Chapter 6: Shifting Currents
"I have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can't think what anybody sees in them."
Frodo sat in his boat and remembered warm, lazy evenings curled up in Bilbo's study at Bag End with plentiful food and drink at hand, his feet stretched out comfortably before the fire. He recalled poring over the passages of the dog-eared bundle of pages that lay open in his lap and laughing at his uncle's sentiments at being whisked away down strange roads with strange companions. When idle time allowed, Frodo would settle in with the Red Book and lose himself within its story, more often than not breezing beyond the first few pages to get to the exciting bits, to find Elves and dragons and the dark things that dwelt in caves, to read of swords and spiders and battle. Adventure? It was the most wonderful thing there could be. It was far-off lands and fantastic folk; it was happy endings and songs sung of great deeds and unlikely heroes. So it had seemed to Frodo when he sat in the safe confines of Bag End and dreamed. The young hobbit had longed for adventure far from the humble reaches of the Shire.
It was now the fourth day of their journey down the Anduin and Frodo had been given more than enough time to reflect upon the foolish notions of his youth. He thought of how these bleak days might look upon a written page. He imagined himself swallowing the uncertainty and fear that stretched the minutes into the longest of hours, the hours into interminable days. He would shorten them, certainly, and perhaps compress this bit of their journey into a brief few pages but even so, he was certain this would be the part of the adventure any reader would turn past in search of some more impressive passage, some greater event. Frodo wished he could do just that, wished he might take up the pages of his life just then and thumb ahead to whatever awaited him.
He could find nothing to dispute about Bilbo's opinion of adventure now. If anything, his dear uncle had been too generous.
This journey was indeed uncomfortable.
Hobbits hated water. At least the sane ones did, when the water did not belong to a steaming hot tub or pleasant brook. Frodo's feet were continually wet and he found out quite quickly that even a sleek elven boat was no better able to keep the water from sloshing about their toes than the most hastily constructed raft built by the hobbit children of the Marish on the banks of the Brandywine. Boats leaked, and that was that.
And their journey was nasty.
As they travelled southward, the trees had finally completely shunned the land and had given way to bleak and bare countryside. They had come to the Brown Lands that lay vast and desolate between Southern Mirkwood and the hills of Emyn Muil. On the eastern bank to their left they saw long formless slopes stretching up and away toward the sky; charred they looked, as if fire had passed over them, leaving no living blade of green: an unfriendly waste without even a broken tree or a bold stone to relieve the emptiness.
Upon the west to their right the land was treeless also, but it was flat, and in many places green with wide plains of grass. On this side of the River they passed forests of great reeds, so tall that they shut out all view as the little boats went rustling by along their fluttering borders. Their dark withered plumes bent and tossed in the light cold airs, hissing softly and sadly.
If the change in the land was not enough to quell Frodo's spirits, the weather alternated between being unbearably hot and miserably wet, often switching from one to the other in the space of an hour until almost Frodo wished they were back in Moria. The caves of the fallen Dwarf kingdom might have been dark and terrible but at least the clime had been consistent. There had been no threat of a sudden deluge from the changeable skies or the nuisance of wet feet.
As he touched even so lightly the memory of Moria, a longing for Gandalf swelled within Frodo and his heart trembled. He could almost picture the wizard sitting complacently in a grey boat of Lórien, the rain dripping over the brim of his hat and of the sharp point of his nose, grumbling over cold toes and the lack of a good pipe. Yet the spark in his eyes would never have been quelled by such a small annoyance as a dreary River trip. If he could have seen Frodo's misery now, he would have given the hobbit a look of disapproval from under those bushy eyebrows. Frodo could almost hear Gandalf's voice lecturing him, and he straightened a little at the thought and smiled sadly. They had been able to forget their grief in Lothlórien as they took their ease amongst the Elves, yet here in the Wilderlands Frodo was painfully aware of the lack of the old wizard's presence in the Company.
For of late, their journey had also become disturbing. Frodo wished more than ever that Gandalf were here to set things right because he was not even altogether certain where they had gone wrong.
There was little speech and no laughter in any of the boats, but no longer was it the comfortable silence among friends; it was an audible silence filled with unspoken words and dark thoughts.
Those who were still talking to one another dwelt upon their own discomfort and were just as miserable as Frodo. Sharing their thoughts compounded their dismal moods rather than alleviate them, and so they did not speak.
Aragorn had said naught since they had broken camp that morning except to give them instructions for navigating the much broader and shallower River and to warn them to care for the gravel-shoals that would beach them if they were inattentive. The Ranger was watchful but seemed disinclined towards any kind of cheerful conversation. And so they did not speak.
Boromir had sunken into a black state and kept his vessel subtly but noticeably apart from the others, now bringing up the rear rather than taking the lead. He did not seem angry, only preoccupied. He did not join in complaining about the state of their sodden clothing and weary aches with Merry and Pippin when sitting with the reticent Man of Gondor became too much for the talkative young hobbits. He spoke only when first spoken to, and then it seemed an effort for him to fashion any reply beyond a nod of his head or vague murmur.
Frodo's gaze wandered often to Boromir following behind them in the last boat. Sometimes he thought he heard him call out and he would look over his shoulder to respond, only to feel foolish when he found their companion had said nothing. Many of those times, however, Boromir would be watching him back with solemn eyes.
Frodo was disconcerted by this if not surprised. He had caught something of Boromir's conversation with Aragorn last morning when the Men had thought the hobbits all asleep. He had listened guiltily to the private discussion from beneath his blankets, though he had learned nothing he did not already know. Frodo wished he could help. He knew Boromir's heart was sore with worry for his beleaguered city. Gone now was the bravado, the calm confidence of Denethor's son that his companions knew ere they came to Lórien. Since his talk with Aragorn, Boromir had withdrawn completely. He followed now; he no longer strove to lead their group along the River's way. The fire in his heart burned low.
And so they did not speak.
But this was not the worst of it. As uncomfortable as Frodo found Boromir's pensive brooding to be, it was far easier to tolerate than the suddenly volatile behaviour that now seethed between two other members of their Company. Long hours in a canoe had taken their toll upon each of them and such confinement would have been enough to try even the most patient of Elves, the most tolerant of Dwarves. Legolas and Gimli were respectively neither, and their newly-forged friendship was failing.
Gimli had been ill upon the third morning. Frodo had watched the Dwarf move slowly about the campsite and collapse into the boat with Legolas; he had watched Legolas visibly fretting over the Dwarf's malady. The care and concern of one friend for the other caused Frodo to marvel at the difference of their relationship from earlier days. Their stay in Lothlórien had not been for naught; for the first time upon their journey the Company had taken their ease in a place of protection where they could let down their guard without fear or worry. Though they had travelled far together, they had walked through peril and fire and banded together out of necessity in order to survive. Within the Golden Wood, however, they had been allowed to rest, if only for a little while. Many within the Fellowship found themselves seeking the familiar presence of their companions now because they wished it, not because it was necessary. Lórien was not a place of isolation; though a quiet haven, its paths and byways and beauty were meant to be shared. The Company had drawn closer to one another and in that land their hearts were made stronger.
Most curious to those who witnessed it was the evolving relationship of Gimli and Legolas. The Elf and the Dwarf were no longer able to disguise their bond as a barely tolerable imposition for the sake of the quest. After a few days of feigning relief at not having to put up with one another, Legolas had found himself reluctantly yearning to show to Gimli the sights of Lórien and he was delighted by the Dwarf's sudden interest. Gimli, immersed as he was in elvish land and custom, grudgingly found himself seeking Legolas to engage him in questions and conversation. It had been an unspoken truce and there could be no excuse for it but for them to admit that they had grown used to one another. They stoically ignored the smiles behind their backs and surrendered to the understanding that was inevitable between them. The two were never far apart now, though Legolas would have laughed and Gimli would sooner have recited love poetry to the Lady Galadriel than admit to the word 'fond' when it came to describing how they felt about one another.
Perhaps of all the loyalty and courage his companions had shown thus far, their friendship most of all had lifted Frodo's heart and bolstered his confidence that Elrond's faith in the Company had not been misplaced. The strength of his companions in battle and darkness was remarkable, but in Lórien they proved to be a Fellowship in spirit as well as in deed, to the extent that Elf and Dwarf would choose to walk together beneath the golden boughs. Regardless of their uncertainty at the moment about where their path should lead them, Frodo had been certain they could do what needed to be done and he had left Lórien with regret but great hope.
"By the shine of Durin's Axe and the Eternal Eyes of Aulë! If you sing one more note, Elf, I will capsize this cursed boat and drown your voice in cold water!"
Most of that hope had now since been leeched from Frodo by the drizzling rain and the tempest of bitter words that had been brewing steadily between Legolas and Gimli this past day. He felt his spirit sink down to his toes at this new outburst. He felt Sam beside him give a weary sigh.
Legolas ceased the soft, wordless song he had been singing to himself at the height of the afternoon and he made a noise deep in the back of his throat. He laid down the paddle he was holding and fixed Gimli with frosty, appraising eyes.
"Tell me, Master Dwarf... if you did so, which of us would find the bottom first, do you think? I grant you that your stature does not mark you as a significant presence in this boat, but taking into account the ironworks you insist upon carrying at your belt and upon your back, I think I should be the one to come out on top, as it were!" The Elf shifted and the canoe dipped to the side ever so slightly. "Now, is it my voice you object to, or the song? If it be the latter, I know several old verses pertaining to the battle of Sarn Athrad that I would find to be rather diverting, if not positively suggestive."
Yesterday, Gimli had slept in his boat, speaking little and eating nothing. They had halted early that evening and the Dwarf had fallen into a deep sleep as soon as he had laid his head upon his bedroll. The colour was returned to his face when he awoke. He had waved off Aragorn with good-natured gruffness, assuring him that he felt better, and he had joined them all at breakfast with a hearty appetite and a cheerful tongue.
But there had been a haunted and wary look that came into his eyes when he thought no one was watching and what was more, he refused to acknowledge Legolas. He would not speak to the Elf nor look at him, not even as they prepared to depart.
Legolas was dismayed by the Dwarf's behaviour and had striven to break his silence as they guided their boat into the flowing stream, but Gimli remained cold toward him. Never one to back down from a challenge, the Elf persisted upon drawing his friend from his gloominess and he became irritable in turn when his efforts failed. The compassion he had shown the Dwarf during Gimli's illness swiftly faded. Gimli grew angry and Legolas's temper flared as too many unwarranted verbal jabs took their toll. By mid-morning they were barking at one another and hissing insults under their breath that might have been shouted given the silence that surrounded the rest of the boats. Their strife plucked at nerves already stretched thin.
"Keep your head from the clouds, Elf, and heed the water," spat the Dwarf. He dug his paddle deeply into the River and thrust viciously out of rhythm with Legolas's measured strokes.
There was a sound of rock scraping wood and their vessel heeled in the stream. Aragorn slowed to avoid a collision, and Legolas cursed as he used his paddle to pole away from the bank of sand that had caught their keel. He cast them back into the current and snapped, "Heed your tongue, Master Dwarf! Make use of what little intelligence is granted to you."
Always the Elf and Dwarf had resorted to jesting jibes to span the gap of prejudice and long-standing differences that separated them, but ever had there been a flicker of amusement in Legolas's eyes, a mocking indignation in Gimli's voice as they competed with one another in their game of creative disrespect. Now their attitudes bordered upon malice and their words dripped with a spite that was neither amusing nor assumed.
"We shall change places when next we halt," demanded Gimli.
"For what reason?"
"I trust you not at my back."
"I am not of the craven Naugrim. You would see your death in my eyes if I wished it - or you would if you could rise up to look so high."
"I could easily break you down from your lofty heights, Master Elf."
"Have no illusion as to how long you would live if you tried!"
Gimli shifted and hurled his oar to the floor of the boat, his face dark with gathering rage. Harried beyond his patience, Aragorn brought his boat level with theirs and interrupted them.
"Gimli! You waste your energy and our time with this senseless arguing!" he cried. "Legolas, you will say no more!"
Gimli straightened with a belligerent set to his shoulders, but swallowed his retort when he saw the hardness of Aragorn's eyes. He took up his paddle again with a grunt and dismissed Legolas, Aragorn, all of them with a wave of his hand and a curl of his lip. Legolas clenched his jaw and bowed his head; he refused to meet Aragorn's gaze. The Elf pressed their boat forward and took the lead.
Surrounded by this hostility and sundered trust, Frodo despaired. Almost he would say they had fallen back on old ways, but even the start of their quest had never been this tense and frightening. He huddled in his boat and closed his eyes, only to discover that the tension amongst the Fellowship became more tangible when he could not see it. He could smell it, feel it, like the air gathering before a storm, like stirring ripples warning of troubled waters ahead.
The hours were excruciating for Frodo. They were suspended between the pages of a rousing adventure in the tedious part of the journey that would never be mentioned, if any were to write about it. What would they say? That the companions who had passed through the fire and shadow of Moria and braved dangers insurmountable to get this far now fought each other? That they had become their own worst enemy? A wholly unimpressive part of the story and not one befitting a proper heroic tale, he thought glumly. It was a painful thing to realize, but the past day and a half had shaken Frodo's trust in those who had sworn to protect him. He had feared for them at first, but loth as he was to admit it, he had begun to fear them. He felt terribly alone and abandoned and he wanted to shout at them, to howl against the unfairness of it.
Frodo merely sighed. Sam roused himself from a pleasant daydream involving the Golden Perch and a bottomless flagon of ale and lifted his head to look anxiously at his master. Frodo gave him a reassuring smile despite his discouraging thoughts.
Had he known just how far they would fall, Frodo would have left the Company behind in Lothlórien, beneath the peace of the eaves of the fading forest. This would be the sorest trial any of them would have to face, for the Enemy never came so close to defeating the Fellowship as it did upon that tedious trip down the Anduin.
There was no sign of other living things, save birds. Of these there were many: small fowl whistling and piping in the reeds and in the air, but they were seldom seen. Once or twice the travellers heard the rush and whine of swan-wings, and looking up they saw a great phalanx streaming along the sky.
"Swans!" Sam said. "And mighty big ones too!"
"Yes," said Aragorn, "and they are black swans."
"How wide and empty and mournful all this country looks!" said Frodo, more to keep the Ranger talking than anything. "I always imagined that as one journeyed South it got warmer and merrier, until winter was left behind forever."
"But we have not journeyed far south yet," answered Aragorn. "It is still winter, and we are far from the sea. Here the world is cold until the sudden spring, and we may yet have snow again. Far away down in the Bay of Belfalas, to which Anduin runs, it is warm and merry, maybe, or would be but for the Enemy. But here we are not above sixty leagues, I guess, south of the Southfarthing away in your Shire, hundreds of long miles yonder. You are looking now south-west across the north plains of the Riddermark, Rohan the land of the Horse-lords. Ere long we shall come to the mouth of the Limlight that runs down from Fangorn to join the Great River. That is the north boundary of Rohan; and of old all that lay between Limlight and the White Mountains belonged to the Rohirrim. It is a rich and pleasant land, and its grass has no rival; but in these evil days folk do not dwell by the Great River or ride often to its shores. Anduin is wide, yet the Orcs can shoot their arrows far across the stream; and of late, it is said, they have dared to cross the water and raid the herds and studs of Rohan."
Sam shivered uneasily. He missed the trees. The Company was too naked, afloat in the little open boats in the midst of shelterless lands on a River that was the frontier of war.
Legolas's boat had been gliding a good distance before them, but now it had slowed. Aragorn flicked his oar and eased them forward until they were parallel with the Elf and the Dwarf. Sam looked over and was saddened by what he saw.
Gimli sat motionless, his oar across his lap, his glittering eyes fixed upon the water. The Elf paddled in a subdued manner, gazing at the barren shore wistfully. Sam reckoned Legolas must miss the trees too, being a Wood-Elf and all. The gentle heart of Samwise Gamgee was most distressed by the conflict between Elf and Dwarf. He would have spoken up about it earlier, if Gimli hadn't looked quite so dark and Legolas so grave, and if Frodo hadn't shaken his head at him to be still. Sam thought it all foolishness indeed, but there was more going on here than he could grasp and he thought it best to be quiet until he understood it.
Sam was cramped and miserable, having nothing to do but stare at the lands crawling by and the grey water on either side of him. Even when the paddles were in use they didn't trust Sam with one. The desperate boredom made him restless. Sam sought a diversion. He glanced again at Legolas and valiantly decided to take it upon himself to cheer up the Elf.
He drew forth a worn map he had crafted on paper during an idle evening by the campfire back in Hollin a lifetime ago, after Frodo had teased him lightly for mistaking Redhorn for Mount Doom. Maps were Frodo's delight, but they meant nothing to Sam. He paid little attention to them in Rivendell while others pored and plotted over the course of their journey. But that night he had occupied himself with a bit of charcoal and, with Aragorn's help, he had fashioned a crude map and then tucked it away with his cooking supplies.
He traced his shaky line representing the Great River, ignoring the hole he had gouged near the Misty Mountains where Pippin had jostled his arm during the map's creation. He followed the line downward, past the Old Ford, along the Gladden Fields. He lingered at Lórien, smudging the squiggles that represented trees with the edge of his thumb, then dragged a fingertip to the Limlight and to the Bay of Belfalas as Aragorn had described it. It seemed a right good distance away to Sam. He retraced the Anduin's path back to where he thought they were now, and then poked at the wide patch of parchment on the right that was marked 'Mirkwood.'
Sam pursed his lips. He shifted and squirmed until he was leaning as much as he dared over the bulwark, screwing up his courage to speak to the Elf in the boat beside him.
It wasn't exactly as if he were afraid of Legolas. Sam counted Legolas a good friend and companion; it was just that he had spent so much time in his early years imagining what the Elves would be like that he could not quite shake his awkwardness at being around any of them now. They turned out to be everything and more than he had expected. Of all the legends that he had heard, all the fragments of tales and half-remembered stories as hobbits knew, those about the Elves had always moved him most deeply. Even though the stories had become reality now and he had been tossed smack dab into the middle of one of them, he still felt out of his element travelling with the Fellowship. He was in awe of the way Frodo handled himself around people of importance, how his master could find just the right things to say when speaking to the likes of wizards and great lords and ladies. Samwise still found himself tongue-tied when trying to string together the proper words in front of proper folk. He could not help feeling as if he was presuming much to strike up a conversation with Legolas.
But drastic times call for drastic measures, as his Gaffer used to say to him, though the old hobbit had been referring to a particularly stubborn stone in his garden or a vegetable blight, and not a moping Elf. Nevertheless, Sam smoothed the creases from his map and lifted it. He straightened it with a grand gesture and he cleared his throat, trying to catch the attention of their usually sharply attentive companion.
Legolas did not look up. Sam craned his head to the side to study the Elf. Legolas continued to sweep the water with idle strokes of his paddle and did not notice.
Sam frowned and wondered whether perhaps Legolas was sleeping. He had gathered by now, after months of having Legolas around and taking turns at guard each night, that sleep meant one thing to a hobbit and entirely another to an Elf, though he hadn't quite figured out the mechanics of elvish sleep. Unnatural it was, and beyond Sam's ken. He had given up trying to understand how anyone could get a decent night's rest with their eyes wide open; he hadn't asked Legolas something so personal, and he wasn't about to.
It did seem queer to him, however, that anyone could sleep and paddle a boat at the same time. Though Sam was a proper hobbit and knew next to nothing about navigating a canoe in deep water, it seemed to him too complicated a task even for an Elf to accomplish when not fully conscious. He decided that Legolas must be awake and simply lost in thought. He tried a more direct approach. "Mr Legolas, sir? Legolas?"
The Elf drew in a long deep breath at the sound of his name and lifted his head. He turned and regarded Sam with questioning, melancholy eyes.
Sam opened his mouth and promptly forgot what it was he wished to ask. He flushed with embarrassment.
Legolas's expression grew merry. "Samwise, my dear hobbit, someday we will have to rid you of this shyness. I promise you I shall not bite," he smiled regretfully, "despite what you may think of me after this morning."
Sam was encouraged and found his voice. "I didn't… I mean, that is, I was wanting to ask if we were close to Mirkwood, or am I out of my reckonin'?"
Legolas thrust his oar into the swirling waters and pushed his boat closer. He looked over Sam's arm to examine the hobbit's makeshift map.
"Nay, Sam, you have it aright. We are indeed close to Mirkwood's southern border... there by your hand. That is where the Brown Lands end and Mirkwood begins."
"Then we are near your home?"
"What you must remember, Sam, is that Mirkwood is a very great forest. Upon your map it is but a vague outline of trees. In truth Mirkwood stretches out far to the North from where we are, nearly as great a distance as your home from where we find ourselves now. The Wood-elves roam through much of these parts, and my sire's palace lies there... in the northern section and to the East, near the Grey Mountains where the swift Forest River runs."
Frodo stirred before Sam and said, "As I recall, Bilbo was less than charmed by the denizens of Mirkwood outside of Thranduil's borders."
Legolas laughed. "Ah, but your uncle travelled blindly, Frodo, and did not have an Elf with him for company. I fear he saw naught of the Forest but the darkness and the wild. Yet I might show you the glades beneath the beech and oak and elm where light lingers longest, where silver moonlight sifts white between the leaves to dance upon the air. Someday you shall see it, Frodo, and you, Sam. I will take you there, and you shall drink and feast with the Wood-elves on a midsummer night and discover the beauty of Mirkwood for yourselves. Would you like that?"
Sam strove to answer, but he was stopped by a lump caught firmly in his throat. Frodo came to his rescue. "I could imagine nothing more wonderful, Legolas." Gimli was silent.
Aragorn stretched and lifted his oar high above his head as a warning to Boromir and the hobbits behind them. "For now, you may want to take a securer seat! There are rapids approaching," he said.
Sam scrambled to the center of their boat and stowed his map as the sound of the water grew louder and the canoes began to pick up their pace. Legolas unfolded his legs and knelt in readiness and cut their craft behind Aragorn's. Gimli stirred finally from his silent meditation. He caught up his paddle with strong hands and raised his head to size up the disturbance of the water.
It was but a small swirling flow of running rapids, a mere riffling of the great current, but the swiftness took their breath. The boats rose and fell upon the buoyant swell with exhilarating speed. Each caught the drive of the current that carried them away from the angriest places and they quartered to the wildest rush and shot through.
Aragorn paddled into calmer waters beyond and tarried watchfully until all three boats had emerged safely. Frodo laid down his own oar with a sigh. He could do little enough to aid Aragorn when the waters grew rougher but Aragorn had assured him the River was mostly tame until one reached Sarn Gebir. The promise of the Elves in Lórien that the grey vessels would not sink was all that kept Frodo from diving to the floor with Sam when the Anduin chose to toss them about.
They watched Boromir and Merry drive their boat through the foaming water and weave between the rocks. Merry's triumphant shout rose above the roar as they defeated the rapids and coasted past.
"Trust a Brandybuck to be enjoying this!" muttered Sam as he sat back up.
Aragorn swept the dark, wet hair from his eyes and grinned. "A conspirator, a jester, a warrior, but we have not made you yet into a river-man, Samwise Gamgee?"
Frodo laughed despite his racing heart and the trickles of cold water running uncomfortably down his back. It was good to see Aragorn's spirit up and to hear mirth in his voice.
"Not now, not ever," declared Sam as he settled once more against the curve of their small boat and wrung out his cloak. "Soaked to the bone and smellin' of fish. I will be happy enough when we get out of these boats tonight, and happier when we don't have to get back in 'em." He wrinkled his nose and cast a look of aversion back at the stretch of River they left behind.
Something caught Sam's eye upon the shoreline far back and away. He blinked and looked again, but he could not see it anymore. Aragorn had taken up his oar and the others fell into line behind him and began to weave their way down the River once again. Sam strained to catch another glimpse of the movement he saw along the edge of the dwindling rapids.
"You say no one lives here, Strider?" he asked.
"No one does, Sam. Not in these dark times."
"The Elves of Lórien and Mirkwood never travel this far?"
Legolas paused in his effort to bail the water from his boat's hull and looked up, his keen ears catching the note of worry in Sam's voice. He followed Sam's gaze, as did Aragorn, and they scanned the banks along the Anduin behind them. There was nothing to be seen.
"The Elves of Lórien do not now leave their borders lest they are sorely pressed, and sorely pressed they would have to be to venture this far with the Enemy watching from the East," said Legolas. "Nor would my folk travel south. Southern Mirkwood is a dark place, though my sire and my people have tried to conquer the evil that still lingers there. The dark things that were driven out in the year of the Dragon's fall have returned in greater numbers and the Forest is unsafe, save where our realm is maintained. The deeper into the southern wood you venture, Sam, the more perilous it is. There lies Dol Guldur and long was it a haven for Sauron ere his shadow grew."
"That is where it began," said Frodo quietly.
Legolas made to reply, but Gimli spoke first. "Aye," said the Dwarf, breaking his silence. "In Mirkwood." He did not look at the hobbits or the Elf, and it seemed as if he spoke more to himself than to any of them. "That is where it began. Often have I wondered whether it was due to the negligence of the Elves in Thranduil's realm that Sauron grew strong beneath their very noses, or whether it was not such a coincidence that evil chose their lands in particular to take root."
Legolas's eyes narrowed and became as sharp and cold as green ice. Sam shuddered at the change in the Elf. It was sudden and it took his breath as surely as the rapids had done scant moments ago. Legolas drew his attention from Frodo and confronted Gimli; his words were clipped.
"You speak the truth. I do not think it was by chance. Evil seeks to corrupt that which is fair, and I am certain that Sauron took great pleasure twisting the trees and growing things that once thrived in Greenwood the Great in order to fashion the profane and foul eyesore that is Dol Guldur. So did he twist and torture the unfortunate Elves he took prisoner to make his Orcs. But I forgive your ignorance and your feeble mind. I expect nothing more from a Dwarf."
It was odd, Sam thought. Gimli blinked and regarded Legolas with what appeared to be confusion when the Elf defended himself. And then Gimli bared his teeth. "Orcs or Elves, there is little difference," he said. "Feeble my mind must be, else I should have sliced out that clever tongue of yours long ago and left you to the Wargs ere you ever defiled Khazad-dûm with your presence."
"And in those filthy caves I should have left you, weeping like a child beside the tomb of your failed cousin," hissed Legolas, and he flew to his feet before the Dwarf, balancing within their lurching boat.
Gimli's hand strayed to his axe and there was an eerie glint in his eyes. Legolas's face became terrifyingly emotionless, as if a mask were sealed over his features, turning them fell and fearful. Vile epithets crackled through the air as Legolas and Gimli sought to wound with words, scarcely far from seeking to wound one another with steel.
Sam sat mesmerized by the awful confrontation. It seemed as if the Elf and Dwarf were staring at one another across thousands upon thousands of years of hatred and rage. It was horrible to see and Sam felt sick. Feeling responsible for sparking the conversation that had led to this, he turned to his master helplessly.
Frodo was shocked. It was too much, these cruel and cutting words that leapt unbidden to their tongues, the senseless, petty spite. Their voices were different; their faces were cold and unfamiliar. Frodo caught the agonized look in Sam's eyes, pleading for him to do something.
And realization dawned within him. Frodo shook his head. "It is not your fault, Sam," he whispered. And it is not theirs, he thought. It is mine.
"Stop this..." Frodo moaned aloud. "Please, both of you stop!" He shivered with a sudden chill and drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders and hunched down. He shut his eyes. His hand flew to his throat, and then he touched the chain about his neck and followed it downward until he gripped the hard, golden circlet beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, clasping it as he did a hundred times a day, always checking to see that it still was there, that it still hung securely about his neck. It was warm to the touch. Perhaps it was warmed by the heat of his body, though he did not think so, for his flesh beneath was clammy and cool. He heard Aragorn speak and heard Gimli's rough voice answer, but he did not understand their words. The air vibrated in his ears and he could taste a coppery tang in his mouth.
Chinks in their armour.
Frodo gulped for air and a pressure squeezed his chest until he thought his heart might burst.
Chinks in their armour. It was finding the flaws in their defenses and prizing them open, burrowing into them, baring their weaknesses and prodding at their minds, driving them to madness. It was using them. It was trying to take them from him, one by one, to leave him alone and unprotected.
The taste in Frodo's mouth grew stronger and he felt dizzy; he felt as if he had fallen into some horrid black void. The hum in the air increased and triumphant half-whispers filled his mind. Though he tried to shut them out, they were became louder and louder, until the voices in his mind and the voices of his companions meshed and escalated into a droning howl.
Frodo's eyes flew open and he gasped at the touch of a firm hand upon his arm. Aragorn had laid aside the oars and caught Frodo up. He gripped him tightly and in his grave face Frodo saw worry and sadness and also a confirmation of his fears.
Aragorn knew. He understood what was happening and there was naught he could do. Frodo despaired, but the Ranger held his gaze for a long moment until Frodo felt the weight upon him ease and the whispers in his mind grew quiet.
"You will cease this." Aragorn's voice was low, commanding, and terrible to hear. Frodo shrank at the force of will behind it. He could not tell whether Aragorn spoke to the Elf and the Dwarf, or something else. "You will cease this at once. Now!"
The hum in the air vanished and the air grew lighter and it seemed as if something dark fled before Aragorn's wrath. Legolas choked slightly and trembled, his breathing coming to him suddenly quick and shallow. He looked at Frodo and the colour drained from his cheeks. He sat down and closed his eyes; he lifted the oar in his hands and he held to the wood tightly as if to steady himself. Gimli's shoulders jerked and he slumped; his face was ruddy and he blinked rapidly as one awakening from a deep sleep, a nightmare, only to find that others had shared it with him. Bewildered, he looked at Legolas and then swiftly averted his eyes.
Aragorn's expression was grim. Frodo felt his grip on him loosen, and the Ranger sat back onto the stern-seat of their boat slowly, warily, still watching the Elf and the Dwarf.
Legolas and Gimli sat unmoving, though the shore slid past and the River continued to bear them along. Gimli's face was in his hands. Legolas's eyes were dull and fixed upon the water.
"Come, my friends," said Aragorn. "We have a long way yet to go."
Frodo wrapped his arms about himself and sank into lonely, miserable silence.
