Chapter 7: A Pull Of The Strings

"I doubt very much if your friends would be in danger if you were not with them! The pursuit would follow you and leave us in peace, I think. It is you, Frodo, and that which you bear that brings us all in peril."

I hear these words over and over in my mind and I cannot deny the truth of them now any more than I could when first Glorfindel uttered them.

It will destroy them all. They would give their lives for me, for this quest, without hesitation. It will not be enough. In the end, they shall give their inestimable souls.

It is my doom.

I will not let it be theirs. I could not bear it. May they have the strength and the will to hold on just a little longer.

It is all I can ask of them.


The Great River became shallower and wider and the day began to wane. Its current was slow and lazy and the Fellowship pushed along at a steady rate; they passed along the shore in their grey canoes as silent and pale as shades in the twilight. Aragorn called a halt when the Sun touched the horizon. They might have continued on with what little light was left to them, but they were exhausted; they could bring themselves to go no further that night and embraced Aragorn's suggestion that they find a place to rest. They chose a small eyot near to the western bank and moored their boats upon the edges of the sandy stretch.

Frodo and Sam crawled from their seats and stood at the foot of the water, straining their backs with soft moans and stretching their arms into the air. Aragorn followed suit and winced as he unfolded his long legs and stood straight after so long. The others disembarked and loud was the crunch of sand and gravel beneath their leaden feet as they shuffled onto the shore. The round red sun dipped lower now and stained the clouds a deep crimson over the horizon, coaxing that very little bit of hope in them that whatever else tomorrow held, they would at least be blessed with good weather.

The eyot was hardly an island at all; it was a part of the western bank carved from the larger mass by a slender stream that strayed from the River's main flow. The break of sand and shale and scrub brush snaked along the western edge of the water and disappeared around a bend. A rough and exposed campsite it was, though the outcroppings of layered rock and tangled foliage would conceal them at least from any prying eyes to the East. It was the best they would do this night and they accepted it gratefully.

Pippin cast his bedroll to the ground and flopped down next to it. A yawn climbed from the tips of his toes to his top of his head and cracked his jaw wide open. His face contorted into a hideous expression. Merry jumped when he turned to speak to him.

"Pippin! Are you trying to swallow your head?"

Pippin stifled the next yawn and blinked blearily at Merry. "I feel as if I haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks."

Merry nodded sagely. "Being out upon a river will do that. All this water and wind and fresh air."

"Whatever it is, I could forego dinner and drop off where I'm sitting," groaned Pippin.

"A powerful weariness it must be indeed," said Gimli, "for a hobbit to suggest missing a meal. Should we bury you right here in the sand, Master Peregrin?" The Dwarf deposited Pippin's pack at his feet.

"I shouldn't mind," said Pippin. He turned over to lie upon his stomach. "Wake me late in the morning, Merry. I might sleep right here."

"You might, but you shan't," declared Sam, and he nudged the young hobbit sharply with his foot. "You've planted yourself right where I'm fixin' to make our fire. You fall asleep there and we'll trip over you."

"I doubt I will even notice," said Pippin, his voice muffled. Merry sighed and rolled him off to the side and out of the way, the promise of supper outweighing his own exhaustion. Sam picked up a stiff bit of stick and set about digging a pit for the fire.

"Sand in my eyes, sand in my boots, sand gritting between my teeth... my skin shall be rubbed raw from all of the sand that has sifted into my clothing." Boromir sat himself stiffly down upon a large flat rock near the hobbits and shook a sizable quantity from his hair for emphasis. "I should change into clean clothing, but no doubt the sand has crept into my baggage as well."

Merry's eyes went wide and even Pippin lifted his head a little at this. It was the most Boromir had spoken for quite some time and they considered this comparable wealth of words from the Man of Gondor to be a good sign. Aragorn took it so as well. The Ranger slogged from the water's edge, bearing a few necessities and an armload of driftwood, and sat with a rush of expelled breath next to Boromir.

"Impossible," said Aragorn. "You cannot claim such discomfort. Every grain of sand from the mouth of the Anduin to Pelargir is clinging to me."

Legolas strode towards them, his feet making no noise upon the broken shale and gravelled ground. The Elf's collar was loose and he swept back freshly damp hair from his face. He tied it behind his head and regarded his wilted companions. "Hardships we may bear upon this journey, but one thing we certainly do not lack in this place is water. If the sand offends you, banish it to the River."

"I haven't the energy," muttered Pippin.

"If you like, I could bring the River to you?" Legolas sang out. Pippin gave a cry and scrambled to a defensive position at the Elf's suddenly mischievous tone, anticipating a dousing. Legolas's silvery laughter pealed through the evening air.

The day seemed nothing more than an evil dream to them now, vanishing from their minds even as the Sun's rays vanished over the distant hills. They willed it to be so. They strove to fill the silent moments with speech, to fill their speech with harmless pleasantries, and to give no quarter to the doubts and fears that lurked beneath it all.

Sam soon had a small, serviceable blaze licking the air and they lingered near the warmth of the crackling flames, sharing hushed conversation as the light of the sky disappeared and the stars came out.

Frodo flopped next to Pippin. He placed his hands behind his head and gazed upward. "They seem brighter tonight somehow," he observed.

"The Crown of Durin is very bright," Gimli agreed and he pointed towards the seven stars glittering down at them. "A portent of good days to come," he declared in his deep voice. He had briefly shrugged off his mail and now lounged in comfort nearby. He had changed into a fresh, light shirt and wore just that despite the cool breeze off the water, and he combed through the tangles of his long beard with deft fingers.

Frodo took in a draught of night air and gazed into the darkness. He listened warily to the talk about the fire and the rustle and bustle of the Company as they settled for the night, and he longed for this peace to last. Good days to come? He would hold the stars to that promise.

Sam sat poking at his fire until it satisfied him, and then he cleared his throat. "If I might ask that you all clear out from underfoot?"

They withdrew to a safe distance. Boromir and Aragorn allowed themselves to be shooed away by the hobbit and trudged off to find more wood, speaking together quietly as they went. Legolas tarried near the fire, seeming drawn to its light. He paced from side to side, carving designs in the sand with the tip of his foot and humming softly to himself, oblivious to Sam's disgruntled looks. Frodo laughed aloud when Sam finally lost patience and put the Elf to work, drawing a bundle of weathered carrots from his stores and placing them in Legolas's hands with orders to chop them into manageable bits. Mirkwood's prince accepted the carrots and obeyed the Halfling with a smile. Legolas winked at Frodo as he passed by to fetch his knife from his belongings.

Sam was in his element. The Elves of Lórien had sent them off well-stocked and Sam meant to make full use of the supplies tonight. Spirits are brightest where food is best, his mother used to say. He pushed away the helplessness he had felt in the face of the strife that day and set to work. His companions were in sore need of a decent meal and this, at least, Sam could provide.

He pondered the foodstuffs he had to work with and hesitated. Sam's general disinterest in maps and poor sense of judgment when it came to distances made him unsure about the necessity of rationing at this point. Rationing was a concept quite abhorrent to a hobbit and Sam still struggled to wrap his mind around it. Even had his judgment been good it would not have mattered, for he still had no clear idea yet where it was they were bound or where they should chance to find their meals along the way.

He had a notion he should be somewhat conservative, but the swift, stolen bites they had grown accustomed to eating would not do tonight. He threw caution to the wind and rummaged through his stock in search of more vegetables and meat and flat bread for the makings of a stew that would fill their stomachs and renew their strength.

Sam held out his cooking pot. "If someone could find their way to fetching me some water, I'll see about something hot. I think we could use it."

Aragorn had come back with more wood. "Aye, Sam," he agreed. "A hot meal and a night's rest, and perhaps we may hold up better tomorrow." He reached for the cooking pot, but Legolas was quicker.

The Elf wiped slivers of orange pulp from his blade and tucked it under his arm, then deposited the diced carrots into the hobbit's lap and took the pot from him. "I will go," he said. Aragorn nodded thankfully and settled to the ground, his legs stretched out before him. Legolas stepped over him lightly and made for the River.

"You call the Crown of Durin a PLOUGH?" roared Gimli. He sat with the younger hobbits a short distance away from the firelight, gazing at the stars.

Merry nodded apologetically. "I'm afraid so. See there? That swoop of stars make up the handle, and those four there are..."

Gimli held up a hand. "Let me not picture it, if you please, Meriadoc." The Dwarf looked at the hobbit with consternation, and then pointed back into the night sky. "Dare I even ask what you call the Smith's Forge?"

Pippin snorted with amusement and Merry coughed a reply. "That would be... the Butterfly?"

Gimli made a noise like a strangling dog and cast a look of supreme disgust at the hobbits. Merry grinned and the Dwarf rose with an oath. He stalked to the fire and glared at Aragorn, who chose to stay silent, though his grey eyes betrayed his amusement.

"Butterfly..." muttered the Dwarf as he sat down in defeat next to Boromir. He listened to the burst of laughter that erupted among the hobbits and the Dwarf fought the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Fondness for them all filled Gimli's heart and he felt truly well for the first time in days. He gazed back at the sky. He wondered if the stars shone as brightly this night in Erebor, and an unexpected pang of longing for his kinsmen took him. The third and last messenger from Mordor would have come to his people by now, with war in his wake. As Gimli travelled with the Fellowship, it was easy to fall into his role as protector of the Ring-bearer and to forget that life in the world beyond their small circle continued on, that battles were being waged and forces massing who were heedless of their efforts, of the quest they had undertaken. Was the Lonely Mountain now beset by enemies from the South while he traipsed through fen and field, forest and hill, so far from home? Who knew what he would find if ever he returned?

How long had it been since he last heard a Dwarven voice? Since Rivendell, and that seemed a lifetime ago.

"You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy it will be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road."

The memory of the words of Elrond came to him suddenly, though he had paid them little mind when first they were spoken, and he had not thought of them since. Not until now. No oath. No bond to hold him here, so why did he not leave? An ache rose within him and he looked to the North.

And then he looked to Sam and to the younger hobbits upon the other side of the fire, and Frodo with them and he listened to their bright chatter, their merry voices. No oath held him, it was true. But a bond there was and he would not break it. He would not forsake his companions. Gimli felt steely resolve plant itself in his heart and he sent a silent prayer from his lips to the shining bits of light of Durin's Crown in the sky above him.

A body passed before him, blocking his view of the stars, and his thoughts were scattered like sparks from a stirred fire. He looked up and saw Legolas.

"Your water, Master Samwise," said the Elf. Legolas bowed gracefully and gave over the cooking-pot. He heeled and walked back, passing again in front of Gimli.

A dull ring rose in the Dwarf's ears.

It was a small movement. It might have gone unnoticed if Gimli hadn't been watching for it, hadn't been waiting for it to happen. Legolas looked down to avoid stepping upon a trailing fold of Aragorn's cloak and as his eyes swept up from the ground, they met Gimli's. The Elf flinched and his lips parted as if he would speak, then he merely shook his head and continued by.

The Dwarf lowered his head slightly and growled deep in his throat. "If you have something to say, then have the courage to say it, Elf."

For a moment he was uncertain if the words were in his mind or if he had actually given voice to them. That was answered swiftly enough when Legolas rounded upon him with a venomous glare. Gimli sat very still. He wondered if the Elf might ignore him and leave. But Legolas hissed, "You would not like to hear what I have to say."

Gimli was on his feet and standing in front of the Elf ere he knew quite exactly how he had gotten to be there. The Dwarf sensed the others around them, glimpsed them at the edges of his sight, their circle of faces caught unaware and only beginning to register alarm. In the firelight, they were strangers' faces, haunting and unfamiliar, and they meant nothing to him. Gimli looked at the Elf and saw the glow of the flames reflected in his companion's eyes.

"Well?" he said, but his voice was lost to him; it was unable to penetrate the roar that now filled his ears.

Legolas curled a lip. "'Tis folly to speak to one such as you." The Elf's words sounded hollow and forced.

"Such as I?" said Gimli thickly.

Legolas's face twisted with disdain and he took a step forward... but he faltered. The hatred in his eyes turned to confusion. He blinked and lifted a hand to his heart. Then anger flickered across his face and he motioned dismissively, deigning not to reply, and he turned his back upon the Dwarf.

Gimli felt rage such as he had never felt lick hot at his senses. He could not breath, could not speak. He loathed the arrogant creature before him and hated him for spurning him like that. He surged forward and reached up for the Elf to grasp his shoulder to spin him around. Someone cried out behind them, but the others did not exist; the Elf and Dwarf were alone, hearing nothing, seeing nothing but each other.

Legolas's eyes flashed dangerously and he jerked away from the Dwarf's hands. "Touch me not!"

"Do it," growled Gimli. His nerves were strung ugly and raw. Legolas did not move. Gimli looked to the forgotten white knife clenched in Legolas's hand and the Elf followed his glance. "You wish it. Do it!"

The air seemed to fold in upon itself. Shadows altogether darker than the night swirled about them slowly, so slowly, and yet it all happened in an instant.

Aragorn leapt to his feet. Frodo untangled himself from his cloak and rose to his knees with a shout. Sam looked on with horror at Legolas and Gimli standing toe to toe; he turned too quickly and stumbled as he tried to rise, upended his cooking-pot with a clatter and sending the water splashing to the ground. Boromir sprang up and hurled himself over the fire, but the few seconds of disbelief delayed their efforts and they could not react swiftly enough.

Gimli drew off and backhanded Legolas with all his might. The merciless blow snapped the Elf's head sideways and crushed him to his knees in a spray of sand and gravel.