Warm Thoughts: Cold Blade

Author's Note: Thank you for the feedback. Requests to continue got me writing again. Thanks again!

**

"He won't allow me to attend to him," Aragorn said, eyeing the shivering man where he sat against a tree trunk.

"Do you think he's ill?" Frodo asked.

Aragorn shook his head. "I don't know whether it be illness or a curse that settles on his soul, and I won't know until his stubbornness is spent," he said with a sigh. He suddenly frowned and looked away, his eyes shifting from tree to tree as he listened intently.

All Frodo could hear was bird song, but as he listened, one tune stood out.

Aragorn unsheathed his sword and looked down at Frodo. "We have company," he said simply and then turned to rouse the others to action. "Boromir, to arms. Orcs will be upon us."

Boromir's eyes popped open and he jumped to his feet, his soldier's training automatically taking over. "Do we know their number?"

"A dozen or more from the south," Aragorn replied as he gave Gimli a firm pat on the shoulder, testing his readiness. The words no sooner left his mouth then the stomping of many armored feet could be heard from that direction.

At first the company had to stand silent to be sure they heard it, but the menacing sound grew quickly in volume. The hobbits unsheathed their swords and moved closer together, forming a semi-circle in mutual protection.

"Over here, by the big tree," Boromir directed. "Keep it at your back."

He moved out in front of them, flanked on one side by Aragorn and the other by Gimli. Gandalf moved off to the side, but his thunderous expression left no doubt that he would prove a mighty adversary.

A grunt and a thud sounded off to their left, not 50 yards away. While movement could be seen through the trees, their enemies remained mostly hidden as they approached. A high-pitched cry echoed to them from the same direction, leaving the company to hope the cry was in outrage as Legolas' arrow hit its mark. After a few moments more, the high shrieks that served as the Orcs' war cry drowned out all else, and three large orcs burst out of the wood, followed by what seemed an infinite number of smaller ones.

The smell of rot that always clung to the creatures was harsh in the air. That smell, that moment when the fighting began and seemed to move in slow motion, was something that would be forever etched in Frodo's memory.

He saw Boromir with shield and sword in hand make short work of one of the larger Orcs. He fought in bold thrusts, each breath emblazoning another effort, his concentration complete and his form masterful. Frodo wondered absently at the pain the movements must be causing the man's shoulder.

Gimli fought using a bellowed rage, heaving his great axe to and fro as he rained obscenities down on his foes.

Aragorn seemed the scrapper, for it was just as often that his sword's hilt crushed a scull than his blade made a cut. He hacked at an orc and then grabbed his cloak from his neck to drag across the orc's arm and thus catch up his weapon.

Frodo watched the three fight and then turned as the smaller orcs approached he and Sam. The one closest advanced with a grotesque smile twisting its tortured features. Frodo turned to face it and consciously replanted himself in battle stance, squeezing the hilt of sting, which now glowed blue.

He felt Pippin and Sam close in on either side, offering him their support and defense in the coming battle. As the orcs approached, half a dozen more poured out of the woods behind them. Frodo could sense Sam's hard swallow.

"For the Shire!" Merry yelled, jumping forward from behind Pippin.

Frodo's eyes widened at the bravado, but when he saw the hobbit strike a blow to the orc's knee, cutting down to the bone, he smiled; simple folk they may be, but noble, too. He closed his mouth and squared his shoulders to meet the enemy, glad for the many lessons they'd all had from Boromir.

With a snarl of battle, Frodo launched himself at the orc nearest him.

**

A dozen or so orcs littered the ground around them, but still they poured out of the woods. Aragorn hacked yet another down. When he withdrew his sword, he stopped to scan the trees for Legolas, whistling through his teeth in signal.

Only the sounds of battle met his call. He could afford no more time to the effort for out of the corner of his eye he saw an orc advance on Gimli from behind. Aragorn grabbed a dagger from his boot and launched it at the orc's back. He didn't see whether the dagger hit its mark for he had to duck as a scimitar sliced past his head, his quick reflexes the only reason his head still clung to his body. The orc's crude blade thudded into the tree at Aragorn's side. While the orc worked to tug it free, Aragorn brought down the hilt of his sword on the orc's skull, leaving the foul creature to fall in a heap in the mud.

He jumped immediately away from both orc and tree when an arrow whizzed past to imbed itself in yet another orc that made to sneak up on him from behind.

He followed the path of the arrow back to its source, but Legolas was already running down a branch midway up a tree to hop into a tree closer to Boromir and the hobbits. His pace was urgent, and he already had an arrow in hand ready to string.

Aragorn squinted into the melee just as an orc backhanded Pippin, sending him sprawling and his weapon flying. Pippin lay stunned where he landed with the orc descending, and Boromir was the only one who saw the danger. The man from Gondor hacked his way through several orcs on his way to the rescue, but there was too much ground to cover and his desperation was plain.

Pippin roused enough to realize the orc was approaching and frantically searched the ground for his sword. Seeing nothing he could use for a weapon, he swallowed hard and hobbled back away from the orc on all fours, much like a crab. The orc just chuckled, finding sport in the hobbit's fear. It finally grabbed Pippin by the foot, lifting him up and sniffing him like a dog might a bone.

Pippin flailed about frantically, landing a well placed punch in the orc's privates. The orc howled in rage and started swinging the hobbit about with lethal intent. He used him as a club, striking him into Merry, who was fighting his own orc a few feet away, and then swinging him back the other way to send Sam sprawling.

This was the advantage their adversaries needed. The orc Sam was battling lifted up his dull blade with both hands and, with a blood-thirsty squeal, made to bring it down onto the hobbit's head. Poised to strike, he seemed to freeze there, jerking only slightly before rolling his eyes down in wonder at the arrow that sprouted from his chest.

Sam rolled away from the danger as Boromir tackled the orc that held Pippin, sending the half ling to roll along the ground under a pine.

Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief at Sam's close escape, and jumped over another fallen orc in his effort to reach his fellows. His attention was immediately riveted to Boromir when he noticed the stiff way in which the man moved to pick himself up off the ground.

The Lord of Gondor moved as if he was trudging frozen limbs through the snow, each movement a great effort and his breath heavy and hard. The orc had plenty of time to recover as the man made it to his knees and braced one foot to rise. Boromir turned just in time to fend off a blow from the orc, his sword raised to form a cross with the orc's blade. He and the orc found themselves locked in a battle of strength in which Boromir would surely lose, except for the dagger that plunged into the orc's ribcage.

Boromir kept the pressure on the dagger's blade as he held it in place, patiently letting the orc's life force drain into the earth beneath them. When he pulled it out, he hastily hopped completely up from bended knee and back out of the orc's reach.

Time seemed to slow down as the orc and Boromir looked in each other's eyes. Aragorn could see that Boromir used up his last measure of strength in his attack on the creature; his breath was coming in great bursts of cold steam and his features were pale and trembling. If the orc had any measure of strength left, the man would be unable to defend against it.

Aragorn pushed himself hard to make it to the man from Gondor's side in time, but he was slowed down again when another orc charged him from his left. He only hacked at in passing.

Boromir wobbled on his feet, his hop away from the orc throwing him off balance. He tried to recover it by taking another step backward, but only succeeded in landing hard on his backside. He looked up slowly, almost in resignation as the orc raised its blade and took a shuffling step toward him. It's grotesque parody of a mouth twitched into what was probably a gleeful smile as it recognized its opportunity at revenge; but the smile froze as the orc's eyes rolled up in its head. The thing fell sideways, pivoting before landing on the ground beside the Lord of Gondor. It was dead before it hit the ground.

Aragorn arrived just as Boromir slumped backward and propped himself up with the hand holding the bloodied dagger. Aragorn leaned down to grasp the man's shoulder, gaining his eye with a steady gaze of his own. Boromir didn't look away, but let the man read his true state. Then he shook his head. "My strength is spent," he said. Grabbing at Aragorn's forearm with a strength that belied his declaration, he implored, "You must get the little ones to safety."

Aragorn closed his eyes against what the man was asking of him and started to shake his head no.

"You must go," the man spit, pushing Aragorn's help away in anger. "Else they'll capture the ring."

Aragorn swallowed hard at the order, but finally nodded and rose to stand, leaving Boromir where he lay on the ground.

**