippin’s neck, checking his pulse. The dwarf waited a moment, grunted, and then ran his hands carefully over Pippin’s head. "He was struck behind the ear," Gimli announced after a bit. "And his heart rate seems slow to me. We should probably stop soon and let him rest without being jostled. Dawn is perhaps an hour away."

"An hour and a half, actually," Legolas corrected, feeling a flash of irritation at the implication that he was jostling the hobbit about. Anger flared in Gimli’s eyes, but he blinked quickly and the rage vanished as quickly as it had come. You are controlling your temper well this night, Legolas observed, somewhat impressed by the dwarf’s restraint.

"An hour or an hour and a half, either way it makes little difference," Gimli answered, his voice strained. "I suggest we stop at the next likely campsite and wait out the day."

"I can hear a spring of some sort about a mile up the ravine," Legolas said with a slow nod, though it pained him to be caught in agreement with a dwarf. "If we intend to stop, it would be best if we do so there. But I do not wish to spend the entire day motionless."

"It is too dangerous to move during daylight," Gimli argued.

"This gorge provides cover that is not to be found on the levels above us," Legolas pointed out. "I believe we could travel without fear of spying eyes."

"That is well and good, but if you are proven wrong, we will have brought danger upon the Fellowship through our haste."

"If I am proven correct, then we will cause the Fellowship no further delay," the elf answered, feeling irritation build within him yet again.

Gimli muttered something in his own tongue and seemed about to go on, but then he stopped and shook his head. "Let us not discuss this now. Later will be soon enough. Come. I would find this spring of yours so that we might refill our water skins. And mayhap a cool drink will wake the hobbit."

"Mayhap," Legolas allowed. "Continue, then, but bear to the right where possible. The sound of water comes from the west."

The dwarf nodded slightly and turned away, soon losing himself in the thick underbrush of the gorge. Once again, Legolas gently cradled Pippin in his arms and groaned slightly at the effort it took to carry the hobbit. While Pippin was not particularly stout, he was still a burden and one that was beginning to tell on Legolas’s strength. And more than that, he was a burden upon the elf’s heart, for a fear was beginning to grow in the prince that Pippin might not wake. He had seen head wounds turn fatal, and Gimli had now confirmed his growing suspicion that Pippin should have already recovered from this. At the very least, he should have opened his eyes by now.

With Gimli temporarily out of sight, Legolas allowed his façade of elven invincibility to drop, and he shook his head in frustration as his shoulders slumped. There were two things that never failed to upset Legolas. One was the feeling that he had lost control of a situation. The other was the feeling of helplessness. To an extent, he now felt both insofar as Pippin was concerned. He did not have the knowledge necessary to treat the hobbit, and his inability to find a solution was maddening.

Perhaps hope shall be borne on the light of the dawn, Legolas sighed to himself, composing his face once more as he hurried after Gimli. But until then, I fear I shall have to live with my doubts and my worries. Would that Aragorn were here. The dwarf is useless. But then…so am I.

And with this rather humbling thought, Legolas sighed and decided that he had done far too much thinking for one night.

January 10, 3019 (Day)

The Fellowship of the Ring—or rather, what was left of the Fellowship of the Ring—stopped for camp a safe distance from the edge of the gorge beneath the thick trees and brush that had made forward travel an obstacle each and every step of the way. The air was cold and winter’s chill grip was felt by all as they huddled beneath cloaks and blankets. There was also a hint of snow in the air, or so Gandalf thought, and he glanced meaningfully at Aragorn, hoping to resume their discussion on which path they might take to cross the mountains.

For his part, the Ranger was studiously ignoring the wizard, wrapped in his dark, tattered cloak and puffing away on his pipe with an air of contentment that was decidedly at odds with the mood of the rest of the company. Valar, but we are a grim lot today, Gandalf sighed, surveying the downcast faces. Frodo and Sam were working silently on the morning meal, their natural hobbit optimism quiet and subdued. Boromir was shining the edge of his shield, which would have been normal enough had it not been for the fact that he’d shined it the previous evening. There’d been no time for it to collect dust or grime. And as for Merry…

The wizard grimaced and turned to look at the hobbit. Merry was not faring well. The loss of Pippin was a grievous blow, and he was still not thinking clearly. He’d protested adamantly against stopping to make camp for the day, pleading that they continue the journey to the head of the gorge. Patient explanations on the part of both Gandalf and Aragorn had done very little to help him, and it was only after Sam and Frodo had stepped in that he finally relented. After the brief argument, he’d spoken no words to anyone—which was somewhat concerning—and had shown no interest in food—which was completely alarming.

I can recall only a few instances in which hobbits have refused food, Gandalf thought to himself, his mind scanning his vast memory for every tale and scrap of lore that he knew concerning hobbits. And considering how much time he’d spent studying them, this was quite a bit of information. Yet for all my knowledge, I know of no way to aid Merry. Hobbits will refuse food when sick or grieving. Merry is not sick—at least not yet, though he will become sick if he keeps this up—and he is not grieving for he continues to insist that Pippin is alive and miles ahead of us.

Gandalf rubbed his temples and leaned against the rock behind him. Had Merry been a Baggins or a Proudfoot or a Hornblower, he would have been much easier to distract and cheer. But things were never that simple. Merry was a Brandybuck, and as a Brandybuck, his mind worked in a manner slightly different from that of other hobbits. He kept his concentration and his focus for the most part, and there was a practical spin to his thoughts that was difficult to sidetrack. Of the four hobbits in the Fellowship, he was probably best suited for this journey, yet now he was the one who seemed to be suffering the most.

Although it is clear that we all suffer in our own way, the wizard conceded, glancing at Sam and Frodo. Their complete silence was an indication of how deeply troubled they were, but at least they had one another and were using one another as comfort. Merry, though he had the company of friends, was choosing not to take advantage of it. Yet another problem with the Brandybucks, Gandalf sighed. Self-sufficient and independent to a fault.

"We do learn something from this experience," a voice at Gandalf’s side remarked.

The wizard turned a questioning gaze on Aragorn. "And that would be?"

"That we are a Fellowship. Somehow during the course of this haphazard journey, we have learned to care for one another."

"I could have wished for a different situation to illustrate this principle," Gandalf replied.

"I suspect we would all say the same, but nevertheless, at least we may take comfort in this." Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "I suppose you shall be dispensing a morsel of your immortal wisdom to us soon."

"And what morsel would that be?" Gandalf asked.

"Worry not when worry cannot help," Aragorn answered with a slight shrug. "You have repeated it for me often enough, and the circumstances seem to warrant another repetition. This group is replete with anxiety, yet such feelings are certainly no help to us. In truth, I am rather surprised that you have not spoken earlier."

"The thought did occur to me," Gandalf admitted, smiling slightly at the fact that Aragorn knew him so well. "And yet there are times when withholding wisdom is also accounted wise. There is another morsel of immortal wisdom that I have undoubtedly shared with you. Lecture not when the lecture will not help. My words on this matter would have no affect on Merry, a limited affect on Frodo and Sam, and you and Boromir already understand the principle."

"Still, it is unlike you to let such an opening pass."

The wizard arched a bristling eyebrow at this. "And what mean you by that?"

"Only that you seem to enjoy inserting your wisdom and opinion at every available opportunity as well as opportunities that are not so available," Aragorn answered with a small smile.

Gandalf gifted Aragorn with one of his darker glares but decided that such a ludicrous notion did not merit a verbal response on his part. Instead, the wizard turned his attention back to the Fellowship. Frodo and Sam were rolling out blankets, Boromir was still shining his shield, and Merry was leaning against a tree muttering angrily.

"I did not think Merry was in the habit of speaking to himself out loud," Aragorn murmured.

"He is not," Gandalf said. "If aught has happened to Pippin, I fear what it may do to him."

"You have placed great faith in the stamina and resilience of hobbits," Aragorn said. "Think you that it shall fail Merry?"

"I hope not, but under the shadow of the Misty Mountains, hopes are sometimes but the dreams and wishes of fools. Merry is strong, but when he set out on this quest, he did so with the assumption that Pippin would make the journey beside him. I do not think that he ever considered what would happen should he lose Pippin. The hobbits are not warriors. They have not faced the prospect of death as you have, Aragorn. Their innocence is falling away now, but as it disappears, it takes a piece of them with it."

"I would that they could have remained safe and innocent within the Shire," Aragorn whispered. "For years have the Rangers guarded the hobbits, and it gave us pleasure to do so. But now it is the hobbits upon whom hang either salvation or doom. A strange twist of fate, that, and one that none could foresee."

"Indeed," Gandalf murmured. He was silent for a moment, watching the camp, and then he turned back to Aragorn. "Have you given any thought to our road beyond the end of the gorge?"

"We must follow the main highway," Aragorn said. "There are other roads through Hollin, but most are overgrown now. The pony would not be able to endure them. Our current path is a great trial for him."

"But soon we shall reach a place where another road diverges from the highway and makes for the darker way. Where then?"

Aragorn’s eyes darkened and he looked towards the mountains, silent as the stone that he contemplated. "Either way, our path seems cursed," he said at length. "I begin to wonder if we should not have simply taken Goblin Pass and come down by way of Mirkwood."

"We would have been forced to travel many more leagues, and time is not a luxury that we have."

"But shall we sacrifice safety for time?" Aragorn challenged.

"Perils await us on all roads south," Gandalf shrugged. "We must weigh our ability to endure said perils against the danger of allowing time to slip by, enabling the Enemy to further strengthen his forces. In any case, Goblin Pass now lies far behind us. There are only two roads to consider unless one counts Gap of Rohan, and I counsel strongly against taking Frodo so close to Saruman."

"As do I," Aragorn murmured. He was quiet for a moment and then sighed. "You know already my thoughts concerning the darker road, and they have not changed."

"The weather is not to be trusted," Gandalf warned.

"Nor is the darkness."

"It is possible that the darkness has been dispelled."

"Then why has Dáin heard no tidings from Balin and those who went to retake Moria?"

Gandalf sighed and shook his head. "There are many reasons for messages to be delayed. Unsafe roads and mishaps along the way have caused many letters to be lost."

"For over a year?" Aragorn asked with raised brows.

"It is possible."

"Then let me put forth the idea that it is also possible that the weather shall not prove to be as formidable an opponent as you think it will be."

"You are intent upon Caradhras?" the wizard questioned.

"Something dark lives still in Moria," Aragorn whispered, his voice taking on a strange note and his eyes growing distant. "There is evil deep within the hearts of the mountains, and that evil does not sleep. Alerted to our presence and the presence of that which Frodo bears, I fear what may happen. There is great danger in the mines, Gandalf." A tense silence fell, broken only by the soft swishing of a pony’s tail and the sound of cloth rubbing against the rim of Boromir’s shield. Eventually, Aragorn shook his head and seemed to return to himself, though Gandalf could only wonder where his mind had previously been. "I heed your advice, and I hearken to your counsel. But my heart warns against Moria. On this topic, I have nothing further to offer you."

Gandalf frowned and drummed his fingers against the comforting wood of his staff. Moria was certainly not his first choice of roads, but the ancient dwarven stronghold seemed to strangely unnerve Aragorn. Yet the wizard was at something of a loss to explain why. "Well, I suppose such a decision need not be made today," he finally said. "The weather is unpredictable, and mayhap we shall see a change for the best tomorrow."

"Mayhap. How shall we arrange the watches?" Aragorn asked.

"I think we will be best served by an early start this afternoon," Gandalf said, noting the marked change in subject. "Thus, I suggest only three watches. In place of the fourth, we shall take our meal and pack our camp. Then we shall once again set out on the road. The brush is thick enough here that our travels may go unnoticed."

Aragorn nodded and glanced around at the other members of the Fellowship. "Then I wish to take the last watch. Perhaps I can learn the movements of our enemies and guide us away from them while daylight lasts."

"I will take the first watch, then," Gandalf said. "As for the second, I counsel that Boromir take it. He…" The wizard stopped for a moment, wondering how to put this into words. "It appears that he needs something to do."

The Ranger laughed and glanced toward Boromir, who seemed to sense that he was the subject of conversation and favored both Aragorn and Gandalf with a dark glare. "I will tell him, then," Aragorn offered. "And then I suggest that we all turn in for the day. The hobbits, especially could use the rest."

"You will find no quarrel with me on that," Gandalf sighed. "I only hope that the hobbits choose to sleep."

"They shall," Aragorn said, a strange light twinkling in his eyes. "I have already seen to that." And before Gandalf could ask what he meant, the Ranger had moved off and was making his way toward Boromir.

"If you did what I think you did," the wizard muttered to himself, "then I have no wish to be present this evening when the hobbits wake."

* * * *

With a groan of relief, Gimli knelt and lowered his injured shoulder into the cooling balm of a natural spring. The frigid water numbed the dull ache that had plagued him since Legolas had popped the joint back into place, and the dwarf closed his eyes as his body relaxed now that the grip of pain was gone. He had been hard-pressed upon the trail to maintain the grueling pace he’d set. His arm had been—and still was—quite tender, and pushing thick underbrush out of the way had been a telling trial. More than once he’d wished to stop and rest for a bit, but the knowledge that Legolas was behind him pushed the dwarf ever onward.

Gimli glanced behind him into the brush where he had last seen Legolas tending to Pippin. He would have to take care that the elf did not see him in such a vulnerable position or he would never hear the end of it. The dwarf was reasonably confident that Legolas had no intention of leaving Pippin’s side, but one could never truly tell with elves. They could change their loyalties and their minds upon the flip of a coin, or so Gimli had been taught.

Sighing, the dwarf shook his head and slowly got to his knees, drying his shoulder as best he could with his cloak. The ache began to return as the numbness faded away, but it felt somewhat better. The swelling was also slightly abated, too, which was a great relief. The arm would be more serviceable come evening when they set out again.

Laboring to his feet, Gimli picked up the water skins he had come to fill and headed back to where they had chosen to camp for the day. Or rather, it was where Legolas had chosen to camp for the day, insisting that water was a target for unfriendly eyes and they would do well to stay at least a stone’s throw away from the stream. Gimli had reluctantly agreed with the logic but was silently fuming that these thoughts had not first occurred to him. He was no stranger to the open road and had endured his share of hardships on journeys, but he had been so relieved to stop and rest that his mind had not been clear.

I have relaxed my guard once, Gimli thought to himself. It shall not happen again, especially while I travel with an elf. Apart from the obvious embarrassment of being upstaged by Thranduil’s son, Gimli did not trust Legolas and half-expected the elf to turn on him ere they could rejoin the others. His mind knew it was a rather implausible prospect and he was coming to have a rather grudging respect for the elf’s abilities, but his heart and his prejudices had been formed long ago by elders and teachers who hated the elves with a deep and abiding passion. He could not throw such beliefs to the wind despite all Aragorn’s assurances to the contrary. And Legolas’s own behavior had certainly not helped.

Finding the elf and Pippin was certainly not a problem, even though Legolas had found a good place to hide during the day. The sounds of an elven song led Gimli directly to them, and he wondered if he should point out that Legolas’s singing might very well draw other, less welcome ears toward their position. But even as he considered the idea, he discarded it. Though the dwarf might be loath to admit it, Legolas was a capable warrior and knew well the perils associated with traveling in the wild. He would cease his song when it became dangerous. And more than that, Gimli was actually coming to like the singing…

The dwarf shook his head furiously and ducked under the fallen log that blocked the entrance to their secluded camp. Glóin would have choice words to say if he knew that his son had developed a fondness for elven song. Moreover, I do not like it, Gimli told himself firmly. I enjoy it merely because it is a distraction from the silence. An irksome little voice in the back of his head laughed uproariously at this, but Gimli studiously ignored it. The elf was still as annoying and troublesome as ever. That would never change no matter how much he might sing; Gimli was sure of it.

"How is he?" the dwarf asked as he dropped the water skins next to the elf.

"Still no change," Legolas answered, a slight note of frustration coloring his voice. "Master Dwarf, unless you can do more for him, we must break camp this afternoon and reach the top of this ravine. I fear any delay will hamper Aragorn in his efforts to heal Pippin."

"We have already discussed this, Master Elf," Gimli said, sitting himself down as far away from Legolas as possible without actually leaving the shelter of the camp. "It is not safe for us to travel during daylight—"

"But within this ravine, it may be feasible," the elf shot back. "At the moment, it is more dangerous for Pippin to remain here."

"But Pippin’s fate is not what must be considered," Gimli answered, hating himself for saying it but knowing it was the truth. "It is Frodo whose safety takes priority, and if we endanger him, all is for naught."

"We will not endanger the rest of the company if we take care," Legolas insisted, his eyes flashing. "The birds are our primary concern, and I can see them long before they see us."

"But you are carrying the hobbit and your attention is divided," Gimli argued, feeling anger build within himself. "One slip and the entire mission is ruined!"

"There will be no such slip," Legolas said coldly.

"You cannot guarantee that, elf."

"I believe you are merely afraid, dwarf."

Gimli rumbled ominously deep within his chest and rose to his feet, eyes darkening as he glared at Legolas. "Choose your words with care, son of Thranduil, or you will have more than an injured hobbit to care for."

"This hobbit would not have been injured were it not for your arrogance," Legolas shot back. "In this, you have inherited more from your father than just stupidity."

Anger flaring into a roaring fire, Gimli shot to his feet, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "And you are so lacking in nobility that I cannot even be sure it was Thranduil who sired you, though you have clearly inherited his short-sightedness. Perhaps it was your father who was less than scrupulous. Was your mother truly the queen of Mirkwood, Master Elf?"

Pippin apparently forgotten, it was now Legolas’s turn to leap to his feet, gray eyes the color of storm clouds as one hand moved toward the knife on his hip while the other unconsciously shifted Pippin out of the way, situating him on the elf’s other hip. "For that you shall suffer dearly, dwarf," the incensed prince hissed. "Your miserable life is not payment enough for the words that you have uttered."

Gimli’s hands fastened themselves upon his axe as he shifted his feet into a combative stance, but even as he did so, a tiny warning bell went off in his head. With his heart yearning for blood and his hands itching for violence, Gimli almost ignored it, but for some reason, he stopped. And as he did so, other warnings began to go off. Dwarven senses acutely tuned to the murmurs of Arda had begun to clamor for attention, and with a shiver, Gimli lowered his axe and took a step backwards. Distanced now from the elf, who had traded his expression of anger to one of puzzlement, Gimli took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to determine what it was he felt.

There! That is what I sense! But why should I…oh great Mahal! Not again! Gimli’s eyes snapped back open, all grievances with Legolas forgotten as one terrifying command overtook his mind and subsequently his voice. "Run!"

Not pausing to see if Legolas obeyed, he grabbed the water skins and tore out of the camp like a thing possessed, racing up the bottom of the ravine as fast as his legs would carry him. And above him came the telltale sounds of a crumbling cliff-face. Rocks and boulders groaned as they ground against one another while dust splayed down into the ravine until the air was choked by it. Coughing heavily, Gimli slowed his mad dash as sight became impossible and wondered how close he was to the slide. He considered stopping as it was now nearly impossible to continue forward, but a hand suddenly seized his good arm and he was jerked onward.

"Do not stop, Master Dwarf," a muffled voice ordered. "Safety lies ahead of us."

Pride roared to life, but Gimli’s common sense shoved it aside. Legolas was right. This was no place to stop, and if he wanted to see another day, he would have to trust to the superior senses of the elf. But how can even he penetrate this dust? Gimli wondered as he heard a hacking cough and felt a shudder from the hand that gripped his arm.

Still, Gimli have very little choice in the matter and was dragged inexorably onward, stumbling over unseen obstacles and brushing against trees, boulders, and whatever debris Legolas was guiding him through. Rocks were rolling about his feet now, and several times he stumbled only to have the elf haul him upwards again. The roar of the slide indicated that the brunt of it was almost upon them, and Gimli started to speak but was interrupted when he was jerked sideways and pressed against a firm rock wall.

"Lie still," Legolas ordered, and Gimli felt the elf press Pippin against him. "We are—" The elf was interrupted by a series of violent coughs, and then all sound was drowned out by the noise of rocks filling the ravine.

The dwarf hugged Pippin close, pushing him against the rock that sheltered them and placing his own body between the hobbit and danger. Pebbles and sharp rocks skittered about them, but the main barrage was diverted to either side of them. Apparently Legolas had found a rise and a sheltering boulder to hide behind, though there was still the danger that an errant rock could leap the protective barrier and crash down upon them. Sending up a prayer to any Valar that would listen, Gimli squeezed his eyes shut and waited for disaster to strike.

But fortune had decided to favor them this day, and after several minutes of mind-numbing cacophony. The noise died away and silence fell, broken only by the sound of a few stray rocks bouncing their way down the new cliff-face. Scarcely daring to believe that they had been spared, Gimli blinked his eyes open and sneezed. Managing to stifle the coughs that tickled his throat, he glanced about and sighed in relief as he noticed the dust was settling. Beside him, Legolas was curled up in a tight ball with his hands over his head and his breath coming hard. A rockslide was probably not something the elf encountered often, and Gimli felt a flash of amusement as he noticed that Legolas was trembling slightly.

"Master Elf?" he questioned, glancing to his right as another rock tumbled past.

The elf stopped shaking and slowly lowered his hands, raising his head tentatively to eye the situation. "It is over?"

Gimli nodded and eased himself away from the large boulder that had saved them, coughing as he did so. There was still much dust in the air, and he and the elf would do well to leave the area as soon as possible. "Are you injured?" he asked, noticing that Legolas was slow to right himself.

"I am unhurt," the elf replied, his voice curt.

"Then come," Gimli said, picking Pippin up and trying to situate him in a way that required no support from his injured arm. "We must find clearer air, and this disturbance will have been heard for miles."

"It seems we are moving sooner than either of us expected to," Legolas murmured, stepping to Gimli’s side and taking Pippin from him. "Your shoulder still bothers you," he said in answer to the dwarf’s dark glare. "Allow me to carry the hobbit. We travel faster this way."

Pride once again warred with common sense, but as before, common sense won out and the dwarf reluctantly nodded. Turning, he began picking his way through the rocks that now littered the ground, treading carefully lest one turn underfoot and cause a sprained ankle. The last thing he needed was another injury.

"Gimli?"

The dwarf stopped and turned around, surprised. Legolas rarely used his name when addressing him. "Yes?" he asked, his eyes suspicious.

"Our…disagreement almost prevented you from sensing the rockslide," the elf said, his voice strained. He coughed and then shook his head, blinking at the dust. "I do not wish for that to happen again. And I…I thank you for warning me."

Now thoroughly surprised, Gimli stared while grasping vainly for some kind of answer. It had obviously taken quite a bit for Legolas to say that, and he could keenly sense the elf’s discomfort. "You are welcome," he murmured at length, noticing that he was on the verge of another series of coughs. Gimli hesitated then, unsure of his next words, and ultimately blundered forward. "Thank you for guiding me."

Legolas gave a terse nod, his eyes not meeting the dwarf’s. "We are even, then, but let us take care to see that we meet with no more distractions."

"Agreed," Gimli said, wondering at himself. "If that is all, Master Elf, let us continue. This dust is not good for Pippin." And with that, unable to look at Legolas any longer, Gimli turned back around and resumed the journey. If nothing else, this side trip into the ravine was proving…interesting.

* * * *

As the last sounds of falling rocks died away, Aragorn pursed his lips and shook his head. That had not sounded good, and the Ranger could only imagine how much dust and debris now filled the bottom of the ravine. Judging from the noise, the slide had taken place about a mile back, and Aragorn hoped that Legolas, Gimli, and Pippin had been well beyond it. But if they had been hampered by injuries… Aragorn grimaced. He did not want to think about the implications.

Beside the Ranger, Boromir let out a slow breath. Like Aragorn, the noise had roused him from a restless slumber, and he now watched as dust rose out of the ravine, clouding the sky and blocking sight. "If they were caught in that, I do not think much of their chances," Boromir murmured, sounding as though he spoke more to himself than to anyone else.

"We must hope that they avoided it," Gandalf said, leaning against his staff and staring into the dust as though it might show him their lost comrades. "To think otherwise is only to invite doubt and despair."

"Is not doubt an integral part of prudence?" Boromir asked.

Aragorn sighed, sensing the beginning of the debate that had taken place late last night. He did not want to argue this again. There was nothing to be gained from it, for the hobbits—and Merry especially—would allow no other course to be taken so long as they retained an inkling of hope that Pippin survived. And beyond that, Boromir’s words stirred the haunting doubt in Aragorn’s own heart. For the moment, his uncertainty was balanced by his hope, but it was a tenuous balance at best and more pessimism on Boromir’s part might well tip the scales.

"What would have us do, Boromir?" Gandalf asked. "We may well entertain doubts, but of what use are they? We are bound by the duty of friendship to seek our lost companions. Think you that you are capable of persuading Merry, Frodo, and Sam to turn another direction? Can you find it in your heart to turn aside yourself?"

"I do not counsel abandoning them," Boromir said, his tone becoming angry. "I am not one to leave a comrade by the wayside, and I am insulted you thought otherwise."

"Peace, son of Denethor," Gandalf said, waving his hand in dismissal. "It was but a challenge, not a reflection of my thoughts. I have no doubt but what you are a man of loyalty, for such are the teachings and policies of Gondor even at the end of its glory. Yet you have no answered my question, Boromir. What would you have us do? You counsel prudence and remind us that doubt exists, but you have not stated your purpose for doing so."

"I would look further ahead than simply the ravine’s end," Boromir answered, slightly mollified. "You know as well as I, Mithrandir, that there is little chance of ever seeing our comrades again. If they are not waiting for us when we arrive, how long shall we wait for them? And even if they do survive to climb out of the ravine, what makes you think that they shall expect our coming? Perhaps they shall head for the main road and resume the journey, thinking that we did likewise."

"Legolas will not make that assumption," Aragorn said, reluctantly deciding to involve himself in the conversation. "He knows we will make for a likely rendezvous. At the very least, I will be waiting for them. As his friend, I owe him no less. Indeed, I owe him a great deal more."

"That is well and good, but what of Frodo? What of that which he bears? Shall It also tarry, waiting for companions we might never see again?" Boromir shook his head, his mounting frustration evident. "We cannot separate, for we are already few in number. We cannot leave some behind to wait while others go ahead. Yet judging from the feel of this company, you would have use wait out the rest of the Age. Gondor is strong, but even she will not last that long."

"Your fear is misplaced," Gandalf said. "We will not wait long. An hour perhaps, or two. After that, we shall depart on our road."

Aragorn blinked and stared at the wizard. "An hour would require them to be keeping time with us, and would assume they had no injuries or problems to delay them. Surely we must give them more time than two hours!"

"To my mind, more than an hour is far too much," Boromir said. "We carry the fate of the world, Aragorn. We cannot tarry for an elf, a dwarf, and a hobbit."

"That elf, dwarf, and hobbit are bound up in our fate," Aragorn shot back, feeling the bite of anger and trying to force it back.

"Aragorn, if our friends escape the ravine but we have already left the area, then Legolas and Gimli should be able to find us," Gandalf interjected. "Both are capable trackers. If they escape the ravine and find us waiting for them, so much the better. And Boromir, two hours is not so great a time to wait for lost comrades. It will give our hobbit friends a chance to rest before we begin climbing into more arduous terrain, and it will be necessary for their morale. Your concern is admirable, my friends, but both of you must realize that sacrifices are required. We will not tarry less than an hour, yet we shall not prolong our wait for more than two hours." The wizard stared at both Boromir and Aragorn for a moment and then nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw. "Now that this is settled and behind us," both Aragorn and Boromir made faint sounds of disagreement at this, but Gandalf studiously ignored them, "I counsel rest. There is still an hour left to my watch, and you would be wise to use that hour well, Boromir, ere it is your turn."

"So long as keep in mind that Frodo and the mission are of paramount importance," Boromir said darkly with a glance at the hobbits. His brow furrowed and he frowned, shaking his head. "It is beyond me how any creature can sleep so soundly. Surely the rockslide would have roused them."

At this, Aragorn discovered that he could not quite keep back a short laugh, and he smiled helplessly when Boromir turned a questioning gaze upon him. "They need sleep," the Ranger explained with a shrug. "Their thoughts will be clearer if they are well rested."

"They will not easily forgive you for this," Gandalf warned.

"A Ranger is used to being disliked, and I am no exception to this," Aragorn answered, his mind flashing back over a long lifetime of trying experiences. "The disapproval of the hobbits will be no great concern."

"You drugged them," Boromir surmised, his eyes narrow.

"Merely something to aid their slumber," Aragorn said. "Fear not, though, for it is not potent enough to hinder them should we need to move during the day for any reason."

"I wondered how it was that Merry was sleeping," Boromir muttered.

"You should follow his example," Gandalf said, pulling out his pipe and searching his pack for pipe-weed. "We have far to travel, and your strength will be needed in the days ahead."

"You seem to have taken a keen interest in our sleeping habits," Aragorn noted, though he did move toward his bed where his cloak served as both mattress and blanket.

"Perhaps I am simply weary of ill-tempers caused by lack of sleep on your parts," Gandalf retorted.

"And what of irritable wizards?" Aragorn asked.

"If you continue this conversation, you might very well create one."

The Ranger laughed quietly but did not press the issue, choosing instead to lie down and follow the counsel he had been given. In any case, he was not truly in the mood for banter, and he sensed that Gandalf felt the same. Their mirth was forced, and their hearts were elsewhere. Tonight will tell, Aragorn sighed, closing his eyes and forcing his mind and body to relax. I pray you remember my words, Legolas and Gimli, for if you do not work together, you sacrifice not only yourselves but also Pippin.

* * * *

He was first aware of a gentle rocking motion, something so soothing that for a long time, he made no effort to collect any more information concerning his surroundings. It was such a comfort to simply lie still and be rocked as vague memories of home and family awoke, memories so distant that they seemed to come from another lifetime. But his attention span was shorter than most, and it wasn’t long before Peregrin Took decided that he was bored with simply rocking back and forth. So he moved on to bigger and better things.

It didn’t take him long to discover that, while bigger might be the case, better was certainly not. His next discovery was a feeling of dust and grit clogging his mouth, his nose, and his eyes. This was coupled by a pounding headache that would have surely been heard by everyone in not only the Great Smials but the entire West Farthing. The ringing in his ears was shrill enough that it stood a good chance of drowning out the voice of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins should the two sounds ever compete. The rocking motion was no longer as pleasant as it had been before, because it seemed to exacerbate his headache. In addition to that, his stomach had decided to join the party by announcing its intent to send whatever contents it had hurtling up his throat and out his mouth. Pippin quickly came to the decision that things would have been best had he simply been content with the initial rocking motion. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about that now.

"Pippin?"

The outside voice rang through his head like a siren, echoing back and forth until finally dying away. The hobbit moaned pitifully, wondering just how bad things were going to get, and then the voice sounded again.

"Peregrin Took?"

If Pippin wanted that voice to stop, he was going to have to respond to it in some way. Otherwise, it would probably keep calling him until his brains assumed the consistency of one of Sam’s stews. Putting all his hobbit endurance and tenacity behind this single objective, Pippin concentrated and eventually his eyes fluttered open.

The world that met him was strange and disorienting. The sky above might have been blue in color, but Pippin couldn’t tell as dust hung thick in the air. He heard a muffled coughing sound and then his body decided to follow his suit. By the time his lungs finished expelling the fine particles that had collected in them, Pippin was ready to cut his throbbing head off.

"So he is awake."

The voices—and Pippin had eventually recognized that there were two distinct voices speaking from time to time—were softer now and didn’t hurt his head so much. But the hobbit was having trouble placing himself and could not recall exactly what had happened. Thus, he needed to speak to these voices and have them explain things, so he tried to hold his vision steady and focus on nearby objects.

This proved to be more of a challenge than it should have been. Pippin’s sight was strangely blurred, and looking at any one thing for a long period of time made him dizzy. On top of that, the world seemed to have developed a crazy spin, and at times, the hobbit was certain that he was upside down.

"Pippin, can you speak to us?"

The voices were getting louder again, and Pippin detected a note of growing concern. This wouldn’t do. If they became too concerned, they would undoubtedly start shouting, and the hobbit didn’t want to imagine what that would do to his head. Concentrating as much as was possible given the pounding behind his eyes, Pippin refocused his energy and his determination, tried to make his mouth move in a semi-coherent manner, and finally managed to spit out a rather garbled sentence.

"What happened?"

Pippin felt a chest move with a silent sigh of relief and abruptly realized that someone was carrying him. That explained the rocking motion. "You were hit on the head during the rockslide that took us into the ravine," someone said. "How do you feel?"

Well that’s a silly question, Pippin scoffed. How do you think I feel? But he didn’t voice these thoughts out loud, for the small amount of tact that occasionally graced Pippin’s mind had decided to make an appearance. Instead, he started running back over his last moments of consciousness as gaps began to fill themselves in. Ah, he thought. Now I remember. A rockslide. That makes sense, then. I think. It would explain my head and—wait a minute… What rockslide?

"Pippin?"

"Still here," the hobbit mumbled, noting that it was becoming easier to speak. "How…how long was I unconscious?"

"A day and a half," the rougher of the two voices answered. "I feared you might never open your eyes again, Master Hobbit. It seemed that—"

"Pippin, can you see me?"

Unfortunately, Pippin was trying to answer that question himself. The blurry world was still tilting precariously to the side as though at any moment all of Arda might slip into the sea, and to make things worse, there was at least two of everything. Pippin could now tell that figures were hovering above his body and that one of these figures was still holding him, but he couldn’t tell anything beyond that. He didn’t know how many people were around, who they were, what they were doing, or where they were. Still, there’s probably only two people here, because only two people have spoken, but that’s no guarantee.

"Pippin?" the softer voice prompted again.

"I…what happened?"

"I already answered that question, Pippin. In return, please answer mine. Can you see me? Do you know who I am?"

Pippin decided that he was at a severe disadvantage and that it was terribly unfair for this voice to be exploiting that. Apparently the owner of the voice could still see. He couldn’t and was now being forced to admit it out loud. "No to both questions," he finally said, wincing as shame crept over him.

A rather uncomfortable silence fell, and then the gruff voice spoke again. "We should continue. The dust here is still thick."

"Wait!" Pippin interrupted just as he felt the rocking motion begin anew. "Wait, where am I? Who are you? What happened? When did—"

"I am Gimli, Master Hobbit. As for what happened and where you are, you hit your head while falling down a ravine and now travel in the company of myself and the elf," Gimli answered. "We are still in the ravine and are hoping to reach the top soon where we shall rejoin the rest of the Fellowship. It is currently sometime in the middle of the afternoon."

"Oh," Pippin murmured, his mind clicking away with this latest information. "No one else is around?"

"Nay, I fear you are forced to endure our company," Legolas answered, his hand gently sweeping Pippin’s hair away from his forehead. "Do you feel ready to travel again, my friend? Or shall I wait until you are better prepared?"

"No, you can go," Pippin answered. "The sooner we get out of here, the better."

"Tell me if your sight improves," Gimli instructed. "Aragorn shall wish to know all the details of your injury."

That’s assuming I ever see Strider again, the hobbit thought despairingly. He couldn’t think of a worse pair to be caught with, and he was slightly amazed that they hadn’t killed one another already. Probably waiting for me to wake up so Legolas can put me down. Gimli’s too honorable to attack while the elf is carrying me. I guess I’ll just have to play sick until we get out of this canyon, or ravine, or whatever it is. And that won’t be too hard to do, he added as a wave of nausea swept up from his stomach. He shivered slightly and hoped he hadn’t been fed anything recently.

"Are you well, Pippin?" Legolas asked, apparently having felt the hobbit tremble.

"Fine," Pippin mumbled, wondering for the first time if he really was fine. But it didn’t really matter, after all, because no matter what his condition, there wasn’t a lot that could be done about it right now. So in true hobbit fashion, Pippin shoved all questions regarding his health to the back of his mind and ignored them. "Let’s go. I don’t want to spend any more time down here than I have to."

"Believe me, young hobbit, when I say that I heartily share your wish," Legolas whispered, and with this rather unnerving statement, the world began to rock and the journey began once again.

Mahal—Dwarven name for Aulë

Author’s Notes: Just to warn you all, this is, without a doubt, the LONGEST chapter I have ever written! So for those of you who like it short and sweet, my apologies. To others who like it long (I’m thinking of you, kneidinger), enjoy!

January 10, 3019 (Night)

Merry was not a happy hobbit.

He had not intended to sleep during the day, thinking he could encourage the others to make an early start by staying awake and serving as a reminder that three members of the Fellowship were still missing. But a great drowsiness had come over him even as he positioned himself on the outside of camp, and before he knew what had happened, he was being shaken by Aragorn and told to rise for supper. Or supper-breakfast. Or whatever it was being called now.

Confused and bewildered, Merry had obeyed almost automatically, but he could only manage a few bites before worry for Pippin swiftly closed back in. Leaving his meal unfinished—a blaring klaxon that all was not right with the hobbit—and packing his things quickly, he had stalked to the edge of camp and tried to look expectant in the hopes that this would encourage others to follow his example. It was then that the soft conversation between Frodo and Sam came to his ears, and after hearing that they, too, had fallen asleep far too quickly for their own liking, it did not take long to figure out what had happened.

Aragorn had been immediately confronted by all three hobbits, and when the Ranger admitted that he had slipped something into the hobbits’ water skins, Merry had come very close to screaming. Fortunately, he remembered their need for secrecy before the wail of frustration could escape, and instead of screaming, he gave Aragorn his darkest glare and stalked back to the edge of camp. It would be a long time before he trusted the Ranger again. It would be an even longer time before he let him anywhere near his food. That is, when he started eating food again…

"Merry? Will you be all right?"

The hobbit looked up in surprise, not having realized that he had acquired company. "I’m fine," he said tersely, glancing at Frodo and then looking away again.

Frodo made a faint noise of disbelief and stepped in front of the other hobbit, forcing him to meet his gaze. "You’re not fine. Even Bill can sense that! But that wasn’t really my question. I asked if you will be fine."

Merry scowled. "How am I supposed to know that? Don’t tell me that you can now read the future."

Frodo sighed and shook his head. "I’m not trying to be your enemy, Merry; I’m trying to be your friend. But I can’t help you unless you’re willing to help yourself. And that’s why I asked if you’ll be all right later. But if you’ve already decided that you won’t be, then I can’t do anything for you."

"You’re not making any sense," Merry said stubbornly, attempting to keep his sour mood.

"Yes, I am, and you know it. So stop fighting me and figure out the answer to my question. Will you be all right?"

For a long time, Merry glared at Frodo and hoped that the force of his glare would send the Ring-bearer somewhere else. But when Frodo showed no signs of moving, Merry eventually gave up and looked away, sighing softly. "I don’t know," he murmured. "I don’t know whether or not I’ll be fine."

"At least you haven’t ruled out the possibility," Frodo said, gently placing a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. "That’s good."

"He’s down there somewhere," Merry whispered. "I know it, but I don’t know how to find him. And if he doesn’t make it out…"

"He will," Frodo whispered. "You just have to believe that. If you think anything else, it only hurts. You just have to believe that Pippin will come out with Legolas and Gimli and that we’ll be able to go on from there."

"But how can I?!" Merry demanded. "You saw the way Gimli and Legolas were ready to attack each other. Why should that be any different down there? And what if Pippin happens to get in the way? They’d never hurt him intentionally, but they’re both bigger than Pippin and if things get ugly…" Merry trailed off, unable to go on.

"I’ve met elves before, and I’ve also met quite a few dwarves," Frodo said. "And you know what? They’re actually very similar. Both are stubborn, both are proud, but both are loyal. Very loyal. They’ll protect Pippin, Merry. I’m sure of it"

"How can you be so certain?" Merry asked.

Frodo shrugged. "Because if I’m not, then I’m too worried to think. This is the only way to keep myself sane." A noise from behind then caught Frodo’s attention, and glancing over his shoulder, he grinned at what he saw. "How are you doing, Sam?"

"Whatever Strider gave me that knocked me out this morning didn’t agree with my stomach, I can tell you that much, Mr. Frodo," Sam grumbled as he made his way over to the other two hobbits.

"That’s another thing," Merry muttered. "I don’t like the idea of Strider drugging us. Maybe it was for our own good, but—"

"He should have said something, I know," Frodo interrupted, his tone quiet and soothing. "I’m upset, too, but thinking back on it, I don’t know as I’d have found any other way to get to sleep. And I know I would have refused if Strider offered to give me something. So it was really the only way for us to rest. What about you? Would you have taken something to help you sleep?"

"I wasn’t going to sleep," Merry confessed.

Sam frowned. "Why not? It was a nice day and I wouldn’t have minded enjoying it, but I don’t see as how staying awake for all of it would help find Pippin. I’m worried about him, too, but there’s nothing we can do except keep moving up the ravine."

"I don’t know exactly what I was thinking," Merry sighed. "And I still don’t. I just know that I’m worried and that I don’t like standing around with nothing to do."

"It will be all right," Frodo assured him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "I don’t like this any more than you do, but right now, the only thing for us to do is sit sight and endure. Right, Sam?"

Sam nodded. "Mr. Frodo and I had a good long talk about this yesterday before we stopped for camp. It’s no use thinking about what might happen or what could be happening because we don’t know what really is happening. And until we know, there’s nothing we can do about it."

"I can’t just stop worrying!" Merry said, his frustration rising. "This is Pippin we’re talking about. I don’t see how you can just—"

"We’re also worried," Frodo said quickly. "But we’re not letting it get to us because we can be more useful if we stay calm. And that’s what you have to do, Merry. During the Old Forest, you were the only one who really didn’t panic. At least not until Old Man Willow. You have to be like that now. You have to be strong."

"But I knew the Old Forest," Merry whispered. "I knew what kind of dangers there were. Or, rather, I thought I knew. But this…this is so different!"

"It’s not different at all, Mr. Merry," Sam spoke up. "I was worried in that nasty Forest of yours, but if you were scared, you didn’t show it. And that helped. Now look at Gandalf and Strider and Boromir. They’re worried, too, but they’re also calm. And they know what’s going on better than we do. It will be okay, Merry, you just have to trust them."

"Strider was the one who drugged us," Merry pointed out sullenly.

Frodo sighed and shook his head. "So talk to him about it. Ask him exactly why he did it. I’m sure that he’ll tell you, and he’ll probably even apologize again, too."

"It wouldn’t do any good," Merry muttered. "It’s already done. He made us sleep."

"Well, if it’s already been done then why are you so upset?"

"You don’t understand, Frodo," Merry snapped.

"Merry, Pippin is also my friend. And he’s Sam’s friend. Gandalf, Strider, and Boromir all consider him a friend. They’re doing everything in their power to get us to a place where we can meet back up with Pippin. And we’ll find Legolas and Gimli there, too. What more can you ask, Merry? What more do you want us to do?"

Merry sighed wearily and rubbed his face. "I’m sorry, Frodo. I guess I’m just letting my worry go to my head. I don’t mean to be a problem, but…I don’t know what else to do."

"It’s okay to be worried," Frodo said softly. "Just don’t let it control you."

With a nod, Merry let out a deep breath and straightened. "Thanks," he whispered.

"That’s what friends are for," Frodo said, smiling slightly. He then turned back to the camp, keeping one hand on Merry’s shoulder. "I think we’re ready to go," he called, addressing his words to Gandalf, Boromir, and Aragorn.

"Bill is loaded and prepared?" Gandalf asked.

"Everything is set," Frodo answered, "and we’re all anxious to start over here."

Merry blinked and stared at Frodo. "You were waiting for me? You mean that the entire time we were talking we could have been traveling?"

"Not at first," Frodo shrugged. "Sam was still loading Bill."

"But after he came over here and joined us, we could have left?!"

"No, because you weren’t ready."

Some very choice words immediately came to mind as Merry struggled to control his growing rage, but the understanding in Frodo’s eyes and the compassion coming from Sam stopped his voice ere he could speak. Knowing he’d been defeated and deciding it was probably for the best, Merry allowed a rueful smile to spread across his face and shook his head. "Thanks again."

"As I already said, that’s what friends are for," Frodo answered as they began walking. "And you’re more than welcome."

* * * *

Legolas had finally admitted to himself why he was really in such a hurry to get out of the ravine. And in reality, it had very little to do with Pippin’s head injury, the desire to rejoin the Fellowship, or even Gimli’s company. Those were all influential factors, to be certain, but the true reason was something that went much deeper and touched upon the very essence of who Legolas was. The real reason for his insistence that they escape the ravine was because he felt he had lost control.

The sounds of yet another rockslide had echoed up the ravine in the late afternoon, and Gimli had casually mentioned that the cliff walls were extremely soft and highly susceptible to erosion. The ravine itself was the result of a river now gone that had cut into the rock and worn it away. Gimli suspected that the ravine had been widening ever since its formation because of the nature of the rocks that formed it. This was all somewhat interesting to Legolas, but it clearly illustrated for him the problem that had haunted him ever since falling into the gorge. He was not attuned to the rocks as Gimli was. At times he could hear them sigh or whisper of the elves who once dwelt here, but other than that, the world of Arda herself was closed to him. Gimli, on the other hand, had a sense for the cliffs and the boulders. He had felt the morning’s rockslide ere the first pebble had even begun to roll. Were it not for the dwarf’s senses, they might have all been buried, and this troubled Legolas deeply.

The elf was used to knowing his surroundings. He was used to having an awareness of the danger that threatened himself and his companions. But trapped in this ravine and caught between unstable walls, that sense was gone. He could not anticipate the occurrence of a rockslide as Gimli could. He could not look ahead and see the next threat coming from afar. To a large extent, his safety was now dependent upon the dwarf, and this dependency was severely threatening the elf’s sanity. Legolas felt that he had to escape the confines of the ravine soon or fall prey to the effects of madness!

Unfortunately, their journey had now come to a grinding halt. A recent rockslide, which Gimli had estimated to be about two days old, had blocked the path, and a tumble of piled boulders loomed above them, creating a cliff face of debris that could not easily be surmounted. Determined not to lose hope so quickly, Gimli had gone left while Legolas had gone right, each searching for a path that might take them around the wall. But neither had met with any success, and now both stood together again, staring at their newest obstacle as though the heat of their combined glares might melt the rocks and form of them a road to freedom.

Still cradled in the elf’s arms, Pippin blinked glazed eyes open and tried to turn his head. "Why have we stopped? What time is it?"

"The sun is setting," Legolas murmured, deciding to ignore the first question for now. "Rest. It will be dark soon."

"What’s happening?" Pippin persisted, squirming slightly. "Where’s Gimli?"

"Here," the dwarf answered absently, kneeling next to a large boulder and pressing his hand against it.

"What’s going on? Why aren’t we moving?" the hobbit demanded.

"A small delay," Legolas reassured him, hoping to reassure himself in the process. But the situation was desperately hopeless. Legolas was carrying Pippin and Gimli was still suffering the aftereffects of a dislocated shoulder. On his own, the elf might have been able to manage this sheer wall of boulders, but with a dazed hobbit to look after and an injured dwarf to consider, the task of moving forward was nigh unto impossible.

"I have no rope," Gimli announced after a lengthy pause. "What of you?"

"None," Legolas answered quietly, eyeing the rocks much as one would eye a dangerous adversary. "If any of the Fellowship thought to bring rope, it would have been Sam."

"He didn’t," Pippin muttered. "He was complaining about it the night we left."

"Then we shall have to find something that might serve as rope," Gimli murmured. "For that is the only way we shall manage to get Pippin over this."

Legolas frowned and wondered how a rope was going to help them. There was no one at the top of the pile to aid them, which mean that someone would have to go up there, a tricky prospect at best. And though Legolas was fairly confident that he could manage the climb, he did not think he could brace himself firmly enough to haul both a hobbit and a dwarf up after him. Though if I could leave the dwarf behind…

"Straps," Gimli suddenly said, interrupting the elf’s thoughts. "Straps for baggage and quivers. They shall have to do, for we have naught else. Yet length shall be a problem. Pippin, can you stand?"

Legolas felt the hobbit move experimentally in his arms. "Maybe," he eventually answered. "I’m still dizzy, but the world isn’t spinning so fast anymore."

"It would be unwise for you to climb in your current condition," Legolas said quietly, his words directed to Pippin but pitched so that they would carry to Gimli.

"I said nothing of climbing," Gimli replied rather tersely, correctly interpreting Legolas’s warning. "I asked if Pippin was able to stand."

"Not for very long and I’d probably need something to lean against," the hobbit confessed with a soft sigh.

"That can be arranged," Gimli murmured, now speaking more to himself than to anyone else. "I found a place just to the east where it appears that some of the rocks began ricocheting back off the far wall of the ravine. The pile is more jumbled there and because of this, there are ledges and outcroppings where one might stand. And these places are close enough that it might be possible to pull Pippin up into one and then ascend to the next with enough rope for there to still be some slack."

"If we sacrifice the straps, how shall we pull up our packs?" Legolas asked.

"The main concern as I see it, Master Elf, is to get Pippin over this obstacle. Baggage is of secondary importance."

"Nevertheless, this baggage contains food, supplies, and weapons, Master Dwarf," Legolas answered, his voice growing cold. "It is not lightly left behind. Aside from being needful for our journey, should it be discovered it would be an obvious indication that we had passed this way. It might also reveal clues as to who and what we are."

Gimli was quiet for a moment, his dark eyes boring into the elf’s, and then he grunted slightly. "Then we shall find a way to leave nothing behind," he said. "Once Pippin is safely over, the rope will no longer be needed and the baggage can be retrieved."

"Time consuming," Legolas pointed out with a shake of his head. "And time is of the essence."

"Have you a better idea?" the dwarf demanded.

Unfortunately, Legolas didn’t. Nor was it likely that he would suddenly find a better idea in the near future. Rocks and quarries were not his specialty, and he was already disconcerted by his forced dependence upon the dwarf. Beyond that, he was now experiencing feelings of helplessness and vulnerability. There seemed to be absolutely nothing he could do about their predicament, and this idea did not sit well with the elf. But until he could rectify the situation, he would have to trust some of his safety to the dwarf, unpleasant as that might be. And so, with jaw tightening and eyes hard as oak, Legolas reluctantly swallowed his pride and met Gimli’s questioning stare. "Where is this place you spoke of?"

A look of supreme triumph flashed across Gimli’s face, but it vanished before Legolas could say aught. Assuming a casual expression, the dwarf turned toward the east and began walking. "This way," he answered, his voice calm but touched with a hint of smugness. "It is not far."

Legolas was sorely tempted to lash out at the dwarf, but fortunately for all involved, he managed to curb his tongue and his temper. It was no easy task and required almost all of his willpower, but it was accomplished. Thus, with a rigid walk and stony eyes, Legolas followed the dwarf along the base of the rock pile, still trying to work out the logistics of the plan in his mind. If they lashed together all the straps from their packs, they would form a stiff rope but it would be very short, probably just a bit more than four meters in length. It they were going to use it to haul Pippin up the debris, they would need to find several ledges that were quite close together. And Legolas still hadn’t figured out how Gimli was going to manage the climb. The dwarf was trying to hide it, but Legolas could tell that he was still favoring his right arm.

"Here," Gimli announced, stopping next to the remains of a tree that appeared to have been caught in the slide.

Glancing up at the rocks, Legolas ran critical eyes over the course they were to climb and eventually had to admit—to himself, at any rate, for he would never admit this aloud—that the dwarf was right. There was a possibility that they could manage this. "Pippin, I am going to set you down for a moment," the elf murmured, kneeling and gently lowering the hobbit to the ground.

"I can try standing if you need me to," Pippin answered.

"Nay, rest a bit. For the time being, your assistance is not required."

Pippin seemed more than happy with this arrangement, and Legolas shook his head in amusement. Even in dire circumstances, hobbits could find joy in the little things. Alas that much of my innocence was lost centuries ago, the elf sighed, unbuckling his quiver and removing the strap. He took his belt off as well and looked up as Gimli’s belt and straps joined his.

"If we lash this rope onto Pippin’s belt, the rest can be used for climbing," the dwarf said, glancing at the hobbit.

"Then let us set to work," Legolas said, tying his quiver strap and belt together. "I will do the initial climbing while you stay behind and steady Pippin. When I have found a place where the hobbit might rest comfortably, I shall pull him up and then repeat the process. How shall you climb this, Master Dwarf?"

"I suspect I shall climb it the same way you do," the dwarf answered gruffly, a warning light gleaming in his eyes.

"In that, you are wrong. My reach is longer than yours and in this I shall have the advantage," Legolas shot back, feeling a small thrill at the idea that he was about to force Gimli into admitting a weakness. "Beyond that, your arm is still tender and I would advise against putting too much strain on it."

"Worry about yourself, elf," Gimli said sharply. "You shall have enough to look after on your own." The dwarf then seized the rope Legolas had made of his belt and quiver strap, connecting them to the straps and belt he had contributed. "Think yourself ready?"

"A dwarf is not the only being who is always ready," Legolas answered coolly, taking the rope back and wrapping one end around his hand. "I shall begin the ascent while you see to securing Pippin."

"What’s going on?" Pippin asked blearily.

"Naught for a moment," Gimli answered, kneeling next to the hobbit and looping the makeshift rope around his belt.

"Are we climbing yet?"

"Soon."

"Do I need to stand?"

"It depends upon the elf," Gimli answered, glancing at Legolas. "Hopefully, no."

Ignoring the obvious skepticism in Gimli’s tone, Legolas backed away from the pile of rocks and looked for the first series of handholds. Finding what appeared to be a suitable starting place, he stepped forward and began. It was not as easy as climbing trees since his senses could not immediately place the next foothold, but Legolas soon found that it was not as difficult as he’d anticipated. Pulling himself up on the first ledge and determining that it would probably support both Pippin and Gimli, he turned around and glanced back down expectantly. The dwarf roused the hobbit and murmured something to him. Responding to whispered instructions, Pippin drew his legs up into his chest, wrapped one arm around the rope, and then wrapped the other arm around his head.

"I shall climb beside him," Gimli called up. "Do not pull too fast."

Legolas frowned and wondered just what kind of an idiot the dwarf took him for. Of course he was not going to pull too fast, for that would bash Pippin against the rocks. Exercising great restraint, Legolas waited until the dwarf had begun to scramble up the rock, and then he began pulling the hobbit next to him. Between the two of them, they managed to keep Pippin away from the rocky surface for the most part, though his back did scrap along the last bit where it slanted.

"Hold your position, Master Dwarf," Legolas instructed, continuing to pull Pippin. "This ledge is wide enough only for two."

Gimli didn’t answer and Legolas wondered if his arm was bothering him. But regardless of his condition, the dwarf did stop climbing and braced himself with his feet and his left arm, his right arm coming down and hanging limply at his side. Shaking his head at the dwarf’s stubbornness, Legolas pulled Pippin the rest of the way up and propped him against the rock wall.

"It is wide enough here for you to sit, my friend," Legolas whispered, brushing Pippin’s hair off his forehead. The hobbit’s eyes were wide and he was staring at the ground below them, his mind apparently turning the ten feet into fifty. "Pippin?" Legolas prompted, reluctant to leave the hobbit until he had received something of a response.

"I’m fine here," Pippin finally answered. "Go on."

"Worry not," Legolas assured him. "We shall surmount this obstacle. Gimli shall be here soon to see that you do not slip."

"I know," Pippin muttered, shutting his eyes and turning his head away from the ground. "But knowing it and believing it are two different things. Go on, I’ll be fine."

Deciding that this was a much as could be expected from the hobbit, Legolas nodded and stood, searching for the next available handhold. He found it quickly and once again began climbing, aiming for another small ledge that might support Pippin and Gimli. Below him, he heard the dwarf’s chain mail clinking against the rocks, and then came murmured words of comfort as Gimli pulled himself up next to the hobbit. It struck the elf for the first time that Gimli had always been very protective of the hobbits. Strange that I did not notice before, Legolas thought to himself, pausing to glance back down. It was a rather odd sight, actually. Pippin was pressing hard against the side of the piled debris, and Gimli had placed himself between the hobbit and the edge, acting as a shield should aught happen. In addition to that, the dwarf was still whispering to Pippin, but his words were so low that even Legolas could not quite make out what was said. The few words he did catch seemed to be variations on the theme of safety and encouragement, and despite their rather precarious position, it seemed that whatever Gimli was saying actually helped. Pippin was certainly not the quintessence of peace and tranquility, but his pale face did regain a bit of color and his rapid breathing seemed to slow marginally.

All of which was neither here nor there, and mildly berating himself, Legolas turned his attention back to the task at hand, which involved finding a foothold while he scrambled for a grip on the ledge that sat just above his head. This particular area proved to be a bit more difficult as the cliff was slightly undercut, but after some rather innovative maneuvering, Legolas hooked one leg over a rock outcropping and managed to swing himself up.

"Pippin?" Legolas called down.

"He is ready," Gimli answered as Pippin clutched at the rope and drew his legs up again.

Bracing himself as much as he was able, Legolas nodded and then began pulling the hobbit up the side of the rockslide. Gimli scrambled up alongside Pippin, still favoring his right arm, and managed to keep the hobbit from receiving too many knocks and bruises as he swung haphazardly through the air. Eventually, Legolas was able to reach down and take Pippin by the arms, lifting him up and over the edge that jutted out slightly. After making certain that the hobbit was still somewhat calm and seeing that he was positioned a safe distance from the drop off, Legolas then looked back down and silently groaned.

Gimli was not faring as well as his companions. His arms were not long enough to safely reach the next handhold, and his right shoulder was not up to taking the strain necessary to get up onto the ledge. Wondering at his actions but forcing himself to move before he could think things through, Legolas stretched out on his stomach and lowered one arm.

"You will need assistance for this part."

Gimli froze at the elf’s voice, and a multitude of emotions raced through his dark eyes. They moved too quickly for Legolas to interpret them, but he was quite confident that the dwarf was less than pleased. For a small eternity, nothing happened. And then Gimli looked up, his face unreadable.

"Will that ledge hold all of us?"

"Yes. It is larger than the last one," Legolas answered.

Gimli gave a slow nod, took a deep breath, and then reluctantly stretched his left hand up toward the elf. Legolas had to scoot forward in order to reach him, but he managed to get a good grip around the dwarf’s wrist while the dwarf grasped the elf’s gauntlet in return. "I am ready," Gimli murmured, and his voice was gruff and angry.

Stifling a smile and making certain that he was securely braced, Legolas took a breath and then pulled. For a moment, he was certain that the weigh of the dwarf would take them both back to the ground. He had not expected Gimli to be quite this heavy, and though the dwarf was helping as much as he could by pushing off with his feet, it was still a surprisingly difficult task. Scrambling backward across the slippery ledge, he felt the rock shudder beneath him and his heart froze. Gimli apparently felt it also, for his grip loosened and he began to pull against the elf.

"Hold still, foolish dwarf!" Legolas hissed, struggling to keep his hold.

"We are too heavy. Let me go!" Gimli protested.

"If you ascend quickly, then I will be able to leave this ledge and decrease the weight," Legolas shot back. He might not have any great fondness for the dwarf, but Legolas wasn’t about to let him fall. They’d come too far to lose him to something so trivial.

"You doom Pippin!"

"As do you. Now quit struggling and start helping!"

But the dwarf was nothing if not stubborn, and Legolas was making no progress in lifting Gimli any higher. In fact, he was beginning to slide forward and if he didn’t find a burst of strength soon, he was going to have to release the dwarf or risk falling himself. Yet even though Legolas possessed the legendary strength of the elves, he simply did not have the needed leverage to pull the solid dwarf up onto the ledge. He had almost given up hope when he felt small hands wrap around his ankle.

"Pippin?" he questioned, glancing back incredulously.

"I might not be able to keep my balance when I stand, but I can still help," Pippin muttered, his eyes shut tight.

"Together, then," Legolas said, hoping he wasn’t asking too much of the hobbit. But at the moment, he could think of nothing else to do. And though Pippin’s strength was rather small, the hobbit had locked his feet around a gnarled tree stump that protruded from the debris and was secure in his position. It was just the leverage that Legolas needed, and with one great burst of energy, he bodily hauled Gimli up onto the ledge.

Blinking in surprise as he landed next to the exhausted elf, Gimli instinctively dropped to his stomach and tried to evenly distribute his weight. "That was foolish," he warned.

"Then we are all fools," Legolas answered, not having the energy to debate the issue.

"You more than most, elf, for this ledge will not hold us for long."

Anger flashed through Legolas, but he was too tired to heed it. Instead, he decided to ignore the dwarf for the time being and determine his next move. The next ledge was about twenty feet above him, and Legolas grimaced. The rope wouldn’t reach that far.

"I’m going to have to climb, aren’t I?" Pippin asked, resting on his back and following Legolas’s gaze.

"The elf and I will climb together," Gimli answered, moving toward the rock wall but staying on his stomach. "You, Master Hobbit, shall have to keep yourself clear of the cliff face on your own. We will pull you up after us."

"Is that wise?" Legolas asked.

"No, but since fate has just blessed you with fortune, I will risk my own stupid idea and hope that fortune is as kind to me. Come."

Legolas was not used to being ordered around by dwarves. It went against his upbringing, his personality, his beliefs, and his prejudices. He was also not used to being called foolish. The dwarf had gotten away with it the first few times, but Legolas’s patience was beginning to wear thin and Gimli would not be so lucky in the future. But at the moment, stranded as they were on the side of a cliff, Legolas decided there was really nothing he could do about it save to plot revenge for a later date. And so he wearily labored to his feet, wondered if he had pulled something in his arm, and began scrambling up after the dwarf.

At length, he felt the rope that he grasped pull taut, and he knew that the next step upwards would lift Pippin off the ground. He stopped for a moment, trying to collect his strength, and almost lost his hold as he started in surprise when Gimli reached over and seized the improvised rope. "This next area shall be difficult," Gimli said, looking at the climb above them. "We shall have to coordinate our movements. Take care, Master Elf."

"I fear that you are the one who shall need care," Legolas said coldly. "Do you feel yourself ready?"

"So long as your own strength is not overtaxed."

A dark glare crossed Legolas’s face and in answer to Gimli’s question, he started upward. A soft exclamation echoed up from below as Pippin suddenly found himself swinging, and then Gimli’s strength began assisting them. Little by little, elf and dwarf managed to move towards the next ledge. But it was difficult, for both were essentially climbing with one hand only, and for Gimli, that one hand was attached to an injured shoulder. As upset as he was with the dwarf, Legolas couldn’t help but notice that Gimli was beginning to move very slowly with each new handhold.

"Master Dwarf?"

"Hold your peace, elf," Gimli hissed, never ceasing to climb. "Save your energy for other things."

Legolas sighed, but if the dwarf wanted to play it that way, he wasn’t going to interfere. Why should he care anyway? Because were it not for the dwarf, you would still be looking for a way over this blockade, the cynical half of his mind pointed out. Legolas shook his head, trying to silence his traitorous thoughts, but he could not quite accomplish that. Once acknowledged, the thought stayed with him, and it could not be ignored.

Glancing up and trying to occupy his mind with physical action, Legolas noticed that the next ledge would not be hard for him to reach if he could but release Pippin for a moment. He looked over at the dwarf and tried to evaluate his condition, but Gimli was doing an admirable job of hiding his weariness.

Then I shall put that weariness to the test, Legolas decided. "Master Dwarf, have you the strength to support Pippin on your own for perhaps half a minute."

Gimli blinked at this and then turned his eyes upward. Apparently guessing what Legolas had in mind, he sighed quietly, seemed to collect himself, and then nodded. "Go."

That was not exactly the response Legolas had been looking for, though he conceded to himself that he really couldn’t expect the dwarf to bare his soul to an enemy while clinging to the side of a cliff. And so, quickly getting over his disappointment that Gimli had not confessed his exhaustion, Legolas slowly allowed the dwarf to take all of Pippin’s weight. Gimli’s face paled and his arm trembled slightly, but he showed no signs of failing in his grip.

Reassured that Gimli would be able to hold his position for a moment longer, Legolas hastily scrambled upwards and quickly pulled himself onto the ledge. Peering back down, he lowered his hand as he had done before and reached for the rope. Gimli had to lift himself a bit higher in order for the elf to catch the straps, but he somehow managed it and Legolas was soon pulling Pippin to safer ground. While he handled the hobbit, Gimli’s stubborn pride reasserted itself, and the dwarf eventually swung his shaking body up next to the elf, refusing all offers of aid but visibly shaking with weariness.

The rest of the climb was nowhere near as eventful as the first few ledges had been. The cliff began to slope and it soon turned into more of a very steep hill, though much care was still needed and Pippin was still pulled rather than moving on his own. But at length, the ordeal came to an end and Legolas could not help but breathe a sigh of relief as he detached the makeshift rope from Pippin’s belt.

"That was interesting," Pippin murmured, rubbing his head.

"Indeed it was, Master Took," Legolas laughed quietly.

"What about all our packs, though? They’re still back there along with your quiver." Pippin started to sit up, but he stopped before he could do so and clutched his head. "I don’t think I can help you get them," he muttered.

"And I did not expect you to," Legolas reassured him. "I shall now go myself while you wait here with the dwarf."

Upon hearing this, Gimli glanced up and frowned. He was weaving slightly where he stood and rubbing his right shoulder almost unconsciously. Legolas wondered if it had separated again sometime during the climb, but as Gimli had not yet spoken of it, the elf had not asked. "I do not think an elf can carry all of our baggage in one attempt," the dwarf said quietly.

Anger boiled through Legolas’s blood, but he forced his mind to calm, deciding that a sullen remark by an exhausted dwarf did not warrant his ire. "We shall see," he answered, his voice casual but cold. Buckling his own belt back on, he shouldered the remainder of the straps and prepared to descend the cliff.

"Master Elf?"

Legolas stopped and glared at the dwarf. They did not have time to pursue this conversation. He was about to say something to that effect, but Gimli’s next words stopped him.

"I…my shoulder is dislocated again. It would be well to set it and then allow it to…rest…before we continue."

The disturbing thought occurred to Legolas that, had their positions been reversed, he would have probably said nothing about a dislocated shoulder. He would have certainly not trusted the dwarf to care for it. What had it cost Gimli in pride to speak of this infirmity?

His mind filled with confusion, Legolas approached the dwarf and moved behind him. Wordlessly, he wrapped one arm around Gimli’s chest and pulled the dwarf back, using his own body as a brace. Then in one smooth motion, he jerked the dislocated right arm down, out, and then pushed it back in. Gimli shuddered, but did not cry out. He slumped forward against the elf’s hold and Legolas was still for a moment in case the dwarf needed further aid. But after a minute of silence, Gimli took a deep breath and then broke away from the elf. "My thanks," he said gruffly, unable to meet Legolas’s eyes.

Not quite sure what to say to that, Legolas settled for a nod, though what good that did only the Valar knew, for Gimli was not even looking at him. Still, it made Legolas feel slightly better, and he turned again to the cliff, preparing to let himself down. But just as he was about to release his handhold and slide to the closest ledge, he stopped. He had no way of knowing when Gimli’s shoulder had become dislocated, but it had probably been early in the climb. And the dwarf had then managed to continue, without a word of complaint, until he reached the top. It was a feat that garnered even Legolas’s respect, and because of this, the elf could not let it pass without comment. He had been raised as a prince among nobles, and though criticism had certainly been a part of his training, he had also been taught to give praise where it was due. And such a display of strength and endurance was simply too admirable to ignore. Knowing he was probably going to regret his next words but unable to stop himself, Legolas sighed and looked at the dwarf.

"Gimli?"

Gimli looked up, meeting Legolas’s gaze with reluctance, and his eyes were suspicious, as though expecting some taunt or jibe. "Yes?"

"Given the circumstances, you performed well."

Unbridled shock flashed across Gimli’s face and his mouth dropped open slightly as he frantically searched for something to say in response. But with his praise given, Legolas was not going to linger any longer. The situation was awkward enough already, and they had a Fellowship to meet. And so, turning his head quickly, he concentrated on lowering himself down the cliff face and getting out of the dwarf’s view as quickly as possible.

As a result, he missed the brief look of gratitude and reciprocated admiration that appeared briefly upon Gimli’s face.

* * * *

Saruman had once told Gandalf that the key to leadership was keeping up the façade that one knew what one was doing. And if one did not know, then one found a middle line between two extreme viewpoints and stuck to it.

This advice had been given partly in jest many years ago before the White Council was ever even conceived of, but it was a jest with a grain of truth. Looking back with the gift of hindsight, Gandalf could see how Saruman had used his own counsel during the uncertain years following the Council’s attack on Dol Guldur. Unfortunately, while walking the middle road between the will of the Valar and the temptations of Barad-dûr, Saruman had fallen. Gandalf now felt that he understood exactly why and how this had happened, for he was in a very similar situation. Perhaps the forces he stood between were not as powerful as Manwë and Sauron, but Aragorn and Boromir were still formidable opponents in their own right. And Gandalf, caught between them, had decided that soon or later he would have to choose a side. He could not walk the fence much longer.

The remnants of the Fellowship stood at the head of the gorge. The ground dropped away swiftly near the place where Aragorn stood, but it was not so steep as to make climbing impossible. In fact, Merry looked as though he were contemplating a descent into the gorge in an effort to find Pippin. Fortunately, Aragorn was keeping a close eye on him. Gandalf shook his head and sighed. They could ill afford to lose another member of this company.

Which led him to another problem. They had waited here one hour already. Aragorn had made clear the fact that he would wait all night if he had to. He had recommended that the Fellowship continue without him, but he wasn’t about to abandon Legolas, Gimli, and Pippin. Boromir, on the other hand, was already chafing at the bit. He had made clear his opinion that an hour’s time was time enough, and if the missing members of their party failed to make an appearance, prudence demanded that everyone—including Aragorn—continue the journey. As for Gandalf… Valar, where do I stand? the wizard wondered. I have already stated that we shall tarry two hours only, but I have yet to tell the hobbits and Aragorn has yet to agree to the time limit. Both are right, though. We can ill afford to lose Legolas’s bow and Gimli’s axe. We must give them every chance to find us. And yet the Ring takes precedence. We cannot allow it to remain in one place for an extended period of time. The crows shall be upon us if we do, and then all of Middle Earth shall fall into shadow because we delayed for the sake of three comrades.

Gandalf was used to making sacrifices, but he usually made them at his own expense. Bilbo would argue that, claiming that he’d been used as something of a sacrifice in the case of Smaug, but as a general rule, Gandalf would not ask anyone to do something if he could go ahead and do it himself. He had been the one to enter Dol Guldur during the reign of the Necromancer. He had been the one to take Narya at Círdan’s behest. But in this instance, if he chose to follow the counsel of Boromir—which was also the counsel of prudence—he would be asking the rest of the Fellowship to sacrifice their companions when it was not clear that such a sacrifice was necessary.

But did he truly believe that Gimli and Legolas would look past their differences long enough to emerge from the ravine in one piece? The wizard frowned and rubbed his temples. The possibility was remote at best. Gimli was Glóin’s son and had been raised to hate and distrust elves, particularly those of Mirkwood. The fact that Legolas was Thranduil’s son certainly didn’t help anything. As for Legolas, the prince had been raised with the prejudices of his people, and his father had indoctrinated his son with all manners of rumors and lies regarding the children of Aulë. There was no love lost between elf and dwarf, they had both verbally and physically assaulted one another, and now, with no significant third party to stand between them, they were caught in an unstable ravine that seemed intent on crumbling inward. And still I carry some hope that I will meet them again, Gandalf sighed. I foresee they have yet a part to play in this venture, but as Elrond is wont to say, even the wise cannot see all ends. And it may be that their part shall be cut short.

"How long will we tarry, Gandalf?"

The wizard blinked and looked to his side, frowning when he found Frodo standing next to him and waiting expectantly for an answer. "How long shall we tarry for what?"

"For Pippin, Legolas, and Gimli," Frodo answered, his expression unreadable. "You’re not planning to stay here all night. At least, Boromir isn’t, and I don’t think you are either. Aragorn’s another matter, but even he won’t wait forever."

Gandalf smiled slightly. "Fate chose you well, Frodo. Your perception shall be invaluable. Trust your instincts, for they lead you well."

"I shall," Frodo promised. "And right now, my instincts say that you’re changing the subject. Gildor told me it was dangerous to meddle in the affairs of wizards, but this is also my affair, as well as affecting Merry and Sam. How long are we going to stay here? Because if no one comes, we will have to move sometime. And I think Boromir is anxious to get started now."

"He is," Gandalf conceded, glancing over at Denethor’s son. "He thought that one hour was sufficient time."

"And Aragorn disagreed," Frodo guessed.

"Aragorn believes the Fellowship can proceed without him while he ventures into the ravine and conducts a search of his own," Gandalf said. "Barring that, he is prepared to wait out the night."

"So what do you think?" Frodo pressed.

The wizard hesitated, a rather rare event for him, and then made his decision. Frodo had forced him into it, but that couldn’t be helped. Besides, were it not for the hobbit’s questions, he might never have come to a firm decision. "We shall wait another hour. After that, we shall depart. All of us."

"Merry won’t like that," Frodo murmured. "I’m not sure that I like it."

"It weighs heavily upon me as well, Frodo, but that which you bear is far too important."

"I understand all that," the hobbit answered, sounding rather frustrated with himself. "But that doesn’t mean I like it. And it doesn’t mean that I really accept it, either." He sighed and shook his head. "I’m not strong enough for this, Gandalf. I can’t do it."

"Compassion and friendship are not weaknesses," Gandalf counseled, laying a hand upon Frodo’s shoulder. "They are strengths, dear hobbit, and you should use them as such. Your devotion to your companions is part of what holds at bay the evil that seeks to corrupt you. Hold on to these feelings, Frodo, for in the end, they are all that truly matter."

"But in the meantime, they seem to make life harder," the hobbit observed with a sigh.

Gandalf chuckled and squeezed Frodo’s shoulder. "Occasionally," he conceded. "Come. We should probably break the news to Merry and Sam. If we wait to tell them an hour from now that it is time to go, it will take another hour to convince them of it."

"That does give Pippin, Legolas, and Gimli some extra time to get up here," Frodo pointed out.

"It does, but it also gives our enemies an extra hour in which to find us. And that, we cannot have." Gandalf rose from his seat, stretching as he did so, and picked up his staff. With Frodo at his side, the wizard made his way to where the ravine began to drop away. "I gather there has been no sign of them?" he asked the Fellowship at large, already knowing the answer but deciding that it was best to start the conversation with something less controversial than the announcement that they would move in an hour.

"Nay, not yet," Aragorn murmured, folding his arms across his chest and leaning sideways against a tree.

"Hope dwindles, as does time," Gandalf said, watching both the Ranger and Merry.

"Hope increases if they join us," Aragorn answered with a pointed look at the wizard.

"What is this about dwindling time?" Merry demanded as the implications of Gandalf’s vague words registered with him.

"We carry a rather perilous burden, my friend, and considering what—"

"I know all about It and I know what happens if It falls into the wrong hands," Merry interrupted, his face turning red with anger. "What I want to know about now is Pippin."

Gandalf was not used to being interrupted, and a brief flash of annoyance slipped onto his face ere it was quickly concealed. Merry’s impatience and concern was expected, and in order to deal with it, Gandalf had to remain calm. Otherwise, it was doubtful that the Brandybuck would ever move from his post. "You know as much about Pippin as we do," the wizard said, his voice quiet and soothing. "And yet think of this from his perspective. Would he wish for you to stand around while spies of the Enemy draw ever closer? Strange as it may seem, we are probably in more danger than Pippin because we are in Frodo’s presence."

"What spies?" Merry demanded. "All we’ve seen are two overgrown wolves and a few flocks of birds. Suppose they aren’t spies? Suppose they have nothing to do with us?"

Gandalf raised an eyebrow at this "The overgrown wolves were Wargs, Master Brandybuck, and they were most assuredly in the service of the Dark Lord. As for the birds, they have been identified as crebain. Rarely do they fly so far north, and often have they acted as spies and scouts for the Enemy."

"But didn’t Strider say they might be flying away from something?" Merry glanced over at Sam whose face now registered surprise and alarm at the fact that he was being addressed. "Isn’t that what you told me, Sam? That Strider said they might have been running from a war?"

The gardener shifted his feet, uncomfortable at suddenly becoming the center of attention, and cleared his throat. "I don’t rightly remember, but it seems to me as that might have been a possibility," he finally answered.

"Rohan has often endured crebain," Boromir said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of impatience. "They are ill omens, no matter what purpose they serve. And as Mithrandir has already said, they often act as spies and scouts. I do not think I have ever seen a group of them brought together for any other purpose, for if left to themselves, their squabbles soon break apart the flocks."

"And there is your answer, Merry," Gandalf said. "The forces of the Enemy are to be found here in Hollin. We cannot linger. I propose we wait one hour more. After that time, if there is still no sign of our friends, we must press onward, painful as it may be."

"I plan to stay here until morning," Aragorn said, his voice firm and unyielding. "I can easily find the rest of you if you continue on."

"If you’re staying, I’m staying," Merry added.

"No one is staying," Gandalf said, raising his voice slightly. "Think, Aragorn. The Fellowship needs your sword."

"Ah, but which half of the Fellowship?"

Gandalf scowled. Aragorn had lived with the elves far too long and learned far too many word games. "I would put forth the opinion that Frodo’s burden is of greater importance than Legolas, Gimli, and Pippin."

"And Frodo has you to guide him," Aragorn pointed out. "He also has Sam’s assistance and Boromir’s sword. He is well protected. The fate of our comrades, though, is less certain, and I shall not abandon them when there is the possibility that they may need my aid."

"May I say something?" Frodo piped up. "You’re all talking about me, but no one’s actually talking to me. And I think I should have some input in this. We all should."

Gandalf blinked and glanced down at the hobbit, once more surprised with Frodo’s growing courage and leadership. "My apologies," the wizard said. "You are quite correct. What is your opinion on this matter?"

"I think we should wait one hour and then decide what to do. We all know the possible choices now and if we sit and think on it, maybe we can have a better discussion later. But right now, we’re all a little too upset to talk clearly about anything."

"I’m still not going anywhere," Merry muttered.

"Maybe we won’t even have to make a decision," Frodo continued, ignoring Merry for the moment. "Maybe Pippin, Legolas, and Gimli will arrive before the hour is up."

"But what are your feelings on this, Ring-bearer?" Boromir asked. "For if you choose to stay, the rest of us are denied a choice. Yet to stay with that which you bear would be folly, or so I see it."

For a minute or so, Frodo kept his eyes downward and made no answer, seeming to debate the matter. At length, he raised his head and sighed. "I will go on. I do not wish to, but I will not dispute Gandalf’s wisdom in this."

"Then my decision is also made," Boromir said, a small look of satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "May others see the wisdom in this counsel as well."

"Others have a right to their own wisdom," Aragorn said softly, sending an unreadable look at Boromir.

Deciding that things were beginning to get out of hand, Gandalf cleared his throat and sent everyone a rather perturbing stare. "Frodo’s idea is a sound one, and we will follow it. For one hour, we shall not speak of this. After that hour, if our companions have not returned, we shall again take up our debate. But until then, I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your heads."

There were murmurs of acknowledgement from all, and satisfied that his word would be heeded, Gandalf decided to return to the rock where he’d been sitting earlier. He felt the need for a long smoke, and now seemed as good a time as any. They would undoubtedly be staying here for another hour at least. But by that do I mean that I have lost hope of seeing our companions again? Gandalf wondered as he sat down and went fishing through his pack for his pipe. Pondering that thought for a moment, the wizard eventually decided that thinking about it would only make matters worse. Instead, he cleared his mind and allowed his senses to drift, still keeping an alert mind in the event that trouble hailed but allowing his body to rest.

Silence fell and time passed. Time passed slower for some than for others, but it did pass. Gandalf himself was not truly aware of the minutes that ticked by. Rather, he was trying to compare the dangers of going over the mountains with the dangers of going under them. Aragorn was firmly set against the darker road, and Gandalf was tempted to agree with him. But there was a nagging doubt in his mind that insisted the mountains were not an option. He wasn’t entirely certain of this feeling’s origins, but it was persistent enough that he was beginning to give it his undivided attention. But Moria… The wizard shivered. He did not relish the thought of taking that path, yet it felt as though Moria was truly their only choice.

"Mithrandir?"

The wizard blinked and shifted his focus to his surroundings, coming out of a state of concentration akin to an elven trance.

"Mithrandir, it will soon be time to depart."

Gandalf muttered something and nodded in acknowledgment. Trust Boromir to keep careful track of the passing time, he sighed. The man was anxious to move on, though he did have a right to be. The fate of Minas Tirith rested with this Fellowship, yet they were waiting for three members to rejoin their company when it was doubtful that those three members actually would. It didn’t help that these three members were not of the Race of men. It was no secret that Boromir was rather suspicious of all of them, and it was doubtful that the man harbored any hope of seeing them again.

With a weary sigh, Gandalf lumbered to his feet and moved toward Aragorn. The Ranger looked up at his approach, his dark eyes glinting in the night. "Before you ask, the answer is no. There has been no sign of them."

"We can tarry no longer," the wizard said quietly.

"I wish to tarry the night."

"We need your skills. Frodo and the other hobbits trust you."

"Those whom we have lost may also need my skills, in particular my healing skills. I can be of more use to them. You still have Boromir with you. He is a valiant man and shall protect you with both his sword and his life."

Gandalf sighed and rubbed his head. He should have seen this coming. Aragorn was not one to abandon a comrade if he could help it. Even when all hope failed, he would continue. It would be interesting to see what eventually happened when Boromir turned south for Minas Tirith. Aragorn intended to travel with him, but that would involve leaving Frodo. Whatever the way Aragorn that decided upon, it would be a difficult choice.

"Sense you the presence of unfriendly eyes?"

The wizard blinked, caught somewhat off guard by the question. "Unfriendly eyes?"

"I sense nothing at the moment," Aragorn continued, his expression unreadable. "What of you?"

"They may not be here now, but we cannot take the chance that this will—"

"But you are certain they are not here now?"

Gandalf frowned. "As certain as one can be in uncertain times."

"Elvish response," Aragorn muttered. "But since we seem to be alone, allow me to hazard something. Should this fail to garner results, I will discuss our next move with you." And before Gandalf could ask what he meant by this, Aragorn raised two fingers to his lips and let out a high, shrill whistle.

Boromir, Sam, Merry, Frodo, Gandalf, and Bill all jumped. The whistle echoed far and wide over the land, resounding off the distant mountains and rattling the trees in the lower valleys. When the whistle finally died, six sets of astonished eyes turned on Aragorn.

"I am unable to think of a better way to get the Enemy’s attention," Gandalf finally said.

"I would put fire above a whistle," Aragorn answered.

Gandalf was preparing scathing retort to that, but he stopped when a second whistle rose up out of the darkness, slightly higher than the first and surprisingly close at hand.

"That’s them, isn’t it?" Merry asked excitedly.

"Legolas, at any rate," Aragorn confirmed.

"Then what are we waiting for?! Let’s go to them!"

"We know not exactly where they lie, nor do we know the best way to go and meet them," Aragorn said, stopping the excited hobbit ere he could tumble headlong into the ravine. "It will be better if we wait for them to find us. Legolas should be able to judge our position based on the whistles, for his ears are better than mine."

"They had best hurry, then, now that you have given away our position," Boromir growled, his tone sharp.

"I very much doubt that," Aragorn said. "The pitch of the whistles was such that only those nearby will be able to tell from whence the whistles came. All others will be confounded by echoes. They shall know that someone along the mountains is signaling, but they shall know neither what nor where."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Strider, but didn’t we want to keep ourselves and our mission a secret?" Sam spoke up. "We’ve just given away the fact that we’re out here in the Wilds."

"The Enemy knew already that we were here," Aragorn said with a sigh. "Were it not so, they would not be flying such low patrols. I suspect that by now they have also found evidence of our camps away in the north. We are no secret to them, Master Samwise, and it is truly only a matter of time until we are discovered. Besides, Master Brandybuck has reminded us that the crebain may only be refugees," Aragorn added with a smile.

"That’s what you said," Merry grumbled. "I was just repeating you."

"How far away are they?" Frodo asked, tactfully changing the subject.

"Perhaps ten minutes," Aragorn answered. "Perhaps less. It is difficult to tell and it will depend upon their condition as well as the terrain."

"Do you think they’re all right?" Sam asked, peering into the ravine and trying to pierce the shadows of night.

"I know not. The whistle only indicated position. It did not indicate the number in the group or the state of the group."

"Wouldn’t that have been a good thing to ask?" Merry demanded.

"At the time, the question of existence seemed more pertinent," Aragorn replied. "And I will not hazard another whistle. One was enough."

"One was more than enough," Boromir grumbled.

Gandalf sighed and shook his head. He had thought that Aragorn and Boromir were learning to respect one another, but it appeared that this situation was undoing all of that. Clearing his throat significantly and successfully achieving silence, Gandalf stepped forward and watched the shadows dance along the slope into the ravine as clouds whisked across the moon. All were quiet as they joined the wizard in waiting, and eventually, their wait was rewarded. A flicker of movement caught Gandalf’s eye, and then Aragorn stepped forward cautiously.

"Legolas?" he called, pitching his voice low.

"Well met, Aragorn," an answering voice called. "We had wondered if you would tarry for us. Your whistle moments ago was heartening."

"Pippin!" Merry cried, rushing down the steep slope. A shadow abruptly moved to intercept him, and the hobbit was restrained as Legolas seized him and lifted him partly off his feet.

"Steady, Master Brandybuck," the elf cautioned, glancing back at Gimli and Pippin, who were making much slower progress. "Pippin is not up to receiving such an ardent embrace."

Gandalf quickly noted that Legolas was carrying the bulk of the packs while Gimli was aiding Pippin in staying upright. The dwarf also seemed to be favoring his right arm, but the wizard couldn’t be certain of that. In any case, no doubt these three had an interesting tale to tell.

"What’s wrong with Pippin?" Merry demanded, struggling against Legolas’s firm hold.

"Nothing’s wrong with me," Pippin answered, his voice weak but reassuring. "I’m just a little dizzy, that’s all."

"What happened to you?" Sam asked, moving forward but stopping at a warning look from Legolas. "Are you all right?"

"He has made great progress," Gimli reassured them, glancing toward Aragorn and motioning the man forward. "He was unable to walk earlier. He struck his head in the initial rockslide and was slow to wake."

"Was anyone else injured?" Aragorn asked as he knelt next to the hobbit and gently ran his hand over his hairline.

"The dwarf dislocated his right shoulder twice," Legolas answered, apparently much to Gimli’s chagrin judging from the deadly glare that the dwarf shot the elf. "Other than that, we are all hale."

"It is a joy to see you again," Gandalf sighed, his eyes roaming over all three in a search for unmentioned injuries. "We had feared the worst."

"You should know better, Mithrandir," Legolas said with a smile.

"It is because I know better that I feared," the wizard shot back as relief began to fill his entire soul.

"I was worried, too," Frodo added. "Warn us the next time you decide to tumble over a cliff."

"We shall endeavor to do so," Gimli promised, watching Merry as Legolas finally put the hobbit down. "Gently, Master Brandybuck."

"Gently nothing," Pippin snorted. "Come here, Merry! You don’t know what I’ve had to endure down in that ravine! It kept raining rocks on us, and then there were these two and then—"

Whatever Pippin was going to say next was muffled in Merry’s cloak as the Brandybuck caught him up in a firm hug, which Pippin tried to return but in the end had to settle for Merry supporting the bulk of his weight.

"Welcome back," Aragorn smiled as he clapped Legolas on the back by way of greeting. "By the Valar, prince of Mirkwood, but you shall age me before my time."

"You and your mortal penchant for trouble have already aged me, my friend," Legolas responded with a quiet laugh. "I simply return the favor."

"I wondered if I would see you again before we moved on."

"You should not have waited for us. We would have caught up eventually," Gimli said.

"It was my counsel to move on, Master Dwarf. Know that we are not all given to the ways of folly," Boromir said. Gandalf couldn’t tell if the man was relieved or not that their companions had rejoined them. Nor he could tell if that last statement had been made seriously or in jest. It seemed that even with the return of elf, dwarf, and hobbit, things were still uneasy. It had, after all, been a very long night.

"Folly or no, I am glad that we waited," Aragorn said. "It gives me hope to know that I have a dwarf’s axe before me and an elf’s bow behind me." He then looked over at Pippin and Merry, his brow furrowing. Merry was still bracing Pippin, Sam and Frodo had joined the reunion, and Pippin was beginning to regale all with tales of his adventures in the ravine. "How long was he unconscious?" Aragorn asked, glancing at Legolas.

"He did not wake until this afternoon, but once he opened his eyes, he began to recover rapidly. It has only been within the past hour, though, that he has been able to walk. And he is still very dizzy."

The Ranger shook his head thoughtfully and looked over at Gandalf. "Dare we risk staying here to tend to Pippin?"

"Think you that he is in need of immediate care?" Gandalf asked, returning question for question.

"It would be better to treat him now rather than later, but there is not an immediate need. If you feel danger closes upon us, I judge that he can wait until morning when there is more time to properly treat him."

"We shall do that, then," the wizard decided, hearing a sigh of relief from Boromir at this announcement. "Danger may not yet be upon us, but it is not far away and we have tarried here far too long. How fast can Pippin travel?"

"He is improving," Gimli said, "but he is slow and needs the support of others."

"I shall carry him," Aragorn said. "We must travel quickly tonight to make up for lost time."

"Then let us be on our way," Gandalf said. "The mountains are before us, and whichever road we choose, we must be upon it tomorrow." The wizard paused, then, hearing Pippin say something about dangling from a collection of belts along the side of a cliff, and he shot a curious glance at Legolas and Gimli. "As we walk, you must share with us exactly what happened after we became separated."

"An interesting tale, to be certain," Legolas said, a strange look taking over his face.

"Fortunately, the strength of the dwarves saw us through," Gimli added, stalking past them all and starting up the trail. Anger flashed across in Legolas’s eyes, but to the astonishment of all, he held his peace and said nothing, merely gesturing for the others to precede him so that he might assume rearguard. Gandalf blinked, not quite certain that he could believe his eyes, and then looked over at Aragorn, who appeared just as puzzled.

"It seems it will be a very interesting tale," the Ranger said before moving to join the dwarf.

Author’s Notes: Yet again we have entered a section of the book in which Tolkien has graced us with some dialogue. And in keeping with the spirit of this particular fic, I have left all of his dialogue unchanged and intact. Nothing of my own (at least nothing that the characters express verbally) has been inserted between Tolkien’s lines so that the conversations he did give us may run intact. I have added additional dialogue before and after his own, but…well, this is my interpretation, after all. Anyway, if you want a source for all this, I’m getting it from pages 343 and 344 of The Fellowship of the Ring, Ballantine’s 50th Anniversary Paperback edition.

January 11, 3019 (Day)

The crisp smell of athelas brought a cleansing feel to the camp, and as Aragorn crushed some of the precious leaves over the pot of boiling water, he felt much of the latent tension drain away. They had stopped at the base of the mountains in a small hollow that provided a bit of shelter, a term that Sam seemed to be coming to resent. Under cover of a few trees, Gimli had kindled a very small fire and Aragorn had boiled water as quickly as possible. The dwarf was now extinguishing the fire, taking care that it did not smolder, and Aragorn was preparing to tend to Pippin’s head wound.

The fact that the hobbit had been unconscious for so long deeply concerned Aragorn. Pippin had yet to show any damage to his mind and his sense of balance had recovered enough during the night so that he was now able to stand on his own, but the Ranger wished he knew more of hobbit physiology. Pippin claimed he was fine and in no need of further care, but such a thing was to be expected. Aragorn was rather unlucky when it came to patients, and rarely did he find one that admitted to being injured. If pressed, Aragorn would concede that he himself could also be described as an unruly patient—and had indeed been called that several times by various individuals—but it was still a frustrating thing to deal with when the tables were turned and he was the healer.

"Master Peregrin, if you will sit here for but a moment, then I shall—"

"I sat still for you four hours ago!" Pippin protested. "Aren’t you finished yet?"

Impatience and humor warred within the Ranger while he tried to decide how to respond. "Pippin, you took a hard blow to the head that rendered you unconscious for quite some time. It would be wise to take precautions. I will not be long, and it shall not interrupt your meal for any significant stretch of time."

"Go on, Pippin," Merry added through a mouthful of dried venison. "No sense in taking chances about this. You take enough chances on your own without adding to them. I’ll even watch your food if you like."

"You mean you’ll watch it disappear," Pippin scowled. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat so much, Merry, and I’ve no idea where you’re putting it all. Someone must have hollowed your legs while I was away."

"Come, Pippin," Aragorn called firmly, deciding to interrupt the banter for a moment.

The hobbit gave a long-suffering sigh, picked up his plate with a baleful glare at Merry, and stomped over to the Ranger. He wobbled slightly on the way over, but he did not fall, which was a definite improvement over his earlier attempts to walk about on his own.

"You seem to be recovering quickly," Aragorn observed, taking a piece of material he’d torn from a spare tunic and dipping it in the warm water. Wringing it out, he then bathed Pippin’s brow, running it over the hobbit’s temples and back to the rather prominent bump along the side of his head.

"If I’m recovering so quickly, then why are you still worried about me?" Pippin demanded.

"It is a healer’s prerogative to worry," Aragorn said, ignoring the sudden laugh this elicited from Legolas.

"It sounds as though there’s a story in this," Merry observed, still speaking with his mouth full.

"The elf can sometimes be a difficult patient," Aragorn explained. "His kind requires much worry and close observation."

This brought an even harder laugh from Legolas, prompting Merry to beg for details. He was joined by Sam and Frodo, and much to Aragorn’s horror, the elf seemed amused by the audience and agreed to further elaboration.

"My friends, you look upon one of the most stubborn patients ever known to Middle Earth," the prince of Mirkwood said, gesturing toward Aragorn. "Never before have I seen one so obstinate while so sick. Some years ago, Lord Elrond’s sons made a trip to Mirkwood as emissaries for their father, and they brought Aragorn with them."

"Legolas, I don’t think that—"

"While there, they wished to hunt some of the spiders they’d heard so much about," Legolas continued, plowing right overtop of Aragorn. "My father readily agreed, for there had been much trouble with the creatures far away in the south, and I was asked to escort the party. Unfortunately, we underestimated the number of spiders to be had."

"Legolas, I—"

"We all survived the incident, but none of us escaped unscathed. However, Aragorn was hit harder than most, for we found that he was somewhat allergic to the spider’s venom."

"Legolas—"

Aragorn’s fierce glare finally managed to register with the elf, who returned the look with an ingratiating smile before taking up the narrative again. "I shall not burden you with the details, for I am certain that imagination shall prove far more entertaining, but Aragorn was forced to lie abed for several weeks under the care of my father’s healers. And not a day went by during that time that he did not orchestrate some elaborate escape attempt or another. None were successful, but they did display that Aragorn was a genius for creative innovation. I think the most interesting of these desperate attempts was the day when he somehow convinced my two sisters that—"

"Legolas!"

To Aragorn’s eternal relief, the elf laughed and fell silent. Merry, Sam, Pippin, and Frodo all began to protest, but Legolas shook his head and smiled. "My apologies, but I fear you must take this up with Aragorn himself. It is not my story to share, though my opinion is that it should be known in all of Middle Earth."

Squirming under Aragorn’s ministrations, Pippin looked up and fixed the Ranger with an inquiring gaze, his face innocent as only a hobbit can make it. "Will you tell us? I’ll hold still if you do."

Aragorn rolled his eyes and stood. "I am finished with you, Master Peregrin. Take care to move about slowly, and be wary of rising too quickly when you stand. I judge that your balance will return completely in time, but it may be a day or so yet."

"I could have told you that while eating," Pippin grumbled. "You didn’t need to delay my food."

The Ranger chuckled and shook his head. "My apologies for the inconvenience. I did not intend to burden you so."

"What about the rest of Legolas’s story?" Merry piped up. "Will you tell us, Strider?"

"Perhaps another time," Aragorn declined, putting away his healing supplies. "I would not wish to interfere with Master Peregrin’s meal."

Another round of pleas shot up, but Aragorn waved them off and moved away, quickly escaping the confines of camp and the demands of the hobbits. Once the commotion was behind him, the Ranger stopped to survey the mountains and turn his thoughts to the night’s journey. Pippin was recovering with remarkable speed, but he was still unsteady on his feet and that concerned Aragorn. Their next step in the journey, if they took the path that had originally been selected when they were all safe in Rivendell, would be the switchbacks up Caradhras that eventually led over the pass known as the Redhorn Gate. The trail could be treacherous at times, even for one whose feet did not falter. And with Pippin weaving as he was… Aragorn shook his head. Great care would be needed by all.

"You would hold to this course?"

The Ranger turned slightly as Gandalf joined him and sighed. "My counsel has not changed. Caradhras seems the safest option for us."

"Yet it is still fraught with peril," the wizard said. "If we do indeed choose this path, there is much that could yet hold us back. Winter deepens behind us. The heights away north are whiter than they were; snow is lying far down their shoulders. Tonight we shall be on our way high up towards the Redhorn Gate. We may well be seen by watchers on that narrow path, and waylaid by some evil; but the weather may prove a more deadly enemy than any." Gandalf grimaced slightly and turned probing eyes upon the Ranger. "What do you think of your course now, Aragorn?"

Aragorn glanced back toward the camp, searching specifically for Legolas. Fortunately, the elf was currently preoccupied with the hobbits, who were still attempting to hear some of the more dedecorous stories concerning Aragorn’s forced repose in Mirkwood. It was unlikely that he would be listening. The fear of eavesdropping now diminished, Aragorn turned back to the wizard and met the hard gaze with one of his own. "I think no good of our course from beginning to end, as you know well, Gandalf," he answered, his voice quiet. "And perils known and unknown will grow as we go on. But we must go on; and it is no good our delaying the passage of the mountains. Further south there are no passes, till one comes to the Gap of Rohan. I do not trust that way since your news of Saruman. Who knows which side now the marshals of the Horse-lords serve?" Aragorn hoped that by failing to mention Moria he would inform Gandalf in no uncertain terms that he was no longer considering it as an option.

"Who knows indeed!" the wizard murmured, with a sidelong look at the Ranger. "But there is another way, and not by the pass of Caradhras: the dark and secret way that we have spoken of."

"But let us not speak of it again!" Aragorn hissed with yet another glance back at Legolas. The hobbits were winding down their conversation with the elf, and in a few moments, attention would be turning their way for the matter of the watches. "Not yet," the Ranger continued softly. "Say nothing to the others, I beg, not until it is plain that there is no other way."

"We must decide before we go further," Gandalf warned.

"Then let us weigh the matter in our minds, while the others rest and sleep," Aragorn suggested.

"You are also in need of rest and sleep," Gandalf pointed out. "You kept watch for much of yesterday since the hobbits were…indisposed."

"Then let us speak again in the afternoon after we have rested," Aragorn said. "The company may eat while we take counsel."

The wizard was silent for a moment and Aragorn could see the debate within his eyes, but he eventually nodded. "Then I shall set the watches. You will sleep this day, as will Pippin, Legolas, and Gimli. To my mind, Merry could also use the rest. Frodo, Sam, Boromir, and I shall keep the watches."

"As you say, Gandalf," Aragorn said with a weary nod.

"Whenever you are around, it seems that things are very rarely as I say," the wizard snorted as he started back to camp.

With a smile, Aragorn turned and followed, but as his eyes swept over the Fellowship, he suddenly stopped. His heart cried out within him and he wondered how he could have missed this in his surreptitious glances back at the Fellowship while speaking with Gandalf. Frodo! Valar, why is it that I did not see you?! But there was no help for it now, and Aragorn groaned at the sight of both curiosity and apprehension on the Ring-bearer’s face as he watched Gandalf return to camp. Aragorn had kept looking to Legolas, wary of the elf’s sharp ears, but he had not considered just how close Frodo had been to the edge of camp. Neither had he remembered that hobbits also had a keen sense of hearing. At least, not until it was too late, for it was quite evident that Frodo had heard at least part of their hushed conversation.

Almost as if feeling the Ranger’s gaze, Frodo then shifted his eyes to Aragorn and started slightly upon finding himself watched. Aragorn searched his mind quickly for something to say, but before he could do aught, Frodo turned and joined Sam, who was setting up their beds for the day.

My apologies to you, Ring-bearer, Aragorn thought with a weary sigh. I wish your guides had more knowledge. And I wish our path was more certain. He shook his head and glanced up at Caradhras with its gleaming mantle of snow. I wish that I was more certain.

* * * *

Though the sun was directly overhead, it was dim and gave very little light to the land below. Frodo’s breath was frosty on the air, and a sharp chill was creeping down from the mountains, borne on a breeze that seemed to worm its way through even the thickest covering. Rubbing his hands together, Frodo stood and paced back and forth, trying to warm himself. At the moment, he greatly envied the rest of the Fellowship. They all slept quite soundly, heedless of the dropping temperatures that were beginning to vex Frodo.

"Still, I suppose that some of them need more sleep than I do," Frodo murmured, glancing at the forms of Legolas, Gimli, Pippin, and Merry. He’d wondered, though, if it was safe for Pippin to sleep with the head injury he’d acquired. He’d always been taught that you should wake someone periodically in case of a concussion. Aragorn, on the other hand, had deemed that the danger had passed and Pippin could sleep without being roused. Frodo had accepted his counsel, knowing him to be far more knowledgeable in the healing arts, but now he wondered if he couldn’t wake Pippin on the pretense of health concerns so that he could have some company. "And company would be very welcome right now," he muttered. "Because at the moment, I don’t even have Bill."

Bill was also asleep, though his sleep was rather light. He stood hobbled to one side of the camp, his head down, his eyes closed, and his ears drooping slightly. Occasionally he would jerk when Gimli’s snores rose in volume, but for the most part he slept on, oblivious of the cold that smelled strongly of snow.

Stomping his feet and rubbing his arms, Frodo shivered with a forlorn melancholy and glanced at the mountains that loomed above the Fellowship. It was now easy to tell which one was Caradhras. The meager sunlight that hit the sides of this high mountain showed them to be a rather disturbing red in color. Snow covered much of the Redhorn’s peak, but there were still several places devoid of snow and these places seemed stained with blood. It was not a particularly bright red, but it was certainly a contrast to the surrounding mountains and Frodo could easily see how Caradhras had earned its name.

But there were other names for this mountain. Gimli had called it something else when the Fellowship first reached Hollin. What had that been again? Cruel, Frodo reminded himself after a moment of thought. Gimli called it "cruel Caradhras." I wonder why. From where he stood, the mountain did look rather cruel with its jagged peaks and red sides, but Frodo had sensed something more in the dwarf’s voice. And now almost on the mountain itself, Frodo felt something again. It was not an evil quite as tangible as the one felt when in the presence of the Nine, but there was certainly malice in the air. Malice and watchfulness…

"Steady, Frodo," he told himself aloud with a shake of his head. "Steady or you’ll work yourself into a fit of paranoia. I should find something to do, seeing as I still have close to an hour left of my watch."

The hobbit deliberately turned his back on Caradhras and thought for a bit, wondering what needed doing in the camp that hadn’t already been done. But his mind was greatly hampered, for the cold seemed to increase. His right hand was turning numb, and his left shoulder was beginning to throb. It was strange, actually. In a way, it reminded Frodo of Weathertop and the desperate flight after that for Rivendell. But his wound hadn’t bothered him recently. He didn’t even think of it anymore, unless someone happened to remind him about the…

Frodo frowned, glanced down at his right hand, and gasped. His hand was wrapped around the ring, which had somehow escaped the confines of his shirt. Hastily dropping it back underneath his tunic, he wiped his hand off on his trousers as though somehow it was now soiled. I don’t need something to do with my mind; I need something to do with my hands!

Thinking quickly and closely watching his traitorous hand out of the corner of his eye, Frodo eventually came up with an idea. It was a simple idea, but it involved a rather dull task and hopefully this would keep his mind—and hands—away from darker things. Now armed with a purpose, Frodo slipped quietly over toward Legolas and silently opened the elf’s pack. It was easy to find the thing he sought, for the elf was obsessively organized. Now armed with the prince’s whetstone, Frodo crept away, found a comfortable place to sit, and drew Sting from its scabbard. Legolas had let him use his whetstone before, and the hobbit didn’t think that the elf would mind now. He could have gone looking for his own whetstone, of course, but it was buried somewhere in Sam’s bags and finding it would have probably taken the remainder of Frodo’s watch. There were all sorts of strange things in the gardener’s packs, and rummaging through them was an adventure best left to Sam.

Drawing Sting across the whetstone with a firm, smooth stroke, Frodo quickly settled into the motion of sharpening his blade. Sting wasn’t really in need of sharpening, but it had been a while since Frodo had tended to it. Besides, if he sharpened it now, he wouldn’t have to worry about it later if it did happen to dull. Early into the journey, only two or three days out from Rivendell, Boromir had given Frodo some advice about caring for Sting and had pointed out that one couldn’t sharpen one’s sword in the middle of a battle. Taking this counsel to heart, Frodo had tried to ensure that he cared for his blade if there was even the slightest hint that it might be losing its razor sharp edge. Legolas had once laughingly told him that Sting was an elven blade, and as an elven blade, it did not require such constant sharpening. But Frodo found the rhythm of the strokes upon the whetstone to be soothing, and aside from keeping Sting ready for battle, it also kept Frodo sane.

But this particular day seemed cursed, and even his current methodical, mind-numbing task was not quite enough to ward off unwanted thoughts. Frodo’s mind kept returning to the partially overheard conversation between Gandalf and Aragorn, and after a struggle he was doomed to lose, the hobbit eventually gave in and started to dissect the dialogue he had heard.

It was obvious that Aragorn and Gandalf were keeping something from the rest of the company, and whatever that something was, they didn’t want it known. Something about a change in travel plans. But what kind of a change did this entail? Gandalf had said something about a darker path, but what did that mean? Aragorn certainly hadn’t liked the thought, but he hadn’t immediately denounced the idea, either. What was going on? Still, if there’s a path out there that Aragorn fears to tread, it must be a very dangerous road. Frodo sighed and grimaced. He didn’t want to make any early judgements because who knew what way the debate would turn, but he couldn’t help hoping that they would stick to the original plan and cross the mountains.

Yet with this thought, Frodo again turned his mind to Gimli and his words of "cruel Caradhras." What had he meant by that? For the dwarf seemed to think of the Redhorn Gate as more than a hard climb. After all, a dwarf wouldn’t name something cruel if it only involved a strenuous hike. Dwarves were much too hardy for that. And Legolas didn’t say anything disparaging when Gimli said "cruel Caradhras," which meant that he probably thought it was a cruel mountain, too. But why would they both think that? Is it cursed? It feels…alert, I guess, but I really don’t know how to interpret that.

The hobbit sighed and set the whetstone and Sting down as he rubbed his temples. He wasn’t about to solve this mystery without more information, and he certainly wasn’t going to let Aragorn and Gandalf know that he’d been eavesdropping, though Aragorn seemed to know that already. He supposed he could ask Gimli if there was any history behind Caradhras that involved some dwarven mishap. Or he could ask Legolas about elves and Caradhras. But since both of them were asleep and both of them probably needed that sleep, Frodo couldn’t ask them anything until later. It didn’t solve his problem now.

So I’m back where I started. I need something to do. Something to keep my mind and my hands from going where they don’t belong. Frodo ran a hand through the rather unruly mop that had become his hair, and finally decided to have a good smoke. He’d been hoarding his pipe-weed since he didn’t have very much, but it seemed that now would be a good time to indulge. The hobbit had a strange feeling that another chance to smoke wouldn’t come for quite some time.

* * * *

Long ago, Gandalf had resigned himself to the fact that he would never truly understand hobbits. They were far too unpredictable.

The current situation was a perfect example. Samwise Gamgee insisted on calling the afternoon meal breakfast-supper. He said it was a compromise name. They were eating a meal after sleeping, which usually implied breakfast, but the time of day was better suited for supper. And thus came the term breakfast-supper. But Pippin, probably to be obstinate, now insisted on calling it lunch. And he had been quite liberal in the use of this word. After a few initial protests, Sam had eventually kept quiet and said nothing in response to the younger hobbit, but his hands would periodically clench at his sides. Pippin was definitely getting on Sam’s nerves.

And then Merry joined the fray, deciding to call the meal supper-breakfast (the name of the morning meal) which was more consistent with Sam’s original idea but changed the word order. It also changed which word took priority. According to Sam, breakfast was only describing the word supper, which was what the meal was really about. The reason that the term breakfast-supper was used as opposed to supper-breakfast was because the time of day was the most important thing in determining the type of meal one ate. But by changing it to supper-breakfast, Merry was implying that the schedule was the important thing, not the time of day. He was using supper to describe breakfast. Frodo was now trying to get both Merry and Pippin to stop talking about the meal, but whenever Frodo slipped up and called it anything, he called it dinner.

Gandalf shook his head and chuckled slightly as he rose and began moving away from camp. Only hobbits would spend so much time parsing the fine lines of words describing food, and only hobbits would then argue about it. No, Gandalf would never understand hobbits, but he would always be fascinated by them.

Unfortunately, he could not allow himself to watch this strange debate unfold, for Aragorn had already left camp and was undoubtedly waiting for the wizard. Gandalf really didn’t want to discuss this any more than did Aragorn, but his conscience and his instincts would not allow him to put the matter aside. He did not want to go to Moria, yet something kept telling him that they could not cross Caradhras.

Gandalf found the Ranger just out of earshot for most of the Fellowship. Legolas was a concern, but the elf was usually very courteous and didn’t attempt to eavesdrop on his companions. Well, he was courteous so long as he felt that others were not talking about him. But Legolas seemed to be in a rather good mood this morning despite the fact that he’d just spent a day and two nights down in a ravine with a dwarf, and Gandalf was reasonably confident that the elf would take it upon himself to ignore the ensuing conversation.

"Good evening," Aragorn murmured, turning slightly as the wizard reached his side.

"The sky is clouded," Gandalf said, deciding to skip the preliminaries. Both he and Aragorn were too weary to be bothered by them.

"It was clouded all throughout the day, and yet no snow fell."

"Still, it is something of a warning," Gandalf pointed out.

Aragorn sighed and turned, meeting the wizard’s eyes with an expression that somehow disturbed Gandalf. "I have no wish to tread the darker paths. I have walked them once before and there is in me no desire to repeat the experience. Beyond that, I sense great danger in that way, and I would avoid it if I could."

"As would I," Gandalf said quietly. "I have no more desire than you, Aragorn, to enter the darkened halls of Moria. But the pass between Caradhras and Celebdil is open to all who might even casually glance our direction. We shall be open targets upon those barren slopes, and the spies of the enemy press us hard enough already. Tempting fate is a dangerous game and one that we can ill afford to lose."

"And walking into Moria is somehow safer than crossing the mountains by way of the Redhorn Gate?" Aragorn demanded.

"Nay, I said not so, but remember the purpose of our quest. We are to move silently and secretly. We are not an army that can push aside advancing foes. Rather, we must seek to avoid our enemies, and I know of no better way to avoid them than to take Frodo somewhere completely unexpected."

"Unexpected as well as terribly perilous," Aragorn argued with a shake of his head. "You say you do not wish to walk these roads, and yet you argue for them as though they were the better choice. Speak plainly, I beseech you! Surely you see something that would make you suggest a change in paths."

Gandalf grimaced and looked at Caradhras, trying to read the intent of the frosty mountain but only catching a slight glimpse of its heart. "It seems to me that the Redhorn Gate shall be blocked. I know not the origin of this feeling, nor do I know precisely what it means. But I fear that we shall be greatly delayed if we attempt to cross the mountains using our planned course. And delay is something we cannot have. For that reason have I suggested Moria. Caradhras would not need to be tried. We could travel under the mountains instead."

"There is no guarantee that we would emerge from such a path," Aragorn shot back. "You and I alone of this Fellowship have walked within those shadowed halls, which used to be filled with glory and grandeur. You and I alone have seen the darkness that now covers the ancient dwarven realm. Let us keep it that way, for I would not share such evil and such sorrow with the others."

"But if I insist upon Moria, would you follow?" Gandalf challenged, his voice quiet but laced with steel.

"I would follow you under the towers of Thangorodrim and into Angband itself if you asked me to," Aragorn sighed. "And you know that well, so do not think to test me! If you are set upon Moria, then that shall be my path. But I beg you to reconsider! The perils of spies and delay seems to me to be lesser perils when compared with the darkness of Moria."

Gandalf fell silent and turned his eyes once more to the mountains. His instincts were still clamoring about the possibility of discovery as well as the possibility that they might not even make it over the pass. But Aragorn was very much set against Moria, and though he would go if asked, he would do so with great reluctance. How am I to judge this? Gandalf wondered wearily For in truth, my feelings keep company with Aragorn’s. Neither he nor I wish to go through Moria. And yet…And yet what?

The wizard shook his head. Perhaps he was overcompensating. Ever since missing the warning signals that should have alerted him on their first morning in Hollin, Gandalf had almost been going out of his way to seek for signs and forebodings. Aragorn, though, seemed to maintain a good balance, and if he felt no ominous feelings associated with attempting the Redhorn Gate, then perhaps he was right. Perhaps now was the time to trust to the instincts of a Ranger rather than to the intuition of a wizard.

"You choose Caradhras over Moria?" Gandalf asked with a quick glance at Aragorn.

"I would be tempted to choose the Gap of Rohan over Moria," Aragorn answered.

"Let us hope it does not come to that!" Gandalf said. "Saruman has more power than you think. It would be well for us to avoid bringing Frodo anywhere near Isengard." The wizard fell silent again, still considering his possibilities, and then sighed. "Very well. I fear we shall regret this, but your counsel will be our guide. Tonight we will take the road over Caradhras."

"Your decision gives me great relief," Aragorn murmured, his voice so quiet that it was difficult to hear.

"Let us see if that relief is deserved after tonight," Gandalf answered.

"Perhaps our worry is for nothing," Aragorn said with something of a wry smile. "Merry reminded us the other day that our crebain might not be evil. They might be good, or they might have nothing to do with us."

The wizard snorted despite himself. "Hobbits are eternally optimistic. It seems to be one of their few consistent characteristics." He sighed, then, and shook his head. "Come. We should tell the others of our plans. Some of the Fellowship, I believe, know that there was something of a debate concerning our road. It will do them good to hear that we have decided."

"And we must also get ourselves underway, for the path we shall take is not an easy one," Aragorn added. "The hobbits are not used to such altitude, and the climb shall require much from them."

"It shall require much from all of us," Gandalf predicted grimly as yet another feeling of warning clutched his heart. "And I pray that we are up to the task."

* * * *

Boromir was at something of a loss.

This actually wasn’t an unusual occurrence, though some might be surprised to learn that. But Boromir was a man of action and battles who had a father and a younger brother with an interest in finer things. Some of their conversations—when they weren’t barbed and laced with subtle insults, that is—went completely over Boromir’s head. Denethor and Faramir had once spent an entire evening discussing a painting that hung in the main hall of Dol Amroth. It was one of the few ways that steward and youngest son could pass the time without entering into a verbal sparring match that left them either frustrated, enraged, unapproachable, or a combination of all three. But their conversations concerning art in all its various incarnations was beyond Boromir, who shared not their love for it. His was a world of swords, and while he had been duly trained in other things, he saw no profit for Gondor in those pursuits, especially when the might of the Enemy grew daily.

And so Boromir had become accustomed to feeling confused during the rare times when Denethor was not patronizing Faramir and Faramir was not out attempting to prove himself. But it was a very unusual occurrence when Boromir felt lost upon the trail with a group of fellow warriors. Yet this very thing was now happening, and Boromir definitely did not enjoy it.

Like the others, he had been relieved when Legolas and Gimli returned with Pippin. The strength and power of Gimli’s axe was not to be underestimated while Legolas carried the only long-distance weapon in the group—unless one counted Gandalf’s magic and that which Frodo carried… Boromir shook his head, dislodging the Ring from his thoughts. They did not apply, and he was still trying to unravel his true feelings. He was glad that elf and dwarf were back. And in a strange way, he had missed Pippin’s company. Prudence had demanded that he speak his peace and urge them all to move on, but in his heart, he had not wanted to leave without knowing the fates of his companions. And yet…what exactly was wrong with him? Having finished his meal—he currently had no idea what the appropriate name for this meal might be—he had sat back to watch the rest of the camp. Aragorn and Gandalf had disappeared, something that bothered him slightly, but the rest were still around and seemed not to care, so Boromir had decided that he would not care either. But something else had then entered his mind, and he was troubled.

What exactly had happened down in the ravine? Gimli and Legolas were not quite the same dwarf and elf. They were not exactly civil to one another, but they were both more or less avoiding open confrontations, and this puzzled Boromir greatly. It also bothered him. Boromir’s strength as a commander of men came from personally knowing the soldiers who served beneath him. They trusted in his military mind and his natural grasp of strategy because they knew him. They knew his capabilities. In turn, he trusted in their strength and skills because he trained and worked with them. There was no room for secrets upon the field of battle, for such secrets might prove to be the undoing of an entire battalion. There were too many uncertainties already in the world to have them infect the inner workings of an army. If a warrior did not know the strength of his comrades, then how could they be relied upon during battle?

And yet, here in the Fellowship, Boromir had no idea of his companions’ strength. He had heard that Aragorn was accounted a good swordsman by the elves of Rivendell. He had heard that many considered the archers of Mirkwood to be unequaled in skill with the bow. He had heard that a dwarf could force his axe through both steel and stone if the need pressed. But save for the wolf and the few sparring rounds against Aragorn in Imladris, Boromir had no evidence of any of these things. He did not truly know what his companions were capable of. This was enough to set his nerves on edge, particularly since he’d been trained to work with and compliment the strengths of others in a coherent battle unit. But now it seemed that elf and dwarf had come to some kind of unspoken agreement, and when this was added to the growing list of unknowns, Boromir felt himself drowning in a sea of uncertainty.

Beyond that, there was Aragorn to consider. The night before, the Ranger had been willing to abandon the Fellowship and wait for his comrades. Boromir could understand Merry’s reasoning in this. The hobbit did not think with a mind bent on strategy as did Boromir, and waiting around for a dear friend seemed a logical move in the eyes of Merry. Boromir, on the other hand, saw the wait for of three comrades as a costly delay in a war that had become a life and death struggle for his people. Every day that passed was a day when more of Gondor’s soldiers died. And Aragorn, especially as Isildur’s heir, should have seen this. He should have also been pressing to move on. But he had not. He had not acted for the good of Middle Earth. He had acted out of a desire to see that three companions were safe. It might have been a noble gesture to some, but it was wholly selfish from Boromir’s point of view. All of Gondor lay bare before the might of Mordor with the peoples of Rohan, Belfalas, Lebennin, Dol Amroth, Dale, and a host of others sheltered behind her. Should she fall, Middle Earth would also fall. And yet Aragorn had seen fit to wait for an elf, a dwarf, and a hobbit when every minute took them closer to doom! Denethor’s son sighed and clutched his head. It seemed that none truly understood Gondor’s plight. Nor did they understand just how closely their own fates were related to the success or failure of Minas Tirith.

Minute shifts in the tone of the conversation around him informed Boromir that Gandalf and Aragorn were returning. Drawing himself out of his thoughts, he caught the last of Pippin’s growing tale about his adventures in the ravine. This story had started tamely enough while on the trail the night before, but when Gimli and Legolas became reluctant to speak of it, Pippin had taken over and the embellishments had begun. By the time they had made camp for the day, Pippin had single-handedly saved both Legolas and Gimli from five different rockslides as well as climbing three mountains and battling a regiment of goblins. Boromir was rather surprised that a dragon had yet to appear in the story and decided that it would probably be the next addition.

"I hope you are all feeling well rested," Gandalf said when Pippin had finished his tale. "Tonight will find us making for the Redhorn Gate. Pippin, stay close to Merry and make certain that your balance is sure. One misstep on some of these trails will spell disaster. Merry, if Pippin begins to slip, anchor yourself and steady him."

Boromir wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard a sigh of relief behind him. Glancing back, he caught a look of hope upon Frodo’s face and wondered at what that might mean. He himself saw very little hope in the mountain passes. They were too far north for Boromir’s comfort, and snow lay far down many of the surrounding slopes. Beyond that, the weather looked rather threatening. If caught during the night, even a minor storm might prove to be a great danger, for flying snow would block sight and the mountain paths were sure to be thin and treacherous.

"From what signs we have seen lately, I fear that the Redhorn Gate may be watched; and also I have doubts of the weather that is coming up behind. Snow may come," Gandalf continued, apparently sharing Boromir’s concerns about the ominous clouds. "We must go with all the speed that we can. Even so it will take us more than two marches before we reach the top of the pass. Dark will come early this evening. We must leave as soon as you can get ready.

"I will add a word of advice, if I may," Boromir spoke up before any action could be taken. "I was born under the shadow of the White Mountains and know something of journeys in the high places. We shall meet bitter cold, if no worse, before we come down on the other side. It will not help us to keep so secret that we are frozen to death. When we leave here, where there are still a few trees and bushes, each of us should carry a faggot of wood, as large as he can bear."

"And Bill could take a bit more, couldn’t you, lad?" Sam said quietly with a pat on the pony’s side. To Boromir’s eyes, it did not look as though Bill agreed.

"Very well," Gandalf sighed, seeming to do so with reluctance. "But we must not use the wood—not unless it is a choice between fire and death."

"Journeys in the high places often meet with such choices," Boromir answered. "I learned long ago that if one is able, one must always be prepared to deal with inclement weather in the mountains. I would not consider embarking on tonight’s journey without at least some wood for use in case of emergencies."

"Boromir speaks wisely," Aragorn said, causing Boromir to look at him in surprise. Ever since their disagreement on what to do concerning the lost comrades in the ravine, Boromir and Aragorn had said very little to one another, and their conversations had become terse and brusque. Boromir was startled that Aragorn would choose to support him here, and a small feeling of gratitude sparked in his heart. Perhaps Aragorn might learn to respect his own kind after all. "I have also journeyed in the mountains, and know well their dangers," the Ranger continued. "A faggot of wood for each of us is not too great a burden, and should there come a choice between life and death, we must be prepared to meet that choice with options."

"Then gather the wood," Gandalf directed, but his voice still held a note of reluctance. "Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli shall be tasked with that. The hobbits and I shall see to the baggage. But make haste, all of you. We must leave soon."

Camp broke apart as each went off to complete his own assignment. Boromir silently followed Aragorn into the trees, thinking that a coordinated group effort would yield faster results, and it seemed that the Ranger had the same idea for he stopped to wait for Boromir. Then they continued on in silence, and it seemed to Boromir that there was a sense of companionship, albeit it was a rather tense feeling. Still, it was better than the muted animosity that stood between them earlier, and Boromir hoped that such animosity would vanish with time. For of all the Fellowship, he was still most comfortable in Aragorn’s presence. Legolas was too lofty, Gimli was too gruff, the hobbits were too fanciful, and Gandalf was too…Gandalf was hard to explain. Suffice to say that Boromir was uneasy in his presence and always had been. Aragorn, for all his heritage and his elven airs, was still a man, and that was an endless source of comfort for Boromir.

"Let us start here," Aragorn said, breaking the silence and indicating a dead tree off to their side. "The branches still upon the tree are driest and will make the best fire. Choose them first and then move to those most recently fallen."

"You are not the only one here who has a knowledge of woodcraft," Boromir said quietly. "I also know how to gather wood for a fire. Think not that my training as a youth was with the sword and shield alone."

Aragorn frowned and then a hint of a smile crept over his face. "My apologies, Boromir. I have become accustomed to instructing the hobbits."

"In that case, all is forgiven," Boromir said, his words applying to more than just Aragorn’s earlier statement. "Let us put it behind us and concentrate on the task at hand."

"Your counsel is good counsel," Aragorn said with a knowing gleam in his eye. "The past shall stay in the past, and we shall concern ourselves with the present."

"And the future," Boromir murmured, breaking off several branches and jumping back as splintering pieces of bark rained down upon him.

"And the future," Aragorn echoed, glancing up at the sky.

Boromir followed his eyes, and a shiver crept up his spine. The clouds were growing darker and the wind was beginning to pick up. It would be an interesting night, and Boromir could only hope that the coming storm held off long enough for them to cross the Redhorn Gate. If not… Denethor’s son shuddered. If the storm did catch them upon the mountain’s open slopes, then it would take an act of the Valar to save them.

Once again, this chapter has quite a bit of Tolkien’s own words (sorry, Nancing Elf, but I must remain true to my source) and so I have kept the dialogue intact and unchanged. That said, I have also placed additional dialogue (my own) to the ends and beginnings of these sections. If you want to find Tolkien’s dialogue in the book, look on pages 344-347 of The Fellowship of the Ring Ballantine 50th anniversary edition.

And remember, this is a BOOK fic. I love the movie, but I still love the books even more…

Happy reading!

January 11, 3019 (Night)

Pippin stared at the path ahead of him—or rather what little he could see of it in the cloudy night—and tried to decide whether or not the trail was actually weaving back and forth or if it was just him. When he felt Merry seize his arm and steady him, he had his answer. With a sigh, Pippin squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get his headache to subside. He didn’t want to admit it, but he wasn’t sure if he could keep going.

The beginning of the hike had been fine, and Pippin had been justifiably proud of himself. The Fellowship had started off at a good pace, and though they climbed steadily up a series of switchbacks, Pippin had endured no unusual hardships. Merry had been right beside him, of course, in case aught should happen, but Pippin had forged ahead with almost no help from his friend. That had lasted for an hour or so. After that, the beginnings of a pounding headache had started. At first, the throbbing pain was something that could be ignored with effort. But after another hour or two, Pippin’s vision would blur and double. He found himself swaying from side to side or misplacing his feet. Merry started reaching over and righting Pippin more and more often. The pace of the Fellowship slowed significantly, and though Pippin knew they now walked a very treacherous path, he couldn’t help but assume some of the guilt.

"Steady," Merry whispered in his ear. "Steady here. You don’t want to trip. Not after climbing that last switchback, because then you’ll just have to climb it all over again."

Merry’s attempts at levity were noted and appreciated, but Pippin just couldn’t find it within himself to give any reply in kind. He merely nodded and struggled forward, not missing the flash of concern in Merry’s eyes and very conscious that a hand was still gripping his arm. Normally he might have protested, but given his headache and his dizziness, he seriously doubted that he could maintain his balance without Merry’s assistance. The idea was rather galling, but fortunately for Pippin, his pride was not too stubborn to recognize that help was needed.

"The night grows steadily darker," someone murmured behind him. "The trail becomes more difficult to see." It took Pippin a moment to recognize Gimli’s gruff voice, but when he did figure out who was speaking, he mentally thanked the dwarf. Pippin had thought the increasing darkness was just another trick of his vision. It was good to know that not everything was going wrong. At least, not yet.

"Gandalf’s eyes are keen. He will not lead us astray," another voice—probably Aragorn, but Pippin wasn’t sure—answered.

"I said not so, nor do I have concerns in that area. Rather, I fear for the hobbits and the pony. Even now, Pippin is stumbling. If we are forced to scramble over more rock piles as we did a mile ago, then I fear not all of us shall be able to hazard it."

"We cannot leave any behind," Aragorn said. "Not in these lands."

"Then we shall have to find more light. But these clouds do not seem eager to part. And in my opinion, they are far too dark. A storm is coming, Aragorn."

Pippin hastily shifted his mind to the trail ahead, hoping he wouldn’t hear anything else from the back. A storm was the last thing they needed. Things were bad enough already. "Merry, let’s get ahead of Sam and Frodo," Pippin said, hoping this would prevent further eavesdropping on his part and so save his ignorant bliss.

"What’s wrong with walking back here?" Merry asked, concern etched in his dark brown eyes.

"I’ve got Bill walking right in front of me," Pippin said, calling into practice many notorious years of creating spontaneous alibis and excuses. "And while I can normally avoid any presents he drops, we are currently on a rather narrow trail here, if you take my meaning."

"Ah. Yes, I see your point. Right then, let’s go," Merry said. "But we go carefully! The trail is still shrinking in width."

"When am I not careful?" Pippin asked innocently, hoping to bolster both his spirits and Merry’s with forced humor.

Ahead of them, both Frodo started to laugh while Sam turned and shot them a rather incredulous stare. "When are you not careful?" Frodo asked with a grin. "Do you really wish me to answer that, Pippin, or were you asking in jest?"

"You clearly don’t understand just how cautious we Tooks are," Pippin said, wincing as his headache grew larger now that he and Merry were traveling slightly faster. He tried to inject a note of bravado into his voice, but his spirits were falling again and he wondered just how long he could keep going before toppling over.

"Clearly not," Frodo said with a shake of his head. "And apparently, the rest of Middle Earth is also in the dark Caution?" The Ring-bearer chuckled. "The day I see a cautious Took will be the day that the Bolgers decide to take off on an adventure."

"You’re one to talk," Pippin muttered. "I think you get most of your caution from your mother."

"Brandybucks are respectable, cautious hobbits," Merry protested. "And Frodo’s mother was living proof of that."

"Respectable?" Sam exclaimed. "How can you claim to be respectable hobbits, what with fooling around in those boats and playing with who-knows-what in the Old Forest. Respectable hobbits? Mr. Merry, I think you’ve been out in this cold too long. The Brandybucks are some of the strangest folk in all the Shire. Meaning no offense to you, Mr. Frodo," the gardener added hastily. "You’re a Baggins, after all, sir."

By now, Pippin and Merry had managed to get in front of Frodo and Sam, which also meant that they could return to their normal speed. Pippin was intensely grateful for this because he was beginning to feel sick to his stomach. The change in pace seemed to help this particular problem, but his headache still persisted.

"There’s nothing wrong with boats," Merry said in response to Sam. "They are a very useful means of transportation. I’d actually rather take a boat than a pony, if given the choice. You can relax and sit back in a boat. That’s not true about riding a pony. In fact…" The hobbit trailed off and paused, making Pippin stop as well. Behind them, Frodo and Sam were force to come to a halt. Wondering at the cause of the delay, Pippin turned his pounding head to ask Merry about what was happening, but he stopped as a sudden rush of cold air brushed against his cheek. A soft moaning sound echoed from the deep chasm on their right, and it was answered by sighs and whispers from the heights to their left.

"The wind is picking up," Frodo said quietly.

Behind Bill, Aragorn moved forward and closed his eyes as the growing breeze began to tease his hair. Deciding that this was probably a bad sign and that the Ranger sensed something ill in their surroundings, Pippin shivered and felt yet another rush of cold air go by. Ahead of them, Gandalf stopped and turned, sensing that he was no longer being followed. "For what are we waiting?" the wizard asked.

"We are listening to the wind," Aragorn answered on behalf of the hobbits, now moving past them to join Gandalf at the head of the party. "I believe it speaks of snow."

"Wonderful," Merry groaned. "I thought the wind was bad enough, but now we are talking about snow. Can things get worse?"

"Merry, if I have learned one thing from all my journeys, it is to never ask whether or not things can get worse," the Ranger replied. "They always can, and if you ask, they always will."

"That’s optimism for you," Sam grumbled.

"Optimism or not, it is true," Aragorn said with something akin to a shrug. "Come. We must continue."

"Do you feel up to this, Pippin?" Merry asked quietly.

Trying to ignore his friend’s scrutiny, Pippin sighed, nodded, and then started out after Aragorn and Gandalf. Merry was quick to follow, keeping a tight hold on Pippin’s arm should he stumble or trip. For a minute or two they continued in silence, and then Frodo spoke up, his voice soft and scarce to be heard above the steadily rising wind.

"It’s snowing."

* * * *

Trying to rid himself of the clinging snow, Legolas ducked his head and shook himself slightly. While the storm was not completely unexpected—clouds had been shadowing the mountains for several days—the way it was rapidly increasing in ferocity was rather surprising. Legolas had seen winter storms before. They were quite common in the High Pass as early as November, and Legolas had been caught in a few of them. And they were certainly frightening to behold, for their speed, strength, and chill could all be deadly enemies. But something about this particular storm struck Legolas as rather odd. For one thing, they were too far south for a storm of this magnitude to hit them so low on the mountain. Another problem was that this storm had almost materialized out of nowhere. The wind had risen for only a few moments before the flakes started to fall, and they had only fallen for perhaps five minutes before visibility became hindered. It was starting too quickly for Legolas’s comfort, and he wondered if there might not be more to this storm than a simple winter squall.

Ahead of him, Boromir’s toiling form had become greatly obscured by falling snow, and Legolas could barely see Gimli beyond that. He thought he might be able to decipher the outline of Bill, but anyone ahead of the dwarf was little more than a guess in the dark. Still, if Gimli’s struggles were any judge, then the hobbits would not be faring well. The wind continued to howl around them, the flakes fell faster and faster, and the trail that had previously been clear as far as Legolas’s eyes could see was now covered with ankle-deep snow.

"I don’t like this at all," someone near the front of the party said. Legolas couldn’t tell who was speaking for the voices were too faint and the wind too strong, but he guessed it to be one of the hobbits. "Snow’s all right on a fine morning, but I like to be in bed while it’s falling. I wish this lot would go off to Hobbiton! Folk might welcome it there."

Definitely a hobbit, Legolas thought, but the spoken complaint made him pause. While contemplating the potential trials of his companions, he had thought primarily of the uphill climb and the struggle against the wind. But now that he considered the idea further, he realized that his mortal comrades would quickly suffer from much more. As an elf, Legolas was not particularly mindful of the cold until it became very bitter or until he became soaked to the skin in an icy river, such as had happened earlier. Since neither was the case in the current situation, Legolas had not been paying much attention to the drop in degrees except as far as it might be useful for predicting a storm. But he now realized that the temperatures had probably become dangerous for mortals, especially if those mortals were tired and travel-worn. And the building snow on the ground could prove to be a further hindrance. Legolas noted with despair that Boromir and Gimli both were wading through the growing drifts with increasing levels of difficulty, and at this point, the elf began to doubt for the first time as to whether or not they would make it over the mountain.

How must the hobbits be doing? he questioned, wishing he could see better in the cloud of flying white. But sight was becoming next to impossible, and even Gimli was fading from view. Normally this would have been a source of great joy for the elf, for any time he could put the dwarf from sight and mind was a time for celebration. But at the moment, Gimli was his best guess as to the trials of the hobbits, and if he couldn’t see the dwarf, he had no way to measure how those smaller than Gimli were doing. But then, perhaps the dwarf is not the best guide after all, Legolas reconsidered. Gimli had shown himself to be possessed of immeasurable fortitude and endurance when he had been trapped with the elf and Pippin in the ravine. It was a very strange thing, but Legolas found he was coming to have a grudging respect for the bearded creature. Not that he would ever admit to such respect. But Gimli was…Gimli was something unexpected, flying in the face of many of the elf’s preconceived notions of dwarves. And anything unexpected was a source of great curiosity for any elf. Even young elves like Legolas had seen so many years in Arda that surprises were rare gifts, and much to the prince’s chagrin, Gimli was turning into one of those rare gifts.

Caught up in wondering just how a dwarf had come to be so fascinating for him, Legolas almost walked right into the back of Boromir. Of course, it didn’t help that he could barely see Boromir, but the lapse in concentration still grated harshly against the elf’s pride. Fortunately, the flying snow prevented anyone else from noting his faux pas, and after a quick mental scolding, Legolas was back on track.

Gandalf had stopped, the snow now piling on top of his hat, and the rest of the Fellowship had bunched around him, the hobbits huddling together for protection. Glancing up into the storm, the wizard shaded eyes with his hand and tried to find the heights. Legolas followed his gaze, and though he could not see as far as was his wont, he could discern enough to know that the snow was not stopping in the near future.

"This is what I feared," Gandalf sighed, his eyes traveling over the bedraggled Fellowship before stopping on the Ranger who stood next to him. "What do you say now, Aragorn?"

"That I feared it, too, but less than other things. I knew the risk of snow, though it seldom falls heavily so far south, save high up in the mountains. But we are not high yet; we are still far down, where the paths are usually open all the winter."

Legolas grimaced, not at all pleased that his earlier observations had been validated and confirmed by Aragorn. It was one thing to suspect that this storm was unnatural. It was another thing to have a trusted friend voice the same opinion. But what was this about fearing snow less than other things? I did not sense that spies were following us too closely, Legolas pondered, thinking over the last few days. Perhaps this has somewhat to do with the private conversation that Aragorn and Gandalf had earlier today. Perhaps I should have listened to it after all.

"I wonder if this is a contrivance of the Enemy," Boromir suddenly spoke up, his voice shaking slightly with cold. "They say in my land that he can govern the storms in the Mountains of Shadow that stand upon the borders of Mordor. He has strange powers and many allies."

"His arm has grown long indeed if he can draw snow down from the North to trouble us here three hundred leagues away," Gimli answered, apparently skeptical. Much to his surprise, Legolas found himself in agreement with the dwarf. This was not a natural storm, that much was certain. But as for being from Sauron… The elf shook his head. Perhaps when Sauron had still been in Dol Guldur such a thing could be possible, but surely he could not reach them from Mordor.

"His arm has grown long," Gandalf said with a weary sigh, throwing doubts on Legolas’s thoughts.

"Are we turning back?" Merry asked, and there was a definite note of hope in the hobbit’s voice.

"Let us wait a moment and see if we are granted a reprieve," Aragorn counseled, speaking up before Gandalf could say aught. "Mayhap the storm will cease its fury and we shall be able to continue."

"Even if it does stop, my feet are frozen," Pippin muttered, wrapping his cloak firmly around his body. "The snow isn’t all going to melt away from the path just because the storm comes to a halt."

"Patience," Gandalf advised. "Let us see what fates brings."

Legolas was of the opinion that fate was not going to bring them anything good in the near future, but as they continued to stand there, only speaking occasionally, the wind began to die down. Frowning, Legolas studied the clouds overhead and wondered at this shift in the weather. Even the snow was beginning to lighten, though it certainly did not stop snowing completely. But judging from the clouds, there was still much more to come. Why this sudden change?

"It seems that fortune is a kind mistress today," Boromir said quietly, but he sounded just as suspicious as Legolas felt.

"I wonder," Gimli muttered. "I like this not."

"I’m not going to complain," was Sam’s contribution. "It’s not snowing as hard. That’s good enough for me, and it’s good enough for Bill."

"But to change so quickly…" Legolas whispered with a frown, deciding to ignore the fact that he was vocally agreeing with the dwarf.

"We know not whether this change bodes ill or good," Aragorn said, his voice strangely earnest. "Let us continue now that the storm has slowed. Perhaps we can gain the pass and cross to the other side of the mountains. Perhaps the weather shall be kinder to us there."

"Perhaps," Gandalf said dubiously, eyeing the clouds. He gave his head a shake, dislodging the snow on his hat, and then sighed. "Come then. If this is indeed a stroke of favor on our behalf, we must not waste it. Quickly, before the storm begins anew!"

There did not seem to be an abundance of joy at the announcement that they were continuing—except perhaps on the part of Aragorn, which puzzled Legolas greatly—but nevertheless, the Fellowship continued their weary struggle. Almost immediately, the wind began to rise again, and the snow started to fall faster, but Aragorn and Gandalf did not stop. Wondering at the wisdom of this, Legolas was about to speak up and suggest they descend in the hopes that the next day would prove better, but before he could do so, he stopped and froze. Closing his eyes, the elf cocked his head and listened as the faint sound of laughter began to tease the edges of his hearing.

* * * *

Pulling his cloak tight about his shoulders, Sam stared into the blinding snow ahead and wondered why they were still walking. Bilbo’s tales of the Fell Winter of 1311 were the hobbit’s only real experience with extreme cold, and just listening to them had chilled Sam’s blood. Now caught in a storm upon the slopes of Caradhras, Sam decided that Bilbo had probably toned down his stories for the sake of his audience. At least there weren’t any white wolves here to—

Sam shook his head, remembering his own father’s advice about thinking of worse things. It almost always brought them to you, and the last thing he wanted on these slippery mountain slopes was a pack of white wolves after him. Bilbo had painted very descriptive pictures of them through his tales, and Sam would be happy if he never saw one. The Warg Legolas had killed was enough for him. He didn’t want any more experiences with those things. Of course, he didn’t want any more experiences with cold and snow, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do about that. He was more or less surrounded by it.

Over his shoulder, Bill snorted and shook his shaggy head, snow flying from the frost-encrusted mane to splatter against the side of Sam’s face. "Steady," the hobbit whispered, pulling the pony’s head close to his own. Bill’s warm breath felt good against his cheek, and he found a great deal of comfort in the simple knowledge that the pony was with him. And Mr. Frodo, too, Sam added, glancing at the Ring-bearer who walked to his right. Though I wish he wouldn’t stray so close to the edge. He’s liable to fall!

Seeming to sense Sam’s gaze, Frodo lifted bleary eyes and gave him a weak smile. "How are you holding up, Sam?"

"Well enough, considering," Sam answered, trying to lift his legs higher so that he wasn’t kicking through drifts with every step. "What about you, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo grimaced. "I wouldn’t be too upset if it stopped snowing. And it could be a bit warmer."

"A bit warmer?" Merry asked, glancing back at the two. His arm was wrapped around Pippin’s waist, and the younger hobbit was leaning heavily upon his friend. "You clearly have no idea as to what constitutes a sensible temperature. It needs to be much warmer than this."

"You’re from Buckland," Frodo said with a dismissive wave of a shaking hand. "You practically live in a jungle. It’s a wonder you don’t sweat away all your wit in the summer."

"And you in the frigid north of Hobbiton have had your brains frozen right out of you," Merry retorted, his teeth chattering slightly.

"Neither one of you has any sense at all," Pippin broke in, a definite shiver rattling his voice. "Buckland can’t be more than a league or so south of where Bag End sits even though it’s considerably further east, and yet you complain about the differences in weather as if you were comparing Long Cleeve to Sackville! Now Tuckborough, on the other hand…" Pippin paused for dramatic emphasis, which was more or less destroyed by his shaking body. "Tuckborough is a place of great heat during the summer."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Pippin, but Tuckborough is only about two leagues further south than Buckland, judging from the maps," Sam said. "I don’t see what all this talk is about. There shouldn’t be no difference at all in the weather."

"Maybe not to you," Merry answered. "But trust to those who know better. I’ve seen hobbits from Hobbiton melt away under Buckland’s sun."

"Why don’t you describe this great heat for us, Merry," Frodo said, drawing his cloak up higher on his shoulders. "Maybe it will make us feel warmer. If not that, then at least we’ll have a warm picture in our minds."

"Merry doesn’t know anything about this," Pippin protested. Sam frowned and studied the youngest hobbit. To his mind, Pippin’s voice was weak and growing weaker. Maybe he should suggest that they stop soon. "If you want to know what real heat is like, you have to ask me."

"You just worry about keeping your feet underneath you," Merry ordered. "I’ll talk about the heat. And if I need better references, I’ll talk about Tuckborough. I’ve been there occasionally."

"Good," Pippin murmured, slumping even harder against Merry. Merry stumbled slightly, trying to compensate for Pippin’s weight, but the growing snowdrifts and the howling wind were making it difficult.

"Get behind Bill," Frodo suddenly said. "He’ll block part of the wind for you, though certainly not all of it."

Merry nodded obediently and stood to the side as Frodo, Sam, and Bill passed him. Sam kept careful watch to see that Merry followed in Bill’s tracks, and he slowed his own pace considerably to ensure that the two struggling hobbits would be able to keep up. Casting an anxious look at Frodo, he was met by an equally concerned gaze but also with a helpless shrug. There was nothing more that could be done for them. They were all struggling.

"Maybe you could talk about something warm, Sam," Frodo suggested after a while as the snow continued to build. They were now moving next to a towering cliff that seemed to rise up out of nowhere and the trail was slightly wider, giving the Fellowship a brief respite from the fear of falling.

"Something warm," Sam muttered, pressing his face against Bill’s cheek as a strong blast of icy wind came up. "When was the last time we were warm, Mr. Frodo?"

"We had a fire this morning for Pippin," Frodo answered.

"I don’t know as I can remember it," Sam sighed wearily. "Right now, it seems that all I can think about is—"

Sam abruptly froze, falling completely silent as the tone of the wind around him changed. Stopping beside him, Bill snorted and dipped his head, his ears going flat against his neck. Swirling around them came the sudden sound of shrill laughter and screams. They spiraled upward into the night, teasing and answering one another in no language that could be understood, but a cold dread squeezed Sam’s heart and he pressed against the equally frightened pony. No mortal voice uttered those cries, and their haunting cadences were playing havoc with Sam’s mind. The laughter was even worse. As if mocking the futile attempts of the Fellowship, it seemed to rise from the depths of Arda and echo off every crag and outcropping on the mountain.

A harsh grating sound directly above him startled Sam out of his frozen shock. More out of instinct than anything else, Sam pushed against Bill, driving the startled pony against the side of the cliff. A large boulder slammed onto the trail exactly where they had been standing, and as Sam looked on in astonishment, more rocks and boulders came flying down the side of the cliff. Some of them missed the trail entirely while others were far more accurate. One nearly crushed Frodo beneath its massive weight, while in the back of the Fellowship, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli scrambled out of the way of two more. It was then that Sam realized he was not the only one to have stopped. They had all stopped upon hearing the eerie voices, and seeming to seek protection from the falling rocks, they were now all bunched together against the base of the cliff.

"We cannot go further tonight," Boromir said harshly as a heavy rumble shook the air and yet another giant boulder flew overhead. "Let those call it the wind who will; there are fell voices in the air; and these stones were aimed at us."

"I do call it the wind," Aragorn answered, eyeing the hidden heights far above, "but that does not make what you say untrue. There are many evil and unfriendly things in the world that have little love for those that go on two legs and yet are not in league with Sauron but have purposes of their own. Some have been in this world longer than he.

"Caradhras was called the Cruel and had an ill name long years ago when rumor of Sauron had not been heard in these lands," Gimli said darkly, joining the hobbits as they took cover behind Bill. Sam wasn’t certain, but thought he saw Frodo stiffen at these words.

"It matters little who is the enemy if we cannot beat off his attack," Gandalf said, watching the storm through narrowed eyes.

"But what can we do?" Pippin asked weakly. By now, Frodo had also taken a hand in supporting him, and the youngest hobbit was leaning on both the Ring-bearer and Merry. But even with their combined body heat, he was still shivering violently and sagging against them.

"Either stop where we are or go back," Gandalf answered, sounding somewhat unsure of himself. This was enough to take Sam to the verge of a full-fledged panic attack. Up until now, he had trusted that their guides would have a way around this. But upon hearing the note of uncertainty in the wizard’s voice, Sam’s fear began to escalate dramatically. "It is no good going on," Gandalf continued, sounding as though he was voicing his thoughts out loud. "Only a little higher, if I remember rightly, this path leaves the cliff and runs into a wide shallow trough at the bottom of a long hard slope. We should have no shelter there from snow or stones—or anything else."

"And it is no good going back while the storm holds," Aragorn added. "We have passed no place on the way up that offered more shelter than this cliff-wall we are under now."

"Shelter!" Sam muttered darkly, wishing he still had enough energy to scream the outrage he felt at this word. "If this is shelter, then one wall and no roof make a house."

"This time, I must agree with you, Sam," Boromir said, hugging his arms to his chest and pressing against the side of the cliff.

"Stay close together, all of you," Gandalf ordered. "The cold is as deadly an enemy as the rocks."

"Wonderful," Sam muttered, pulling Bill closer to the hobbits as they backed into the cliff. "The cold, the rocks, the snow, the cliffs, the spies, and here we sit in what is apparently considered a shelter! What else can we expect?!"

"You heard what Aragorn said about questions like that," Frodo muttered as he tried to hide his entire head inside the hood of his cloak. "Don’t ask and maybe we won’t find out."

And as if in answer to this, the sound of shrill laughter once again echoed off the mountainsides.

* * * *

Gimli did not like to be cold. Nor did he like to be wet. He absolutely hated being both cold and wet. Thus, given their present circumstances, there was more than sufficient reason to justify his current mood, which could be likened to a dragon that woke on the wrong side of the gold pile. But unfortunately for the dwarf, the reasons for his sour disposition did not stop with being cold and wet. Apart from that, he was also slowly disappearing underneath a mountain of snow. Though he stood with the hobbits behind Bill, the snow was now up to the pony’s hocks, and the situation was beginning to turn desperately hopeless. Cold, wet, and buried alive, Gimli grumbled to himself. What else may I add to my list of complaints?

Glancing around to see if fate had obliged him by providing additional problems, he soon discovered that it most certainly had. To complete and perfect the dismal scene, Legolas was wandering about on top of the snow, looking none the worse for wear and seeming to not even notice the storm that raged above them. He did stay close to the cliff as a protection against falling stones, but aside from this precaution, he looked as though he had not a care in the world. From time to time, the elf would glance up and study the heights, though how his eyes could pierce the snow’s blinding fury was something Gimli could not even begin to understand. The one consolation in all of this was that Aragorn and Gandalf seemed to be just as disgusted by the elf’s nonchalant attitude as Gimli was. But since they were not acting upon their frustrations, the dwarf decided that he couldn’t justify any actions of his own. But it would be great fun to give the elf a little shove and see if he could catch his balance before flying over the edge…

Beside him, Frodo suddenly stirred and murmured something. Startled, Gimli glanced over and discovered that the hobbit’s eyes had closed and he now seemed to be drifting into a deep sleep. Alarmed, Gimli started clearing snow from the hobbit’s face and calling his name, but he was just as weary as Frodo and his hands were numb with cold. Hypothermia was beginning to set in and his mind was starting to wander as a drowsy haze crept over him. Perhaps Frodo had the right idea after all. Perhaps the best thing to do was to simply close his eyes and wait this out.

"I wanted rest and sleep, Bilbo," Frodo muttered, his voice somehow boring through the building layers of drifting consciousness that now weighed upon the dwarf’s mind. A shadow moved above them and Gimli looked up in time to see Boromir bend down and lift Frodo out of the snow bank. Beyond the Ring-bearer, the other hobbits were huddled together in a failing attempt to share body heat. Gimli debated about moving toward them, but he found that he no longer had the energy.

"This will be the death of the halflings, Gandalf," Boromir called out, his own voice trembling with cold. "It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads. We must do something to save ourselves."

"Give them this," came the wizard’s answer, and Gimli’s vision cleared enough for him to watch Gandalf search through a pack and pull forth a flask. "Just a mouthful each—for all of us. It is very precious. It is miruvor, the cordial of Imladris. Elrond gave it to me at our parting. Pass it round!"

Cordial? Gimli wondered blearily as sleep once again crept over him. Of all the idiotic notions, why are we drinking cordial at a time like this? Gandalf has been consulting with elves for far too long.

"Gimli? Gimli, wake. You must take some of this."

Opening eyes that he did not remember closing, Gimli found himself staring into the face of Aragorn who was offering him the flask that Gandalf had produced a moment ago. "What…what are we—"

"Drink," the Ranger ordered, the tone of his voice leaving no room for argument.

Too weary to disobey, Gimli obediently took the flask, watching with detached interest as the simple task of holding the bottle required two shaking hands. For a brief moment, the dwarf forgot what he was supposed to be doing, and then Aragorn’s hand slide beneath the flask and pushed it toward Gimli’s mouth. Oh yes. Drinking. His mind slowly clicking again, the dwarf dutifully put his mouth around the lip of the opening, tipped it back, and swallowed.

The result was almost instantaneous. A pleasant heat filled his body, and his mind started to clear as miruvor began to course through his system. The need for sleep dissipated and Gimli found himself gifted with renewed hope and strength. Confused, the dwarf frowned and studied the flask in his hand, wondering exactly what was in the cordial.

"Not all that comes from the elves is perilous to dwarves," Aragorn said with a hint of a smile. And without waiting for Gimli to compose a response to that statement, the Ranger took the flask back, turned around, and tossed it to Legolas, who was watching the storm play out over the mountains from his perch atop a snowdrift. The elf easily caught the bottle, took a small sip, and then threw it back, smiling briefly with thanks.

Thoroughly disgusted, Gimli turned away and shook his head, doing his best to ignore the elf. It was bad enough that they were cold, wet, and almost buried, but did Legolas have to flaunt the fact that he was in no way bothered by any of this?

"I don’t know quite what I imagined when I told Elrond I was coming on this quest, but I don’t think this was it," Pippin muttered. He looked better now, probably due to the miruvor, but he was still leaning heavily upon Merry.

"Perils come in many forms," Gimli answered, rubbing his hands together. The miruvor was helping, but his fingers were still stiff and swollen from cold. It would be a long night.

"I know I could do with a warmer peril," Sam sighed.

"No perils at all would be my wish," Frodo said quietly. Boromir had set him back down and he seemed to be more aware now thanks to the cordial, but his face was pale and he was still shivering.

"How’s your head, Pippin?" Merry asked, gingerly brushing snow out of the other hobbit’s hair.

"It’s fine," Pippin said with a wave of his hand. "You can stop worrying about it."

"Just tell me if you start feeling sleepy," Merry ordered. "I don’t want you passing out on us. Not with the weather like this."

"I’m feeling sleepy now," Pippin answered, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. "But so are you and so is Frodo and so is Sam. You can’t do anything about it, so stop worrying."

Gimli sighed and began chafing his arms. The hobbits weren’t the only ones feeling sleepy. Despite the continued warmth from the miruvor, Gimli was beginning to sense the return of a drowsy haze. And judging from the tired faces of Aragorn and Boromir, he was not alone in this. Even Gandalf was looking rather dismal under the mound of snow that his hat was collecting.

Without warning, Bill suddenly shook himself off, sending snow flying in all directions. Cursing quietly, Gimli wiped his face and discovered that his hands were going numb again. This could not continue. The hobbits had ceased speaking, Sam looked as though he were drifting off to sleep, and the snow showed no signs of stopping its relentless attack.

"What do you say to fire?" Boromir suddenly asked, also sensing that their situation was growing dire. "The choice seems near now between fire and death, Gandalf. Doubtless we shall be hidden from all unfriendly eyes when the snow has covered us, but that will not help us."

"You may make a fire, if you can," the wizard answered reluctantly. "If there are any watchers that can endure this storm, then they can see us, fire or no."

Boromir nodded and dropped his pack to the ground, pulling kindling out of the top and swiftly digging out a place in the snow where the fire would be somewhat sheltered from the wind. Gimli moved over to aid him and pulled flint and steel from a pouch on his belt, but the dwarf’s hands were shaking so badly that he could not hold them steady long enough to strike a flame of any kind.

By now, Aragorn had joined them, and he took the flint and steel away from Gimli, holding the dwarf’s hands and rubbing them hard between his own. "By my own counsel have I brought this upon us," the Ranger murmured to himself with a dark shake of his head. "Legolas!"

"I need but a moment," Gimli growled, incensed with the thought that the elf was being called upon to start the fire.

"We do not have a moment," Boromir answered, taking the flint and steel from Aragorn and striking them together. "The hobbits need warmth now."

"The wind blows hard," Legolas warned, kneeling next to them and glancing curiously at the dwarf as though wondering why he was not trying to start the fire. "I do not think you can strike a flame that will hold."

"We have no other choice," Aragorn said, continuing to work with Gimli’s hands. "Boromir, give the flint and steel to Legolas. Shield him from the wind as best you can."

"Aragorn, I do not think I—"

"Have you a better idea?" the Ranger demanded, glaring at the elf.

Legolas sighed and looked at Boromir, who handed over the flint and steel before moving behind the elf in an attempt to block the wind. Unfortunately, the cliff caused the wind to swirl and blow in many directions as it wove its way around the mountains. No matter where Boromir stood or how Legolas positioned his own body, every time a spark of flame caught upon the wood, a sudden gust of wind would snuff it out.

"Move aside," Gimli ordered gruffly as his teeth began to chatter. Managing to escape Aragorn, he shouldered the elf away from Boromir’s fire pit and caught hold of the flint and steel. "Do not trust an elf to do a dwarf’s work."

"It is not a matter of skill or ability but rather one of fortune," Legolas said stiffly, but surprisingly enough, he offered no other rejoinder. Instead, he stepped behind the dwarf with Boromir, both attempting to divert the wind with their bodies. Aragorn joined them quickly and the hobbits also closed in, sensing that the makings of a fire was their only chance to avoid a frozen grave.

But much to Gimli’s dismay, Legolas’s words proved true. This was certainly not a matter of skill but of luck. And their luck seemed to have run out. The other members of the Fellowship crowded close in an attempt to make an effective shield, but the cursed wind always found a way around them to extinguish the tiny glimmers of fire that Gimli was creating. And though Gimli dutifully kept striking the steel against the flint, he knew the situation was hopeless. If something miraculous didn’t happen soon, they would no longer need to worry about the fate of Middle Earth or the evil of the Ring, for they would all be dead. Even the elf.

A shadow moved over him and Gimli looked up, bracing himself to tell Aragorn that he could not start a fire under these conditions, but he stopped when he saw Gandalf instead of the Ranger. The wizard’s face was unreadable though there seemed to be some reluctance in it, and he firmly pushed Gimli aside as he picked up one of snow-covered logs. Raising it above his head, he cried aloud and thrust his staff into the bark.

"Naur en edrainth ammen!"

Almost instantly, flames of blue and green blazed forth. Gandalf hastily dropped the log, and Gimli needed no one to tell him what to do next. Other logs were quickly stacked above the growing fire, positioned in the form of a lean-to so that they would both shelter the flame and allow it to spread to themselves.

"If there are any to see, then I at least am revealed to them," Gandalf muttered as the hobbits mobbed the fire. "I have written Gandalf is here in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the Mouths of Anduin."

"Then take comfort in Merry’s words," Aragorn suggested quietly with something of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The crebain we saw might not be evil but rather good, or they might have nothing to do with us."

"I didn’t mean it," Merry said through chattering teeth while holding his hands as close to the fire as he dared. "I believed you when you said that the crows were dangerous."

"I’m just grateful for a fire," Pippin said, now supporting his shivering frame on his own. "I was about to drift off to sleep, and I don’t think I would have liked waking up from that."

"If you were able to wake up at all," Frodo added as he and Sam tried to scoot closer to the flickering flames.

"Take care," Legolas cautioned. "The fire is warm, but it can be a bit warmer than you like. Do not get so close that you singe yourselves."

"We’ll be careful," Sam promised with a sniffle and a shiver.

"They’re not the only ones who will need to be careful," Gimli muttered.

Beside him, Aragorn shifted and sent the dwarf a questioning gaze. "Have you a graver fear?"

"The fire," Gimli explained quietly, his voice no higher than a whisper. "The wood is burning quickly, and though we have all brought fuel for the fire, it will not last the night unless we are very cautious and tend the flames well."

"And the storm shows no signs of stopping," Aragorn sighed, glancing beyond the light of the fire and into the darkness where swirling flakes continued to fly. "It will be a cold dawn."

"If we live to see it," Gimli murmured.

Naur en edrainth ammen—Fire be for saving us.

January 12, 3019 (Morning)

"The night is getting cold. The dawn is not far off."

"If any dawn can pierce these clouds."

Gandalf stirred slightly in his seat next to the fire and glanced out into the darkness, his eyes barely making out the silhouettes of Aragorn and Gimli beyond the flames. He had not noticed it before as he was sitting too close to the fire, but the night was indeed getting colder. The wizard had always thought it strange that the predawn darkness should be one of the coldest periods of the night, but perhaps it was the way of the darkness to inflict one last blow upon the sleeping world before the sun chased away the shadows. But Gimli had a good point. The clouds still hung thick over Caradhras and the sun would certainly not be making an appearance. Morning would not be much warmer.

"The snow is growing less, and the wind is quieter," Boromir observed, stepping away from the protection of the fire and glancing upwards.

"It doesn’t take much to be quieter," Sam grumbled, his voice barely audible as it had to struggle upwards through several layers of extra cloaks and blankets. "A dragon might have been quieter than that wind."

"Be thankful it wasn’t a dragon," Gimli said sharply, moving back toward the campfire. "You have never faced one, nor have your people ever been forced into exile because of one."

Gandalf sighed and rubbed his head. They were all tired and cross, but the wizard had noticed that when dwarves became cold and wet, their tempers tended to become sharp and violent. At the moment, it was hard to comment on something without Gimli making a snide remark or a retort of some kind. But Gandalf was quick to notice that Gimli was showing admirable restraint, particularly as far as Legolas was concerned. The elf was beginning to get on everyone’s nerves with his immunity to the cold and his nonchalant attitude, but Gimli had yet to comment on it. And to his own credit, Legolas had yet to antagonize the irate dwarf, which had to have been an enormous temptation for his elven sense of humor and mischief. This unusual display of restraint on both sides was an enormous step toward a partially civil relationship between Legolas and Gimli, and Gandalf wondered if anyone else in the Fellowship had noticed it. Perhaps Aragorn, but the Ranger seemed too preoccupied with blaming himself for the hardships they had encountered in making for the Redhorn Gate.

The wizard shook his head and smiled slightly. If ever we manage to reach Lothlórien, Galadriel shall thoroughly enjoy herself while analyzing the inner workings of this disparate group. There are enough different perspectives and different personalities to try even Radagast’s patience. Casting his eyes about the Fellowship, Gandalf wondered if there had ever been a company of wanders such as this one. Aragorn had fallen victim to the Ranger Responsibility Syndrome and had become quiet and morose. Boromir was brooding and seemed to be of the opinion that the priorities of the Fellowship were severely misplaced. Legolas looked as though he had not a care in the world and was perfectly comfortable in this weather. Gimli’s temper had rendered the dwarf virtually unapproachable, but he was still making a partial attempt to keep a civil tongue in his head. Frodo was feeling the weight of the Ring and was slowly withdrawing from the others because of it. Sam was fed up with the various definitions of the word shelter and also struggling to fight Frodo’s growing isolation. Pippin was still dizzy, but he was feeling well enough to become irritated if anyone took a specific interest in his health. Merry was still worried about Pippin, but sensing the sullen mood of the Fellowship, he was also trying to bolster everyone’s spirits with an occasional jest. And as for myself…I suppose I cannot say anything for myself as I have not an outsider’s perspective. But I fit into this Fellowship in some way or another, and doubtless Galadriel shall find my role in all of this to be highly amusing. There are times when I truly do not understand her sense of humor.

"The wind really is dying down," a voice murmured to the wizard’s side. Gandalf glanced down and watched Pippin peer out of his mound of blankets, much like a turtle who thought to venture back into the world after receiving a fright.

"I don’t know how you’re able to tell," Merry commented, buried beneath his own mountain of cloaks. "And to be perfectly honest, I’d rather not know what the outside world is doing."

"You’ll want to know if you ever want to get out of here," Pippin retorted. "We can’t stay here forever, and I’d rather not stay here even another day. Besides, we’re out of firewood. When this is gone, it’s going to get cold again."

"We shall not be staying here another day," Gandalf reassured them, getting to his feet and moving away from the fire. The world was beginning to become light, though the sun had yet to show its face, and Gandalf decided to join Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas in watching the snow. And as the wizard drew near them, he discovered that Boromir had been right. The storm was letting up slightly. But Valar only knew how long that would last.

"It seems we are granted yet another reprieve," Boromir said.

"Then we would do well not to waste it," Gandalf answered. "We will wait only for the sun to clear the mountains so that we may have better light."

"I doubt we shall know it when it happens," someone grumbled from behind the wizard, and he turned to discover that Gimli had followed him away from the campfire. "These clouds are far too low. No sunlight shall be on this mountainside today."

"We need only enough light by which to see our trail," Aragorn sighed, and Gandalf mentally groaned at the guilt he heard in the Ranger’s voice. "After that we may be on our way."

"But what way shall that be?" Legolas asked. "Will we continue toward the Redhorn Gate or will we backtrack and seek another path?"

The question was innocent enough, but nevertheless, it caused both Aragorn and Gandalf to stiffen slightly. The only other path open to them was one they had discussed already, and Aragorn had made his feelings concerning that road quite clear. But what other choice did they have? A glance at the clouds revealed that if they insisted in continuing on this road, they would probably not live to see the sun set. They had to turn around. But as Legolas had said, doing that meant seeking another path.

Aragorn’s dark gray eyes were torn, and he looked beseechingly at Gandalf as though begging for one last attempt at the pass over Caradhras. Even considering the snow and the cold and the loss of firewood, he still wished to avoid Moria. As do I, but there is no other way, Gandalf grimaced. He shook his head slightly at Aragorn, watched the emotions fly across the other’s face, and then sighed as the Ranger forced his expression to become unreadable.

"We shall turn back," Gandalf said, watching Aragorn closely as he answered Legolas’s question. "We dare not go on. Not on this road."

"Gandalf speaks wisely," Gimli grunted, showing agreement with something for the first time that morning. "Caradhras has not forgiven us. He has more snow yet to fling at us, if we go on. The sooner we go back and down, the better."

"I believe we have overlooked something," Boromir suddenly said, watching the weather carefully. "Lord Elrond warned us that one should not vow to walk in the dark when that one has not seen the nightfall. May I also add that one should not vow to retreat down a trail when one has not examined the road."

A strange mixture of confusion and dread abruptly settled upon Gandalf’s heart at Boromir’s words. He had a sudden fear of what the man meant, but he desperately hoped it was not so. Yet as the morning light began to grow stronger, he could not forbear looking down the path along which they would have to journey. And what he saw caused him to groan. There was no road. Deep drifts of snow and the occasional bump that indicated a large boulder were all that was left.

"Valar," Aragorn swore softly. "The hobbits will never manage such a trail. Nor will the pony."

"We shall be hard pressed as well," Gandalf murmured with a shake of his head. He had feared the weather that they would face upon this mountain, but he had never really considered the idea that their retreat might be cut off.

"How deep will you sink in this snow?" Legolas asked curiously, speaking as though this was an abstract concept to be studied at leisure.

"Deep enough to make travel nigh unto impossible," Aragorn said, his voice filled with strained patience.

"Truly?"

"Legolas, we are not elves," Gandalf tried to explain, keeping his temper firmly in check. After all, it was not entirely the elf’s fault, for he had probably never before traveled over snow with mortals. But even so, his rather carefree attitude was beginning to wear upon Gandalf. "We cannot cross the snow as you can. This is well over even Gimli’s head and—"

"Have no concern for me," the dwarf interrupted brusquely, and Gandalf belatedly realized that pointing out Gimli’s problem with the snow to Legolas was probably not the best thing to do. "A dwarf is used to harsh climes. I shall not falter in this."

"You shall not be able to see where you are going in this, either," Boromir pointed out crossly, sounding as though he would be more than happy to push everyone into the ravine. Gandalf surprised himself by deciding that he would cheerfully join Boromir in this task.

A low whistle from behind caught their attention before the dwarf could work out a response to that, and Gandalf stepped to the side as the hobbits came forward and stared at what used to be the trail. "Gandalf…it might just be the fact that I haven’t traveled a lot and don’t know all that much about getting around in snow and the like, but I don’t see how we’re going to get down," Merry eventually said.

"Or up," Pippin added. "It seems to me that we can’t go either way."

"The situation is not as hopeless as that," Aragorn said, but his voice lacked confidence.

"If Gandalf would go before us with a bright flame, he might melt a path for you," Legolas suggested with an elven shrug.

"If elves could fly over mountains, they might fetch the sun to save us," Gandalf retorted, wondering if perhaps Gimli would like to join Boromir and the wizard in pushing Legolas over the edge. "But I must have something to work on," he added, seeing the hopeful looks of the hobbits. "I cannot burn snow."

Silence fell as hope died again, and all stared at the snow as though the intensity of their gazes might open up a way. But as they continued to stand there and nothing continued to happen, Gandalf became aware that it was getting cold again and that they would have to try something soon. They could not afford to stay in this place much longer.

It was the practical, prudent Boromir who eventually broke the silence with a weary sigh. "Well, when heads are at a loss bodies must serve, as we say in my country. The strongest of us must seek a way," he said, stepping forward and evaluating their obstacle through narrowed eyes. After a brief moment, he seemed to find what he was looking for and began pointing toward the hidden trail. "See! Though all is now snow-clad, our path, as we came up, turned about that shoulder of rock down yonder. It was there that the snow first began to burden us. If we could reach that point, maybe it would prove easier beyond. It is no more than a furlong off, I guess."

It was not an idea that would have occurred to Gandalf and he was rather skeptical about Boromir’s ability to burrow through a furlong of snow, but it seemed that no one else had a better idea. Or any idea at all, the wizard reflected morosely.

"Then let us force a path thither, you and I," Aragorn said, apparently coming to a similar conclusion.

Armed now with company and support, Boromir gave a short nod and then started off. He had not gone more than a few meters before the snow reached his chest, and he at that point he began sweeping his arms before him while Aragorn followed behind and tried to pack the snow to the side. It looked to be an awkward and dubious process, but until he could come up with something better, Gandalf wasn’t about to express his doubts. At the moment, this was their only plan for getting down.

Legolas, on the other hand, was not so constrained in his speech. "The strongest must seek a way, say you?" he asked, a look of vast amusement playing over his face. "But I say: let a ploughman plough, but choose an otter for swimming, and for running light over grass and leaf, or over snow—an elf." And before Gandalf could say aught, Legolas had started off across the top of the snow, throwing an impudent smile over his shoulder as he did so. "Farewell! I go to find the sun!" And with that, he raced away, giving a cheeky wave to the men plowing through the snow and eventually vanishing around the bend.

"What just happened?" Pippin asked, sounding completely bewildered.

"We have witnessed normal elven disaster behavior," Gandalf sighed, rubbing his brow and feeling the beginnings of a headache. "Rest assured that he will be just as exasperating when he returns."

"Wonderful," Gimli growled, stomping back to the remains of the fire.

"Gandalf, this isn’t going to work, is it?" Frodo asked, watching the dismal progress of Boromir and Aragorn.

A number of cheerful assurances sprang to the forefront of Gandalf’s mind, but he gave none of them. The hobbits could see for themselves just how much progress Boromir and Aragorn were making, and the path they were leaving behind was narrow and the snow was still very deep in it. In some places it would easily come to Pippin’s shoulders.

"Patience," Gandalf said at length. "Perhaps Legolas will be able to find the sun for us."

A skeptical dwarven snort from the campfire summarized Gimli’s opinion on that, and Gandalf was constrained to agree with him. This did not look good.

* * * *

"Hold, Boromir. We can go no further right now."

A retort was swift to rise in Boromir’s mind, but he checked it and nodded in reluctant agreement. He and Aragorn had been silently laboring through the snowdrifts for the better part of half an hour, and they had somehow managed to plow their way around the rocky turn and out of sight of the Fellowship. Neither one of them had yet said aught of the cold or the wet, but it was obvious from the way Aragorn held himself that he was tired. And well he should be, for I am also tired, Boromir sighed to himself. They had periodically traded places so that the work of pushing and heaving snow had been evenly distributed, but in the end, fatigue had claimed them both and Boromir was ready to drop.

Yet exhaustion was not the primary reason for this halt, though undoubtedly it was a contributing factor. But more daunting than their weariness was a towering wall of snow more than twice Boromir’s height, looming upward toward the high cliffs above and seeming to taunt them in their weariness. Almost it was daring them to try and force a path through its vastness, and in the face of such an obstacle, Boromir felt his wan hopes fading rapidly. In their present condition, neither he nor Aragorn was capable of handling such a challenge.

"Are we certain that we cannot continue onward to the Redhorn Gate?" Boromir finally asked after studying the snow and drawing only a blank within his mind where answers should have been.

Aragorn glanced up and grimaced, marking the gathering clouds and the brooding atmosphere. "I would not chance it. Not with the current weather. If caught in a storm even half the strength of the one we faced last night, we would not survive."

"The elf seems to be holding out well enough," Boromir grumbled, remembering how Legolas had easily raced by them earlier, running atop the snow and looking as though this was all a summer jaunt in the woods.

"So he is, but the rest of us are not," Aragorn muttered, running a shaking hand through his hair. "With our wood gone, the hobbits may not even last the day if we do not find a way down. We must get through this snow and we must do it soon."

Boromir sighed and stared dismally at the wall that had stopped him as effectively as the Rammas Echor stopped Orcs. Aragorn was right, but Denethor’s son could see no solution to their problem. They were at an impasse. They were facing defeat. There was simply no other way to look at the snow that blocked their path. They could not go over it. They could not go around it. They could not go under it. And though he and Aragorn might labor until their cheeks were ruddy with cold and their hair was matted with sweat from exertion, they could not go through it. There was just too much snow. To be beaten by the weather! Boromir tried not to think about what his father would say concerning his fate. A soldier did not succumb to the environment because a soldier was a master of his environment. But not today, Boromir thought grimly. Today there is another master, and he stands ready to fling yet more snow upon us, as our fine dwarf has already observed.

"Have you any thoughts on the matter, Boromir?"

Boromir jerked himself away from inner contemplation and belatedly realized that Aragorn had been speaking to him. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the Ranger had said. Occasionally, this same thing would happen during council sessions in Minas Tirith, and on those occasions, Boromir could usually count on Faramir to give him some kind of silent clue as to what was being discussed. But on the times when Faramir was not there—or was simply choosing to let Boromir flounder for the sake of amusement—there were a number of bland, catch-all phrases that Boromir had developed for the purpose of preserving dignity and appearance. He had been able to employ most of them with a surprising amount of success and he decided to attempt that trick now.

"Perhaps the situation is not what we think it is."

Aragorn blinked and his brow furrowed, causing Boromir to internally wince. There were also times when his bland, catch-all answers did not quite fit the questions, and on those times, it was painfully obvious that he had not been paying attention. Boromir belatedly realized that this was one of those times.

"Perhaps the situation is not what we think it is?" Aragorn repeated slowly.

"I…there are not enough facts yet."

The Ranger studied Boromir closely while Boromir sternly fought against the urge to squirm. Eventually, a smile spread itself across Aragorn’s rugged face and he shook his head. "I have a very good friend by the name of Halbarad, and in the rare instances of necessity when Rangers of the North gather together in mass for council meetings, he is one of the last to come. He does not have patience for what he views as endless discussions. And many times he has used your trick to avoid looking inattentive. My congratulations for your ingenuity, but now is hardly the time. I was saying that I see no purpose in turning back but that continuing to plow through snow would be ineffective. We must find a way to get the company down the mountain, but I am at a loss as to what to do. I then asked you for your thoughts on the matter."

"Ah." Boromir nodded and wondered if the cold was affecting his mind. The subject matter should have been easy enough to guess without having to resort to council tricks. "Nay, I have no thoughts to offer. I, too, am at a loss."

Aragorn sighed and turned his attention to the wall of white that stood between them and warmer lands. "We have a mountain of snow before us, a mountain of snow above us, and a mountain of snow behind us," he murmured, voicing his thoughts aloud. "We have only a small amount of supplies, almost nothing that could be used as kindling, and four hobbits plus a dwarf who will have a difficult time walking in even the trail that we have made. There is more snow on the way and most of us are dangerously close to freezing." The Ranger sighed again and rubbed his head. "I see no solution."

"I would not give up."

"Nor would I, and I will not give up until it becomes clear that nothing can be done for us. Still, I cannot see our next step, and that troubles me."

Aragorn fell silent and Boromir chafed his arms, trying to instill a bit of warmth in them. Now that they were no longer moving, he was chilling rapidly and knew that something would have to be done about that soon. They would either have to go back to work or go back to camp. At this point, plowing through the snow seemed a futile endeavor, but returning to the Fellowship was nigh unto admitting defeat. Neither was a welcome prospect, but what else could be done?

"It seems that the Strong Men who sought a way have failed," an irritatingly cheerful voice remarked from above. Boromir sighed and raised tired eyes upward, knowing already who it was and trying to bite back a feeling of frustration. High above them, perched carelessly atop the snow, was Legolas, looking for all the world as though he was safe at home in the elven fortress deep within Mirkwood.

"And what have you been doing?" Aragorn asked, his voice carrying an undertone of warning. "I do not see that you bring any answers for this problem."

"You do not see far enough, then," the elf answered with a slight smile. "But I do."

The Ranger sighed wearily, and Boromir smiled slightly. Despite their situation, he found it somewhat amusing that the elf was beginning to try even Aragorn’s nerves. "Legolas, where did you go?" the Ranger asked, his tone indicating that he was nearing the end of his patience.

"I went to find the sun."

That was a rather odd answer, but by now, Boromir was more or less used to odd answers from elves. It seemed to be game for them. "And did you find the sun?" Aragorn asked, sounding as though he was having a difficult time keeping his voice under control.

"I did."

There was a long pause while the men waited for Legolas to finish or qualify that statement, but when the elf made no move to continue, Boromir shook his head, yet again pressing down his frustration. It had taken some rather awkward encounters and more than a few moments of complete confusion, but before leaving Rivendell, Denethor’s son had eventually decided that elves were really not as obstinate as they pretended to be. They simply had a rather strange sense of humor. And in order to obtain answers from an elf, one had to play their game. At least, Boromir had found no other way to get around the peculiar elven habit of answering a question while still leaving the question virtually unanswered. "And?" Boromir prompted when the silence began to stretch into minutes.

The elf shrugged. "The sun will be of no help to us. She is far away in the south and quite content to stay there, or so I gathered. However, all is not without hope. There may yet be a way, though I fear you will have to once again labor through the snow."

Behind the son of Denethor, Aragorn shook his head and sighed. "Legolas, Boromir and I together are not capable of pushing aside that much snow even were we given a week’s time. Nor do we have the food and the supplies to last us that long, not to mention that Caradhras seems intent on burying us alive if we stay here another night. If you have an idea in mind or know of something that might aid us, come to the point and speak! I am cold, Boromir is cold, the hobbits are cold, and standing about in the snow is certainly not helping."

That was as close to complaining as Boromir had ever heard—and would ever hear—Aragorn come. It was a bit of an eye-opener for the man from Gondor, and he discreetly studied the harried Ranger. He is feeling desperate, Boromir decided at length. He fears for the Fellowship.

"My apologies," Legolas said after an awkward silence, his tone somewhat more subdued. "I had forgotten your circumstances." The elf stood and looked at the men, then at the drift, and then in the direction they were attempting to go. "How much more snow do you think you could push aside ere you collapsed from exhaustion?"

"Perhaps ten or fifteen meters," Boromir said after considering the matter.

"I judge that to be on the optimistic side," Aragorn said with a sigh. "My guess gives us five more meters, perhaps six." Boromir glared at the Ranger.

"Then all is well," Legolas declared, ignoring the exchange that was taking place below him. "This imposing mountain of snow, my friends, is little more than the width of a wall. After that, the snow decreases rapidly until even the hobbits might walk without undue strain."

Aragorn blinked and Boromir frowned. "But…how could the snow…" Boromir glanced back at the Ranger, his eyes questioning.

"Caradhras," Aragorn answered after a moment with something of a shrug. "It seems he sought to construct a trap. And almost he was successful."

"Caradhras is a mountain," Boromir felt constrained to point out. "It is an object. A thing."

"A thing possessed of considerable ill will," Legolas added. "But come, we sit idle while the day passes. I shall assist from the other side and mayhap together, we shall yet find a way through this wall of snow." And with that, Legolas quickly disappeared from view, vanishing behind the snowdrift.

"And a moment ago, it was the elf who was wasting time," Boromir sighed as he moved back toward the unfinished path.

"If it eases your feelings, he did not see it as wasting time," Aragorn said. "Elves do not measure time as we do, and a moment spent driving one’s companions to frustration and distraction is a moment well spent in the eyes of an elf."

"The snow does not block sound, though it certainly seems to block sluggards such as yourselves," Legolas called.

Aragorn rolled his eyes, shook his head, and began digging into the towering wall. Left with no alternative, Boromir sighed, despaired of ever understanding his companions, and joined the heir of Isildur in the snowdrift.

For what seemed like eternity, they made very little progress. The snow that they removed was almost immediately replaced by snow falling from the top of the pile. But gradually, as they began to move into snow that had been packed by weight and wind, a tunnel slowly formed. Now, in order to ensure stability, one man would dig for a while and then step back, allowing the other his turn. In this way, they slow formed a passage just wide enough to admit the pony but not wide enough to prove unstable. And after much effort and much snow, Aragorn broke through into the tunnel Legolas had been making as he came at them from the other side.

With a deep sigh of relief, Boromir fell backwards into the drifts, overjoyed at the prospect that they might actually make it down off the mountain. "I was right, though we did not know it at the time," he murmured. "The situation was not what we thought it was."

A snort and a quiet laugh was Aragorn’s response to that, and out of the corner of his eye, Boromir saw that the Ranger had gone down on one knee in exhaustion, his breath frosting in the chilly air. Beyond Aragorn, Legolas was inspecting the result of their work with a critical eye.

"My side of the tunnel is straighter," the elf announced at length.

At this statement, weighted with the natural arrogance that all elves seemed to exude, something deep inside Boromir snapped and he did something that he had not done in years. It required a bit more physical exertion on his part, his father would have had choice words to say about maturity and responsibility as captain of Gondor’s guard, it was a highly juvenile act, and it did absolutely nothing to further the goals of their quest. But the splattering sound of a big, wet snowball catching Legolas full in the face followed by a surprised yelp from the elf was wonderfully satisfying. And in the end, that was justification enough for Boromir.

* * * *

"How long have they been gone?"

Merry sighed and glanced at Pippin, who was attempting to warm himself next to the cooling remnants of the night’s fire. "Didn’t you ask that question five minutes ago?"

"They have been gone just under an hour," Gimli muttered with a glance skyward.

"You just said that," Pippin protested.

"You just asked that."

With a muttered statement about dour dwarves, Pippin burrowed back beneath his cloak covering and seemed to disappear from sight. Merry sighed again and got to his feet, brushing collected snow off as he did so. Sitting next to a pile of smoking wood was doing nothing for him, and he felt as though he needed to get his blood moving again. Stalking through the snow and trying to imagine plowing through it as Boromir and Aragorn were doing, the hobbit made his way toward Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam, who stood watching the trail.

"Anything?" he asked when he reached their sides.

"Not so much as a glimmer," Sam murmured. "And by my count, it’s been at least three hours since they left."

"One," Merry corrected.

The gardener blinked and turned to study Merry. "One?"

"That’s what Gimli says."

"Gimli is correct," Gandalf interjected, plunging his staff into the packed snow beneath his feet and idly twisting it around. "It has been approximately one hour."

"Seems like longer," Sam complained.

"You can pretend it’s been three hours," Frodo suggested, his cloak drawn up tightly around his head for warmth.

"That just doesn’t seem proper, sir, now that I know what the real time is," Sam said. "I can’t go pretending that something is something it isn’t, if you follow me."

"Not really," Frodo said with a slight smile.

"But then, that isn’t unusual," Merry added, deciding to join in the teasing. Sam, however, was not amused and decided to change the subject.

"What could be taking them so long? I don’t think this job should have taken even an hour."

"We know not what they found beyond that bend," Gandalf answered nodding toward the rocky turn around which Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas had all disappeared. "Perhaps the snow extends further down the mountain than they expected."

"What if they ran into trouble?" Merry wondered.

"With an elf around, that would not be unlikely," a gruff voice remarked behind the hobbit. Gimli stepped up and eyed the snowy path that had been made by the men. "No doubt they have been forced to rescue him from his own stupidity."

Merry heard Gandalf sigh wearily and felt like echoing the sentiment. Though Gimli and Legolas were no longer openly antagonistic and had even stopped the verbal barbs, there was still very little in the way of friendship, or even companionship. They were both members of the same Fellowship, but it seemed that neither one was ready to acknowledge it. Fortunately, Boromir and Aragorn seemed to have mended whatever differences they’d had. Merry had not missed the tension between the two men and was very relieved that it was now gone.

"As Aragorn observed last night, not all that comes from the elves is perilous," Gandalf said. "I think it would do you good to consider Legolas from a perspective that did not stem from hatred and animosity."

"We are all entitled to opinions, I suppose," Gimli answered.

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed slightly and Merry found himself backing up. True, Legolas had not exactly endeared himself to anyone that morning, but Merry didn’t think that taking one’s frustrations out on Gandalf was a particularly wise idea.

"We face a common foe, Gimli," the wizard said quietly, his voice giving Merry shivers that were completely unrelated to the air’s temperature. "The Lonely Mountain and Mirkwood both will be under attack ere much more time has passed. Sauron is moving quickly now, and it would behoove all his enemies to unite against him in a common alliance."

"As the elf is also a member of this company, he shall have no cause to fear harm from me. But do not expect me to associate with him unless circumstances give me no alternative," Gimli said, apparently ignorant of Gandalf’s short temper.

"Gimli—"

"Mr. Gimli, begging your pardon, but I don’t see what cause you have to hate the elves," Sam interrupted, and Merry mentally praised the gardener’s timing. He had been preparing a countdown for the time when Gandalf sent Gimli over the edge of the cliff. "And I don’t see that they, meaning the elves, have any cause to hate the dwarves," the hobbit continued. "So why can’t you both learn to get along? We have some mighty nasty feuding families in the Shire, but they can be civil to each other if they need to be."

Unfortunately, Sam’s timing came with repercussions, and he was quickly the subject of a rather perturbing glare from the dwarf. Merry wondered if he shouldn’t come to Sam’s rescue, and looked to Frodo for advice. But the Ring-bearer was not paying attention. Instead, he was staring out at the mountains with a blank expression while one hand clutched at his tunic. Or is he clutching at something under his tunic? Merry wondered, his eyes narrowing as he studied Frodo closely.

But he was not allowed to pursue this thought because a great sneeze suddenly caught everyone’s attention, disrupting Frodo’s trance and diverting Gimli’s glare. Turning around, Merry hastened to Pippin’s side as his friend swayed slightly and rubbed his head. "Pippin?"

"Don’t ever sneeze if you have a headache like mine," Pippin muttered, closing his eyes and groaning. "It isn’t good for you."

"Are you still dizzy?" Gandalf asked, his voice colored by concern.

"Only if I move suddenly," Pippin answered, regaining his balance and shaking off Merry’s hold.

"Once we reach safety, we shall have Aragorn tend to you again," Gandalf said.

"They’re back," Frodo suddenly announced. All turned his direction, and there was a noticeable air of relief as they caught sight of Legolas jogging toward them, making almost no imprint on the snow as he ran. Behind him, pressing slowly but steadily up the slope, came Aragorn and Boromir.

"Well, I have not brought the sun," the elf announced with an insolent grin once he was within hearing distance. "She is walking in the blue fields of the South, and a little wreath of snow on this Redhorn hillock troubles her not at all. But," he added when the full force of Gandalf’s glare landed upon him, "I have brought back a gleam of good hope for those who are doomed to go on feet. There is the greatest wind-drift of all just beyond the turn, and there our Strong Men were almost buried. They despaired until I returned and told them that the drift was little wider than a wall. And on the other side, the snow suddenly grows less, while further down it is no more than a white coverlet to cool a hobbit’s toes."

"Ah, it is as I said. It was no ordinary storm. It is the ill will of Caradhras. He does not love elves and dwarves." Gimli looked pointedly at Gandalf as he said this as if to make certain that the wizard was noting the dwarf’s recognition of a common enemy. "And that drift was laid to cut off our escape."

Merry frowned and considered asking how a mountain could have laid a drift to cut off their escape, but since Legolas had said nothing about this, the hobbit decided that he wouldn’t either. Apparently, an enemy mountain seemed perfectly normal to both Legolas and Gimli. And I suppose that’s not such a stretch of the imagination, the hobbit considered. Last night was a little too cold for my comfort.

"But happily your Caradhras has forgotten that you have men with you," Boromir called as he struggled toward them, apparently having overheard the last part. "And doughty men, too, if I may say it; though lesser men with spades might have served you better. Still, we have thrust a lane through the drift; and for that all here may be grateful who cannot run as light as elves."

"But how are we to get down there, even if you have cut through the drift?" Pippin spoke up, echoing Merry’s own thoughts. All the hobbits were examining the "lane" Boromir spoke of, and all seemed to be coming to the same conclusion. They could not manage it. Though the men might be able to walk it easily enough, the snow was still too deep for a hobbit.

"Have hope! I am weary, but I still have some strength left, and Aragorn, too," Boromir sighed. "We will bear the little folk. The others no doubt will make shift to tread the path behind us. Come, Master Peregrin! I will begin with you."

Taken by surprise, Merry hastily stepped to the side as Pippin was suddenly seized and lifted into the air. The man shifted the hobbit onto his back, an awkward process given the fact that his shield was partially in the way, and then he began walking.

"Cling to my back! I shall need my arms," Boromir ordered as they started out into the snow.

"First shelters and now lanes," Sam muttered with a shake of his head. "I think we’re all speaking a completely different language."

"Perhaps," Aragorn murmured. "Who shall be next? You, Master Brandybuck? Pippin is still in your charge."

"It probably should be me," Merry sighed. "Who knows what trouble Pippin will find on his own down there."

"Who knows indeed," Aragorn laughed, bending down and lifting Merry into the air. "Come, then, and let us see if we can catch them. Legolas, would you accompany us? Boromir and I shall need to return for Frodo and Sam."

The elf nodded and the journey began. Merry wrapped his arms tightly around Aragorn’s neck and watched in amazement as the Ranger struggled through the deep snow. How had they managed to do this? Glancing backward, Merry caught glimpses of Legolas lightly walking on top of the drifts and he felt a quick flash of envy. The elf was easily twice his height, and yet if Merry were to venture into the drifts were Legolas walked, he would be well over his head.

"Aragorn?"

Legolas’s voice drifted down to them as they neared what seemed to be a giant tunnel that had been carved through a mound of snow. Aragorn looked up, his eyes questioning. "Yes?"

"How shall we get the dwarf off the mountain?"

Merry blinked, not having thought of this. Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to Aragorn, either, which was a rather good indication of just how weary the Ranger was. But he was not so weary that he was unable to fashion a quick retort. "Do you worry that we shall have to leave Gimli here?"

Most casual observers would have said that the expression upon Legolas’s face did not change, but Merry was gradually learning to read his companions and he saw a clear flash of anger and indignation in the elf’s eyes. "I think only of your guilt should one of this Fellowship be left behind," Legolas answered, his voice cold. And before Aragorn could respond, the elf had moved ahead of them and crossed over the snow tunnel, temporarily disappearing from sight.

"And what think you of that, Master Brandybuck?" Aragorn asked with a quiet chuckle.

"I don’t know what to think," Merry answered. "But he has a point. How are we going to get Gimli down? He won’t be able to manage the snow, either. Unless dwarves can travel like elves can, that is."

Aragorn’s chuckle turned into a hard laugh and he shook his head in amusement. "It is good that Legolas did not hear you say that, or he might have taken great offense."

The two then ducked into the snow tunnel, and once they emerged on the other side, Merry saw that Legolas had been right. The snow did decrease dramatically. It was rather disturbing, actually, and Merry looked back to make certain that his eyes were not deceiving him.

"Down you go, Master Brandybuck," Aragorn announced, dropping to one knee as Merry let go. Pippin was already munching on something from his pack while Legolas studied the clouds above them. "Boromir and I shall return shortly with the rest of the company. All of them," he added with a sidelong look at Legolas. The elf completely ignored him.

"What’s going on?" Pippin hissed, not having missed the look.

Merry shrugged and watched as Aragorn and Boromir disappeared back into the tunnel of snow. "I’m not sure myself," he confessed. "But I think things might be taking a turn for the better."

* * * *

"Aragorn, how shall we bring the dwarf down the mountain?"

Aragorn glanced at Boromir walking before him and frowned. "I am not entirely certain," he said at length.

Boromir looked back, studied the Ranger for a moment, and then started to laugh. "You might be interested to know that I frequently give that answer in council sessions where I am not paying enough attention."

A smile found its way onto Aragorn’s face and he laughed softly. "Unfortunately, I was paying attention and I am still uncertain. I do not know how we are going to bring the dwarf down. Even if Gimli allowed it, we could not carry him. His weight almost equals mine, and we are too weary to support such a load. Besides, Gimli is too proud to permit such a thing."

Boromir sighed and fell silent. "I suppose that rolling him down the side of the mountain is not an option."

"Only if you wish to chase after him," Aragorn answered, smiling at the mental image in spite of himself.

"We could give that job to the elf," Boromir suggested with a wry grin. "He seems to take pleasure in displaying his ability for running atop the snow."

Aragorn snorted and shook his head. "I doubt that Legolas would agree. But we could push him down after Gimli."

Boromir laughed. "It would certainly be something for the tales. The vaunted Fellowship, entrusted with the fate of the free peoples, shoves two of its members off a mountain."

"I am confident that we could create a good reason for doing so," Aragorn said, warming to the game. "And I suspect that we would also have Gandalf’s support."

"We might need it should our actions be discovered," Boromir remarked dryly as they neared the campsite. "Or…" Denethor’s son stopped and cocked his head to the side. "Or perhaps we shall not have to push Gimli down the cliff after all."

Aragorn stopped and looked toward camp, his eyes narrowing as he studied the scene before him. Bill was standing patiently next to a rather worried Samwise, but he was not carrying as much baggage as he was wont to carry. Gandalf had taken some of the packs and added them to his own, leaving enough room on the pony’s back for someone to sit. Aragorn immediately realized the intended plan, but even as he did so, his eyes went to Gandalf and Gimli, who looked to be having an argument. "It is a good idea," the Ranger murmured at length. "However, it remains to be seen if we can convince Gimli to go along with it."

"Why should he not?" Boromir asked.

"While dwarves often use ponies for long journeys, they prefer smaller animals," Aragorn explained, resuming his trek up the hill. "Beyond that, it could be seen as a sign of weakness in the eyes of a certain elf."

"Ah." Boromir shook his head and released a small sigh of frustration. "But unless he wishes to be pushed along or off the trail, I see no other ready solution."

"Nor can I," Aragorn said. "Which is why I go now to aid Gandalf in his arguments." By now, Aragorn’s sharp hearing could pick up on most of the conversation between the wizard and the dwarf. Frodo and Sam looked to be at something of a loss and were there more to hold Bill than for anything else, which suited Aragorn. The fewer people arguing, the better. "Ho, friends!" he called as he reached Gandalf’s side and felt Boromir move up beside him. "What goes forth here?"

Gandalf shot Aragorn a rather knowing expression and stepped back, allowing the burden of answering to fall upon Gimli. The dwarf blinked as his opponent suddenly abandoned the playing field and found himself caught in the stern gaze of a new foe. "We were discussing how we might best lead Bill down the trail," Gimli eventually answered.

"Truly?" Boromir questioned. "From what I could hear, you seemed to be arguing more about what sort of burdens the pony would bear."

A flash of anger sparked in Gimli’s eyes, but Aragorn hastily jumped back in. "Worry not, Master Dwarf," he said, glancing back at Boromir with a twinkle in his eyes. What he was about to do was something he often did with Elladan and Elrohir, but he suspected that Boromir would catch on quickly enough. "By happy chance, we were actually discussing this very problem as we journeyed back here. And we may have a solution that does not involve the pony at all."

"Indeed?" Gandalf raised a brow at this, trying to feign surprise, but Aragorn caught a subtle tug at the corners of the wizard’s mouth. The wizard was trying very hard to keep from smiling.

"Yes," Aragorn nodded, flicking his eyes back to Boromir.

"It is something I did as a child with my brother in the White Mountains during the winter," Boromir added, catching on to the game and quickly taking his cue. "Or rather, something I did to my brother when he was still young enough that he could not refuse it. There must be a downhill slope for this to work, but I see no problems in finding one here. Gimli shall lie upon his side and we will begin to push. Once we gather enough speed and he has gathered enough snow, the weight shall begin dragging him toward the bottom and—"

"Enough!" Gimli interrupted, rage building in his countenance. "You may jest about this, but I—"

"No, Gimli, we do not jest," Aragorn returned quickly. "If you do not ride Bill, then there is no other way for you to descend this mountain. That snow is too deep even for you. I struggle to traverse, and my legs are twice as long as yours. Now cease this foolishness and mount the pony! If you so desire it, I will take the lead and send the others further down the mountain so that you may dismount before reaching them."

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the swishing of Bill’s tail and his heavy breaths that frosted instantly in the frigid air. At length, Gimli’s shoulders dropped slightly in acknowledged defeat, but his eyes remained as fiery as ever. "There is no need to send the others further down the mountain," he growled, moving next to the pony and shoving one of the packs to the side. His strong legs propelled him upward and he was soon straddling Bill’s back, grasping at the straps and reins.

"Fair enough," Aragorn said with a shrug. "As you wish. Come, Frodo. Boromir shall take Sam, Gandalf shall take Bill, and Gimli shall watch our backs in the event that Caradhras has any more to send."

The dwarf muttered something rather rude, but Aragorn ignored him. Instead, he knelt and aided Frodo in wrapping the hobbit’s arms about his neck. Once set, they were off. Boromir led with Sam upon his back. He was followed closely by Gandalf, Gimli, and Bill while Aragorn and Frodo took up the rear. This time, the journey was not nearly as difficult since previous travels had packed much of the snow down, but there were still places where coaxing and prodding was necessary to convince Bill that this was indeed the appointed trail. Eventually, after passing beneath the tunnel of snow and enjoying a whistle of appreciation from Sam that probably made Boromir’s ears ring, they joined the rest of the Fellowship at the point where the hobbits and dwarf could walk unaided.

"You took your time in coming," Pippin complained as he showered snow upon Merry’s head.

"I told you to stop that!" Merry shouted, ducking out of the way and flinging a handful of snow back at the young Took.

"I trust their behavior has been similar for the entire time you were with them?" Gandalf asked wearily, glancing over at Legolas.

"They have actually mellowed considerably," the elf answered with a small smile. "When I pointed out that their activities were taking them closer and closer to the edge of the cliff and that the snow would prevent them from seeing this edge until it was too late, they curtailed much of their excitement."

"I don’t doubt it," Aragorn murmured with a quiet chuckle, kneeling as Frodo released his neck. He was about to say something to Legolas about knowing firsthand what snow in one’s face felt like—a rather cruel remark but he felt the elf’s previous behavior warranted it—but before he could even open his mouth, a sudden rumble shook the mountain. A horrific screech rent the air and sight was suddenly veiled by flying snow.

Reacting purely on instinct, Aragorn grabbed Frodo and threw them both against the cliff face. He sensed more than saw Boromir and Sam land next to them while Gandalf’s shouts filled the air and an elvish oath indicated that something had finally broken through Legolas’s veneer of calm. Pebbles rained down upon Aragorn’s head, the rumbling increased, and the Ranger prayed that none of the larger boulders would come their way. This particular cliff was not undercut as their shelter in the night had been, and falling rocks might actually strike them as they huddled together.

Eventually, the shaking died away and the air gradually cleared. Hardly daring to breath, Aragorn opened eyes he could not remember closing and straightened out of his bent position. He glanced back at the trail they’d just come down, and discovered it to be completely blocked by snow and rocks. Fearful of what he might find, Aragorn next turned his eyes toward his companions. With great relief, the Ranger soon saw that no one in the Fellowship was hurt, though all were now completely coated by snow.

"Enough, enough!" Gimli cried, glaring upwards. "We are departing as quickly as we may!"

"It is a mountain," Boromir muttered beside Aragorn, struggling back to his feet. "A thing."

Not feeling up to explaining Caradhras to Boromir, Aragorn sighed and looked to Gandalf, hoping the wizard would read the apology in his eyes. He had never meant for this to happen, and now…

"Come," Gandalf said, meeting Aragorn’s gaze briefly and then shaking his head in dismissal. "We must descend quickly. The morning wears on, and I will not tempt the weather more."

There was a general murmur of weariness and complaint on the part of the hobbits, but they dutifully shouldered their bags and got to their feet. As the Fellowship had done when ascending the mountain, Gandalf led the way. Merry walked next to Pippin, assisting him in places where the snow was still quite deep, but these places soon became fewer and fewer. Eventually, the clouds began to break apart and fragments of sunlight could be seen moving over the valleys beyond the shadow of the Misty Mountains.

This should have been a cheerful sight, but though spirits were lifted momentarily, they soon fell again. The Fellowship was retracing hard steps, and the thought weighed upon all minds that the mountains would still need to be crossed. They stopped briefly at the location where Frodo had observed the first flakes of snows and looked out over the lands of Hollin. No words were spoken, for most in the Fellowship seemed hopelessly exhausted and those who were not had enough presence of mind to keep their mouths quiet. Wearily, Aragorn rubbed his head and considered their options insofar as their next step was concerned. But before he could get far in his thoughts, movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Blinking and wondering if perhaps he was more exhausted than he’d first thought, Aragorn looked a second time and felt his breath catch. "The birds again!" he called to Gandalf, pointing toward the pinpricks of black that hovered over the silent lands. Even as he did this, he noted that Frodo’s eyes were already upon the specks and surmised the hobbit had seen what he had seen.

"That cannot be helped now," Gandalf murmured, his voice quiet and reflective as his eyes sought out the crebain for himself. He was silent for a moment and then seemed to rouse himself. "Whether they are good or evil, or have nothing to do with us at all," he gave Merry a sidelong look during which the hobbit squirmed slightly, "we must go down at once. Not even on the knees of Caradhras will we wait for another night-fall!" And with that, the wizard started off, seeming to have decided upon something.

The rest of the Fellowship followed quickly enough, but Aragorn dropped to the rear of the line. Dark thoughts had come upon him, and he felt that he knew what Gandalf’s decision had been. There was now only one real path for the Fellowship to take, and Aragorn was too intelligent to hope otherwise. They would have to pass through the mines of Moria.

All their other options had failed. They could not take the Ring down to the Gap of Rohan. Even though he had chosen that way over Moria in jest, Aragorn knew that taking the Ring so close to Isengard was an open invitation for discovery and disaster. And though he still held to his belief that the Rohirrim were yet trustworthy, Gandalf though otherwise. And since the Gap of Rohan was closed to them, the Fellowship’s only other choice was to take the High Pass, which would require that they backtrack along their original trail for two or three weeks while braving the spies of the Enemy and the possibility of Wargs. Such an action could never be justified. Aside from the time factor, which was formidable enough, Legolas and his Mirkwood party had reported to Rivendell that the High Pass was now almost completely infested with goblins. It had become an impossible road unless one traveled it with a large, armed company, which the elves of Mirkwood had done. The Fellowship was anything but a large, armed company. That way was also closed to them.

But Moria… Aragorn shook his head and cursed quietly. Great danger awaited them there. He recalled no good experiences from his own visit to the dark halls, but even more than that, his foresight was screaming with warnings and promising great doom. But the strangest thing about these warnings was that doom did not center itself upon Frodo and the Ring; rather, it focused its attention on the one who had first made the suggestion to enter the mines—Gandalf. Ever since the wizard had broached the idea of Moria, Aragorn had felt misgivings and forebodings that dwarfed anything he had ever felt in the past. If the Fellowship chose to dare the darker path, great evil would befall Gandalf. And if great evil befell him, then it would also affect the rest of the Fellowship.

Aragorn had wondered if he shouldn’t share this feeling with Gandalf as a warning of sorts while they were debating the choice between Caradhras and Moria, but at the time, he had eventually dismissed the idea. Gandalf handled concerns about his own welfare with an ill grace. He was too proud and too stubborn for such things and would have probably dismissed Aragorn’s fears as the result of an overactive imagination. He would have known them to be more than that and he might have even experienced the same warnings himself, but as a general rule Gandalf did not hearken to forebodings about his safety. This disregard for personal health had become more pronounced since they had left Rivendell, something that rather unnerved Aragorn. The Ring took precedence in this quest, and if a sacrifice was to be required, Gandalf would not hesitate to make that sacrifice.

But Aragorn was of a very different mindset. The Ring was a priority, yes, but it was not yet such an extreme priority as to overshadow concerns for all else. It was for this reason that Aragorn had waited for Legolas, Gimli, and Pippin after their fall into the ravine before Caradhras. Time was of the essence, that could not be disputed, but it was not so pressing that one’s companions had to be abandoned. And Aragorn had learned above all else to value those who traveled with him. On more than one occasion he had trusted his safety to surrounding Rangers and elves, and along with this trust came a reciprocating feeling. As they looked after him, he was responsible for looking after them. And upon this mission, Gandalf was one of his companions. Aragorn could not let him walk into danger like this.

The Ranger sighed, reminding himself of a very difficult fact: There was no other option for the Fellowship. The Gap of Rohan was too close to Isengard. The High Pass was too far away and too dangerous for a small group. The Redhorn Gate was now blocked until spring. As much as he hated to admit it, Moria was the only way to get to the other side of the mountains. And because it was the only way, Gandalf would take it. And because Gandalf would take it, Aragorn would follow. But I will not follow blindly, the Ranger vowed. Gandalf will not walk into the shadow of death without being warned first, even if that wizard will not deign to acknowledge my warnings. And with this promise in his heart, Aragorn hastened after the company. And beneath his feet, nestled deep in the heart of the mountains, he fancied that he could hear drums…

The end…

For now…

Author’s Notes: Well, here we are. We reached the end of this fic! Now, before you decide to kill me for finishing, I would like to say something in my defense. I DO plan on creating a sequel. Actually, two sequels. The end result is going to be a trilogy that ends in Lothlórien. And for those who are curious, yes, we WILL get to see the formation of a solid friendship between elf and dwarf. Anyway, the next installment has a working title of "During a Journey in the Dark" but is still being outlined, so it might not appear for a while.

Next up, I would like to extend a great outpouring of thanks for all who took the time to review this little story and encourage me along the way. Your contributions were all greatly appreciated, and I thank you VERY much!

Moving on, I’d like to explain the "tunnel" that Boromir, Aragorn, and Legolas carved. The book really don’t say exactly how they did get through the snow at the end of the trail except that there was something like a bridge that rose and fell. Well, I’ve been able to picture this two ways, but in my mind, for some odd reason, it made more sense to tunnel through the snow. Having grown up in an area that gets a LOT of snow for most of the year, my first choice would have been to tunnel. So that’s the way I interpreted Tolkien’s words when first reading LotR in Middle School, and that interpretation has stuck. However, I’m open to debate if anyone wants to claim they managed to push enough snow aside to go over.

Next, Bill’s behavior in the last chapter has also been called into question, but I’m going to defend it. Yes, horses do put their heads up when scared, but Bill was shying. And—at least as far as my experience with horses is concerned, which involves a few Quarterhorses, some Arabians, and a Thoroughbred—when they shy, they tend to…duck. I’m not exactly sure how to explain it, and apparently it didn’t come across as well as I wanted it to, but that’s what Bill is doing. And as for moving out of the way without being pushed, it has been my understanding that upon occasion horses will freeze rather than move. Particularly in cases of fire or flood. So I decided it applied to falling rocks, too.

And that’s everything. Once again, I thank you very much for bearing with me in this fic! You’ve all been wonderful and hopefully I’ll see you again when the sequel comes out!