A Perilous Journey to Lorien

Summary: Just after Gandalf fought with the Balrog in Moria, the fellowship is attacked. Aragorn is stabbed by a Morgul blade and Frodo is badly injured.

Disclaimer: Of course, I do not own any of these characters. They are all works of the mastermind, J.R.R. Tolkein!

Timeline: Fellowship of the Ring, directly after Gandalf falls in the Mines of Moria. The story is slightly AU, but should change very little of canon plotlines. Let's just pretend Tolkein forgot to include this "little" incident.

Revised 6/4/2013 *The first draft of this was written when I was still in high school. My writing style has evolved much since then, and I tend to see the words here as written rather juvenilely. I have been surprised to find that this story is still being enjoyed and favorited, in spite of its flaws. I have decided, that you—my loyal readers—deserve a better telling of the woes that befell the fellowship after Moria. To that end, I have begun a revision project. The details should remain the same, though I do intend to redo the ending, as I was never satisfied with it initially.*

**Chapter One-Mourning Gandalf**

Frodo was in pain. Yes, his chest and side ached from the near miss with the cave troll, but the pain stealing his breath was deeper. A single tear trickled down his cheek. Gandalf was gone. Forever. The events of Moria replayed in his mind—a nightmare he wished wasn't true. Forever. The word seemed to shout in his mind. He had lost a dear friend. Forever. Until Moria, he had not paused to think of what awaited him on this quest. He'd acted so rashly, so naively. Ignoring the chapping cold wind, the hobbit looked back over the rocky, snow covered hillside. Each of his companions was grieving. Boromir had his arms wrapped around the tiny, sob-wracked figures of Pippin and Merry. Sam was staring back toward Rivendell. Frodo felt no small stab of guilt. If not for him, they would not be here to witness so much horror. His gaze fell on Gimli, who leaned on his axe, gruffly trying to hide the moisture leaking from his eyes. Legolas remained much like Sam, gazing across the land in disbelief. Frodo had never seen the elf look so bereft.

Frodo started when he felt a large hand come to rest on his shoulder. He turned and found himself looking into the red-rimmed, pale gray eyes of Aragorn. The ranger's voice cracked as he said gently, "Come Frodo, we must not linger here. He would not want us to linger here."

Frodo nodded and sighed. Wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and biting his lower lip in an attempt to face reality, he turned away. "I'll join you in a moment, Aragorn." To his horror, when at last bothered to look down the rocky hillside, he realized that he had waited too long. Orcs were creeping up the hillside like spiders, and leading them were the nine Nazgul. His grief still caught in his throat, Frodo struggled to raise the alarm, but at last found his voice, screaming urgently as the old wound in his shoulder began to burn, "Aragorn—Aragorn!"

Strider was back at his side in an instant, his sword drawn as Legolas cursed himself for failing to hear the enemy's approach and readied his bow. Gimli followed, axe in hand with Boromir charging at his side. Neither of them could see the threat, but the glowing of Frodo's sword told them plenty. The remaining hobbits, swords drawn, brought up the rear, having been thrust from grief to defense in an instant.

Frodo shook with fear, though it was evident to the ranger that he was not willing to back down while he perceived the others to be in danger. The wound in his left shoulder flared painful to life as icy pain cut through him and sent his mind back to the night Glorfindel had taken him. The night he'd almost fallen into shadow.

As the hobbit began to struggle to remain upright, Aragorn stepped in front of him and firmly pushed him behind him just as the closed ringwraith charged. His sword would give him no advantage in this fight. Cold metal did nothing against nine wraiths.

"Merry, Pip, Sam-Start a fire! We need to drive the Nazgul away." His measured tone belied his frantic mind.

The Nazgul were now within striking distance of Aragorn, who decided to go on offense. He just needed to hold them off for a few moments. As he raised his sword in both hands, an icy pain stabbed through his chest. Ears ringing, he slid to his knees, trying not to sway as his vision began to fade. As he fell into blackness, barely noticing his face connecting with the rocky ground, he heard Frodo scream, "Aragorn! Aragorn! Nooooo!"

Legolas, distracted by his own set of problems, whipped his head in Frodo's direction and instantly took in the ring-bearer's peril and the feeble movements of Estel trying to hinder him. "Sam—the fire!" He didn't have time to be impressed by the speed with which a blazing torched was placed in his hand.

Rushing to the ringbearer's his aid, he forced the image of the fallen Aragorn from his mind. The Black Riders reared back from the fire, even though it was small. In his own tongue Legolas shouted, "Go back to the Shadow! Return to Morgul, foul creatures. You may harm us no more!" The remainder of the fellowship looked up in awe. Legolas seemed to be lit up from the inside. It was a terrible and awesome thing to behold. Even Gimli and Boromir seemed to shrink back for a moment.

Unfortunately, though the fire and power of the elf drove the Nazgul away, it did nothing to drive away the orcs, who charged at them with renewed vigor. Legolas threw down his bow—little good it would do him in close combat. Gimli and Boromir made sure the hobbits were behind them, then raised their weapons and took their places at the elf's side.

Frodo raised Sting threateningly and stood behind them over Aragorn's motionless form. No matter what happened, he was determined that as long as he had breath, no orc would touch the fallen man. As their defenses thinned out to cover more ground, several orcs charged at him. Fear had departed with the wraiths, and Frodo stood his ground, parrying and jabbing swiftly at his opponents. If the others had the time to spare a glance, they would have observed that he fought well for one so small. They didn't have the elf's keen eyes.

Legolas knew immediately his friend was in trouble. The sound of the elfish sword was unmistakable to his ears, and when he turned to looked, he could easily see that the hobbit's sore chest was slowing his defensive parries. Unable to extract himself from his own skirmish with three larger and particularly vicious orcs, he threw glances in Frodo's direction as often as he could. At last, he was able to break away without losing any vital organs and he went straight for the tiring hobbit. His actions, however, came too late. He was halfway there when Frodo cried out, and still defending Aragorn, fell in the snow. Before he succumbed to the beckoning darkness, he shouted hoarsely, "You will not touch him!"

Suddenly Legolas understood what Frodo had been doing. With an Elven war cry, he leapt between the hobbit's collapsed form and the hideous orcs. Knowing his knives wouldn't do what he needed to do, he hurled them at the two closest orcs, slaying them. Seeing Sting and Aragorn's sword, he took one in each hand and brandished them as an orc tried to drive his weapon into the elf's side. Hissing as the weapon sliced into his flesh, the elf leapt away from the blade while at the same time soundly running his own blade through the orc's chest. Quickly ascertaining that no vital organs had been injured, Legolas dove back into the fray at lightning speed. Orc upon orc fell at his feet until he finally looked up in surprise to see Gimli finishing off the last of the foul beasts. No more remained. Even the three uninjured hobbits, together, had slain many orcs—the evidence at their feet spoke volumes to their handiness in a fight. He'd underestimated them. They all had.

Boromir and Gimli stowed their weapons and rushed tiredly to Legolas' side. "Are they…" Gimli couldn't bring himself to finish as the other hobbits crowded around them.

Legolas gently pulled Frodo off Aragorn, checking them both over. "No, Master Dwarf, they are both alive, but I fear each has a grievous hurt." He gestured to their wounds, forcing himself to tear his eyes from the pale, still form of Aragorn, to the perspiring form of Frodo. Even he, who had seen too many horrors of war, couldn't help but gasp at the amount of blood the hobbit was losing. He was torn between tending to his best friend or aiding the ringbearer. Both needed immediate aid, but he knew he had to tend to the ring-bearer first.

"I'm no healer," he forced out over the lump in his throat, "but the orcs' weapons were probably poisoned, and Aragorn may have a much more severe injury. Boromir, Gimli, do your best to help Aragorn. I will see to Frodo." Legolas could feel poison seeping into his body from his own wound, but pushed his concern for himself aside. He grimaced as Frodo's wound as he tried desperately to staunch the flow of blood. What worried him even more than the blood loss was the fact that Frodo had not yet regained consciousness. The elf tore long strips off the end of his cloak and stuffed several into the wound before tightly binding the hobbit's side in several layers of the makeshift bandages. Frodo moaned and stirred, but did not wake. Turning to Sam, Legolas placed him in charge of his master's care., "Keep a close eye on him, and keep pressure on the wound. I must see to Aragorn."

The elf jogged lightly over to Gimli and Boromir who were worriedly hovering over Aragorn. Legolas gently brushed the Ranger's stringy dark hair from his face and commanded in Elvish, "Estel, came back to us. You must not leave us yet."

Even Legolas was dismayed when Aragorn groaned and his eyes fluttered open. Blood came to the man's lips, and he sputtered, "Morgul…Frodo...athelas."

With those words, he went limp again, turning even more pale. Legolas paled with him, wondering if the ranger was reliving the events of Frodo's stabbing, or if he was giving instructions for their present situation. Pushing his panic aside, he tried to slap the man away, "Estel. You may not leave! The race of man will need their king before the end."

That won't work, he thought ruefully to himself. He needed something Estel actually cared about.

"And Arwen…you must not leave, or she will diminish before her time." Aragorn still did not stir, and Legolas despaired that he would be able to help his friend.

Seeing the elf's tears, Gimli realized that the friendship between the two ran deeper than he knew. The glassy-eyed elf turned to Boromir, "See if you can find some athelas; Aragorn and Frodo will be in need of it."

"There is little athelas around here, Legolas. We must make for Lorien."

"I agree," the elf replied, "but if the poison isn't slowed, we will not make it." Legolas secretly wondered if they would make it with the athelas. His own small wound was beginning to ache fiercely, but he chose to ignore it.

The Gondorian went out to search for the athelas, taking a reluctant Sam with him as Legolas struggled to pull the Ranger to his feet. He winced and straightened, hoping his dwarf-friend hadn't noticed.

But Gimli had noticed. "Are you well, Master Elf?"

The elf nodded vigorously, "Do not worry over my well-being. We must move Aragorn nearer to Frodo so we can keep a closer eye on the both of them. The Morgul blade did not pierce his heart, so we have some hope. The wound, however, is still very close to the heart. If we do not slow the poison, he will soon become a wraith. His peaceful sleep will not last long."

"How does the ring-bearer fare?"

Legolas sighed, "Though it is not a fatal wound, he was already weak and the weapons used by the orcs may have been poisoned. If he had been stabbed by a Morgul blade, he would be with us no longer. I do not feel he could survive the same incident twice."

"Twice? A Morgul blade has pierced our ring-bearer once before?"

"Yes. He barely managed to reach Rivendell before he fell into the Shadow world. The wound the Nazgul gave him will never fully heal."

"I did not know." The dwarf fell into silent thought and helped the elf carry the fallen heir of kings to a place beside the ring-bearer. Legolas didn't mention that Aragorn also might never fully recover.

They hadn't even set him down when he began to thrash. Legolas and Gimli could hardly hold him down. Pippin and Merry rushed to their sides, literally sitting on Aragorn's legs, leaving the upper half of the body to the two stronger beings. The Ranger ceased to thrash and his breathing became labored. Pippin turned away, reminded to closely of what Frodo had looked like on Weathertop.

Boromir and Sam returned breathlessly. Both looked glum. At last, Boromir spoke, "We found a small athelas plant, but in its trampled state, I doubt it will be of much use." He revealed a bruised and trampled green plant.

Legolas sighed, "It is better than nothing, and cool water may revive it. We must make haste. Lothlorien is at least a five day ride away. Even more without horses."

He used the majority of the healing plant on Aragorn, and the remainder on Frodo, leaving none for himself. There were other herbs he could use, even if they were less effective. Frodo didn't stir, but Aragorn groaned and opened his eyes once again. They were glazed over and held a strange gleam. "I see…you found…athelas."

Legolas offered a weak smile, but said firmly, "Do not try to speak. You will need your rest. We have a long journey ahead of us."

Aragorn paid him no heed, "Frodo…how…" he sputtered, "I must see to…Frodo." He struggled to get up, but Legolas held him down easily, "You must save your strength, Estel. You know what is coming."

"Legolas, I will do this with or without your help…the ring-bearer comes first!" He finished with a shaky breath. The elf knew that Aragorn would not be still until he did something to help the hobbit.

"We've already seen to Frodo. He is resting peacefully. We will tend to him, but an equally grievous blow would be you being enslaved as a wraith. Can you imagine Sauron's triumph?"

The ranger ignored him, and, though he was weak and in pain, knelt over Frodo and examined the wound in the hobbit's chest and side. Sam looked away, but Merry and Pippin leaned forward, wondering what Aragorn could possibly do. "Frodo," the ranger called to the hobbit, "Frodo…wake up." The ring-bearer did not stir.

Weakly, Aragorn sank back to the ground and turned his face to Merry and Pippin. He knew he wouldn't be able to cling to consciousness much longer. "Shake him until he wakes."

Frodo thrashed suddenly and cried out as his eyes fluttered open. His friends hadn't needed to shake him. Aragorn propped himself up again and placed his hand on the hobbit's sweaty brow, saying soothingly, "Frodo, it's alright. We're right here. Be calm."

Frodo groaned and looked up at him, "Strider!" He gasped, "I thought you were dead."

Aragorn turned to Boromir, "Get him on his feet! We must head for Lothlorien. If he remains awake, he can better fight the poison. He already has a fever, so his body is fighting it."

Boromir gently pulled Frodo to his feet. The hobbit stumbled and turned ghostly pale, "I think…I…will be sick."

Boromir held him up as he convulsed and retching took over his body. When he finished, he sank to the ground and Sam rushed to his master's side, "Mr. Frodo! Come on now, Mr. Frodo, you must get back to your feet. We are going to Lothlorien. The elves will make you well again!"
Frodo looked up at Sam with great difficulty, "I am too weak Sam…I cannot…do this anymore." With that, his eyes closed and he laid still.

Aragorn brushed his despair aside. He knew he had to be strong. Already, he could feel icy cold spreading all around his body. Wearily, he turned to Boromir and ordered softly, "If I do not…if I don't…make it, you must lead us, then lead Gondor." With those words, he closed his eyes and sank down next to Frodo.

No one noticed how Legolas had wandered off to the edge of their group and leaned against a scraggly tree, fighting a wave of dizziness.