CHAPTER TWELVE: DISCOVERIES

In the end, Aragorn had to split himself off from the others. His irritation at himself was high enough to spill over his boundaries and inflict itself on them, and that was something they did not deserve, and a stretch of guilt he could do without. He did not go too far, but distanced himself enough so that their happy chattering was more of a background persistence than the grating annoyance he had been finding it. He knew that wasn't overly fair of him … the hobbits merely expressed their joy at discovering that Legolas lived, and Gimli joined them in it, booming laughter at their antics with his own heart so lightened.

But by the way they acted, anyone would imagine that they had discovered their elven friend unhurt and safe, pleasantly surprised to see them and armed with a terrific campfire story. If only that were so…

All his tracking through the waning daylight had given him was a sense of the direction in which the elf travelled, his near-invisible tracks punctuated every now and then with a smear of blood as they veered south east. Yes, he was clearly alive, and that was a thing so great Aragorn found it near overwhelming … yet all Aragorn could see in his mind's eye was the dark pool in the hollow under that boulder, the fingers of his left hand still tingling with the memory of touching the dark print left so tellingly on stone. The healer in him could not bring himself to celebrate knowing his friend was so badly hurt and completely alone.

The press of darkness eventually made him cede defeat and set up camp, damning the weakness of his Second-born eyes more fervently than ever before. Even for one so wounded, Legolas had left the most meagre evidence of his passage possible, and the distance he had succeeded in putting between them was no small stretch. Aragorn followed the faint tracks into the trees until his nose practically traced the ground. Yet it was Gimli who finally called a halt to their search, and despite his drive to continue, Aragorn was forced to accept that he was more likely to lose Legolas' tracks in the darkness than find them.

"Surely," Gimli had said in response to Aragorn's chagrin at stopping as he settled himself by the new and straining fire, a hunk of lembas in hand, "his tracks will be there in the morning. If I know the elf at all, he's sensible enough to pitch down for the night. I don't think you have anything to worry over."

"Elves do not want to be found at the best of times, Gimli, more so when they know they are vulnerable. And believe me when I say he is not making this easy for me."

"Well, you can't see in the dark, so take this as an opportunity and rest. You need it."

There was no rest he would ever find until he had Legolas under his care, but he elected to keep that to himself, knowing arguing was a fruitless waste of time and patience when there was nothing to be done for it anyway…

Aragorn placed each boot carefully in an attempt at preserving the silence, but the greeting crackle of dried beech leaves rendered his efforts pointless. His stomach jolted at the stab of a still-young memory of shingle crunching beneath his soles instead, accented by the mocking words of an elf over his sorry mortal labours. That was only two nights ago. It feels like decades. He abandoned his efforts and grinned grimly despite himself. "I am hiding again, mellon nin." Only, this time, no good-natured jibe came to him from the boughs of the trees, nor did a life-long friend drop casually from their heights to keep a more understanding company with him. The forest merely absorbed his words with silent indifference.

The ranger sighed his loneliness into the night and turned his eyes skywards. The dark velvet blanket was littered with the dust of starlight, unhindered by moon or cloud. He stayed and stared into it for a time, lost in the countless drops. Even for a man, he found their presence soothing … some reflection of his very distant elven heritage, he supposed.

"I hope you can see these, my friend," he said quietly to the night. "I hope they bring you some comfort."

-(())-

Earlier that day, and several leagues away…

He hated that they lagged so. That, and their flat silence. Every time he turned his head to check on them, they were several feet behind. He had initially given them constant reminders that staying at his side would be safer in the event of an attack, and they had obliged him for a time, making the effort to draw closer and match his urgent stride…

He had given up after he swivelled his head for the eighth time and saw that there were several feet of forest between him and them. That was what it had become now: him and them. Any trace of companionship that had once existed was gone, washed away in one night. The constant silence they maintained blanked him completely as they walked in each other's company, and he preferred not to look back at them now, grown weary of Sam's sullen and accusative stares.

Boromir could not deny that it stung to be so slighted, but he had to harden himself to their attitude: he did not need their friendship to take them to Minas Tirith, nor did he need their consent.

The damned trees in this part of the forest were conspiring against him. There was nothing to the horizon save their obstructing bulk, blotting out the way like an impenetrable wall of frozen soldiers. Boromir was not one to be defeated by overgrown shrubs, however, and he trudged on with grit determination up the steep rise in the land, concentrating on where he placed his feet in the slick mire of mud and leaf litter. Hours and hours ago now, they had come across such a peak in the lay of the land, and their efforts to its head had been rewarded only with more trees. After an accented change in direction, he knew they must have travelled miles despite the slack pace with which the hobbits managed to bridle him. This time, he fully expected to see a clear view of the Anduin, a proud and glimmering guide home…

Except, when he stopped at the crest and looked expectantly out before him, there was no serpentine streak of silver in the distance to offer him a direct course to follow, no panning view of the land that could give him a clear understanding of where he needed to lead them. What were there, and in truly great abundance, were trees. Boromir blinked in disbelief, and before he could hold himself back, released a bellow of defeated rage and flung his shield with such force into the ground it bounced several feet from him.

"You know we've been here before?" a voice called coolly.

Boromir turned a murderous glare in Sam's direction. The hobbit was stood easily at the foot of the incline, having not bothered to set so much as a toe on the steeper gradient. He hadn't been joined by his master yet, Frodo only just coming up to join him. Sam didn't flinch at the intensity of Boromir's flaring ire. "And I suppose you've known that all along, have you?" the Gondorian bit back acidly.

Sam shrugged a shoulder in nonchalant dismissal in the face of the other's anger. Boromir shook his head in open irritation and turned his eyes back to the unyielding trees. To him, everything looked the same in a forest, but now that he properly observed where they were, there were certain distinguishing features he recalled from all that time ago … the mostly rotted conformation of the particularly aged and decrepit beech to his right; the way the land scooped at the bowls of those four trees over there, creating a deep pit of mud deceptively concealed by brittle leaves. Now that he looked at it, he could see the point where his boots had sunk in it last time.

Snatching up his shield, he allowed his anger to utilise his embarrassment as he trudged heavily down the steep incline towards the hobbits, refraining from looking at them directly. "We set a new course," he told them brashly. "We go east." He did not wait for objections, setting out from them with a determinedly authoritative stride.

Sam frowned to himself. That was what Boromir had said before. His sense as a hobbit had informed him hours ago that they were going in a very large circle, but he had elected to keep that information to himself: he had absolutely no inclination of helping Boromir take them and the Ring to Minas Tirith. He recalled the hushed argument he had overheard a few nights hence, Strider's vehement words resounding in his head: "I would not lead the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city." If that was the sentiment of their rightful leader, then that was the sentiment Sam would live by. He only prayed Strider would find them soon…

"Please don't provoke him, Sam."

Sam turned at the unexpected interruption into his thoughts, a little surprised to hear the weariness in his close friend's voice. Frodo looked desperately worn: a drawn heaviness had taken over his eyes, marring their usual bright clarity with shadow. It distressed Sam to see him so clearly tired. "I'm sorry, Frodo," he said sincerely. "I can't help resenting the situation he's pulled us into though, you know? This was never meant to be part of the plan…"

"I know, Sam, I know, but there's not a lot we can do about it." Frodo sighed, his eyes on Boromir's striding form. "We need his protection, and I don't think he'd ever hurt us…"

"You 'don't think'?" Sam queried, brows slightly raised at the thin lacing of doubt in Frodo's tone. "I don't know, Frodo… I've always liked Boromir, but I've never really fully trusted him since the council. And after that horrible business of losing Legolas and getting split from the others and all, I trust him even less."

Frodo didn't reply to Sam's weighted words. A heavy sigh fell from his lips as he resumed the walk after their self-appointed new leader. Behind him, Sam shook his head to himself, but followed all the same. Wherever Frodo chose to go was where he would go … his word was his bond, and he did not intend to break the promise made to one now lost. The losses they had suffered made him feel as though he was practically haemorrhaging friends, and while there was nothing he could do for them, by his own life, Sam would not allow anything to befall Frodo.

Hobbits as a folk generally did not get lost in a forest easily, and proudly attested to the fact. But this one seemed to be doing everything in its power to thwart Frodo and Sam's sense of direction. The trees were so dense any distinguishing feature was lost in the similar appearance of another, and even Sam, whose sense of orientation had been solid enough to know they walked in circles before, couldn't fathom where they were. They had no idea of the passage of time save for the increasing weariness in their feet, seeing as it was a long time since they had sighted the sun last, and light seemed to constantly penetrate the trees at a muted level, casting everything in the same confusing dark green hues.

Boromir felt decidedly edgier as the hours passed. The initial embarrassment at being so – he had to accept it: lost – had elevated itself from anger to anxiety. There really should have been some change somewhere, some break in the trees to grant him a better feeling for home. Yes, they were still many, many leagues from Minas Tirith, but he had hoped that as they traversed the land, his instinct would pull him home. When he found it was not so, he began to feel more than a little concerned…

He cursed the density of the forest with renewed passion when it successfully funnelled them into a rocky cleft without his realising. The scent of damp rock and moss was more an invasion than something he welcomed, and he certainly did not like the way the formation bent round a blind corner, dipping deeper into the lull in the land and further from the light. No sound emitted from this place, and even the chortling of the magpies that he knew harassed each other in the trees above did not reach into it. He didn't like it.

Boromir backed out in an attempt to sight a better route, but now that he really looked at their surroundings, he saw that the forest had been working them into this situation for longer than he realised, their path flanked by insurmountably steep inclines formerly concealed by the heavily wooded area. Trees grew at exaggerated angles from the slopes, but his fresh memory of the night before encouraged him to always take the easier route when it came to such severe gradients.

Boromir felt their eyes on him. Frodo and Sam stood away from the entrance to the rocky conduit, eyeing it suspiciously and looking askance at him. There was no way he could appear weak in their eyes by turning back now, and so the son of Gondor drew a steadying breath, and ignored the uncomfortable run of apprehension down his neck and arms as he strode determinedly past them into the grinning dark.

He walked with determined aggression down the narrow walkway, filling his stride with an unwavering confidence he did not feel. When he neared the bend, he stopped with the need to see where his charges were, fully turning his back and openly proving his mettle to the dark twists and concealing shadows and doggedly ignoring the way the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. To his increasing irritation, they were far too many paces behind him for his liking. "Frodo! Sam! Keep up!" He waited until they were little more than a few feet away before he continued…

Boromir nearly collided with the grey figure blocking the path.

A cry of surprise released itself from his throat before he could think to bite it back. The immediate thought that ran rampant through his mind was that this was some kind of guarding spectre, and his soldiers' reflex drew his sword and threw his weight behind it, bringing it up and round in an unrestrained fright-fuelled level of might.

A shout came from under the spectre's deep hood as a knife flashed out of the concealing cloak and deflected Boromir's sword. He reeled with momentary shock that he met with resistance, but he recovered, coming again and again with the hammering of steel on steel, forcing the figure deeper into the cleft, away from them, away from the Ring -

"Law! Farn, Boromir, sîdh – daro! DARO!"

The thing knew his name. Fear bellowed through his chest and propelled his sword swings to new heights of ferocity.

What were recognisable as curses in any tongue flew from the grey figure as they backed further from his sword's edge, glancing another blow and successfully stumbling far enough to put a moment's pause between them and Boromir. "STAY YOUR SWORD!" The knife flicked upwards, catching the hood and flinging it back…

It was Boromir's turn to back away. His sword fell uselessly to the ground, and he lost the power to talk, or even to blink. For a moment, he thought his heart had given out and he fully expected to join his blade in the carpet of dead leaves. But when it remembered to beat painfully again, he tried to take stock of what he was seeing, even though he did not for a moment believe it possible.

For the first time since the night before, Frodo and Sam joined him at his side. The power of speech may have fled him, but it did not abandon the hobbits. Sam passed Boromir by as he would any inconvenient obstacle, his face alight with a flame of stunned joy. "Legolas!"

So he wasn't going mad: it really was Legolas. Well, him or his ghost, anyway. Looking at him, had Boromir not met his sword with the elf's knife and found solid resistance in it, he would have maintained that this was Legolas' dead spirit, for he had never thought an elf – or anyone else, for that matter – could look so utterly terrible…

Under the deep scratches and bruising on his face, Legolas' skin had lost its former radiance, even by the reasoning of the poor light. His normally neat flaxen hair hung in a tangled mess over his shoulders and was full of dirt and detritus from the river, one side streaked garishly red from the deep split high on his right temple. Dried blood marred his pale complexion from where it had coursed down the side of his face from his crown, joining with other such stains from smaller scratches and cuts on his cheeks. There was something else to his dulled eyes as he looked on them all, something Boromir could not quite pin down, and the formerly perfect skin surrounding their dimmed light was laced with fine stress lines he would never have thought an elf could gain.

Probably the most striking thing Boromir noticed, however, was that he was completely devoid of weaponry: only now did he realise that the knife held flat against his left wrist was a hunting knife not dissimilar to the one gifted to Aragorn in Lothlórien, small and quick, but not a blade designed to be used against something as large as a sword. No quiver adorned his back, the straps employed instead in immobilising his right arm and keeping it tightly bound to his chest, the grey cloak of his brethren securely wrapped about his body more like a shield behind which he could hide.

"We thought we'd lost you," Frodo breathed, the relief and happiness shimmering in his eyes lending his voice the same note. "We thought you'd died."

Legolas smiled, though the gesture was bridled to little more than a twitch of his lips as the action strained at his heavily bruised and split cheek. "I have to say I'm a little surprised to be here myself." There was something brittle to his usually melodic voice, a new and unfitting edge.

All Boromir's hopes and aspirations, gone with a sorry sigh at the resurrection of one whom was meant to be dead. Never would he say that he ever wished for the elf to die, no matter how severe their differences … but his reappearance was more than an inconvenience. His plan of getting the Ring to Minas Tirith passed into little more than a smoky memory, split asunder by the grey ghost barring his path…

A little too late, Boromir realised he had not greeted the elf back to their fold with Frodo and Sam, feeling the numbed surprise in his own unsmiling face and knowing how it must look. He contorted his mouth into what he hoped was a welcoming smile. "Legolas," he said, with a breathy if slightly disbelieving laugh. "It is good to see you back." He flinched inwardly, hoping the false edge he heard in his own tone was not so clear to the others, and proffered his hand for the elf to shake in a hasty effort to cover it. Legolas gave the offering a quick look, but did not take it. Instead, he dipped his head in a shallow and very stiff bow, his dark blue eyes fixed to Boromir's with that old piercing quality he found so unnerving.

Boromir lowered his hand awkwardly, realising too late that shaking hands would be difficult when Legolas' was so bound to his chest. "You have injured your arm?" he asked in an attempt to bridge the odd silence that had managed to push its way between them.

Legolas sighed, breaking the weighted eye contact and looking resentfully down at the fettered limb. "No: my shoulder is broken. I haven't broken a shoulder before, and I'm finding it somewhat irritating," he added with clearly false brightness, attempting to lighten the gravity of his situation and making a poor job of it. He sighed again. "In truth, I feel like I've lost a fight with a troll." He tried for a smile, but it failed to touch his eyes, and understandably so … what good was an archer with a broken shoulder? Mind you, what good is an archer without a bow? Boromir noted to himself.

"You look like you lost a fight against five," Boromir remarked.

Legolas chose not to deign him with a retort, but his marked silence was gratifying enough.

"Well," Frodo said, his open and happy grin still pinned to his face, "if your only serious hurt is a broken shoulder after all that happened, I think you can safely say you're lucky."

Boromir caught the most fleeting flash of astonishment in the elf's eyes, though the reason for it fell beyond his grasp. Before he could make anything of it, Legolas smoothed his face and continued as though nothing had happened. "I suppose you could call it luck… Though I think my shoulder is a little less inclined to agree with you." He smiled again, but Boromir could not help but think the expression was somehow shadowed, and his eyes narrowed in contemplation at their elven companion. For someone with such measured composure, such a revelation – no matter how brief – was massively betraying. It had been no more than a momentary slip, but it was a slip nonetheless, and Boromir's sense of intrigue was fully awakened. Was there a darker reason behind that flit of surprise?

"I have to say I'm amazed you found us," he stated. "How you managed something like that in your state is beyond me."

"A troll's passage is less conspicuous," Legolas stated cuttingly. He completely ignored the clench of Boromir's jaw at his words as he continued: "I found your tracks not far from where I escaped the river, and the fact that all you've done is travel in one massive circle all day certainly helped." Then: "Where, exactly, were you under the impression you were going?"

"Boromir's taking us to Minas Tirith," Sam blurted, before Boromir could answer.

The elf's eyes narrowed, just a little, as they came to Boromir again. The man thought the elf might make an issue of it when he maintained the stare, and he prepared to defend himself, feeling his back straighten involuntarily as his attitude switched to defensive. But Legolas caught him completely off balance…

"A little lost, aren't you?"

Boromir's already burnt pride suffered another searing at the scornful observation. "And you know these forests better, do you?" he demanded, an edge of resentment creeping into his voice at the mockery in the elf's words. All the reasons why he and Legolas had a difficult relationship were beginning to arise in his memory; clearly, nearly dying hadn't affected the elf's superior attitude.

Legolas succeeded in further putting Boromir's back up when he gave him a somewhat pitying look, the kind that might be given to one regarded as a little slow. "I do not have to know them. I am a Wood-elf. We do not get lost in forests." He paused, carefully considering Boromir and the cold glare he was being given before he offered his attention to Frodo. "This is not the agreed path," he stated bluntly. "But, if your wish is to go to Minas Tirith, I will support you in your decision." Another fleeting glance at Boromir… "Or, we can try and locate the others. As the Ringbearer, the choice is yours alone to make."

Boromir gritted his teeth at the thinly veiled dig. "Where else are you going to get the provisions needed-"

"This is Frodo's burden, it's his decision," Legolas cut in sharply. "Let him make it." The elf's eyes shimmered an unmistakable warning the Gondorian's way to keep his silence. Though Boromir seethed under their hard instruction, he found his jaw firmly biting down any further input he could think to make.

"I can understand why Boromir's city would be a good place to come from…" The hobbit paused uncertainly, looking between the expressions of tense hope and cool composure. He knew too well of the battle of wills being fought before him, two strong figures, pillars of strength and leadership for their own people and equally valued in the Fellowship, vying for command. Through sheer force of nature, Legolas seemed to be the current lead. His belief in what they did was solid. There was no doubt in his heart that Legolas would lead them to the surest path and do explicitly as Frodo asked. If he went to Minas Tirith as Boromir recommended but with Legolas at his side, he would want to rely on the elf's strong nature should things go awry … but there was something very different about Legolas since his return, something wrong that the hobbit detected under his flippant air, and that worried him.

Unsure, Frodo finally turned to his friend. Sam's green eyes stated quite clearly what choice he thought to be the right one. To Frodo's relief, he evidently concurred with the course he himself believed to be correct. "We should look for the others. Can you lead us out of here?" he asked Legolas directly.

Legolas gave him the first true smile he had managed since their meeting and dipped his golden head at the request. Without further pause, Legolas indicated the direction in which they needed to go with a wordless and meaningful look over their shoulders. Frodo and Sam followed his advice, only too happy to be leaving the crevice behind.

Before the elf could move out to lead, however, Boromir came tight to his side. "You know this course to be folly," he hissed in Legolas' ear. "This is foolishness! We should strike out from a place of strength, not skulk from the Wilds like tattered vagabonds! You're encouraging him to be weak by making the poorer choice sound more appealing."

Those sharp blue eyes fixed unwaveringly with Boromir's, narrowed and penetrating. "And the Ring would leave your city again, would it?" he bit back. "Your intentions are shamefully clear, Boromir – have some sense of honour and at least try to conceal your desires!" He shook his head. "Whether you would desire it or no, this is the path, and it must be walked."

"That's easy enough for you to say!" Boromir spat hotly.

Legolas issued a shallow sigh, a weary and oddly forlorn sound. "No, it really isn't. Not at all." He said no more and left Boromir's side, his steps strangely careful and measured as he took up the lead on the road he deemed they should take. The hobbits offered Boromir only a fleeting glance before going after the elf, having to trot a little to catch up. It stung him to see them match Legolas' speed so readily, walking gladly beside him with no encouragement. But he would not be left alone, no matter what his grievance… Shouldering his shield a bit higher, Boromir followed, bringing up the rear of their small company.

-(())-

The smell was too alluring for them to ignore, tantalising them with heady promises as it drifted on the wind. By their nature, they were pulled to the source of it, and none but the greatest of wills were capable of denying its power.

Lurtz surveyed his warriors reduced to their most base impulses as they scoured the rocky shore. They were nearly maddened by the discovery of the scent, small skirmishes breaking between them when they crossed each other too closely in their search. It pleased him endlessly to see the bloodlust burning in their eyes and tempers. He had to reign himself in from stooping to their level: as commander, it would not do for him to scramble about in desperate lust with his subordinates.

He knew Uglúk joined him from behind … he recognised the smell of barely restrained hunger on his second's breath.

"We are close."

"Yessir: an elf was said to be with them, and the traces of halflings are undeniable. They're no more than a day ahead of us. We'll have them on the morrow."

Lurtz grinned darkly. "We will succeed where the Winged Ones have failed. I look forward to it."

Just by the river, several of his warriors dipped their hands into a dark pool and licked the thickening substance from their skin with licentious relish. Elf blood was a rarity: the filthy source must be badly wounded to have left so much behind him. "Oh yes, I definitely look forward to it. Give the order to move out."

-(())-

The light was failing rapidly when the trees eventually thinned and finally revealed the not too-distant curve of silver that was the Anduin. The wind picked at the mist of sweat on his brow, finding its way through his cloak to prod mercilessly at him with relentless and cold fingers. His feet halted without his real intention, but he found no will within himself to force them to continue. He drew as steadying a breath as he was able without allowing it to tremble, fighting against the waves of nausea that were fast becoming constant and unwanted companions. Legolas closed his eyes and concentrated on centring himself above his discomfort, clenching his jaw against the increasing assaults of sickness and pain. It was a trick he had been employing all day, but its effect was beginning to fail him.

Legolas could go no further.

"Well, you did it."

He started at the voice by his ear, jolting his body too harshly and only just succeeding in biting back any display of pain. His eyes alighted on Boromir beside him, the man watching him with a trace of suspicion creasing his brow. From the tone of his voice, his sour mood seemed to have resigned itself to more of a background growl. Even though it was merely diminished rather than completely abolished, it made him far more amiable in Legolas' view.

"I said I would." Legolas inwardly shied from the strain he heard in his own words. Perhaps a little too quickly, he added: "I think here is as good a place as any to call it a night."

Boromir's brow peaked on one side. "I would have thought you'd want to continue to the river: you look like you need the water."

His brow flashed hot and cold. Legolas barely suppressed the sudden urge to shiver. "The river will still be there in the morning. Besides," he added, hoping to highlight something other than himself. "The hobbits are weary. It is only fair to s… to stop…" His field of vision blackened at the edges, his splitting head becoming fogged. Ai, Eru. Please, not now. Not now… There was nothing more he could do than still himself, shutting his eyes to the world in an effort to stop it spinning. Mercifully, the sensation abated almost as quickly as it struck, but his fury with himself that he had displayed such blatant weakness in front of one he did not trust was boundless.

"…alright, Legolas?"

"Yes! I am fine!" The short impatience that took over his voice was unintended, but it had worked its way in all the same. Legolas had never been very good at dealing with pain. It made his temper quick and his wit hard, and woe betide any who dared cross him. But for once, Boromir had done nothing to merit his anger. "Sorry … my shoulder aches, and my temper is a little sour for it." It was only a partial truth, but certainly not a lie.

When he chanced a look at Boromir again, the man was regarding him with the same thinly veiled suspicion of earlier, but he made no comment on it. "Very well … I suppose here is as good a place as any," he conceded slowly. He threw his shield down and moved off to gather firewood, giving Legolas one final look before he set out.

The elf drew as deep a breath as he dared through his nose, savouring the scents of woodland coming to night. No matter where he was, if he closed his eyes, the aroma of trees could always guide his mind back to better times in his homeland. Regardless of how many millennia had gone by, the smell of trees was a reliable constant, and he could return to long ago, way before obliterating wars and soulless dark lords destroyed his own simple happiness. If he thought on it, it made his heart heavy when he realised that he had been little more than a child the last time he had known real peace, not only of the land, but the heart…

His eyes lifted to the lofty boughs, stark against the deep violet sky. Being so vulnerable and bound to the earth pitched undeniable fear in his heart. The yearning to ascend into their safer heights was almost a pain in itself … he saw it as a cruel joke that he was surrounded by the trees that could give him solace when he pined for it so strongly, yet he could not climb to the lowest branch. All he could do was draw from the deeper peace the trees invoked in the world and hope it was enough…

Frodo and Sam were practically overjoyed to hear Legolas suggest stopping for the night. Though Legolas never forced them to move at speed on their journey through the heavier woodland, he did not allow them to take any rest, and Sam wasted no time in setting a small fire for the promised firewood. It wasn't especially big, and he didn't construct it to be particularly strong, but it chased the strengthening shadows back into their holes, and soon enough all of them were gathered around its chattering mirth. Whilst the hobbits and Boromir made themselves as comfortable as possible on the leaf floor and broke a portion of lembas between them, Legolas remained standing, his head turned a little away from them and eyes distracted, of their company but most definitely apart. He rested his weight entirely on his right leg, merely using the toe of his left boot as a balance, left arm crossed over with his hand cupping his immobilised elbow. His entire demeanour was as inapproachable as it was possible to be, his posture stating quite plainly that he wanted to be left alone. Frodo wished more than anything to have the courage to cross that barrier, but he could not bring himself to do it.

Though he ached to convey his gratitude to him, Frodo felt he did not possess words strong enough to offer his thanks. That he had been so willing to forfeit his immortality for him was a concept the hobbit struggled to get his head around, and he was painfully reminded of it every time he glanced at the elf's injured face and bound arm. If that was what his face had suffered, who knew what his body had gone through. Frodo felt the razor edge of guilt eat into his conscience. From what felt like an eternity ago, he recalled the words of Boromir nestled in the memory of mud and rain and terror: "He has accepted this as his oath: you must accept it too." If this was what the Fellowship meant, he did not want it, not any more. He didn't want anyone putting themselves at such extreme risk for his sake, and the thought was there - not for the first time - that he should simply rise in the night and flee -

"Would you like some, Frodo?"

Frodo roused himself from his silent contemplation to regard the palm filled with some kind of berry Sam proffered to him. He didn't recognise them, and he felt more than a little surprised to see Sam happily popping them into his mouth.

"What are they?" he asked, sceptical that they should be eaten in the first place.

"Nothin' poisonous, if that's what you mean," Sam said reassuringly around a mouthful of pips. "Boromir says they're safe, and he's been eatin' them often enough. They're a bit on the sharp side, and you've to mind your teeth on the pips, but they've a nice taste under it all. Make a good crumble with some decent raspberries, I reckon."

Frodo smiled affectionately at his friend. The sheer joy in Sam's eyes at finding a new food was a welcome distraction: no matter what was happening in the world, Samwise Gamgee would find at least temporary contentment in the discovery of something edible. "I think I'll pass, if that is alright by you. Though I think I'm about ready to sleep."

Sam shrugged a shoulder and threw his offering into his own mouth, giving Frodo something of a bulging smile.

"Now there's a fine idea if ever one was dreamed." Boromir stood and stretched broadly. But realisation disrupted his happiness at the prospect of sleep, and with a resigned huff, he put himself forward for first watch.

For the first time in the hours they had been settled, Legolas broke his silence, turning his golden head to the light of the fire. "Don't trouble yourself: I will take the watch."

Boromir gave him a measured look, marking to himself how much worse the cuts and bruising marring the elf's skin seemed to be in the firelight. "Do you not think you would be better off resting?"

The elf gave a harsh bark of laughter, a mirthless and hollow sound. "If my shoulder would grant me the peace, I might take you up on the offer. As it stands, I don't think I could if I tried. I'll take first watch," he reasserted. Before any further argument could be broached, he distanced himself from the fire and his companions, positioning himself in the sheltering company of one of the more majestic beeches. His hand ghosted over the silvered bark in a request for permission, and when he felt no outward malice as he had done from other trees in this forest, he settled himself with care into the bowl. The warped contours of the trunk presented his back with an easier support than any younger tree would have been able to offer, and Legolas eased himself against it, finding the least pained area on which to lean.

He felt a shadow of annoyance at Boromir's approach.

The man seated himself beside him with a dull thud, completely bereft of any measure of grace or attempt at stealth. Legolas kept his irritation at the unwanted intrusion to himself, choosing to demonstrate it with a silence that was just as vocal. Clearly, the man had wished to speak with him, but his stony quiet evidently made him begin to think better of it … but he decided that he had made the effort to come over, and he was not going to allow Legolas' unwelcoming attitude to push him back. "I know what you think of me:"

Silence.

"I merely wish for you to understand that I am not a bad man…" He paused, again awaiting some form of input that was never going to come. "My people are failing. Mordor's stain is ingrained in their hearts. The only way they can ever hope to be free is if we can crush the enemy where he festers." Again, he looked for some reaction, but Legolas' gaze was centred in the dark of the trees. Boromir finally elected to leave, angered by the wall of silence and deciding he was better off in the warmth of the fireside than the cold of Legolas' company. "You need to understand that I fight to restore Gondor to its true glory. I would see her shine again before I leave this earth." He rose stiffly with the chill sitting on the ground had instilled in his bones, and just as he was taking his leave:

"No," Legolas contradicted.

Boromir stopped dead, looking over his shoulder at the elf in befuddlement. "I'm sorry?"

"You fight to attain an ideology. You have no idea what Gondor looks like in peace time, or what her people do, or how her lands deal with the quiet." Legolas gave a humourless buck of a laugh to the night, not deigning to take his sight from the night he observed so closely. "Even for me, it's almost a foreign concept. I'm old enough to have experienced it, but young enough for it to be little more than a distant memory…" He looked on Boromir for the first time since his arrival, his eyes bright and seeing in the blinding dark. "But I am forced to wonder, Boromir, if you, a man who prefers the crude company of the mess room to the quiet order of his father's halls, would like peace if ever you come to experience it?"

Boromir's body jerked to face Legolas' way, his eyes wide and more than a little affronted. "Do you mean to say that you think I do not wish for peace for my people?" he demanded sharply.

"On the contrary," Legolas rejoined smoothly. "I believe it is your greatest desire. I also believe that you will sacrifice the life you love to achieve it, and that is a very noble end." Legolas shifted, adjusting his position against his tree with the ghost of a grimace lining his face. He cast Boromir a fleeting glance and had the good grace to appear a little embarrassed. "Aragorn tells me I can be a little too astute at times. Please forgive me if I spoke out of term."

Boromir shook his head, surprising himself with the resigned smile gracing his lips. "I am beginning to see that it is something you cannot help; t'is probably better to ask Sam not to eat than to expect you to know when to hold your tongue."

Legolas gave an amused snort and turned his attention back to the night-cloaked wilds. "Perhaps…"

"Strange," Boromir murmured. When he failed to expand on his half-statement, Legolas knew he was expected to enquire. He was in no real mood to entertain the conversational wiles of humans at that moment, but conceded to rise to the bait for diplomacy's sake. "Strange?"

"All these months, I've hardly witnessed you sit for five minutes. Since your return, you suddenly favour taking a watch sitting on your backside."

"Falling from cliffs is somewhat taxing. I do not suggest you try it." Legolas was tired. So, so tired… Even maintaining his less than chipper demeanour was difficult, and he needed the rest more than he could stand to think about. Increasing weariness with Boromir's company coupled with his unending pain was starting to feather annoyance through his mood. The man evidently heard the finalising note in Legolas' tone as he turned his back to leave.

"Aragorn will never allow your people to fail, Boromir. Remember that."

Boromir paused. "I fail to understand why an elf concerns himself so deeply with the affairs of men."

"I have my reasons," Legolas replied darkly. Then: "Aragorn wields the true power in this war, not some gold trinket."

The man snorted, the sound peppered with distain. "You look at him with the same foolish adoration a beggar gives a lord's banquet." He turned his back again for the fire…

"Well, it determines the greatness of the lord that he allows the fool to eat of the table then, doesn't it?"

Boromir frowned heavily at his companion's dry response and looked back again, but Legolas' attention was returned to the quiet night and apparently uninterested in any further interaction. Well, that was fine with Boromir: he wished to rest, and keeping Legolas' uneven company did not suit his idea of resting all that well…

He listened intently to the temporary chaos of Boromir's movements as the man made ready for sleep, hearing him jostle the fading embers of the fire with fresh wood before he finally settled. The forest and Legolas alike welcomed his eventual silence, and found a fresh peace as his breathing deepened, joining their short charges in sleep.

Legolas shuffled carefully, flexing his left knee a little higher and stretching out his right leg. The slightly scrunched position eased the stress on his injured abdomen, yet it was no more than a paltry level of relief, hardly worth the effort it had taken to gain it. His free hand pulled at the cloak, enshrouding himself a bit deeper in its warming embrace. Despite his efforts, the chill still bit down on him, and the strain of stopping himself shivering was beginning to pull on his back. He refused to look at it … he did not need the pain of aggravating his side with poking and prodding to know he was not healing: the unrestrained agony and constant heat of new blood was enough.

The openly trembling breath he released now there were none to witness it twisted away from him in an uncertain whisper. He battled to push his fear down, but it would not be quelled. It kept resurfacing, dragging its nails over his failing resolve and rendering it as damaged and vulnerable as his body. If he did not heal, if the wound did not cease bleeding, there was a very real chance he could die from it.

His eyes drew themselves away from his troubled world to the heavens. Drops of ice glistened in shards of purity far surpassing anything he had yet seen on earth, immobilised in a silence so beautiful it felt a crime to breathe. Their persistent strength brought a touch of peace to him, and Legolas forgot, just for the most fleeting of moments, what it was to feel so hounded by worries and constant agony. But that one moment, no matter how brief, was worth more to him than all the jewels of the earth.

He continued to watch, even as thin cloud shadows hounded the piercing lights into a deeper silence, one that barred the sight of one lone elf and left him susceptible to his own darkness again.

Another fleeting glance at his companions. Their stillness was all he needed. Legolas lifted his voice to the stars in a keening offering, and though they slept, his companions found a new and deeper level of rest, and even the most troubled of hearts was able to relinquish its fears to the peace of the night.

TRANSLATIONS

"Law! Farn, Boromir, sîdh - daro! DARO!" - "Don't! Enough, Boromir, peace – stop! STOP!"