Chapter Nine

Despite the long shadows cast by the sinking sun, Merry and Pippin were eager to begin their now customary nightly practice with their swords. Legolas' display had filled them both with a new enthusiasm. Gandalf rolled his eyes at them. Gimli chuckled and moved back to their camp in the stand of trees.

Squinting at the horizon, Aragorn judged they had perhaps a half hour before it would become too dark. He glanced at Boromir, who shrugged.

"Might as well," he said. "But we will stick to the basics. Once those become second nature, we will branch out a bit." He pulled his sword out and faced Merry. "Don't try any of that fancy stuff with me, little one," he joked. "I don't want you spraining an ankle."

Gandalf and Gimli settled themselves with their backs to the trunks of the silver trees and returned to their pipes. Gimli puffed silently for a moment, his eyes twinkling.

"Tell me, old friend, just how did Balin take being stuffed into an empty cask and pushed into the river? He never would tell me." The wizard laughed and began to speak, his long-fingered hands sketching his words in the air. The clang of the hobbits' small swords against the great blades of the men made a counterpoint to their quiet conversation.

Sam, having banked the fire and filled the kettle, began organizing his supplies for the morning. To his surprise, he realized Frodo had taken Sting and joined the practice circle. Sam moved around the pile of broken sticks Gimli had gathered for fuel, giving himself a better view of the drill.

Boromir placed Frodo beside Merry and continued his instruction. To Sam, sorting his herbs, one eye on his master, Frodo seemed less aggressive than his cousins, but faced his opponent with a determination Pippin and Merry seemed to lack.

Among such domestic scenes Legolas found himself restless. He spent a few minutes with Bill, checking the pony's hooves, ruffling his mane, whispering a few words in Sindarin. The pony nickered and shook his head, his tail swatting at the evening insects. With a final pat, the elf turned and drifted toward Sam.

"May I help?" Legolas asked, his eyes bright.

"Thanks, but I'm just now done." Sam replied, tying up his pack. He looked up at the tall elf. "Could I ask you a question though?"

"Of course," Legolas replied, squatting down so that their eyes were level. "What is it?"

Sam looked uncomfortable for a moment. Straightening his shoulders, he stared into the elf's face with a resolute air. "What you said about my pans. Were you just making fun?"

That the practical, stubbornly independent Sam might take offense at his thoughtless joke had not occurred to the elf. He stared at him for a moment. Unconsciously he ground a boot heel into the leaf litter underfoot. He'd not thought about how Sam might react to his statement. He realized that he liked this hard-headed little gardener. Sam squirmed uncomfortably, taking the elf's silence for a reproof. The hobbit's pointed ears began to turn red. Legolas cursed himself for his unthinking behavior and smiled.

"I assure you, Sam, I would never make fun of you. I was very serious. Anything can be used as a weapon. A cudgel is just a stick until someone picks it up."

Sam heard the apology in Legolas' tone and nodded thoughtfully. "So then, you're saying a weapon is just a tool. Like a spade or a rake."

"Exactly. If all you had to hand was your frying pan, and Frodo was in danger, would you stop to find something sharp?" He grinned wickedly and shook his head. "You would bash the eyeballs out of anything that threatened your beloved master."

Sam chuckled at that, looking steadily at the elf. "I suppose you could always skewer an enemy with one of your charcoal rabbits," he said.

Legolas snorted loudly at that, causing the dwarf and wizard to look at them. The elf grinned at them and they returned to their conversation.

"It might be kinder than making them it eat it," the elf chuckled. "But you take my point. You have the heart of a warrior, Sam. That's what is important." He reached out an clapped Sam's shoulder. "The rest is practice with the tool of your choice."

Sam nodded to where Pippin, Merry and Frodo were blocking the sword thrusts of Boromir and Aragorn.

"Will they ever be any good?" he asked.

Legolas watched them for a moment. In the twilight, he could hear Boromir's encouraging calls, Aragorn's instructions, see the sheen of sweat on Merry's determined face. After Pippin slipped twice, Aragorn pulled the young hobbit aside to show him the proper footing.

"I think they'll do well," the elf replied. "Do you not wish to learn, Sam?"

"And leave the cooking to you?" the hobbit joked, his eyes straying back to Frodo. There was a grim look on the Ringbearer's face as he concentrated on Boromir's sword. In the gathering darkness he misjudged his stroke, allowing Boromir inside his guard. Boromir turned the blade and swatted Frodo in the arm. Frodo gave a yelp of surprise. Boromir swung his sword arm back as Frodo stopped to rub his arm.

"Oy!" Sam called, leaping to his feet. Legolas half rose from his crouching position and placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, feeling the rage that welled up in the stout hobbit. Boromir, concern evident on his face, slipped the blade back into his sheath. He checked for damage to Frodo's arm, then stood behind the hobbit, took Frodo's wrist and moved him through the proper block.

"It's supposed to be practice," Sam growled darkly to the elf. "What's he playing at?"

"Better a bruise from his teacher than the loss of an arm later on," Legolas said. His eyes still watched the tall man. Had he imagined a touch of madness in those eyes? A hunted look? He realized Sam was still talking to him.

"Not much of a teacher, then."

Turning to his companion, the elf grimaced. "If I had a gold coin for every swat I got from my swordmaster, Sam, I'd have a dragon's trove today." The bright blue eyes clouded over fleetingly with pain at the memory of those by-gone days.

"They should have given you cookery lessons instead of bruises." Sam said, noting the change in the elf's expression, instinctively trying to lighten the mood. He looked away, feeling embarrassed by the pain he'd glimpsed. He sat and poked at the fire, jumping at the crack of sap in a branch.

Legolas moved to the pile of wood beside Sam. He picked up a few sticks and began shredding them with nimble fingers. Feeding them to the fire, he watched them blaze brightly for a moment. Then he turned to Sam.

"It seems now is the time for me to learn. And who better to practice on than Master Gimli?" He laughed softly, but without real mirth. "How are our supplied holding out, Master Cook?" he asked. Sam grasped at the change in subject. He reached for a pack behind him and began looking through it.

"I'd be happier if we had some fresh meat," Sam said, "and I'm worried about the salt". He turned his face once again to the small combatants. Frodo was now effectively and consistently blocking Boromir's strokes.

"Perhaps Gandalf will call a halt long enough for us to find and dress a deer? I could speak to him about it." The blue dusk was now too deep for the hobbits to continue, but Merry and Pippin seemed determined to go on. Frodo and Boromir stopped and had a hushed conversation. Then Boromir sheathed his blade and led Frodo back to the fire. Legolas and Sam both stood up. Boromir raised his hand to forestall the scolding Sam was ready to give him.

"I'd like you to poultice his arm, Sam. He insists it's nothing but I'd like to be sure." Boromir said, worry in his voice. Legolas looked keenly at the man, searching for any hint of the madness he thought he'd glimpsed. Boromir, pushing his hair back from his eyes, did not seem to notice the elf's scrutiny, his attention focused on the furious hobbit before him.

"Fooling with swordplay is no joke, Mister Frodo," Sam sputtered, ignoring the man. He reached out and rolled up Frodo's sleeve, revealing a nasty looking weal. He clucked his teeth over it and shook his head. "You've got all of us to look out for you, protect you, you've got no reason to get yourself hurt!"

"It is nothing, Sam," Frodo protested. He looked fondly at his friend, who was examining the mark.

"May I?" Legolas asked, taking Frodo's arm. He ran his fingers gently over the injury. Sam added more wood to the fire and moved the kettle to the center. Boromir seemed to flinch at the accusing stare Sam gave him. The elf finished his examination.

"No breaks, Frodo. It will be sore for a day or two though." He glanced over at Sam and then winked at Frodo.

"I'm still going to poultice it," Sam said stubbornly, pulling a clean cloth from one of his packs. Frodo grimaced.

"You're acting like a broody hen, Sam!" he objected. "I'll be fine." He grinned at his gardener. "I'd like a cup of tea, though."

"Poultice first." Sam grunted. He was rummaging through one of the packs.

"Bandages?" Legolas asked Sam. He risked a quick glance at Boromir. The man was actually squirming! "Where are they?"

"In the small pack by the blankets," Sam told him. "There's a small pot of ointment, there as well. Bring that, too!" Sam opened the kettle lid and dipped a finger in the water to check the temperature.

Legolas rummaged through the pack, searching for what Sam had requested.

"It's my own fault, Sam," Frodo insisted. "I wasn't quick enough."

"Perhaps your teacher was a bit too quick," Sam muttered. "Legolas, have you found that salve yet?" he called, wetting the cloth in the now warm water.

"If he's going to learn, Sam, he has to learn properly. Boromir does him no favours by giving his a false sense of his skills," Aragorn said as he, Merry and Pippin joined the group.

"I don't notice Merry and Pip walking about with giant marks all over them." He washed the rapidly purpling bruise and looked around for the elf. "Not that pack, Legolas, the other one!" he called impatiently.

"That's just not true, Sam," Pippin interjected. "Merry's got quite the welt on his ..."

"Never mind that, Pip!" Merry protested. "Frodo's going to be fine, Sam, really."

Legolas stepped over the fire with the items in his hand. Opening the curiously wrought lid to the container, Sam gently spread the sweet smelling unguent over the weal and wrapped it with the warm cloth. He held out his hand without speaking and Legolas was quick to hand him the bandages. He smiled as he watched Sam wrap Frodo's arm. Frodo sighed and blew the hair up from his forehead in frustration.

"That's no hobbit cure," Aragorn noticed, picking up the jar and examining it.

"The Lord Elrond himself gave me that, Strider." Sam said with evident pride. He tied a neat knot in the bandage and looked up. "I have great respect for the healing arts of the elves. Very wise and kind they are."

"Thank you," Legolas said, deadpan.

Frodo began to laugh. "And here you've been ordering Legolas around like the kitchen boy."

Sam's face grew very red in the light from the fire. "I meant no offense..." he began.

"I have taken none." Legolas told him gravely. "Words can also be tools, Master Gamgee. You use them well."

"I'll make the tea," Boromir offered. Sam turned on him like a bantam rooster. The man backed away from the accusation on the hobbit's face.

"You've done enough!" he said furiously. "Why does he have you lot about, if not to protect him! Isn't that what you swore to do?" His hands balled into fists and Legolas placed a placating hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam swung around to face him. Frodo stepped in.

"That's enough, Sam!" he said quietly. "I asked for lessons. Don't blame Boromir for teaching me."

"But, Mister Frodo..." Sam began, still seething. Frodo flexed his hand and then stared at his friend. A wry smile crossed his face and Sam took a deep breath.

"I really am fine, Sam. And I would like a cup of tea."

"As would I," Gandalf said, joining the group. Gimli stood behind him, the smoke from his pipe curling about his head.

"Boromir and I will go for some more water," Legolas said, catching the man's eye. Boromir pushed his hair back again and grabbed at the excuse like a drowning man grabs at a rope. Leaping over the firepit, he snatched up a waterbag from the pile of gear and joined the elf, the pair walking quickly toward the stream. Sam watched them, his eyes still smouldering, while Merry began rummaging through the packs for something to go with Frodo's tea.

"Legolas," Boromir began, when they were out of range, then paused, considering his words. "I really didn't mean to hurt him. It just seemed to happen." Legolas remained silent, waiting. He knew there was more the man needed to say.

"You have to believe me. I wouldn't hurt Frodo. Sam's right, I swore to protect him." They reached the stream, bubbling gently along, and Boromir was surprised when Legolas sprang over it and continued walking.

He hurried to keep up with the long strides of the elf. They left the shelter of the trees, now silver in the evening, and made their way to the top of a small hill. Legolas quickly scanned the horizon, nodded, then gracefully settled to sit cross legged in the damp grass. He looked up at Boromir and patted the ground beside him. Curious, the man swatted at an insect and sat heavily beside the elf. Legolas continued to wait. Boromir didn't disappoint him.

"Alright!" he confessed. "There was a flash, after it happened. It didn't last a whole second. But it was there! I was happy that I'd whacked him! Happy, Legolas! Then there was nothing but shame." The words rushed out of him, as if a dam had broken.

"For that instant, I wanted to reach out and grab the ring! I admit it. I would take it back to Gondor and my father would be proud of me!" His troubled eyes searched the elf's face for any trace of emotion. Legolas remained stoic.

"Now Sam is furious with me, Aragorn doesn't trust me any more than he did before, and you, well, say something, damn it!" His voice was pleading.

Legolas looked at him, compassion in his soul, but still expressionless. "You didn't do it," he pointed out. "What stopped you?"

The man's eyes crinkled in confusion. "Didn't you hear what I said? I wanted to..."

"Why didn't you?" Legolas interrupted. "Don't tell me about the temptation, tell me why you didn't do just that, take the ring and run?"

"I, because," the man stammered, as the elf continued to gaze at him. "I don't know exactly why. Isn't it enough that I wanted to?"

"Thoughts aren't deeds." Legolas stated angrily. "If they were we'd all be lost." Boromir drew back, unsettled by this new side of Legolas. "You didn't do it, you brought Frodo back to have his wound tended. Tell me why!" he snapped.

"Because it was the right thing to do!" Boromir snarled back. "What do you want me to say?"

The softening of Legolas' face was almost imperceptible in the dark. But Boromir could see the light returning to his friend's eyes.

"That." Legolas told him. "You can't go wandering about thinking that because you're tempted you're already cursed. That's the path to despair, Boromir."

The man stared at him, comprehension slowly crossing his face. "You do understand," he breathed. A great shuddering sob ripped from his chest. He swallowed it, ran a rough hand across the wetness in his eyes.

"It works on me, too, Boromir. It would have me forget who I am and what I have pledged to do." Legolas said softly, staring into the man's tired face. "I wish I were strong enough to say it does not, as Gandalf claims, but I have also been weak. This is its power, and why it must be destroyed. Deep down in your soul you know this and that is why you didn't give into that sudden urge."

Boromir's jaw trembled with the effort he made to keep back the tears. Legolas reached out and gripped the man's arm. "I would not lose you to it, my friend," he said gently.

At the touch on his forearm, Boromir could not contain the flood of weeping within him. Sobs forced their way from him, as if they would pull from his very being all the desolation he'd felt. To Boromir's great joy and surprise, Legolas reached out and wrapped his arms about him. He embraced the elf and wept into his shoulder as if his heart would break. It was not only the fear and frustration, but rejoicing that another understood his pain and weakness and accepted it.

Legolas' hands rubbed gentle patterns on Boromir's back and shoulders as the man cried out the hot tears of his pain. He patted his head and whispered comforting words as the sobs diminished and Boromir's breathing steadied. He felt the man's embrace tighten for a moment, and to his surprise felt the urge to tangle his fingers in the curls at the nape of Boromir's neck. He slowly pulled away, looking curiously at Bormir's tear stained face. Boromir's eyes were full of gratitude.

"Here," the elf said, handing the man the waterbag. "Wash your face. You'll feel better."

"I do feel better." Boromir said, clutching at Legolas' arm. "Thank you." He poured water over his face, wetting his hair, sighing deeply.

"I have watch tonight, and I will stay close by." Legolas told him, wondering if he had pulled away to quickly. "If your father should come to you tonight, promise me that you will call for me. I will not let you stand alone."