Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He keeps touching me, Legolas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!  Frodo, stay away from them!“

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

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

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

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

“You really a prince?” Billeh asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frodo –“

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

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

“Frodo –“

“Eat, Legolas.  You need the strength.”

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

* TBC *