Upon the Edge of a Knife

Chapter 4

The mountains again stood starkly against the clear blue of the sky. He felt the wind on his face, the golden light of the sun, the living grass underfoot. But he gave no heed to them, for in his heart Legolas felt as desolate as the forlorn trail of black smoke that curled from the depths of that demonic inferno they named Moria, blurred in his sight.

At heart he felt as lost and pitiable as Pippin, or Sam, sobbing their grief into the grass. But as often happened, tragedy had numbed him to the tears he wished to shed, and the only ones that would come were slow and silent. The rest would come later, when at last he came to terms with the blow they had suffered. The Fellowship had been beheaded, their very cause had lost its patriarch. Death was not the end, but wherever Mithrandir’s spirit had gone he would be of little help to them now. It was the same hollow loss he knew well, inflicted often by the unforgiving environs of Mirkwood where many a fair Elf met an untimely demise. But what could they do without Mithrandir?

"Alas! I fear we cannot stay here longer," Aragorn said at last in a voice roughened by contained grief, the glistening tracks of noble tears visible on his face. "Farewell, Gandalf! Did I not say to you: if you pass the doors of Moria, beware? Alas that I spoke true! What hope have we without you?"

He only spoke the thoughts they all shared. It seemed pointless to go on to certain failure. But what else could they do? Legolas drew a deep breath he did not feel, striving to take what new life he could to face the road ahead.

"We must do without hope," Aragorn called to them, sheathing the bright sword he had lifted toward the mountain. "At least we may yet be avenged. Let us gird ourselves and weep no more! Come! We have a long road, and much to do."

They were slow to heed his voice. Legolas heard but stood motionless for a while yet. He had left his cloak in the deep places of Moria when the battles began, as had many of them, but took no notice of the chill in the air. For that moment he felt nothing, only desolate sinking in his heart as he wondered whether the Fellowship had failed when it had hardly begun. Thought of his father did enter his mind, he who remained in the deeps of Mirkwood, depending on him and this Quest lest any victory of theirs be ultimately in vain.

When they had all picked themselves up and were resigned to go on, Aragorn led the way along the broken road through the Dimrill Dale. As chance would have it, Legolas found himself walking with Gimli. Strangely, whatever friction had once existed between them seemed to have passed, perhaps burned away in Balrog fire. It was but small comfort, but proved again that even tragedy was behoovable.

"That is Durin’s Stone!" Gimli cried at once, startling Legolas from his musings. "I cannot pass without turning aside for a moment to look at the wonder of the dale!"

"Be swift then!" Aragorn bid him, calling out his warnings of Orcs and the perils the night would bring. Gimli brought Frodo with him to see as well, and Sam followed. But while the others thought little of it, there was a nostalgia about Gimli’s enthusiasm that struck Legolas deeply. He was reminded of a time, many years ago, when at last he had come of age and his father had taken him south to show him the old kingdom, the forsaken halls of Oropher his grandsire. Now Amon Lanc had become a wretched haunt of Sauron, even as Kheled-zâram the Mirrormere had become the abode of Orcs. A stab of guilt cut him then, remembering that he had yet to fulfil one of the last requests Mithrandir had made of him. But I beg of you two, Legolas and Gimli, at least to be friends, and to help me. I need you both. 

~ `*` ~ `*` ~ `*` ~

That night found them deep inside the northern border-woods of Lothlórien, where Legolas had never been before. He knew of it, of course. Here reined his father’s kinsman Celeborn, whom he had not seen since the years of his youth. It was no secret in his house that the distance between the two kinsmen had a great deal to do with Lord Celeborn’s wife, the Lady Galadriel. There was some bad blood between her and Thranduil, though they themselves were cousins far removed. 

They had already come far that day, and their Company was seeking a secure place to spent what remained of the night. "I will climb up," Legolas said at last, laying a gentle hand against the trunk of one of the great silver beeches characteristic of Lothlórien alone. "I am at home among trees, by root or bough, though these trees are of a kind strange to me, save as a name in song. Mellyrn they are called, and are those that bear the yellow blossom, but I have never climbed in one. I will see now what is their shape and way of growth."

"Whatever it may be, they will be marvelous trees indeed if they can offer any rest at night, except to birds," Pippin quipped. "I cannot sleep on a perch!"

"Then did a hole in the ground if that is more after the fashion of your kind," Legolas suggested wryly. "But you must did swift and deep if you wish to hide from Orcs." With a crouch and a practiced spring, he caught a branch that had been far overhead. But just as he prepared to swing his legs up to a hold of their own, a sharp elvish voice forbade his advance.

"Daro!"

Letting go at once, Legolas hit the ground and shrank against the tree in the same motion, turning his keen gaze into the boughs above, searching out their unseen company with the critical vision of both the hunter and the hunted. How had he missed them? He had been trained a better scout than that! "Stand still!" he admonished the others in a whisper as they began to stir. "Do not move or speak!"

Now there came a light cascade of wry laughter from above them as the marchwardens reveled in their successful ambush. "It is the custom of woodland Elves to search the boughs ere they climb into them, is it not?" one addressed him in accented Sindarin, enjoying a laugh at his expense.

"It is the first time in many years I have not!" Legolas returned, though his voice carried a smile, graciously admitting their advantage. "It is something I shall not neglect again, I assure you."

"If you wish to go quietly," suggested another, "you would do well to go with other companions. Their breathing is so careless the darkness would have been no impediment to us at all if we had deemed them foes. But your voice has been their salvation, for when we heard we knew you to be a kinsman from the North, one who remembers the tales of Nimrodel. Come, and bring the first halfling with you. Bid the others wait and watch about the foot of the mallorn until we have taken counsel with you."

"Who are they, and what do they say?" Merry asked then.

"They’re Elves," Sam enlightened him before Legolas could say as much. "Can’t you hear their voices?"

"Yes, they are Elves," Legolas confirmed; "and they say that you breathe so loud that they could shoot you in the dark. But they say also that you need have no fear. They have been aware of us for a long while. They heard my voice across the Nimrodel, and knew that I was one of their Northern kindred, and therefore they did not hinder our crossing; and afterwards they heard my song. Now they bid me climb up with Frodo; for they seem to have had some tidings of him and of our journey. The others they ask to wait a little, and to keep watch at the foot of the tree, until they have decided what is to be done."

A rope ladder was let down and Legolas scaled it easily, climbing up onto a flet built into the limbs of the great tree where there were seated the three distinct Elves he had expected. Clad in soft grey, they were almost one with their environment to the untrained eye, and he no longer wondered that his distracted mind had not made note of them.

"Mae govannen," the first said, taking his hand amiably. "I am Haldir of Lórien, and these are my brothers, Rúmil and Orophin."

"Well met, Haldir," Legolas returned politely as he was seated among them, "Rúmil, Orophin. I am Legolas of Lasgalen."

"The son of the Lord Thranduil, I gather," Haldir smiled, indicating his golden hair; pale but unmistakable in the night light, it was an obvious legacy of his father. "Welcome to the Golden Wood, my lord."

"Discovered," Legolas smiled back at him, forgetting for a moment the griefs that day had brought. "But there need be no formalities between us, Haldir. I do not come as a prince."

Then Frodo’s head appeared in the entryway in the floor, for he had been cautious in his ascent. He was helped up onto the floor, and Sam after him. Haldir and his brother stood to regard the newcomers, directing the slanted beam of a pale lamp at their small faces. Assuring himself of their good nature, Haldir covered the light again. "Mae govannen. Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded vín," he said graciously, but in his own tongue. Legolas understood well enough, but he doubted Frodo did.

"Suilad, Galadhrim o Lórien," Frodo replied uncertainly, confirming his suspicions.

Haldir noticed as well, and redressed the difficulty. "Welcome!" he translated loosely, not so comfortably fluent in the Common Tongue as Legolas was. "We seldom use any tongue but our own; for we dwell now in the heart of the forest, and do not willingly have dealings with any other folk," he explained, making the round of introductions again for the benefit of the hobbits.

"But we have heard rumor of your coming," he went on when they were seated again, "for the messengers of Elrond passed by Lórien on their way home up the Dimrill Stair. We had not heard of – hobbits, of halflings, for many a long year, and did not know that any yet dwelt in Middle-earth. You do not look evil! And since you come with an Elf of our kindred, we are willing to befriend you, as Elrond asked; though it is not our custom to lead strangers through our land. But you may stay here tonight. How many are you?"

"Eight," Legolas answered promptly in the military fashion fostered in his home. "Myself, four hobbits; and two men, one of whom, Aragorn, is an Elf-friend of the folk of Westernesse." He was certain Aragorn was known in Lórien, but it would not hurt to remind them, just in case.

"The name of Aragorn son of Arathorn is known in Lórien," Haldir nodded, "and he has the favor of the Lady. All then is well. But you have yet spoken only of seven."

"The eighth is a dwarf," Legolas confessed rather reluctantly. He did not expect to completely avoid the subject, but it would have been more agreeable now that his own opinion of Gimli was uncertain.

"A dwarf!" Haldir’s face became bleaker to match his brothers, in no way pleased by that piece of news. "That is not well. We have not had dealings with the Dwarves since the Dark Days. They are not permitted in our land. I cannot allow him to pass."

Legolas had been afraid of this, and he was forced to face the foundations of his own regard for the Stunted People, or rather the lack of it. How could he tell Haldir of what he had seen in Gimli only hours before if he himself was not yet sure of it? But the fate of the Fellowship was entrusted to him now, and to repudiate any one of them was simply unacceptable.

"But he is from the Lonely Mountain, one of Dáin’s trusty people, and friendly to Elrond," Frodo jumped in for him. "Elrond himself chose him to be one of our companions, and he has been brave and faithful."

It was as much a lecture to Legolas’ mind as it was for Haldir, though he knew Frodo had not intended it to be. Was there any real issue chafing between them at all? 

I beg of you two, Legolas and Gimli, at least to be friends . . .

It would not please his father, but neither had joining the Fellowship in the first place.

Haldir spoke quietly with his brothers for a moment, but seemed to come no nearer to resolving the question. "Legolas," he said gravely at last, returned to their tongue. "What say you of him? You come of a wary realm, we know. Do you trust him? Is it true what the halfling says?"

"Frodo speaks well," Legolas assured him with a slight lift of his chin, sure of that much. "Gimli has shown himself valiant and steadfast, and it was with confidence that Elrond named him for our Company." He paused indecisively, knowing dismally that such would not be enough to gainsay the laws of Lórien. He knew the mind of a guard, knew their commands were not dismissed without gravest cause or the utmost assurance. His next words rose to his tongue of their own accord, but he held them back a moment, knowing with a dreadfully helpless feeling that he was putting the noose around his own neck. Curses, Legolas, you are far too trusting! his father had once berated him, but he braced himself, for there was no help for it now. "I shall vouch for him."

The Galadhrim were amazed, the impression evident in their keen grey eyes.  The solemn word of Elvish royalty was not taken lightly.  It was a great responsibility Legolas had taken on himself, and if he had confidence enough to do so it was not something they would dismiss without careful thought. Legolas only wished that had been a luxury he could have enjoyed before he was forced to make such a pledge.

"Very good," Haldir said at last in words they could all understand, though his tone still carried a certain apprehension. "We will do this, though it is against our liking. If Aragorn and Legolas will guard him, and answer for him, he shall pass; but he must go blindfolded through Lothlórien. But now we must debate no longer. Your folk must not remain on the ground," he told them. "We have been keeping watch on the rivers, ever since we saw a great troop of Orcs going north toward Moria, along the skirts of the mountains, many days ago. Wolves are howling on the wood’s borders. If you have indeed come from Moria, the peril cannot be far behind. Tomorrow early you must go on.

"The four hobbits shall climb up here and stay with us," he said; "we do not fear them! There is another talan in the next tree. There the others must take refuge. You, Legolas, must answer to us for them. Call us, if anything is amiss! And have an eye on that dwarf!"

~ `*` ~ `*` ~ `*` ~

An hour later a baited silence hung over the wood. The dry leaves rustled in the trees as the southern night wind teased through them, bringing with it a gentle chill that Legolas found refreshing. He sat up in their flet among the leaf laden branches, unable to find sleep. Aragorn, Gimli, and Boromir lay about him wrapped in the warm furs the Galadhrim had provided, wearied beyond wakefulness by their toils. The hobbits remained unseen in the next tree with Haldir and his brethren. They were all well hidden from whatever would chance to pass below, but even safe at last within this fabled country of his kinsmen Legolas could not dismiss the lingering vigilance which remained fully roused, denying him rest.

And so he sat in silence, resting his chin on his knees, letting the wind drive away the memory of the choking heat of Moria and the gravelly laughter of the Orcs like the voices of so many cockroaches. He felt something had gone horribly wrong that day, beyond their poor power to rectify. If Mithrandir had fallen, who could hope to stand in his place? Saruman had betrayed them, Radagast had not the strength. Aragorn was uncertain, Boromir was growing restless, and he had no desire to take command upon himself. Would the Fellowship collapse into anarchy?

Through the years, Legolas remembered how he had seen his father endure spoken abuse from Mithrandir which he would tolerate from no other. When asked why, Thranduil’s answer was that Mithrandir came with authority, and that if the free world would ever be moved against the forces of darkness it would be by his hand. His words were true, it seemed. What would he say now?

Legolas felt alone here on the border of this kindred but foreign wood, pining for what comfort could be found in the familiarities of his own land. They had passed the mountains, and in the North lay his own home. He could feel it, even if it was a presence that lived only in his heart. "Adar, ú-erin hirad rad," he said miserably in a voice held beneath the wind, sunk in the dark depths of failure. "I cannot find the way. How can we go on?"

How can you not? It was not that his father spoke to him now, but he had heard that answer before, and it rose full and strong in his mind. They must go on, for they had no choice. They could not afford the luxury of despair.

He stiffened then, reft from his contemplation by new sounds in the night, sounds he knew too well. It was a muffled stomping, the growling laughter and sharp clank of metal. The verdict of his ears was confirmed by unerring testimony of his nose. He did not need to look past the flet to know a foul cohort of Orcs was passing near, daring to compromise the guarded borders of Lórien.

He watched now for something else, his sharpened mind predicting their movements. A swift swirl of grey through the next tree told him all he needed to know. Quickly pulling on one of the soft hooded cloaks of the same muted shade the Galadhrim had left, Legolas deftly fastened his quiver again onto his back, descending from the flet like a shadow of quicksilver and throwing the rope ladder back after him.

Nothing seemed to move in the dim twilight. He dropped lightly into the brush below, then picked his careful way through the wood in the direction whence the sounds had come. The trail left by the Orcs was plain to behold when at last he found it. The path lay trampled and bruised in the slanting starlight, here and there a young sapling slowly righting itself after the abuse it had suffered. Legolas remained there in the brake, both saddened and angered by the wanton harm inflicted by creatures who bore no love for aught that was green and good. Quiet and dreadful, his grief took new form as vengeful anger now that he was given an object upon which to unleash it. These Orcs were of Moria, and they had come to stain Lórien with the blood of what remained of their Company. That he would not suffer. He had done with running and hiding.

But despite his restless blood, he had to admit the impracticality of it all. There were obviously entirely too many Orcs for him to challenge alone, or even with the help of the Galadhrim brothers. And what good was he with only three arrows? Finally he turned back to rejoin the others, thwarted, disgusted for the moment with the unfairness of the world.

Retracing his steps as an elvish scout is taught to do, he was nearing the two familiar trees when he saw a grey clad figure moving through the shadows. He guessed it to be Haldir, for he had come near already to learning the particulars of each of the brothers, a perceptive habit come of the necessity of learning to recognize the comrades of one’s patrol despite darkness or distance. Haldir looked twice at him before an expression of keen annoyance settled on his face.

"Legolas!" he whispered sharply. "What are you doing? Your place is there, with the others of your company. Who will watch them if you do not?"

"Aragorn remains with them," Legolas said to placate the tetchy Nando. "You have trust enough in him. And the hobbits would never leave the flet alone. I can find no rest tonight, and went to see where the Orcs had passed."

"You would have done better to have remained here, my lord," Haldir persisted in a low voice. "Only a moment ago I returned to find a something I cannot name scaling the bole of this tree. I cannot guess its intent, but it fled quickly enough."

Legolas felt himself go cold, his thwarted purpose provided another more practical adversary. He turned a sharp glance to the branches above where he knew Frodo lay concealed. Frodo – and the Ring. "A wretched little thing?" he asked pointedly. "All skin and bones, the size of a halfling? It could climb?"

"It climbed very well," Haldir affirmed, disconcerted by the sudden severity of his manner. "Like a treefrog, I thought it. And yes, thin and starved. You know him? He is a foe? I did not shoot for fear of arousing his cries."

"Yes, I know him," Legolas said, darkening, "better than I could wish. Take this for me." Quickly he had unfastened his bow and quiver, giving both into Haldir’s care. "Wait for me; I shall not be long."

Circling the foot of the tree like a hound, he at last found the meager traces he sought, faint but fresh. On cat feet he ducked into the winter undergrowth, pushing through with the acquired skill which stirred hardly a rustle from what dry leaves remained. This quarry had long evaded him, had been the death of his friends, had humiliated him in the face of all his people, and compromised the integrity of Thranduil’s realm on a grand scale. The only other to do all of that with such effectiveness had been Sauron himself, and so it was with a terrible intensity that Legolas resumed the chase. He had a crow of his own to pluck with this Gollum.

He stopped a moment in the dark to run a sensitive hand over the ground, considering the subtle tastes to be found there. It was not an easy trail to follow, but he had been trained in a stern school. If he knew Gollum, he would still be lingering near, fleeing before Haldir but not retreating far. If he had shadowed them all through Moria he would not abandon them now. That of course again raised another question, and as he went on Legolas considered just what he would do when he found him. He was acutely aware of the familiar weight of the knife riding on his hip, wondering if any would object to his killing him now. The kindness he had shown before had only burned him in the end, and he had more than enough bitterness reserved now for that wretch in a special dark corner of his heart.

Through the thickets, grey in the starlight, around trees and over more than one gentle rise of ground, at last he sighted that hunched silhouette that had haunted his dreams, crouched amid a copse of young beech trees. Moaning piteously, he was wiping his hands on the ground as though they were dirty, though Legolas mused darkly that such concerns had not seemed to trouble him before. Low to the ground, he advanced further toward his prey with the swift and halting steps of a lynx, unblinking and unseen. Utilizing the cover of the trees, he came upon Gollum from behind, blade drawn in his hand. It would be simple enough to catch him at unawares, slit his ungrateful throat and be done with it. They had worries enough without second-guessing a tireless phantom driven by a Ring-lust of his own.

But then the balding head came up abruptly, warily tasting the air. Legolas froze motionless where he was, the moment become as sharp as cut glass. He knew Gollum was aware of his presence, even if the little spook knew not where nor what he was yet. He would soon, and it was now or never. With all the speed and precision he could command, Legolas lunged forward from the covert, whipping his arm around Gollum’s head; sparse fangs bit hard into his vambrace as he set his gleaming blade to that thin neck. But then he hesitated over his repulsive armful, cursing himself and whatever misguided pity rendered him unable to end it this way. Whimpering around the armored elvish wrist in his teeth, Gollum took timely advantage of his captor’s indecision to throw himself backward with a strength that belied his withered form, slamming Legolas against a tree behind them.

"Be still, you wretch!" he snarled, struggling to contain what seemed to be twenty flailing limbs with one hand as Gollum bit deeper into his arm. Thrown off-balance, he tried now to regain his advantage, though he might as well have tried to catch a barbed catfish with a fierce lust for life. Twisting forward, he managed to throw Gollum to the ground beneath him, but that entailed pulling his wrist away from the toothy grip that held it. Freed of his gag, Gollum was set to let out a hideous shriek; Legolas silenced him with an ungentle blow only to have his hand wildly gnashed. Biting back a outcry of his own, he fought to regain his hold on the raving creature, but his grip was made slick by blood, and after crawling madly over one another for a time Gollum slipped free and ran frantically through the brush and into the night. Disgusted with the whole affair, Legolas let him go.

For a moment he remained where he was, lying on his elbows in the grass, watching the lingering agitation slowly still itself on the bushes where his quarry had disappeared. Unfinished tasks boded no one any good, and he had known this one would not be easily remedied when he had first confessed it to Elrond’s Council. Nor was this the first time such an encounter had drawn blood.

Picking himself up, he decided to say nothing of the incident for the time being; his hand would heal soon enough. But it was indeed a concern. He had heard enough of Gollum’s ramblings to know his burning desire for the Ring, and his undying hatred for those who held it from him. They would need to watch closely now, lest they awake to find Frodo’s neck wrung and the Quest in shambles.