Tinder for the Flames

by Lindir's Ghost

Now into Part II: Following the disastrous events of Amon Hen, a desperate Aragorn unwillingly sends a badly wounded Legolas, with Gimli at his side, to Edoras in an effort to save him. But there are venomous snakes writhing in the tall grasses of Rohan, and Edoras might not prove to offer the salvation the ranger seeks. AU, non slash.

14. Chapter Fourteen: Amon Hen

Firstly, I am so, so sorry it has taken so long for this chapter to get to you. Please don't hate me! Things have not been on track for me (excuses, excuses!), and that has had an impact on the ol' writing (more excuses!). But I'm back now, and I've done you a super-duper long chapter to *kind of* make up for it...

Thank you as always to my wonderful reviewers. You make all the hours of agonising over Legolas' fate worth while. But a special thanks goes to Vanimalion and Myselfonly for their imput on certain aspects of this chapter, that they will doubtless recognise. Thank you, guys!

This chapter may come up with a couple of surprises for you. I believe that writing speech or sequences directly from the films/books is very lazy writing, so "It's Amon Hen, Jim, but not as we know it." This is an AU story, after all.

As Myselfonly pointed out to me not so long ago, it is Tinder for the Flames' birthday in a couple of days, so happy birthday, 'Flames! Everyone have some cake on me. Please enjoy the birthday celebrations, and kindly don't forget to give the story a present in a review-shaped box!

Ghost

---

Chapter Fourteen: Amon Hen

Again, he checked his speed. Again, the hobbits were lagging, and even Gimli was showing signs of strain at the pace set by the enemy horde. Aragorn felt desperate impatience snag in his throat as he voiced his desire for them to hurry, yet again.

In the near distance he sighted the Anduin, cutting through the land like a great silver ribbon, a massive trapping boundary: if the Uruks found the others, they could be backed to the water's edge and overwhelmed, easily.

They needed to be there, but instead they trailed far behind the rear of the Uruks, too far…

But he knew he was asking too much of them when the hobbits drew closer, their throats rasping with the strain. Despair whispered against his awareness, feather soft, and his heart sunk. They would never get there. The others would be killed, the Ring would be gone –

"Aragorn." Gimli's voice, winded and resigned. Aragorn pried his eyes from the glinting band of the trapping river and settled them on his stout companion. The dwarf trudged to a halt, taking the opportunity of brief rest to bend his back. Beside him, Merry and Pippin likewise tried to ease their stressed muscles, massaging their calves and grimacing. Gimli shook his head. "We'll never … we'll never get there in time." He puffed his cheeks and heaved air into his lungs and kept it there for a moment. "Go, lad. Go to them."

A moment of indecision, then Aragorn ran. It was like being freed, an arrow from a taught bow. A lifetime of keeping up with elves – who cared little for mortal limitations – had steeled his endurance levels, and he thanked the Valar for the arrogant impatience of the First Born as he hared through the trees along the heavily beaten track.

-(())-

"Are you certain Aragorn will come here regardless?"

Legolas lifted his heavy gaze wearily from the russet carpet of beech leaves at Boromir's edged query. "The Falls of Rauros were to be our original destination. Logic says he will come." This had to be the fourth time the question was broached, and he was becoming bored of issuing the same answer.

Boromir invested his attention back in his footing, carefully negotiating a sudden drop in the earth. Legolas allowed him to lead their small procession, with Frodo and Sam at the middle, and Legolas following a way behind them. The others were mainly too busy watching their footing to pay him any heed, and that was an arrangement that suited him just fine: out of the line of sight, Legolas did not have to force himself to adhere to any pretences. Only Sam swung his gaze behind himself regularly to regard the elf, and Legolas was ever careful to avoid his worried eyes. As well-meaning as Sam was, his constant looks of concern threatened to unwittingly betray Legolas' secret, and the elf needed to deter such an eventuality.

The sight of the river was lost to them in shrouds of land and trees. The formation of the earth was typical of this forest, with its constant deep lulls and sharp climbs, but Legolas' innate sense of direction corrected their path when Boromir's lead faltered. Almost haze-like, the smell of the falls reached through the trees, a fresh and different scent only one member of their company could detect. It was little more than a thin hint on the air, but the constant damp was evidenced by the soft shroud of mosses climbing the towering trunks. To Legolas, it was a balm, cleansing and pure to his spirit, and he drank in the freshness of it as deeply as he could.

The forest floor levelled to a slightly gentler incline, speared sporadically with the young saplings of silver birch and beech vying to take the places of long-fallen giants. Gold dappled light fell on them, gentle and dancing as the wind tricked the journey of the midday sun through the turning leaves of the canopy above. There was a more open quality to the woodland now, untainted and unassuming, and an old memory stirred in Legolas' heart of a time when his home had shared a similar simple beauty.

But as they travelled, it became apparent to them that this forest held a history not of its own making as they increasingly encountered great hulks of worked white stone, strewn through the forest-scape in a haphazard sense. They began small at first, just the mere hint of a settlement of some kind long ago, chunks buried in leaves that might have been good as doorstops. But as the company drew nearer to the river, the masses became larger and more frequent, forcing them to divert their path to avoid their blocking bulk. Great sections of wall tried to shepherd them to a different route, and even the lost head of a statue seemingly tried to stare them back whence they came.

It was a hauntingly beautiful place, but there was something else there, something darker. Sadness seeped from the scattered ruins like silent tears. The land once dominated by Man had been reclaimed by the forest many centuries past: trees grew, mighty and old, where once the great stone walls had barricaded the forest back. Nothing more violent than Time itself had razed this place. Mosses and lichens swarmed once proud clean stone, doggedly trying to make it a part of the forest. To the man and hobbits, it was sad. To the elf, the place was wrong.

"We can stop here," Boromir announced when his feet found a level in the earth that pleased him.

"Here?" Legolas assessed their position with a quick dart of his eyes. Ruins towered over them, the age-worn remains of a cluster of buildings surrounding their small company almost forming a ring of stone. Though beech and birch and ash were well established and broke the solidity of the ruins, these physical ghosts of long gone human endeavours too closely resembled a pen. It set his nerves to fire. "Whatever for?"

Boromir cast Legolas a flat look. "Because, we have been walking for hours, and here is as good a place as any." It was a petty flare of defiance against Legolas' command, but it was one the elf had no strength to resist, and Boromir's shield thudded dully in the leaf-litter as he took a seat on some ancient steps that ascended some twelve feet into the air to nothing beyond. When no further objection came from Legolas, Frodo and Sam agreed with Boromir's idea, and wearily seated themselves on a section of fallen wall.

Legolas held his tongue against his misgivings, hearing in his mind's ear Boromir's derisive dismissal. "Very well," he said slowly. "I go to scout."

No-one bid him stay, and Legolas was only too happy to leave the circle of encroaching stone. It was strange to him, but the death of the place pressed on his heart too heavily for him to stand: the natural rhythm of the forest was marred by the scars left by men's efforts, and he felt its effects too deeply. Leaving was the best thing he could do to clear his head of the haunting image of his father's halls reduced to such decimation…

The voices of his companions faded to little more than a rumour, and he could feel the pulse of the forest with better clarity. It did not know him, for his kind had not passed through it within the living memory of any tree growing, but it acknowledged his presence with an edged graciousness, completely different from the harsh shunning of only three days before. He was merely tolerated, however, and the voice of the forest was muted to him. He was a passer-by better tuned to its way, and no more than that. Legolas longed for the familiar and welcoming embrace of his own forest. Rarely had he felt so isolated when he wandered beneath the boughs of a different wood…

Still, he felt his spirit ease with the solitude of his wandering. His wound did not abate in the strength of its pain, but his head felt a little clearer, and the rich hues of the forest had returned to their natural shades. It was a little less frightening.

After walking for a time, his feet found a deer path and he followed it intently, feeling the firmness of their passage through the light soles of his boots. They were not far, their neat imprints new and sharply defined, and for the most fleeting of moments, he thought to hunt. Realisation stung him, sudden and bitter, that he had neither bow nor quiver to hunt with, and even if he still had his knives, he would not be able to so much as stalk in his current condition, never mind execute a kill. Legolas cursed with a fluidity that would have made Gimli proud as he followed a twist in the pathway. The deer trail met with a narrow break in a lengthy and once mighty wall, breached by a falling tree many years ago. The tree itself was little more than a spongy dead mass, collapsed in on itself from the years of rot, and his feet pressed into it as he passed through the closed shoulders of broken stone.

The shock at coming face to face with the Uruk on the other side near paralysed him.

His warriors' reflex was the only thing that saved him when the scimitar arced down to bury its ugly head in his chest. Legolas' hunting knife met the weapon high and deflected it to the side - but the cry that tore from his throat was almost animalistic when his wound ripped. A red flash across his vision and he was too dazed to think, his fighting reactions fettered by agony. Base instinct for survival took over, commanding his body to get as far away as possible. He stumbled back over the tree through the gap in the stone, achieving only just enough of a distance to centre himself to fight before his nemesis flew through the wall for him.

-(())-

Sam fidgeted. He had to fight down the anxiety building in his throat, his worried head repeating the order given to him that morning over and over, trying to find a flaw that would release him of his duty. But there was none to be found. He ought to have known that there would not be one … Legolas was a prince: he would not leave his commands open to interpretation. But the task was so monumental, Sam could not help cowing from its implications…

But the necessity of Legolas' plan was becoming frighteningly clear.

Worry edged at him as he watched their Gondorian companion: Boromir leaned his back into a step, nibbling distractedly at his nails in an agitated manner. His guarded eyes increasingly flitted to Frodo and Sam as though trying to decide on something, before glancing in the direction Legolas had gone. Legolas could only have left five minutes ago, yet Sam felt that an eternity had passed awaiting his return, when his presence would ease the hobbit's worry, both for Frodo, and for the elf.

But his hair stood on end at the jarring metallic ring through the trees and instantaneous sharp scream of pain. He was on his feet without thinking, eyes wide –

Boromir likewise jumped up, ripped from his reverie and sword drawn reflexively, attention riveted in the direction of the noise. Yet he seemed trapped in indecision for a long moment, hovering between running to Legolas' aid and staying with them. He growled deep in his throat as he reached some conclusion and turned to his charges. "Come with me, and for Eru's sake, keep up!" With that he ran along Legolas' path, pausing once before leaving the ruin circle. "Come on!"

Sam stirred his body into movement as Frodo ran past him at Boromir's call. Boromir, satisfied that they followed, elevated his run to a sprint. He did not see Sam dart forward to grab Frodo's arm, nor did he hear the hurried conversation.

-(())-

Aragorn saw them as he crested a ridge, swarming through the forest below like an infestation. They were so many, and fear for his friends tensed his heart. The screech of blades somewhere beyond this sea of monsters told him that at least one of them already fought, the fast ring of blades denoting a warrior's skill -

Aragorn barely touched the leafy slope as he launched himself into their midst, his elvish battle-cry accented by the high singing of his sword as it was drawn from its sheath. Before the Uruks could even react to his presence, his sword hewed through three enemy warriors without resistance before meeting with the crudely crafted blade of a better prepared Uruk. His blood turned to fire and his spirit soared with the relish of battle, taking the very greatest pleasure in forcing their attention on him. Let them come. Let them try their luck against him and see how they fared –

-(())-

The Uruk hollered his pleasure at the smell of new blood over old, sensing sickness just as palpably, and Legolas felt no small level of dismay at the bloodlust glimpsed in the frighteningly intelligent eyes when they clashed together –

It took no more than a blink for the Uruk to learn that Legolas could not defend his right side. Legolas' only advantage was that he was lithe and light compared to the hulking mass of his enemy, but the pain stripped him of his natural grace and he stumbled more than danced from the intended strike to his right flank, his strength draining freely with his blood. Realisation blossomed in him that he was likely to die here when the Uruk came for him before he could fully recover, slamming scimitar into knife -

Forest debris flung in the air as he tried to stay too close to the attacking weapon's range, his small hunting knife screaming and sparking with the stress of stopping the much larger scimitar. It was not tempered to the same degree as the white knives had been, never designed to be used in battle, and Legolas felt very real fear that the blade might shatter. They were close together for him to make his own offensive, too close, the stench of his enemy crawling over his senses, washing into him with its vileness. He needed distance to make a true strike, they were too close –

Another swipe at his flank, and he dodged backwards –

Surprise jarred him when his heels caught against a hunk of stone and his balance shifted violently backward. His reflexes tried to catch him, but the Uruk saw an advantage and flung his sword to the ground and bowled full-pelt into Legolas' chest, jagged black teeth bearing down at his throat with the savage intention of ripping it out –

Legolas' knife hand was quick and deft in its dealing. Before his back hit the ground, his blade came up under the exposed lower jaw of his attacker and disappeared to the hilt.

The deep leaf cover failed to soften the impact for him when he struck the ground, the dead weight of the Uruk slamming him solidly into the earth. Everything went black, the shock of the hit driving pain through him until it was all he knew, but there was no air with which to scream, the wind completely beaten from his compressed lungs. Some part of him had the presence of mind to try and roll out from under the carcass…

The weight was almost too much for him to shift. He tried to simply push the smothering corpse off, but his good arm was too tightly trapped against his chest to get sufficient leverage. Legolas writhed desperately, and succeeded in disengaging his elbow. With a difficult twist of his wrist, he managed to get his palm against his fallen enemy's bulk and pushed against it. The pressure on his ribs eased and he almost choked on the air flooding into him, at once a sweet and wonderful gift from the forest, and a blackened and defiled invasion by the stench of the hot iron of orcish blood and filth that smothered him.

But with the air came renewed vision, and with vision came the snarling mottled face right above him…

Panic, sheer and total. Legolas wrenched the knife free from his fallen enemy's jaw and slashed out wide at his new attacker's legs. He felt the honed edge slice through sinew, deep and clean. The Uruk bellowed with pain and rage and lashed out with a heavily-booted foot at Legolas' slender hand. The blade sang as it sailed through the air to skid uselessly into the leaf-litter.

Legolas watched as though through a haze as the angular head of the scimitar swung round to strike into his temple. He was looking at his own oncoming death, yet all he could see was the image of his father in his mind, bent with grief over a table in an armoury many, many leagues away, pleading with him not to go, never to leave him…

The shadow of something large and swift careened into the Uruk with a furious and indiscernible cry. The piercing tip of the scimitar glanced Legolas' cheekbone as he flinched away from it, but nothing more damaging than that. The Uruk disappeared from his limited view, replaced by the heavy clang of close combat and enraged guttural snarls from somewhere out of his sight.

Get to your feet! Move! MOVE!

For all his self-commanding, getting his body to comply was a far stretch from the instant obedience he was accustomed to. Pain drilled through him at the very thought of movement, but he would not let it beat him, not while steel met steel in his defence. They might have their differences, but Legolas would not allow Boromir fight alone.

A final shove, and the dead weight slumped off him. Legolas rolled to his knees, fighting to quell the swell of nausea threatening to disable him. It took three attempts to find his feet. The forest floor swayed under him maddeningly but he pushed himself on, catching the bloodied glimmer of his hunting knife in its leafy sheath. Bruised fingers closed over the hilt, welcoming its familiar shape with needy thankfulness.

A ripple of air behind him

Despite how dimmed his perception was of the world, his finer elven awareness flared and he ducked, and he felt the scimitar sweep harmlessly over his head. His blood fired with the raw fighting power of his race … he knew the knife in his hand, the weight, the strength, the single perfected edge for dispatching and cleaning prey.

The mutilated heart of his adversary boomed against his awareness, each breath adding a miasmal fog to the clean air, and he could see him in all his shadowed dissonance harsh against the quiet harmony of the trees. The shape of this foe was new, but the black heart within still pumped the darkness of the Necromancer through his veins, and that was something with which Legolas was all too familiar.

He and the knife were one, and the elf moved with a lethal grace that belied his condition to destroy the blight. The hunting knife flashed and Legolas flowed his power along its chosen course, bringing it home in one fluid movement…

They were both wreathed in silence, complete and still, and the orc stood dumb. Without so much as a whimper, he crumpled with nothing more than a gurgle of black blood from the puncture wound that penetrated at the base of his throat right to his spine.

As quickly as it had blessed him, the blood-fire of battle chose to abandon him. The sound of Boromir finally dispatching his adversary was a thing too distant for Legolas to hear. The world was made up of harsh light and stark shadow cloaked in those discordant shades again, and his head swam with sickening uncertainty of the orientation of the ground…

Elation sored through Boromir's spirit. He could not feel better, he did not think: was there any feeling purer to a soldier than the joy of clean victory? A grin stretched his mouth, and he felt a foolish boy for it, but a happy foolish boy nevertheless. Such pleasure needed to be shared, and he turned at last to his fighting partner, ready to congratulate him…

But Boromir's triumphant grim faded when he trained his eyes on the elf. Legolas stood still near the wall, listing slightly as though the task of staying upright was nearly too much for him. There was no trace of exhilaration to him: rather, his face was deathly grey in the dappled light, his eyes unfocused and a gentle frown on his sweating brow. With clear effort, he lifted his dark eyes to Boromir's face, though he blatantly fought to focus on him. He has dimmed, was Boromir's immediate thought, though he did not understand entirely what that meant.

The strength and endurance of the elves far surpassed that of men … but even elves had their limits, and Legolas had exceeded his own long ago. Everything he had propelled his body to do was done on borrowed strength, and it was draining from him like water streaming through cupped hands. The last drops were escaping him now. The hunting knife he relied on so heavily barely held in his lax fingers, his arm hanging limp…

Boromir's jaw slackened with dismay as his eyes lighted on the mess of Legolas' side, the elven cloak the archer had kept so tight about himself undone in the fight. His entire flank was dark with blood, and for the most fleeting of moments, Boromir thought it must belong to one of the orcs lying at the elf's feet … but he looked harder, and noted with stunned horror that not only was it an actual wound he saw, but it was old, the lengthy laceration surrounded by dark stiffened material as well as fresh wet. Boromir had seen similar wounds before, but the men who had them did not walk around, and they certainly never engaged in battle. How the elf had managed to keep such a very serious injury secret and maintain some air of normality was completely beyond him … though it did explain much: his taciturn demeanour; the ease with which he startled; sleeping on watch; why his resistance to Boromir's sword in the gully had been incomparable to their fight at the camp a few nights prior. He knew the weakness now…

"More come."

The words were thick and unexpected. They butted against Boromir's shock, bringing him back to himself. "What?"

Legolas visibly forced himself to come together, taking a deep shuddering breath and giving his head a little shake. It was evidently not quite enough to steady him, and he moved closer to the wall, leaning his good shoulder against its cold and solid surface. He blinked several times and swallowed before he continued. "This -" he swept his knife hand meaningfully at the corpses "- this was a scouting party. They were drawn here by my blood, most likely." Such a matter-of-fact statement for one who thought himself as being hunted like an animal, like the idea did not bother him!

Realisation dawned on Boromir that what the elf said was true: these were scouts, sent ahead. And there was only room for one thought in his head: "Frodo..." Panic tightening his fist about the grip of his sword. The Ring must not fall into their hands, and they were coming for it. "Frodo!" he barked, expecting the hobbit to emerge from hiding, Samwise close behind. When there was no answer, no hint of movement, he paced, trying to see past the trees to where the hobbits hid. "The danger is over! Come out." Still, there was nothing. He placed more conviction into his stride, allowing irritation to cover his growing anxiety. Why do they not answer me? Irritation began to edge into anger. "Damn these trees!" he fumed. "Frodo! Sam!"

"They are gone, Boromir."

"Don't be absurd!" he snapped, continuing his agitated search. "Why would they be gone? Frodo!"

"Because I told them to go."

Boromir froze. He wheeled round at the voice and stared. Legolas stared right back, unblinking and calm. Those eyes relayed much to him: age and knowledge, pain and misery, a strange sense of expectation … but for all their complexity, there was no lie to them.

Never before had he known such anger. He did not try to restrain it as it seeped into every element of his being. His heart swelled with its terrible might, rage so total he knew it was dangerous. But he could not have cared less.

"You fool." He shook his head, a vicious and hateful sneer baring his teeth. "You FOOL!"

Legolas failed to so much as twitch in the face of Boromir's ire, his eyes cool towards the Gondorian, even as pain burned their brightness away. He wanted to kill him, he wanted to kick that miserable hide into Mandos himself, but instead his feet made to carry him purposefully past the elf –

Boromir stopped when Legolas manoeuvred himself into his path. The grey of his face suggested he might collapse at any moment, but his eyes were determined even in their dulled state, and he stood firm. From somewhere deep inside his rage, Boromir found the pitiful display amusing, and he laughed. But the laugh arrested itself and the sneer took over again. "You think you can stop me?"

"We made a vow, Boromir," Legolas snapped, a shade of his old fire sparking in his voice. "A vow. Do you remember swearing an oath to protect him? Or is the memory of Men really that poor?"

"Dead history, Legolas, nothing more. I want no part of it."

"Dead history, yet you seem bent on seeing it repeated!"

"Why do you strive to influence that which is not your concern?" Boromir spat. "The time of Elves is over, Legolas." His hold adjusted on his sword, nothing more than a flex of his fingers, but a clear sign he knew Legolas would read. "This was never your business. I warn you now: step aside."

So finally, it comes to this. Legolas straightened his back and altered his own grip on his hunting knife. His muscles primed, but the readiness in them was thin and unsustainable. He was weak, so, so weak, and that secret was open to the world now, to Boromir. The same darkness he had witnessed speaking honeyed poison into Frodo's ear not so many nights past looked on him now. The reserved son of the steward was not there, but rather a black malice dominated the man's eyes, and Legolas recognised its murderous burn. Only this time, Legolas did not possess the strength to repel it. It saw him as a threat, and it would see him eliminated. But for all his life, Legolas would not be swayed to move. "I am still here," he said quietly. "And so are my people, and this is as much their world as it is yours. I will not let you take that from them."

Neither of them moved. Always, there had been a void of understanding between the two of them, a deep chasm of mistrust that would never allow them to consider the other as friend. But there had always been the Fellowship, and under that banner they had battled together to achieve the same goal. But that thin allegiance was gone now, and two warriors who mere moments ago had fought together prepared to fight against each other, each needing to shield his people from the darkness, each seeing the other as a threat to their safety. The highest price was being asked, and both were willing to pay.

"Injury will not buy you leniency." A statement rather than a warning, given with no more compassion than cold indifference.

An odd smile angled Legolas' lips, sad and knowing. "I know."

"I know." Even now, when they braced to fight, those two words jolted something deep in Boromir's chest, something pained. Those words, that look … like the elf had always expected this of him. It was as though he had seen it, sitting in his soul like some kind of demon, tearing the essence of his warrior heart and stitching it back together with poisoned threat. The judgement clearly had been made long ago, so far ahead of Boromir's first thought of abandoning the quest of the Fellowship that he felt deeply betrayed, that his part counted in the end for nothing. And he was willing to gamble all of Gondor that Legolas had whispered in Aragorn's ear and turned the ranger's thoughts against him.

With a bellow, it was the man that moved first, throwing his bullish strength forward, and they clashed.

-(())-

Zealous bellows in Khuzdul announced Gimli's joining the fray, and Aragorn was pleased that the dwarf had caught up with him. A glance his companion's way, and he could see any trace of physical exhaustion was gone to the relish of battle, Gimli's axe engaging their enemies as he all but cackled with glee. This was where the dwarf was in his element, and Aragorn felt the keen sense of brotherhood as they worked towards each other, coming to fight back-to-back. Separately, they were dangerous. But when they were together, they were fierce dancers, death courting their every move. Man and dwarf knew the style of the other perfectly, and they matched their partner with an aggressive fluidity that made them untouchable.

But the heady sensation of invincibility searing Aragorn's blood gave way to blind panic when he saw the two hesitant figures skirting the fringe of the battle.

Merry and Pippin, the elvish daggers they used as swords in hand, but lowered and unprepared. They stayed clamped to each other, eyes wide and fearful as they took in the chaos of battle before them. It was not surprising that they were unnerved … the orcs of Moria were bent and spidery creatures, dangerous and savage but stupid. These creatures they faced now were new and man height, ox-strong and completely unfazed by the sunlight streaming on their backs, fighting with uniform discipline.

Aragorn increased the aggression of his fight to up the distraction, giving a cry from the pits of his stomach and thrusting his sword through an Uruk's gut and arching it seamlessly through the throat of another. Gimli sensed the change in Aragorn's fight and matched it freely. But the ferocity of their battle could engage only so many.

Horrified, the ranger witnessed the trees behind the immobilised hobbits leak Uruks, stalking the halflings with a terrible warg-like stealth. And there was no way he could reach them.

NO!

The Uruks were within feet of them -

"HOBBITS – RUN!"

Merry started at Aragorn's frantic shout. As though in a dream, he looked behind -

The hairs on Merry's arms bristled when his eyes fixed with the cruel predatory focus of the Uruk mere feet behind them, shrouded in the dappled light streaming through the canopy, a hulking and deadly power. They were three, and he and Pippin were their prey, small deer to their snapping wolf jaws -

Merry grabbed Pippin's arm hard and shot forward, forcing his younger cousin to go with him. From the trees behind, he heard the Uruks snarl at their spoiled hunt and break into a sprint themselves, their hateful power pounding the ground with disturbing speed.

It felt like blind terror was impeding his flight: he and Pippin were embroiled in a shared nightmare, legs trying to run through treacle while the monsters were free to get them. Merry had never known such fear. But the over-large feet of hobbits gave them a slight advantage, and he and Pippin flew in a completely different trajectory without slowing, shooting through thicker trees that marched down another steep incline towards the shore of the river. To the hunting Uruks, it was as though the hobbits had evaporated, and their did not hesitate in colouring the air with bellowed frustration.

The hobbits jointly ducked into the damp and mossy bowl of a massive beech, cowering into its protective shelter. The Uruks were just visible to them at the lip of the incline through the barring trees, questing for a hint of their scent or sign of their passage. Pippin's fingers coiled into Merry's sleeve, and the older hobbit did not care that he caught flesh, feeling assurance with the steely grasp: they might fear for their lives, and their hearts might be hammering for release from their chests, but at least they were together. Despite the danger, Merry felt his mouth curve into a grin as the Uruks started to look the other way…

But the grin left him when he saw two like-wise fleeing characters through the trees, their cloaks streaming behind them as they ran towards the path of the hunters - Frodo and Sam!

To Pippin's utter horror, Merry shot from their shelter in a snap decision and stamped his foot down on a dry fallen branch.

The brittle wood split with a whip-like crack, and Merry was rewarded with the triumphant bellows of their hunters at the glaring indicator he had given, and they were crashing through the twiggy saplings and greater trunks, destroying what the hobbits had skirted so easily –

Merry started to run, and then realised he was alone. Backpedalling, he found Pippin, paralysed with terror in the ruined shelter of the beech. His muscles ached with the need for flight, but he would not leave his cousin behind. "Come on, Pip!"

But Pippin was too numbed with fear and the shattered promise of a good hiding place. Dazedly, his wide eyes met the frantic stare of the slightly older hobbit. "But how can we get away now? You've ruined our hiding place."

Merry lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of Pippin's attire and forcing him to his feet, not letting go until he knew he ran, the excited cries of the Uruks hounding them through the trees.

-(())-

Any move Legolas made against him was so weak Boromir felt like he fought a child: he was a distraction, an inconvenience, but little more than that. His sword swatted the knife away, snapping the elf's wrist back with a blow too powerful for him to counter. Legolas' hand retained the short blade, but only just. The elf's teeth were bared with effort, his breath snatched as he raised his arm again to block a fresh assault, but he stood no chance of making his own attack against the constant barrage of sword strikes -

Boromir was fighting a shade, nothing more. His pride grudgingly accepted that he had battled with a truly powerful being all those nights ago when they had fought in the firelight. Back then, he had felt that the elf's strength had been toying with him, that if he had really wanted, he could have bested Boromir in a flourish of white steel and unseen might.

Now, he was a thing broken, a cracking husk crippled with blight. Weak. Weak. WEAK!

He swept his shield up to catch Legolas in the chin. The elf only narrowly evaded the attack, rearing his head back, the shield almost skimming his nose, it was so close. But the action left Boromir open, and damaged as Legolas was, he was still fast. Before the Gondorian could realise what was happening, Legolas was inside his shield arm, and he found himself folding over the elf's fist as it struck with surprising power up under his ribs.

A sharp cry elicited from Legolas' throat as the shock of the blow jolted into his shoulder. Using his right fist was not a move he had ever intended, but it had been necessary. Still, the pain crippled him, and his vision swam again…

The strike had been surprisingly powerful, but it only partially took Boromir's breath, and it was certainly not enough to stop him. More than anything, he was amused that the elf was so weakened he resorted to using his fists.

But he tired of this game. Enough!

A flash of fearful realisation knifed through Legolas, but there was nothing he could do as Boromir's sword arm angled sharply up and his swimming vision filled with the weighty pommel of the sword. His head snapped back with the sheer force of the impact into his cheekbone, but even before his body could decipher the strength of pain caused by such a hit, Boromir dropped his shoulder and rammed his elbow straight into his side. The two ribs already cloven by the Nazgûl blade put up no more protective resistance than dried twigs.

This time, there was no barely successful catch of balance, no quick turn to regain his footing. The harsh impact of his body as he was flung into the forest floor sounded with a weighted finality, and he skidded to a halt in the leafy loam with as much grace as a child's rag doll.

A deep quiet blanketed them both, and Boromir remained primed, still straining to get a proper breath into his lungs as he waited for Legolas to get up. But Legolas remained where he had come to a stop on his right side, his stained gold hair full of dried beech leaves and dirt as it seemed to merge with the stuff of the forest floor. He did not move again.

Like a flash flood, the consuming rage was gone, and Boromir felt stripped down to his core in its aftermath. His senses opened again, acknowledging that there was an entire world enveloping him. The peppery scent of disturbed leaf litter sharpened the winter cold. The turning leaves whispered of his actions to the breeze above his head, and he felt so very isolated. Not for the first time, Boromir pined for the brotherhood of the mess halls, sharing ale and crude stories with his men, warm in the heat of the large cooking fire and their good will. He was oddly cold, despite the fight. Through his life, he had won countless battles, both on his own and as part of an army. But never before had he looked on his defeated combatant and felt such … emptiness.

"Legolas…?" He edged forward, his hesitant steps disintegrating leaves and snapping at the painful silence all too loudly. Everything was so quiet: birds did not chitter at each other overhead, nothing moved. Only he seemed to exist, the sound of his movements lonely and lost. It was like the forest shunned him. The cold of isolation trickled through his veins to line the hollowness inside.

He had killed him. He had killed a brother at arms, a warrior he had battled alongside many times and finally against. Through his own power, he had done what Time would never do to an elf as it would himself and every other mortal. Everlasting life was a thing beautiful and sad, like a lone meadow flower, and he had used his might to stamp it out, crushing it to a sorry and unrecognisable mess and forcing an elf to share the mortal's bane.

He was between my people and their salvation. What I did was necessary.

And yet…

Boromir mentally shook himself: he had to steel himself against sentiment and regret.

There was no way he could reverse time. And he had done it for the sake of his people. One elf could not be allowed to stand between his people and freedom from the Dark Lands. What was done was done, and it was necessary. Find Frodo, and bring It home. Find It before they do.

Boromir nodded his head to himself, accepting his own counsel, and with a final glance at the fallen elf, he tried to pull the first proper breath since Legolas' punch.

His body jarred at the sudden kick of pain penetrating right to his very core.

Confusion knitted his brow, and he gave his head a little shake. But the pain remained, sharp and precise, and his chest would not obey his command to draw a proper breath. Instead he coughed, and the pain peaked to razor agony, accented by the tang of iron in his mouth –

As though propelled by its own curiosity, Boromir's gloved hand lighted on the spot where Legolas' fist had connected, and drew away. It came to a stop before his face, showing him the wet painting his fingers, red and rich against the black leather. With numbed disbelief, Boromir's eyes travelled from his hand, to the front of his tunic. His front was dark and drenched, and he could smell it now, the heavy metal of hot blood. He could feel it, tacky wetness bathing his stomach. Dazedly, his eyes dragged to Legolas, and he really looked at the elf for the first time…

Legolas' left hand, the one that had yielded his only remaining weapon since their paths had crossed the day before, was empty. But in the lax grip of his right hand, the hand that had delivered the punch, was the knife, not stained with black anymore, but with bright red, standing proud against the clean white steel of the blade.

Boromir tried to blink back the blackness thieving his sight, but with no success. He felt so far removed from his own body, so distant, that he felt like a puppet master as he forced his body move, to begin the search for Frodo. But his dragging feet edged him only a few halting steps before he crumpled, his glazing eyes wide and unseeing. Boromir was gone before the ground greeted his body and welcomed him finally as part of the woods.

-(())-

Sam ran. For all he was worth, he ran, and kept on running, shifting course to avoid the sudden block of numerous tree trunks. In body he was pursuing Frodo for the river, but his heart was fleeing the distant clash of blades. The noise had changed: there had been more than one set of combatants originally, the crude steel of their enemies meeting in discordant shrieks with finer weapons. But then there had been silence, and the sound had started again, a desperate and keening song. He knew who fought.

If he faltered, he knew he would turn back. What he could do to help was beyond him, but he would turn back. And so he ran with tears obscuring his vision, spurred on by an oath sworn.

But a new chaos of noise found them: an army of feet, devouring the distance between them and his master. And above the clamour, a new order, one that turned the young hobbit's blood to ice, bellowed and thick with the accent of the Black Speech: "FIND THE HALFLING!" Fear snagged at his heart and brought it high into his throat. They were found, and there was nothing between them and their hunters save for an unmoving sentinel of trees. "FIND THE HALFLING!"

-(())-

The fight was getting too close for such a long weapon, and choosing to sacrifice his own security, Aragorn's right hand released his sword and found the elvish dagger at his hip. The blade plunged through the neck of his closest combatant and he went down with a goblin-like squeal and gush of blood, but three others immediately assumed his place.

Aragorn fell back as his chest took a glancing blow from a scimitar. It was more of a hit than a true strike, and the expected sear of sliced flesh did not assail him. But his ribs knew pain all the same, and he found himself suddenly unable to wield the weight of his sword. Without thinking, he released it altogether, and without any stretch of thought, his hands closed on the fine bone hilts in his belt.

Fighting with the white knives was like fighting without thought, they were so light. He acted through reflex, and it was as though the fine elvish blades took down their enemies on their own. It was like being free, and he allowed his body to adapt to the use of such close-quarter weapons, feeling himself flowing along the lines demanded by the path of the knives. He understood now why Legolas loathed swords so. But even with the help of Legolas' knives, Aragorn could not break through the barrier of orcish bodies penning him and Gimli away from their friends. Failure threatened, massive and consuming, and he could not restrain the swell of despair tightening his chest.

-(())-

Merry and Pippin barely noticed the subtle change in the landscape, not seeing the smaller clumps of moss-shrouded white stone they hared past, until the larger masses loomed through the forest, sudden and impressive. Their thoughts jointly glanced over the idea of hiding amongst them, but the crashing of their pursuers was too close. If they could only fly through the forest unhindered, they might gain enough of a distance between them to hide properly…

The great wall that reared up in front of them was the most horrifying thing either of them had ever seen.

They both skidded to a halt, Pippin grabbing at his cousin painfully. Fear weakened their muscles, their heads skittish and unthinking with blind panic at this impenetrable obstacle standing silent and cruel in their path, enveloping them like fish in a fish trap for the Uruks to harvest … until Pippin sighted the gap in the wall's defence, a crumbled slit created by a long-dead tree offering them a chance to escape. "There! Look!"

They both sprinted for the gap, flying over the rotted tree with the hounding snarls of their pursuers snapping hot and bloodthirsty, so close behind -

Double shouts of pain fired from the hobbits when their toes met with something solid they had not seen, and before they could even question what happened, they slammed into the forest floor on their stomachs.

Pippin rolled to see what had caused their fall, his rather stunned curiosity ignoring their danger to look. His eyes found the heavy leather boots of a man and quickly took in the rest of him, slumped on the ground with the forgotten grace of a child's play thing, his pale green eyes open to the dappled light and as empty as the great caverns of Moria, his front dark with blood from a slit no more than two inches wide under the arch of his ribs. Pippin was frozen looking into those eyes, eyes he had seen narrow and serious with thought, and bright and laughing in lighter moments. For a man who had lived his entire life in the shadow of Mordor, he laughed a lot; the lines about those green eyes said so –

A shadow consumed the green light, shrouding Boromir's body in darkness. A strong stench of filth forced its way over Pippin's senses and fear convulsed his muscles into finding his feet – but before he could think to run, an iron fist closed about his shoulder and lifted him bodily with no more effort than as if he were a sack of wool. Too terrified to blink, he found himself levelled with the face of his captor, the Uruk's dark mottled skin practically crawling into a triumphant grin at his catch.

But metal sang, a clean and whirling sound, and with a thud the Uruk's grin fell slack, the elvish blade penetrating deep into his neck.

Pippin was dropped like a stone, but he fell on his feet, stumbling out of the way before the corpse could collapse on him. He stared at the hilt angling steeply into the thick neck. Though he did not think he had seen the small blade before, the tendril design wrapping about the dark wood was familiar, making its statement clear against the forces of Sauron despite its size. Before he could recover enough to look for the thrower, a long and slightly trembling bloodied hand pulled the knife clear.

"Legolas!"

It was Legolas, but not as they had ever known him. Neither hobbit had ever seen anyone in such a mess. Aragorn had said that he was hurt, but they had not expected this. Practically everywhere their eyes alighted on him was tainted with blood, even streaking through his hair in crude ribbons. Lines about his blue eyes scripted his pain, deep and telling, and his movements were sluggish, like he moved by sheer will alone. But something of the Legolas they knew flashed before them as his attention snapped for the gap, sharp and primed with a hawk-like poise at the sound of undergrowth being torn and crushed just beyond the wall. "Defend yourselves!"

Their weapons were barely in their hands when the Uruks erupted through the wall.

-(())-

Lurtz drank in the heady scent he caught on the air. He breathed deeper, opening his mouth and pulling the smell over the back of his tongue, tasting it and learning its quality. It was so close now, fresh and alluring. Lurtz followed the smell, accented now by the warring clamour of blades, and he knew that he was close, so, so close to having what he desired. He was captain after all, and that station afforded him certain privileges. There was elf blood to be had, and he would ensure that it was his alone.

-(())-

Legolas had not the strength for this, and even as the Uruk he engaged fell to his blade, he could not effectively dispatch the one that took his place. Legolas knew in his heart that sheer force of numbers would defeat them. The hobbits were fighting, but they were driven by fear rather than skill, and they would not hold for long. But if they were here, then Aragorn could not be far behind -

Something glanced against his side. Not a direct hit, but the surrounding flesh shrieked with a flare of unadulterated agony, and despite his clamouring panic to stand with the hobbits and protect them, his legs folded under him, weak like a new-born foal.

Distracted by his fall, Merry and Pippin called out to him, fearful and keening cries of his name … but their calls changed pitch and tempo, morphing into pleas for help. Through a nightmare-ish haze, he witnessed both hobbits disarmed and hoisted over the hulking shoulders of their captors with little more effort than if they were children playing with sticks. And now they were begging him, the desperate cries of starling chicks attacked by crows to their parent. But just like a starling against such mighty adversaries, there was nothing he could do. Protective instinct pushed him to his feet again, but the spear of agony would not allow him to go any further. Legolas' knees buckled again, and he had not the reserves to fight his collapse.

Somewhere near him, he recognised the warped sound of laughter, and his head raised just enough to let him see his mocker. An Uruk, taller and lighter coloured than his subordinates, was beside him, a great tower of solid muscle and power. He bent over, catching Legolas' chin in his clawed hand and jerking his face skyward, cold and sickly pale eyes lit with sadistic pleasure at the fading light before him.

Legolas had been captured by orcs before. His stay with them had not been prolonged thanks to the efforts of his men, but from his own experiences and what he had witnessed when he had performed the rescue missions himself, elves did not fare well in the company of orcs, less so than any of the other Free Peoples. Their hatred for each other ran deeper than any vein of mithril ever formed, but the orcs punctuated their hate with pain and mutation, humiliation and horrific death. It was a practice amongst the elves of Mirkwood to have the most skilled archer of the party shoot an unrecoverable captured friend. Pilin mîl, the kind arrow. There were darker aspects to being the best archer of the kingdom.

There was no-one here to help him. Legolas could do no more than wait for whatever this creature had in mind for him, and his eyes burned when the image of his father came to him again.

But something to their right drew the Uruk's attention, and to Legolas' shock, he was released. When the hateful yellow eyes focused again on him, though, there was some deeper element to their sadistic glow. Another rough laugh, this time knowing and brutal, and the Uruk mockingly tapped his cheek with his spade-like hand, taps that cut Legolas' skin on his teeth. He moved away, raising a crude horn and giving three yowling blasts that galed through the trees, raking their mark into the very soul of the forest. The surrounding Uruks poured back together at the summons, running like a vile poisoned river and carrying the hobbits away on the torrent into the depths of the trees. The horn echoed again, reaffirming the order to move out. To Legolas, it laughed at his failure.

Legolas could not see Pippin, but a prayer whispered over his lips as he found Merry's eyes and held them for as long as he was able, until the hobbit was stolen from his view. They had been reunited for no more than a handful of minutes, and he had let them be captured -

The sudden hold about his neck was so iron-tight he could not breathe. Legolas' side almost paled to insignificance when he was hauled from the ground by his crushing throat, feeling as though it might rip with the strain. His feet flailed desperately trying to find the ground, but he was fully elevated, and he could not stop the pulse of fear rippling through him when his eyes met those of his captor, brightened with bloodlust and cruel excitement.

-(())-

His feet skidded in detritus again when the ground beneath them bucked and bowed, upsetting the speed of his flight with the sudden uneven gradients. Frodo's heart thundered in his throat for release. He could hear them, so close behind and surging through the trees, their attention focused on finding him. There were so many, and there was no-one in the way, not any more. No Aragorn, no Gimli. Merry and Pippin he could only pray were safe. And Legolas and Boromir…

Forest loam gave way suddenly to stone and Frodo nearly careened into the river when the pebbles his abrupt halt upset tried to carry him into the water. Regaining his balance, he took stock of where he was. The clean scent of the river met him, the not too distant and constant roar of the Falls of Rauros Legolas had spoken of merging with the sound of his own blood rushing past his ears. But as he looked, hopelessness left its bitter taste in the back of his throat…

The span of the river here was vast, and even were it narrower, it ran too fast for him to entertain the notion of swimming for longer than a beat of his panicking heart. For the magnitude of the problem he faced in crossing, the Anduin might as well have been a sixty foot wall.

The clack of disturbed stone behind him announced Sam's arrival. Frodo did not look at him. Despair welled in his chest, hot and consuming. There was no way to cross … and he could hear them getting closer, yammering and baying after him like a pack of savage hounds.

Sam came to his side. He said nothing, his eyes trained on the impossible barrier of water. But when Frodo glanced despairingly at his friend, he saw that the same feeling of hopelessness did not grip him: there was panic in his eyes, but there was a keen edge to them as they danced over the shore and the quick waters beyond. "There're moorings here…" Sam's head flicked between the aged stone posts, spaced evenly apart and still proud after so many years.

"So? We've no boat, Sam," Frodo pointed out, feeling an unreasonable touch of impatience that Sam did not see the obvious.

"No," Sam agreed. "But look at the rope on that one -" he pointed to a limp hang of rotting green cord. "These have been used. Maybe not recently, but there's moorings on the other shore, see? Right over there, near that overhang. There'll be boats here somewhere, I'll warrant…"

Before Frodo could protest, Sam shot up the bank and proceeded to scour the edge. Frodo did not join him, his own hopelessness untouched by Sam's futile optimism. Without giving it any second thought, his hand drifted to the small symmetrical bulge under his shirt. His fingers pressed against it, detecting the contours of oddly cold metal against his skin, and his anxiety ebbed, just a little. It was stupid to even entertain the idea of finding boats, he needed to find some other way, some way that would keep It safe, safe from everyone –

"Here! They're here!"

Frodo's wayward thoughts jarred back, his awareness filling with the sounds of the falls and the not too distant clamour of his hunters, the scents of forest meeting water, the cold light of afternoon. In stunned disbelief, Frodo turned in the direction of Sam's shout, some hundred yards along the bank. He could not see his friend for a minute, and it was only when Sam stepped out from a particularly dense cluster of trees and waved to him enthusiastically that he knew where to go. Sam disappeared under the low branches, and when Frodo joined him, the glow on the other hobbit's face practically lit the dark shelter the boats were hidden in.

There were four of them in total. They were about as far from their abandoned elven boats as it was possible to get. What parts of the wood that were not dark with algae and blotched with lichen were silver with age, splintered and uneven and covered in years of rotted leaves and brittle branches. Silt rested in their damp bellies from past floods, the tightness of the trees and the decaying strands of rope still holding them having saved them from plummeting down the falls. One of them was clearly not serviceable, a large fallen branch having split its hull open. But the others looked sound enough.

Frodo could not believe it.

"Even if we take one and it leaks, it won't matter," Sam was saying quickly, scooping great clods of muck from one boat and inspecting its planking. "So long as we don't go sinking like a rock, it can fill as much as it likes when we get to the other side." Upon closer inspection, the boat had a cracked stern from some impact long ago, and the split had resulted in some of the lower planking warping and opening a seam. Dismissing it as unworthy, Sam moved on to the next one.

"Sam…"

Sam did not hear him, too engrossed in his task. He ran a hand hastily over the wood of the other boat, and found nothing that dissatisfied him: there were no holes or cracks, and the seams appeared tight. This was the one for them, and he snatched two oars from other boats and threw them in. "Help me get it out -"

"Sam."

It was the quality of Frodo's voice that stopped him mid-tug rather than the use of his name. When he looked up into his master's face, he blinked. Realisation swamped him and left him cold. "Oh, no. No. Frodo -"

"I'm sorry, Sam…"

I'm sorry, Sam. Those words. Far too closely akin to what he had been told only earlier that day… I'm sorry, so, so sorry, but... Always to him, always on his shoulders, the feeling of helplessness, choice stripped away and leaving him with nothing. Only ever him. The words were bitter to him now, and hearing them that morning from Legolas as the elf gave up his fight pushed too hard against his boundaries. But to hear them now from Frodo, it was more than he could stand, and beyond anything he was prepared to accept without a fight.

"I have to go alone."

Sam straightened his back, releasing his hold on the rough prow. "Why?" He pushed all of his conviction behind his voice. "You can't go on your own. Not there."

Frodo could not look at him. The hope that he could quietly slip away was shattered, a foolish aspiration ground to dust by circumstance. Simply disappearing, leaving without a word, without having to see the betrayal and upset in Sam's eyes … it was so selfish of him, but he never wanted to embark on this journey with that final image of his dearest friend scarred against his memory…

But he would stand that vision, and see it every waking moment, if it meant he would never see any harm come to Sam in flesh.

Frodo's eyes would not lift to Sam's face at his instruction, vastly preferring training themselves on the bottom of Sam's boat. "This task was given to me -"

"So?" Sam challenged directly. He had never spoken to Frodo so frankly, but his desperation would not allow him to be dismissed, not now. "You were given It to carry, Mister Frodo, and Master Elrond said you was the only one as could." He shook his head, knowing the hot sting in his eyes and refusing to let it become anything more. "But no-one ever said you had to do this alone."

Finally, he raised his eyes, feeling their traitorous burn and doing his best to ignore it. "You have to stay, Sam."

"Tell me why!" Upset peppered Sam's voice, but it only spurred his determination. "Why? If you think I'm stayin' -"

"Because I'm tired of people taking risks for me!"

Sam silenced. Frodo could not stand to look at the pity in his eyes, and he turned his head away towards the mist of the falls. He bit into his cheek, feeling the tumbles of warmth pattering down his skin and resenting them fiercely.

"Who said anythin' about risks? I was just goin' to cook a bit is all."

Frodo's snort betrayed him, and he could not help the fond glance he offered his friend. But their situation sobered him all too quickly. "If you come with me, anything could happen to you." His voice threatened to buckle, but he forced himself on. "If you come with me, you could be hurt. You could…" Frodo could not stomach the word, and did not let it part his lips. But they both knew to what he eluded. He shook his head. "You should go home, Sam. Find Merry and Pippin and go back to the Shire. You'll be safe -"

"But for how long?" There was harshness to his voice that even Sam had never heard before, but he would not be cowed by it. "This thing isn't going to leave the Shire alone, not always. I've just as much right to defend it as you."

Frodo looked away. The thing that made his heart ache was he did see. The Shire, to the hobbit folk, was the world entire … to them, nothing existed beyond the boarders save stories, elves and dwarves and men occupants of the legends, and little more. Gandalf's irregular intrusions were a rude reminder that there were taller folk out there, but he was of the few to ever venture into their lands. Their friends and family lived in safety and shelter and peace, a place where their primary concerns consisted of whether the rains could ruin the pipe weed crops, and who might host the winter solstice celebrations. It was plenty big enough for them.

But Frodo and Sam had had their eyes opened for them: the legends were real, and the Shire was a very, very small place, little more than a tiny pocket of the world, allowed to linger in peace by the outside thanks to nothing more protective than forgetfulness and a wizard's careful deflection. But how long would it be before the attentions of the dark forces realised that there was an entire country of green lands populated by farmers to be plundered?

"I swore I'd stay with you." Sam's tone dipped, the hurt quality of his eyes seeping into his voice, but still refusing to be defeated by Frodo's silence. "I swore it twice, and I can no more betray their trust as I can leave you." Sam shook his head, and the tears he tried to restrain so fervently spilled without shame to the pebbles at their feet. "Don't send me away."

A thin glimmer of daylight touched the prow of the boat. Frodo watched it for a moment, this blade of pure light; it made the silvered wood flash unexpected gold. He did not want to see anything happen to Sam as it had too many others, he could not cope with it … but at the core of it, Sam was right: the Shire was his world, and he had just as much right to fight for it. Frodo's hand drifted into the stream of sunlight. The wood was warmed already, hungry for the blessing touch. Frodo forced himself to look at his friend. Tears tracked his own cheeks, and like Sam, he did not try to hide them any longer. But the hair bristled over his neck and arms at the not too-distant yammer of the orc horn, somewhere in the woods behind them. By his will or no, Frodo could not send Sam away. "Help me get this boat out."

-(())-

The Uruk Aragorn battled backed out of the ranger's reach at the ringing summons of the horn. His two remaining companions mirrored his action uncertainly, glancing nervily at their foes, and into the trees beyond. They bore their teeth and snarled with frustration in the distracted peace, and ever the man and dwarf remained primed and unblinking, daring them to start again. Aragorn's adversary came forward again, scimitar raised and ready – but his loathsome head snapped to the north at the impatient second yowl of the orcish horn. He roared in the ranger's face, a great bellow of anger, but he abandoned the fight all the same, running north into the trees, his two companions not far behind.

Aragorn felt an icy tremor run down his insides. The summons could mean only one thing, and they were in entirely the wrong place. Without waiting for confirmation of Gimli's thoughts, Aragorn launched into pursuit of their enemies, pleading with the Valar that they would not be too late.