AN: I apologize for the delay between updates. As I've said in the author's notes of other updated stories, I've had a pretty rought Summer. But I'm back now, and for good it looks like.
To fully appreciate the beginning of this one, you may need to go back to my profile and find "Drabbles" (I believe it's the second story from the bottom) and read the fifth drabble. A certain character is introduced in that drabble, and he makes an appearance here. Of course, I have to muddle some with the timeline from the movie, but...eh, it's just Saruman sending out the Uruk-Hai a little earlier. Honestly, if that's the worse aberration I make from canon in this, it's a good day.
But, it's all very exciting. The very first OC I ever came up with is now in this story.
Chapter Three:
In which Saruman assigns a very unlikely captain, the Company marches to the Gap of Rohan, and the truth behind Legolas' odd compulsion to follow orders is uncovered
Saruman was fuming. There was really no other word for it. Thanks to his spies (three-leaf clovers, crows, and assorted worms and spiders) he'd learned that Gandalf the Gray and Gimli the Dwarf had separated from the rest of the Fellowship and were taking the Ring to Mount Doom.
Ordinarly, Saruman might not have found this information so fume-worthy. After all, surely a lesser wizard was no match for the White Wizard.
Ah, but it was the dwarf. Saruman had been prepared for a hobbit ring-bearer—looking forward to it, actually. He knew the weaknesses of hobbits (pipeweed and seven meals a day), and he knew that hobbits, for the most part, were such a simple folk that many of them would give over a ring of power to be left alone.
He'd been prepared should a man take up the Ring. After all, men were so easily corrupted...it was more likely that a man who was ring-bearer would fall to its power on his own with no input from Saruman or any other dark force.
And if Gandalf had tried to take the Ring...well, Saruman knew how the other wizard thought, and knew that was no option.
Saruman had even been ready in case an elf took the Ring. He had been working on his latest string of Uruk-Hai, making them more than a match for elves. He'd reserved special caverns deep underground, away from fresh air and sun, as he knew elves could not bear to be locked away in such places. Yes, if only it had been an elf, Saruman would have been ready.
But it was a dwarf. A cursed dwarf. What could he do to a dwarf? Dwarves could not be swayed by his gold—he had nothing that could compare with the wealth of the dwarves. They were stubborn enough that mere promises and words alone would not sway them—Saruman would have to promise three-fourths of the known world and all of the pipeweed in the Shire for the Ring. Darkness could not sway them, neither could torture (at least, none Saruman was prepared to inflict).
Yes, Saruman was fuming.
His newest batch of Uruk-Hai were paraded out before him. He gritted his teeth, studying them closely. He would have to choose a captain from among them...someone to lead the Uruk-Hai into battle.
But who? Saruman pondered the Uruk-Hai before him, stopping to inspect one. Lurtz was his name, he was one of the more vicious and bloodthirsty of the batch. Saruman shook his head. Lurtz would never do...he wanted a loyal captain who would lead the rest of the Uruk-Hai into battle against the remainder of the Fellowship, not one who would endanger the mission to fulfill his own thirst for destruction.
After all, if he could not have the Ring the least he could do was destroy both of Gondor's heirs—the older son of the steward and the long-lost king.
"You!" he whirled, pointing at the Uruk who was standing off to one side. "Urshnâg. You will be my new captain."
Urshnâg blinked in surprise. He growled his approval, sneering at the other Uruk-Hai.
Saruman was pleased. Perhaps command would keep Urshnâg's mind off his insufferable desire to open a gift shop in Moria.
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The trail to Rohan was a long, hard journey. Or at least it was this time. Aragorn gritted his teeth, hand straying momentarily to his sword. There were times when it took every nerve in his body not to slay the hobbits on the spot.
Not that they were complaining, not this time. It was that incessant chatter. No matter how many times he'd tried to explain to the short beings that stealth was of the greatest importance, they insisted on conversing on anything and everything. They were trying to be silent, of course—but then they would start whispering, whispering would lead to murmuring, and then eventually to a full-fledged argument about the benefits of one inn's ale over that of another.
Why they were discussing ale on a journey to Rohan was beyond Aragorn. He gritted his teeth again, turning around for the thirty-seventh time to tell the hobbits to be quiet.
He ran into something, and stumbled back. "Pardon me," he grunted, maintaining his balance. He blinked, shaking his head. "Wait, why were following me so closely?"
"I wasn't," Boromir shrugged. "I merely was not aware you were stopping. Is danger nearby?"
"Danger?" Aragorn frowned in thought. "No, only danger to the hobbits...drat their bickering."
"The hobbits?" Boromir glanced back to where the four friends had sat in the grass, having decided that Aragorn's momentary stopping meant they were all taking a break.
"Pippin has not been quiet since Gandalf left," Aragorn muttered, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "I believe it was only fear of the wizard that kept him silent before."
"I don't suppose you've thought of stuffing rags in their mouths?"
"They'd just pull them out," Aragorn shook his head. "Where is Legolas?"
Boromir smiled grimly. "Last I saw he was limping after the hobbits, on some pretense of keeping watch over the rearguard. Should we double back and see if he's passed out again?"
"I wouldn't worry about it," Aragorn replied nonchalantly. "I told him not to pass out, so he's probably all right."
"Ah." Boromir stood beside Aragorn in silence for a moment—though Aragorn did not notice, as he could not hear anything over the hobbits' chatter and the grinding of his own teeth. "Why exactly is that?"
"What?" Aragorn started, hand immediately flying toward his sword. He managed to stop before he drew his blade, cursing the jumpiness that years as a ranger and frequent target of pranks by beings of all ages—human, hobbit, and helf, er, elf—had given him. "What do you mean?"
"Why does Legolas take orders from you? Isn't he some prince of Muckwood or something?"
"Mirkwood," Aragorn corrected. "And you see...it all started many years ago. His mother died when he was an elfling—"
"A WHAT?"
"An elfling...an elf-child."
"Oh. I thought—never mind," Boromir shook his head sheepishly.
Aragorn stared at him for a moment, then decided to continue his story. "In any case, Legolas' mother died when he was an elfling. Nasty affair...something about an infected papercut she kept insisting was getting better. His brothers and sisters were much older than he, and to make matters worse there weren't many elves of his age around the palace. Really, he can tell you the entire woe-filled tale some time...I know he was kidnapped at least seventeen times by enemies of his father, and nearly killed thirty-six times just on the way to the council."
"I don't understand," Boromir frowned. "What does that have to do with him following every order you give?"
"Oh, right," Aragorn nodded. "Well...no one really knows why. Some say an old gypsy woman cursed him when he was born, others claim it's because he was traumatized due to the many tragic events of his life. I, however, am convinced he's merely indecisive and gullible."
"Ah." The men were silent for a moment, Aragorn still grinding his teeth nearly loudly enough to block out the hobbits' chatter. But when the hobbits began to argue over the benefits of one variety of mushroom for frying over another variety for grilling, he'd had enough.
"That's enough!" Aragorn bellowed, whirling around. "We must hurry, Gentlemen," he continued in a calmer voice, trying to regain some of the equilibrium he'd had before he met the hobbits. "I suggest we quicken our pace."
"What do you mean?" Merry asked. "We have to go now? But we just stopped to rest."
"You can't expect us to run all the way to Rohan," Pippin interjected.
"I do not," Aragorn replied. "I do, however, expect you to run part of the way. Now, on your feet! We have to keep moving...we've only a short amount of time if we wish to reach Rohan before Gandalf and Gimli reach Mount Doom."
The hobbits started grumbling again, Merry and Pippin protesting every movement, and the very mention of the Quest sending Frodo into another guilty diatribe (his latest stage of grief over losing the Ring seemed to be berating himself for being so cowardly as to give the Quest to Gimli).
Only Sam, it seemed, was ready to move. Aragorn shook his head as he watched the hobbit tend to the pony. He could only pray Gandalf had not made a mistake...perhaps even Frodo could have fulfilled the Quest if he'd always had Sam by his side.
Then again...perhaps Gimli would be the best choice to carry the Ring. After all, what could possibly keep a dwarf from fulfilling his quest?
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"We're not going any further until we've had a chance to catch our breath!" Merry finally announced, collapsing on the ground a few paces away from Aragorn.
The man glanced at the hobbits, shaking his head with a rueful frown. "I never expected them to last so long," he commented to Legolas. "Nearly ten minutes...that has to be a new record."
Legolas barely withheld his snort of laughter. Ever since Aragorn had convinced the hobbits to run, the two men of the Company had kept up a commentary at every stop of how long the hobbits had kept the pace. "Our legs are longer than theirs," the elf reminded his friend quietly, wincing as he pressed a hand against his wounded side. "You can hardly expect them to keep up your pace."
"But if we kept it at theirs, we would be in Rohan sometime before next spring," the ranger protested, whirling about to scold the hobbits again when he saw them taking off their packs as though to set up camp.
"We could run faster if you'd let us eat something," Merry complained.
"You would run faster if the hounds of Sauron were on your tails," Aragorn announced, slapping Pippin's hands when the hobbit began to dig around in his bag. "We're only stopping for a moment. When night falls we will stop for the night."
"But night is ages away!" Pippin complained.
Legolas glanced toward the western horizon, turning away to hide his grin as he saw the sun's position. Sunset was maybe two hours away...clearly the hobbits had no notion of time.
He started forward to help Sam with Bill, but swayed and pressed a hand to his head as the world around him tilted dangerously. He shook his head...was that danger he sensed or was it just the concussion?
The ranger had, apparently, noticed the elf's sudden discomfort. "What is it?" Aragorn asked sharply, grabbing Legolas by the shoulder and forcing him to meet his eyes. "Is it your injuries? Are you in pain?"
Legolas ignored his friend's concern—touching though it was. Granted, his wounds were still paining him, but reminding Aragorn of that fact would only bring on another bout of guilt from the ranger, something they couldn't afford at this moment. "Not exactly," he replied, though he suspected that his sudden wince and the growing bloodstain on the bandage around his side would show how false his words were. "Something draws near..."
Somewhere off in the distance, a single wolf howled.
Reviews? Flames? Tar and Feathers?
AN: I know...I just can't stay away from those evil cliffies.
Next chapter: We find out what Gimli and Gandalf have been up to, and Urshnâg leads the Uruk-Hai in his very first battle
I had to strangle off the chapter at that last part, lest it grow too long in comparison to the chapters of the rest of the story. Anyway, you'll see where the Urshnâg sub-plot is going next chapter...the idea itself keeps sending me into fits of giggles, so it should be pretty fun. So this isn't entirely a parody, it does delve off into little plotlets of its own.