[Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh. Time to return a few clichés to the fanfiction collective. Author cackles evilly and exits stage left.]
9 January, 3019. Third Age.
Nightmares retreated with the dawn, and the ragtag group of travelers prepared for another day of marching.
From the trailing end of the Company, Frodo considered the warriors ahead of him and marveled at his luck to be among them. The Fellowship's members were strung out in a sparse line, steadily plodding up the snowy slopes of Caradhras. Piercing sunlight did not warm the air, but the Hobbit felt reassured by its presence and that of these friends. He looked from Man to Dwarf to Elf and knew them to be companions he could rely on to brave through this quest.
Courage had returned to Frodo's heart and he no longer felt so alone. He may have been the first to pledge himself, but the others were equally deserving of their place here. Had he remained silent at the council, one of these warriors would surely have answered Elrond's challenge. The obvious choice would have been Aragorn. It should rightfully be his fate to destroy the Ring that Isildur had saved. Frodo remembered the ranger's valor in the face of the Nazgûl. He had no doubts that this man could face Sauron himself and find victory.
Frodo looked up to see Boromir smile back over his shoulder with encouragement. Despite his rash words at the council, Boromir had proven himself to be a stalwart member of the Fellowship many times over. He had often helped the Hobbits during the arduous days and nights of their travels. Whenever Frodo listened to Boromir speak of Gondor, he knew this man to be a loyal son of its Steward and leader of its people. Like Aragorn, Boromir had faced the servants of the Enemy many times and won. If not the heir of Isildur, then maybe this son of Gondor could have made an equally fine Ringbearer.
In the dark of night, these kinds of thoughts often made the Hobbit feel like an impostor among the truly noble, but today he felt himself blessed to be joined by these brothers in a quest they all shared. Whatever skills he lacked were more than made up for by the others. Together, they could destroy the Ring. He was sure of it.
Frodo settled his eyes on the Elves ahead of him. And a sister-in-arms too. Whether it was her clothes, the way she carried herself, or her finesse with weapons, Anarwen matched Legolas in so many respects that to Frodo she often appeared to be simply the other elf's dark-haired twin. He had a difficult time thinking of her as anything other than an Elven-warrior. The idea that she was also an Elven-maid seemed very odd, particularly since Lord Elrond's daughter was almost his only point of comparison. Frodo tried to picture Anarwen in one of the gauzy, floating dresses favored by the ladies of Rivendell and found it nearly impossible. Maybe if she were permitted to have a knife at her waist.
Yet, as he watched the Mirkwood elves farther up the slope, Frodo had an inkling that he might have missed something along the way. Earlier that morning Anarwen and Legolas had drifted to each other's side, and by now they had spent the last two hours in close discussion. Their quiet voices did not carry down the slope, but Frodo could easily understand another language that passed between them. Each gave the other their complete attention, leaned in a little as the other spoke, and looked the other straight in the eye when responding. Frodo also observed what neither noticed. The way Legolas's gaze rested on Anarwen a moment longer after she finished speaking. The way she looked furtively at him while he checked the landscape for danger. Neither elf seemed to catch the other in any of these fleeting moments, but the Hobbit smiled in recognition. He had seen Sam and Rosie perform this dance many times.
So lost in these thoughts was he that Frodo failed to see a bare patch in the snow ahead. Before he knew it he was tumbling backward, head over heels down the mountainside, until he finally came to rest at Aragorn's feet.
+++
Like Frodo, the ranger had been watching Anarwen's and Legolas's conversation for some time. Aragorn, more than the others, understood how troubled both of them had been by their argument and estrangement. He wondered if their rapport today marked a true reconciliation, or something more. Yet, the ranger could not help his skepticism.
The Fellowship's journey was long and the road ahead full of peril. A few crows had been the extent of the danger so far, but that was sure to end soon. He knew what hunted Frodo. The Eye of the Enemy and all it commanded would not rest until the Ring was returned to its master. As they crossed the Misty Mountains and moved ever closer to Sauron's domain, what promise could there be for the awakenings of love?
All day the ranger had felt a foreboding of some threat. Now Aragorn stared at the Mirkwood elves and wondered if something else weighed on his mood. Who am I to doubt them? I have thrown away all that is in my heart, all that she is willing to sacrifice. Aragorn touched the Evenstar pendant at his neck and tried to remember the last time he had felt love without the taint of worry for the future. He was still fingering the jewel when a Hobbit landed at his feet.
+++
"Perhaps we should take the road home first," laughed Legolas. "I am sure the son of Gloin will appreciate a stay in his father's former lodgings." To the prince, the thought of Gimli locked up in the palace's dungeon seemed to be a perfectly sunny accompaniment to the day.
Anarwen smiled at his good mood. "Yes, my lord. And no doubt your father will insist that you join him," she shot back.
She and Legolas had been debating which route the Fellowship should take for some time. Once they had crossed the mountains, should they venture through the Elven-woods of Lórien before crossing the Anduin, or should they go father south to travel through the lands just north of Fangorn? Anarwen favored the road through Lórien, but Legolas was wary of it. His father had always avoided sending him to the home of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Some vague distrust existed between the older Elves that went back to an earlier Age. Loyalty to his father bade him find another path.
Of course, Anarwen's joke reminded him that his loyalty was probably very much in question by now. Legolas's letter to Thranduil had most likely been torn to shreds the moment his father had finished reading it. Mirkwood's prince was not supposed to be here, and his father was undoubtedly furious that he was.
Anarwen laughed at the sheepish look on Legolas's face and continued her teasing. "Perhaps you and Boromir should devise a strategy for long-lost sons. No doubt it is the curses of your two fathers that follow us now."
Legolas grinned back at the elleth. There was some unpleasant truth to her words, but he felt so much joy to be at her side and speaking that little in her mockery could dampen his spirits. It had taken him close to an hour of mindless small talk, ostensibly about their route, to put her at ease and get her talking freely. They had spent another hour in detailed discussion of the Emyn Muil, the Black Gate, the Dead Marshes, the hazards presented by each, and the lack of better ways to their destination. Given all that lay before them, no matter which road they took, the memory of home rose bittersweet in Legolas's mind. He looked over at Anarwen and wished they were there together.
Anarwen's eyes were directed up the snowy slope, but like Legolas, her thoughts were filled with images of Mirkwood. The great overhanging boughs of its trees, the velvet black of night under the forest canopy, the blazing fires lit by merrymaking Wood-elves. A dozen memories flowed through her mind, one overlapping the other, and in nearly all of them appeared the ellon next to her.
It was hard to remain angry at him for long. She suspected he was willing to review every compass point between Caradhras and the Sea of Rhûn if it meant successfully avoiding a discussion of their argument. The closest they had gotten to it had been a few of her barbed comments. He took each of them in stride, which was itself a source of vexation.
What am I to him? He had mentioned nothing of restoring her as his guard, but his conversation seemed to pretend that it had already happened. They could easily have been standing over a map in his quarters planning the next patrol. A light breeze shifted across her face. Suddenly the memory of him caressing her cheek overwhelmed her senses. Anarwen took in short breath and reddened slightly.
Legolas turned to the elleth and gave her a quizzical look, but a crashing noise from behind caused him to spin around quickly.
"Frodo!" Surprise and a little fear could be heard in Aragorn's shout. Legolas was relieved to look down toward the ranger and find him helping up the seemingly unhurt Hobbit. Then he saw Boromir retrieve a neck chain from the snow. The Ring dangled from its length, glittering in the bright sunlight.
"Boromir."
Legolas took one step toward the man, but Anarwen reached out and caught his wrist. He looked up at her and she shook her head slowly. Her hand fell away. Legolas remained where he stood but watched Boromir with narrowed, calculating eyes. From the first sign of betrayal, it would take only a moment to settle matters with an arrow.
"Boromir, give the Ring to Frodo." Aragorn's voice was even but firm.
Boromir's eyes snapped to the ranger's as if awakened from a daydream. Hesitating just a little, he made his way to the Hobbit. "As you wish," he said with forced lightness. "I care not."
Legolas watched as Boromir ruffled Frodo's hair and then turned to lumber back up the slope. The man's shield bounced off his shoulders as he moved away from the others. Its dull knell reminded Legolas of the sounds of battle.
***
12 January, 3019. Third Age.
The previous days of sun were obliterated by a dark winter blizzard that seemed to whip up out of nowhere. Bitter winds howled across Caradhras the Cruel. Great, swirling eddies of snow fought the Fellowship's progress. Aragorn and Boromir worked to thrust a lane through the white wall, but the task became so difficult that the entire Company halted without any spoken agreement to do so.
Only the Elves could move as nimbly as if they walked on firm sand. Legolas strode to the head of the line and listened to the eerie noises that rose and fell with the wind's blast. Anarwen stepped just past him to venture farther around the cliff's turning path. Leaning out into the grey and white fury, Legolas called back to the others, "There is a fell voice on the air!"
"It's Saruman!" yelled Gandalf. The words hadn't left his mouth when snow came crashing down from above, threatening to take the Fellowship over the narrow ledge.
"He's trying to bring down the mountain," Aragorn shouted to be heard over the wind. "Gandalf, we must turn back!"
"No!" Fighting his way forward through the snow squall, Gandalf thrust his staff toward the south and cried out a spell to calm the mountain's wrath. His voice thundered along the rock walls, echoing down to the mountainside. But the roaring winds only increased their might. Suddenly a lightening bolt stabbed at the mantel of rocks above them. As one, the Fellowship turned their faces upward. They watched with horror as a wall of snow and stone began its deadly descent.
With faster reflexes than the others, Legolas spun around toward the ledge's brink and yanked Gandalf back to safety. They both fell hard against the cliff wall just as snow buried the entire ledge. Just as suddenly, all noise ceased except for the wind whipping through the pass. A brief minute passed before Legolas dug away the snow surrounding his head and shoulders. Shaking off the wet flakes, he peered back toward his right and caught sight of the men freeing the Hobbits and the dwarf.
"We must get off the mountain!" Boromir yelled.
The voices of Gandalf, Aragorn and the others echoed back and forth as they debated what to do next. Legolas turned around, surprised that Anarwen had not spoken. He stared at the mound of snow blankly for a full second. Then fear lanced through him, along with the realization that she had not pulled herself up. Frantically he pushed the chest-high snow away until abruptly he was met with an open void. The craggy turn where Anarwen had stood moments ago was now a ragged edge that dropped away into snowy rocks and crevasses far below. The elf stared down into the chasm and screamed, "Anarwen!"
She was gone.