Bound by Fate
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I'm broke. Obviously, I am earning nothing on this fanfic.
A/N: Thanks to all those who reviewed! I really appreciate it (and would really appreciate more), especially those that give constructive criticism or points to ponder.
Frodo Skywalker: There will be plot twists involving Faramir later, but he will not be evil. Don't worry, I'm not that horrible.
Elven Archer Tiniwiel: I feel sorry for the elves too! But I didn't think it would be appropriate to have them cheerfully singing in a dungeon. If you have any ideas on how to free them, tell me and I'll see what I can do.
Chapter 3: Of Hobbits and SwordplayThe whip cracked cruelly above the heads of the already industrious workers. "Let's you, you lazy piles of crap! We need two thousand more done by nightfall!" the overseer called.
"Two thousand! We'll never get that done by sunset!" a young hobbit with light brown hair muttered as he toiled over his work. The whip cracked again, catching him in the shoulder. "Ouch!" he cried, gritting his teeth as he heard the overseer laugh.
"We don't tolerate counterproductive talk around here!" the overseer called loudly enough for the whole factory to hear him. "And because of Samwise Gamgee's remark, no lunch!" the other hobbits, still hard at work, glared at Sam.
A gentle hand placed itself on his shoulder. "Don't worry Sam. That just means we'll have more time to finish these," a hobbit with darker brown hair, Frodo Baggins, told him. "Have you made up any more tales or songs, Sam?" he asked.
Sam shook his head. "No, I had a horrible nightmare about these stupid chain-mail shirts. Putting together ring, after ring, after ring, while that whip was whipping me. And then the whip became a snake, and then…"
"Enough, enough!" cried Merry as Pippin, the youngest of the four friends, shook his head vigorously. "How about a cheerful chain-mail story, like how the gleam of the metal is like the shine of the stars, or something poetic like that," he suggested.
Merry's comment seemed to upset Pippin even more. "I don't remember the stars, Merry," he sighed sadly. He had been about three years old when they had all been taken to Minas Tirith, and had very few memories of anything except the factory. "What do they look like?" he asked, curiously.
Sam was the first to reply. "They are beautiful twinkling lights, bright silver on the black night sky. Some make shapes, if you look hard enough!" he told Pippin. Then, quieter, he added, "And you'll see them one day, from the Shire."
"Until then, we have to amuse ourselves with these walls…" Pippin lamented. The other hobbits looked around at the factory.
From the outside, it appeared to be a dark grey multi-levelled building on the edges of the city. Most citizens never knew what it was for. The inside, however, was a different story. The main part, and first floor, of the building was a vast factory. Armour was made there by captured dwarves on one half, while leather gear and chain mail was manufactured by hobbits on the other side. There were only two other areas in the building: the kitchen and eating area, on the second floor, and living quarters on the third. They slept on bunk beds, two hobbits on the top bunk, one dwarf on the bottom. The bed itself was a slab of wood with a rough wool blanket thrown over top.
"What sort of rules do they have here?" an unfamiliar male voice asked from behind the four hobbits. They turned and looked to see a Man, dressed in the garb of an overseer, looking around.
The head overseer was next to him. "They can talk, just nothing treasonous or counterproductive. One bathroom break a day, and no more than a skin of water a day. You'll be told on a day-by-day basis how many of what have to be finished. We're working on a big order right now, refitting the High Guard. Two thousand need to be done by the end of the day. We have 500 hobbits, four at each table, which means four shirts per hobbit. You'll start with one table to watch, to see if you figure it out. If any one of them gives you trouble, use the whip. Any big trouble, call me. Think you can handle that… what was your name again?" the overseer asked.
"My name's Strider. And yes, I think that I can handle that," the new man said as the overseer walked away. He smiled at the hobbits as they stared at him. "Hello, I'm Strider," he said in a solemn voice. "What are your names?" They all looked away, not used to a Man talking to them about something not work-related. Merry pointed to the back to his chair, indicating the nametags. "Okay, so you're… Meriadoc, Peregrin, Samwise, and Frodo. How many shirts have you made today?" he asked.
"Still working on the first one… and it's Merry, Pippin, and Sam," Frodo told Strider. Suddenly he started coughing, holding a hand over his mouth. Strider watched as Sam rubbed Frodo's back and Pippin pulled out his water-skin, opening it and handing it to Merry, who prepared to give it to Frodo.
Strider gasped when Frodo's hand came away from his mouth covered in tiny specks of blood. "Have you seen a healer about that?" he asked, handing a handkerchief to him.
"We don't have any healers here, Mr. Strider. They think that if we're sick, then we'll either get better on our own, or die. If we die then they think that they just need stronger workers," Sam told him, while Frodo cleaned his hand off and took a drink.
"Hmm… I'll see what I can do about getting you something to help sooth the coughing," Strider said.
As all of the hobbits went back to working, Pippin casually said, "Sam, why don't you sing something for us." It was a suggestion, not an order, and Sam ruffled Pippin's hair affectionately.
"Of course I will, Pippin. There was this one song that I heard, it was sung by a prisoner. Want me to sing that?" he asked. When everyone gave a nod of approval, Sam began.
A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
silivren penna míriel
o menlel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathonnef aear, sí nef aearon!
At the end of the song, the overseer rushed over. "What do you think you were doing!" he yelled at the hobbits, not knowing which of them sang. "Which one of you were singing that horrible song!" he was red in the face and was clutching his whip tightly. Turning to Strider her asked angrily, "Why didn't you stop them?"
Strider looked confused to the hobbits. "What do you mean, why didn't I stop them? They were only singing. Isn't that their language?" he asked innocently.
"That was Elvish! Which of you was it?" he asked again of the hobbits. "Answer me!"
Not willing to let the others be punished for his singing, Sam raised his hand. He quickly noted, however, that the other three had raised their hands as well; they were all unwilling to see Sam punished alone. "We all did," Frodo said as defiantly as he could manage.
The overseer gave an evil smirk. "Want to do the same things that elves do, huh? Well, I can arrange that." He went to the official paperwork desk and wrote a note, then sealed it with wax. When he same back he said, "I got a new job for you, Strider. Take these four to the palace dungeons, and give the guard this note. Stay until the High Guard is refitted, and tell me if they need any adjustments, spares, or the like. Understand?"
Strider nodded. "Easy enough, they don't look like they could put up much of a fight. Any special transportation needs?" he asked, looking at the four.
"Chain them up and walk them there. They shouldn't cause too much trouble. Take your whip just in case, though," the overseer told him.
~*~
Legolas was soon taken to Boromir's room, after many struggles and a few broken noses on the part of the guards. As he was thrust into the room, he stumbled and fell onto his face. "Master Elf," called a familiar voice from a table in the corner. "I wondered when you would get here." It was Boromir. He sat at a table with two chairs; one occupied, the other pulled out, and was snacking from a platter of food. Legolas looked around for a weapon of some sort, but could find none. "Come, sit down. We have much to discuss," he said, gesturing to the chair.
Legolas warily sat down. "The only thing we have to 'discuss' is whether you set me free willingly, or if I have to kill you first," he growled.
"Actually, it would be why you were in Gondor, and whom you were waiting for in the Drúadan forest," he retorted. "You're either very brave or very stupid to be found there," he added. "By the way, feel free to help yourself to the food."
Legolas didn't answer Boromir's question; he munched thoughtfully on a carrot stick, wondering how long it had been since he had eaten. He asked a question of his own. "Do you know how many elves are dead or are dying in your dungeons right now?" he voice seemed distant as his thoughts drifted to his father, who would probably die down there.
Boromir shrugged. "Don't know, and don't care. You realize that you are mine to do with what I will," he said confidently.
"I belong to no one…" Legolas responded. His words seemed slower than usual and he felt extremely sleepy; he looked at Boromir accusingly, knowing that he had been drugged yet again. Boromir calmly walked over and picked him up, then took him into the bedroom. He was stripped of everything but his breeches and shackled to the bed. At that point, Legolas could no longer stay awake and embraced sleep.
Boromir grinned. "Good thing he took a carrot. They were the only thing on that tray that were drugged," he said aloud, watching Legolas sleep. After a moment he got bored. 'I think I'll go down to the training fields and see if anyone there has some skill. I need a new sparring partner,' he thought to himself.
~*~
It took just over an hour to walk the hobbits to the palace. The guards gave Strider no trouble; in fact the sight of four hobbits in chains amused them. The head guard opened the letter and laughed. "What does it say, sir?" Strider asked.
"Talks about how since they want to be like elves, they should live with them. No worries, they'll be treated the rest of the prisoners. You heading back to the factory?" the head guard asked, unshackling the hobbits and placing them into the dungeon.
Strider shook his head no. "I'm to wait until the High Guard is refitted. That way I can report back if they need any spares or alterations. Any idea what I can do until then? The order won't be finished until the end of the day," he explained, although he longed to take a look around the palace.
After apprising Strider's appearance, the head guard replied, "A young recruit like you should probably spend some time on the training fields, honing his skills."
"Thank you," he said, and then walked away. Once out of earshot he added, "Young recruit indeed…" He found the training fields easily, and kept watch of what the soldiers were doing. He was in luck; the High Guard itself had formed up on the field. He unsheathed his sword and began a few left-handed practice drills on a wooden dummy, still carefully watching the High Guard.
"High Guard, attention!" a man's voice called. That man soon came walking out. He was dressed in what could only be the attire of a prince; Strider recognized him as Boromir by the shoulder long dirty-blonde hair. He inspected the troops, and seemed to be very dissatisfied. Stepping out in front of the guards, he yelled, "You are supposed to be the High Guard of Gondor, but you can't even dress yourselves in the morning! And you want me to believe your assurances that you will eliminate the elves and the Rangers? Ridiculous!" He paced a few times, then stopped and drew his sword. "Who is your best swordsman?" he asked, a ferocious gleam in his eye.
There was silence for a few moments, but then one man raised his hand. "I am, my Prince," he said nervously. By this time everyone on the training field had stopped to watch the spectacle. The man who raised his hand stepped out of ranks and bowed to the prince. After moving a few feet from the body of troops, and incidentally a few feet closer to Strider, he drew his sword, saluted with it, and dropped into a defensive position.
Boromir went onto the attack immediately. He cared nothing for whether or not he harmed the man he sparred with. The man soon fell backwards, smacking his back against the training dummy that Strider had been using. Strider couldn't help but laugh at the fallen man before helping him up. "Is there something funny?" Boromir asked, scowling at Strider.
Strider was stunned. 'I didn't mean to personally meet him so soon,' he worried. 'Nothing I can do about it now, though,' he realized. "Yes, my Prince," he said bowing. "There is."
Boromir grabbed him by the shirt. "And what, pray tell, would that be?" he growled.
"That I could probably best the man that said he was the best swordsman of the High Guard," he replied quickly, with no trace of humour in his voice.
Boromir was stunned. "You? Best him? You are but a mere recruit. However, I am willing to remove that arrogance from you, even if I must beat you to a pulp to do so," he said. All of the men on the field cheered, thinking that their prince was going to provide them with entertainment.
As he raised his sword, purposely leaving it in his left hand, Strider smirked. "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised, my Prince," he commented, sarcasm dripping from his voice at the end. Anticipating that Boromir wouldn't be used to his own troops trying to harm him, he immediately attacked.
Boromir had barely raised his sword before he was forced to block Aragorn's first attack. A second, a third, and then a fourth attack quickly followed the first before he managed to switch from defensive to offensive. Even on the offensive, Boromir seemed to be ineffective. All of his moves had been somehow anticipated and dodged.
After ten minutes of hard sparring Strider disarmed Boromir and placed both swords at Boromir's throat. "Do you give?" he asked, enjoying the stunned look on the prince's face. Boromir nodded and Strider gave him his sword back. Then, as he turned and began practicing with the dummy, he said, "By the way, I'm right-handed."
Boromir was furious. "Everybody, get off of this field! Now!" he shouted. He heard men running to follow his order. Strider, of course, turned to leave, but he stopped the strange man from leaving. "Who are you?" Boromir asked, stunned that a man of such potential, such talent, had only just joined Gondor's military.
Strider sheathed his sword. "My name is Strider, my mother's name was Gilraen," he informed Boromir.
"And what of your father? What is his name? And why did it take you this long to join the military?" Boromir asked quickly.
"I never knew my father. My mother came from Rohan, which is where I lived until now. She died a few weeks ago, and left me a letter explaining that my father was a man from Gondor. I decided that since my father was from Gondor, I should join the Gondorian army. I never expected that I would be at the palace, or in the presence of the Prince so quickly, though," Strider explained.
Boromir nodded. The story itself made sense so far. One thing had him wondering, though. "Who taught you how to use a sword?" he queried. "For he taught you quite well."
Strider smiled. "That was Uncle Halbarad. I don't know where he learned his skills from, but he taught me how to use a sword and a bow, sharpen a knife, light a fire, and ride a horse. He was like a father to me," he said.
Boromir nodded. "I'd like to meet him someday. For now, I'd like you to be my personal guard. None of my guards have ever been able to best me with a sword before; it would be an enlightening experience. Perhaps you could teach me a few tricks," he suggested.
Strider was stunned. His first full day in Minas Tirith and he was already being offered the position of the Prince's personal guard? It seemed both very optimistic and very suspicious. "I would be honoured, my Prince," he intoned, bowing deeply.
"Good. Now, where were you assigned? Your commander will need to be informed of your new status," Boromir said, beginning to leave the training fields. "You will also need new clothes, more suitable for a prince's guard," he added. Strider followed quickly.
~*~
A/N – Happy Holidays, everyone! Hope you liked the new chapter. Gimli and Gandalf will appear at some later point; I'm not sure how to add them yet. Please review, input is always welcome! Flames will be used to feed my muse *looks pointedly at the several candles burning*. If anyone has any suggestions, especially about adding Gandalf and Gimli, e-mail me (queen_bdanya@hotmail.com). More soon, I promise!