2) Of Boromir
"Let's hunt some orc."
It had been three days march since they had set out after the orcs who had taken Merry and Pippin. Aragorn pulled Legolas aside even as they hastened onwards. At first Legolas had led them at a punishing pace, the darkness that filled him a compass on the dark creatures' position. It would have given them away even if their tracks had not lain plain and undisguised on the ground. Knowing that he was fleeter of foot and would tire less quickly, Aragorn allowed him to travel ahead, watching for any sign of ambush or calling them onwards as they began to lag. But now he was beginning to worry, for it seemed that the elf was tiring, and this was most unusual.
"Legolas, let us take a moment's rest. I would not have grief overwhelm you as we travel on the orcs." A flinch - which he would not have seen if he had not been looking - confirmed his suspicions. Legolas was grieving for two lives now and though the elf had barely known the guard of Gondor the grief was no less potent to him.
"I have promised my bow to this task, Aragorn, and I shall swear it again if you doubt me." He replied quickly and adamantly.
"It is not doubt that guides my hand here, but worry. I see the strain in your eyes. I would not have you fall to grief even as we need you most."
"Aragorn, I will follow you to the end of this fellowship, this is what I have pledged. Nothing will turn me from this task, I will see it finished." Even as he watched the traces of strain he had seen in the elven eyes were replaced by determination.
"Then take a moment's rest for Gimli's sake." The both looked back in time to see the dwarf trip once again and roll down the hill towards them, stopping at their feet breathless. Yet still he found breath to grumble loudly at their progress, though they knew he would have it no other way. A brisk nod conceded. They would rest.
Gimli sat with a sigh, not daring to remove his boots and allow his feet air, for risk of them swelling and never fitting the boots again. Aragorn slumped beside him, re-gathering his composure. He was well trained for travelling long distances quickly, but even he had to admit exhaustion after the last three days. Legolas was uncertain, unable to be still. Spotting a small copse of trees a short way off he begged the others' leave and jogged lightly towards it. The running had not been wearying for him, but the silence of the open plains and the darkness that the Uruk-Hai imposed upon his heart, threatened to drive all peace from his mind. He hoped the voices of the trees would allow him to throw these thoughts from his mind, and clear it for a time of the grief that haunted him. He had promised Aragorn he would continue on, and he would, whatever it took. He would run to the gates of Mordor if the fellowship led him there. And he would contain his grief until a time it seemed appropriate. Until such time as he had a moment to spare for it, for now he had none, and it was pulling him into despair when so many of his friends were depending on him.
Until later then, he would survive.
The trees had muttered a soft lullaby to him, and he had taken the time to thank them before returning to his friends. At last, well rested, they ran on.