Author's Note: This is my first drabble in NirCele's 100-Drabble Challenge; I obtained the prompt list from LadyLindariel. My drabbles will primarily feature the characters of the Fellowship. For the purposes of this collection, I have challenged myself to constrain these responses to 600 words (longer than a "true" drabble). "Part 1: The Edge of a Knife" is a collection of the first 12 drabbles, focusing on missing moments in the trilogy; all parts/drabbles will likely be posted on this story. Please consider joining this fun and inspiring challenge!

Story title is from The Head and the Heart's song "Cats and Dogs."

Disclaimer: Do not own. Applies to all chapters.

Word count: 549


MY ROOTS ARE GROWN


PART I: THE EDGE OF A KNIFE


1. FIRE


It was like nothing he had ever felt—like a festival bonfire on every side, a taunting ring of fire with no escape. Heat radiated from its center with such vigor that it was as if the very sun spilled its yolk, poured forth like molten steel from a crucible.

But there was no sun above them here.

Here: an eternal darkness, and a fire darker than any sun. A sun that pulled in, destroyed all light, took every remnant of good: memories of leaves backlit with sunlight; cool kiss of rain at the forest's edge; balmy nights, spent with friends, clothed in starlight—his soul was compelled toward it; it would feed off this new despair, crush him under stone—in fire and darkness—condensed forever in the heart of this beast; he panicked—

He knew what it was.

As his skin burned, yet did not, the snaking smoke suffocated him. He heard his own voice gasp, then cry in fear and warning, and the fletching of his arrow caught on a callous as it fell to the stone—it bounced twice and settled like a fallen tree.

Ai! ai! A balrog is come!

Inside him was the aftermath of a forest fire—burned out and crumbling, black and desperate in that moment before the last spark fell, when the ground was not yet cool enough to safely cross: hopeless.

He could not breathe.

He felt Gimli drop his axe and the dwarf cried in recognition. Mithrandir bid them flee, but Boromir and Aragorn, perhaps in ignorance of such horrific lore—or perhaps because they were better men than he—stood still, swords raised like guardsmen.

He shouldered his bow and stumbled backwards. He caught a hobbit under each arm, hauling them round the middle when they did not move. Above the sound of cracking rock was Mithrandir's final command—

Fly, you fools!

—and then Boromir and Aragorn were across the bridge and they stumbled pell-mell up the stairs.

He did not let go of the hobbits until they were out and far away from the sounds and smells and smoke of Moria, and then he fell to his knees and turned his face to the bright clouds and high sun, but dropped it again to cough into his arm.

As he coughed, he noticed dimly that Gimli stood beside him. The dwarf tapped his cheek until he met his eyes—both saw that the other wept.

Legolas, drink.

Gimli handed Legolas his own waterskin, and then Legolas cast himself upon the ground with the waterskin on his chest. He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands.

He lay like that for a long time until he heard Gimli shift beside him. Legolas sat up and coughed again. He uncorked the skin and took a sip of water to ease his throat. When he handed the waterskin back to Gimli, he had found his voice.

"Let us help Aragorn, Master Dwarf. You talk to Merry, and I will take Pippin."

Gimli nodded and walked away. Legolas picked up his bow, ran a hand over his face, and breathed deeply. He crossed to the hobbits and placed a gentle hand on Pippin's shoulder.

Pippin curled into him. Legolas bit his lip, and soothed him best he could.


Thank you for reading!