Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) Title: So Much for Fellowship (#3187) Author: Brandi Chapters: 4 Archive: Tolkien Category: Lord of the Rings (Movieverse) Description: After the Fellowship has settled in to camp at Parth Galen, Legolas seeks out and confronts Boromir about his lust for the Ring. Words quickly give way to weapons. Published: 09 Dec 2006 Updated: 15 Mar 2007 Warnings: Mild violence Type: Drama Characters: Legolas; Boromir Chapter 1 - Condemnation It should be mine! Damn that Hobbit! He only wants to destroy it so that he can go back to living in blissful ignorance! Always are they ignorant! The world around them crumbles, buckling beneath the influence of the Enemy, but all they care for is their isolated solitude! The Shire is cut off from the world, happily going about its business as it always has, while all around it the land is blackened with evil! They know nothing of the troubles Middle Earth has dealt with for centuries! They are useless! Selfish! Detestable! The shadowed figure sat alone with his dark thoughts on a log near the bank of the river Anduin, his elbows propped on his knees and his chin resting in his hands. The position seemed casual, but every muscle in the powerful body was tensed. It could be mine. I need only reach out and take it. How my fingers itch to hold it! What harm would it do if I borrowed it for awhile? I only wish to bring peace to my people! I would not use it for evil! It could be mine. It should be mine. Long have my people fought bravely against the Shadow. This is Gondor’s only chance for survival. I owe it to my father. I owe it to my people. I owe it to Middle Earth! It should be MINE! It should — The pleasant, alluring thoughts were cut short by the cold press of steel against his throat. His eyes widened. “I know your thoughts,” a voice whispered darkly into his ear, each word punctuated carefully for precise emphasis. The utterance was a cold caress against his skin. “I know what you would do. And I will not have it.” The man had difficulty discerning the identity of the one who had spoken. His hand reached up and curled around the slim wrist that held the dagger under his chin, squeezing cruelly until the fingers slackened and the weapon fell useless to the ground. He released his attacker then, spinning to face him. He was not at all prepared for what he saw, and shock reverberated through him as he blurted, “Legolas.” “Boromir,” came the stiff reply. The sound of his name was nothing like what he was used to hearing spill from the lips of the golden Elf. The lilting nature of the usual inflections of Legolas’s words was gone, having fled in the face of his anger. In fact, upon closer inspection, Boromir realized that nothing about him was familiar. Rage rendered him almost unrecognizable. The fair countenance was contorted in fury, the eyes narrowed to glittering slits and the lips pressed tautly in a thin line. Legolas also hardly recognized his comrade. The sweat-dampened strands of sandy hair fell limply in front of eyes glowing with dark purpose. The ugly thoughts the man had been entertaining were written clearly on every inch of his face, and the Elf blanched. Boromir was obviously not himself. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n The two warriors circled each other warily, never taking their eyes from the other. Tension crackled between them. The irony of their situation was lost to neither of them. After all, they had fought bravely alongside one another until this point, looking out for and protecting the other with absolute resolution. No promise had been made between them, yet they had forged a bond of fraternity through a common purpose that existed no more. No longer were they brothers. No longer were they comrades. Now they were foes. So much for fellowship, Legolas thought sadly. The man was the first to attempt an attack. He lunged forward, but the Elf of Mirkwood proved quicker as he expertly dodged, allowing the other’s momentum to bring him down. Stunned, Boromir lay staring up at the clear sky for a few seconds, trying to get his dazed mind wrapped around what had just taken place, but then a boot slammed into his chest, pinning him hard to the leaf-littered ground and knocking the breath from his lungs in a whoosh of air. Legolas did not remove the crushing weight of his foot as he knelt, grabbing fistfuls of the other’s tunic and dragging the man’s face up until it was mere inches from his. He was utterly sickened by the desire he saw smoldering in the deep-set hazel eyes. Boromir was lost to them, Legolas knew suddenly, and despair almost overwhelmed him at that horrible truth. Boromir wanted to keep the Ring for the good of Gondor, not to destroy it for the good of Middle Earth, and it was too late to hope for his senses to return to him. He was lost. It was too late. It was painfully apparent that the Elf’s patience had taken far too long to run out. He had not trusted the man who represented Gondor from the very beginning of their tenuous acquaintanceship. He had seen Boromir eyeing the Ring lustfully at the Council meeting Elrond had summoned in Rivendell, but had also witnessed him bravely defeating dozens of Orcs in the depths of Moria, and this had restored his faith in the man’s strength and nobility, soothing his concerns for Frodo and his heavy burden. Surely, Legolas had decided, if he could take on the sinister creatures loyal to Sauron, the son of Denethor was strong enough to resist the call of the Ring. How wrong he had been! The man could defeat everything but his own desire. “I know your intent, son of Gondor,” he ground out. Blue eyes blazed into Boromir — no, through him. “And hear me, Elbereth, it will not come to pass as long as I draw breath.” Boromir knew what this Elf was capable of, and he fought valiantly against the instinct to wince. “You have no power against me,” he snarled, “and I do not fear you.” The Elf smirked, seeing the lie for what it was. “I vowed to protect the Ringbearer with my own life, if need be, and if you are a threat, I must eliminate you. For Frodo I would do it gladly, but I do not wish to stain my hands with the weak blood of a mortal man.” Enraged, Boromir slapped Legolas as hard as he could manage. It connected with a force strong enough to snap the archer’s head severely to the side, blond hair flying to cover his face and hide his slack-jawed expression of absolute stupefaction. Boromir knew the element of surprise was his only advantage, and thus did not allow Legolas a chance to regain his senses in enough time to successfully retaliate. The man managed to pull both knees toward his chest and then used his strong legs to throw the Elf off. Legolas crashed into the thick trunk of a massive oak, letting out a yelp of agony as the gnarled roots that stuck up like curled fingers smashed into his side. He did not have a moment to catch his breath as the man hastily advanced toward him. When Boromir reached the prone figure, he stared down, his glaring eyes filled with dark mirth. “And you call yourself a warrior?” he sneered. “You are about as sturdy as a sapling, foolish prince.” Boromir expected a verbal comeback. He certainly was unprepared for a physical one. Legolas expertly wrapped a foot around the other’s ankle, yanking the man off his feet with one swift tug. There came a satisfying thud as Boromir landed in an unceremonious heap. Having properly quelled the threat, Legolas stood finally, his expression disgusted as he brushed himself off and then spun on his heel to leave. But this man would not so easily be defeated. The moment the prince turned his back, believing his mission complete and meaning to walk away from the skirmish before things got even worse, Boromir took advantage of the opportunity awarded him, leaping to his feet. He sprinted toward and slammed full-force into the retreating form. Both man and Elf went down hard, tumbling over and over through the dry leaves that blanketed the forest floor in a frantic struggle for dominance. “The Ring will tear your mind asunder, Boromir!” Legolas cried as their thrashing limbs tangled together, desperate to make his friend see how misled he was to think the bane of Isildur could be anything but evil and terrible. “It will drive you first to madness and then to despair!” “The Ring is the last hope for my people!” the other thundered, for the moment crushing the Elf beneath him and glaring down at him. “I will not let an impetuous young Elf stand in the way of keeping my promise to my father! I am a man of my word! Men have struggled against the might of Sauron long enough! The Ring will make things right again! It is the only chance we have left for survival against the shadows that threaten to consume our city! Our peril is great, and its power is enough to protect us!” “It will destroy you!” Legolas’s eyes were brimming with tears as he looked up at Boromir, who had risen to his feet once more and was hovering threateningly above him. The ageless blue orbs pleaded with him to listen. “And what of your promise to Frodo? You gave him your word also! Have ALL traces of honor forsaken you in your greed?” “It will save Gondor!” the man shouted, furiously driving his boot into the Elf’s exposed stomach. Legolas cried out as Boromir’s foot connected with vulnerable flesh. Instinctively, he curled into a protective fetal position, and was immediately rewarded with a swift kick to the left kidney. Gasping as pain flowered through him, he squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears spilling from their corners to trickle onto the ground. Boromir was on top of him again in an instant, his heart unyielding to the pitiful picture the golden prince made in his agony. He shifted all his weight atop his opponent, pressing his knees into the archer’s chest with dreadful force. “Honor, be damned — Frodo be damned — the Ring will be mine!” he growled, closing his hands around the graceful neck and constricting brutally. He watched with sick fascination as the blue eyes widened in mounting horror at the realization that this could easily become a fight to the death. The man was perfectly willing to kill him over the Ring, and he watched this knowledge creep over the Elf’s face. Legolas’s fear, normally hidden by a careful and impenetrable mask of stoicism, was betrayed by his horrified expression. Legolas had foolishly underestimated how far Boromir might be willing to take this. It seemed fate had decreed that he would pay the highest price for his fierce loyalty to the young Hobbit from the Shire. He would pay with his life. He had already made peace with the resolution that he would die for this cause if he had to, and indeed harbored no qualms whatsoever about that prospect, but this was not the way he intended to do it. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n It seemed forever dragged by as Legolas fought for air before unconsciousness began tugging insistently at the edges of his spirit. But he would not give up so easily. Blindly, his hands fluttered up and locked around Boromir’s, trying vainly to loosen the offending grasp. Then the Elf thought better of it, reared his arm back, and sent his elbow smashing into the other’s face. Screaming in rage, Boromir fell onto his side, cupping his hand over his nose as bright blood ran from it. There came a blur of gold and green, and then Legolas was upon him. Boromir’s free fist twisted in the pale hair ruthlessly enough to elicit a cry of agony from the prince, but Legolas did not relinquish his position of control. “The Ring will never be yours!” he declared through teeth gritted with the effort to hold the body of Boromir beneath him. His own body was screaming in agony. “And who will stop me? Frodo does not have the strength to defy me,” Boromir sneered, blood still dripping from his nostrils to collect in his unkempt hair. “If I so wished, I could dispose of him easily, much as I intend for you.” Legolas maneuvered easily to yank the other to his feet without sacrificing his advantage. He took him by the shoulders and shook him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “You will not lay a hand on Frodo,” he hissed. “Do you understand?” “Frodo is hardly sturdy enough these days to stand on his own two feet. How would he succeed in stopping me?” “Then why do you suppose a Hobbit carries the Ring, rather than a man?” the prince deadpanned. “Even Frodo, a creature more than half your size and weakened by the evil that casts its dark influence over him, is stronger than you.” “The Ring would be better carried by me. The Halfling’s resolve is decimated by its promises; he is tempted by its call even as I am. Do you not see? He is no more suited to destroy it than Isildur. Elrond is a fool to think Frodo should bear the burden.” “We all will help Frodo bear it. We each have a part to play in aiding the Ringbearer. Gandalf advises him with his endless wisdom. Aragorn, Gimli, and I protect him with our respective weapons. The other Hobbits bolster his courage with their unfaltering optimism and playful banter.” His grip on the tensed shoulders tightened. “And for your part, you will leave him alone. If you try to harm him, none of us will take pity on you for your destroyed mind. I know your skills with a sword and would not seek to discredit them, but believe me, son of Denethor, seven to one is more than even you can come out of with success. Not only are the odds stacked against you, the Fellowship is as well. Mind your step. I know your dark thoughts, and Aragorn suspects as much.” “I do not fear the Fellowship, Aragorn especially. The heir of Isildur will never rise to his destiny. He will never be more than a tracker, a healer, a ranger. He will forever be limited by his lack of bravery. Aragorn is weak.” That did it. Legolas’s reaction was instantaneous. He grabbed the man of Gondor roughly by his powerfully broad shoulders, slamming him into the trunk of a nearby tree. The Elf looked as if he wanted to strangle Boromir with his bare hands. His lips curled into a snarl. “Do not ever speak that way about Aragorn again,” he all but shouted. “EVER! That man will be your king someday, and if I must, I will follow you to his crowning ceremony and force you onto your knees in deference to him! You will lower your chin when he addresses you if I have to take you by the hair and drag your head down myself. You will respect him or live to regret it. By the Valar, Boromir, I swear it!” Boromir laughed cruelly. “You and your stupid ranger sicken me.” “You sicken me, Boromir,” Legolas announced, shaking his head. His face was contorted in disgust. “You and your stupid Ring sicken me, and I would like nothing more than to destroy you once and for all before you destroy Middle Earth once and for all, but to my mind you are not worth my energy. It would better be exerted for the protection for good rather than wasted on the protection from evil.” He released Boromir then, backing away, shoulders slumped. There would be no reaching the senses of the man now, he knew. He wanted only to walk back to the small camp the Fellowship had taken respite in, and forget that this whole thing had ever happened. He was too late. He sighed. “Go now, Boromir, and snuff the fires of your temper before returning to camp. I do not wish to worry the others.” The Elf turned then, meaning once more to walk away from the confrontation, but again he quickly regretted his gesture of clemency as his sharp ears detected a cold, metallic ring as Boromir unsheathed his sword from its ornate scabbard. “I will not stand to have you insult me, son of Thranduil.” The hatred the prince perceived in the other’s voice at once chilled his heart and seared his soul. Turning back to face the threat, Legolas did not hesitate to return the gesture of warning. He quickly reached behind him and drew his long knives. “Nor will I stand to have you threaten the well-being of the Ringbearer for your own selfish reasons.” His quiver and bow he set against a tree, knowing that his favored long-range weapon would do him no good in such an intimate confrontation. All this was done without so much as glancing away. “And destroying the last hope of Middle Earth is not selfish?!” Boromir growled. Deep blue eyes locked now onto Boromir’s face, ablaze with rage. “Stand down, mortal,” he ordered coolly, leveling his knives at chest-level and standing stiffly, ready to leap forward at any moment should the action prove necessary. “You are a fool indeed if you think you could kill me.” “Your touting of your immortality is futile,” the man sneered, “for I know that it only makes you eternal, not invincible. A child of the Firstborn may still die upon the sharp end of a sword.” Legolas sighed. “I do not wish to kill you. We were friends once, if you can be bothered to ignore the call of the Ring long enough to think for yourself and recall it. Once we fought on the same side. Have you already forgotten?” “I never much cared for you, Elf. I always knew you might prove too perceptive for your own good.” “I have tried to be fair with my assumptions about you. I even sympathized with your ignorance at the Council, Boromir,” Legolas said. “You had no idea then what this weapon of the Enemy could do. You did not know its evil purpose, but now don’t you see what it is doing to Frodo? How it deteriorates him? Would you wish that degradation of spirit on yourself? Is the Ring worth more than your dignity?” “This is none of your concern, Legolas!” Boromir snapped. “Your people are leaving these shores. What need have you to stay and defend these lands? Men will prevail. We will restore Middle Earth to the glorious days of our forefathers. The Elves will fade until they are nothing but the stuff of legend. And men will govern all, and this world will flourish for it. Your work here is over.” Legolas’s eyes snapped fire. “This is my world too!” “Your time here wanes. The Elves have controlled Middle Earth long enough. Give Gondor a chance to rule. We are a valiant nation of men.” “I do not plan to leave Middle Earth for many centuries yet. My work here is far from over. I would see these lands restored, the kingdoms rebuilt, and allegiances reformed. And I do not wish to work beneath the shadows of Sauron any longer! If the Ring falls into the hands of the men of Gondor, however valiant they may be, Boromir, no force will stop the armies of the Dark Lord from taking the city and recapturing their prize.” Boromir frowned. “We have long held the host of Sauron at bay and kept him from sundering our home.” “As have my people,” the Elf returned, “and Mirkwood is closer to Mordor than your city. We Elves are not foolish enough —or arrogant enough, perhaps— to believe we are enough to contend with Sauron. It will take the union of every army fighting for prosperity to defeat the Eye and those who are loyal to it. One nation is not nearly enough, even yours.” “With the help of the proud men of Gondor, I could crush Sauron.” “You are nothing but a weakling. You cannot keep your eyes, mind, or heart off a tiny circle of gold. It drives you to distraction in a time of war! You cannot focus on what needs to be done for your lust for power and dominance! And you think your people will have the strength of spirit to lead this world after the Elves have gone?” Boromir chose to ignore the insults. He smirked. “It calls to you even as it does me. Do not dare to insult me with futile denial. It whispers promises of valor and power into your pointed ears as well, dear prince, and I know this with absolute certainty.” “Aye,” Legolas answered coolly, “it calls to me. But when the Dark One uses the Ring as his vessel of communication to me, I hear naught but falsehoods and deceptions. I do not crave valor or power. I do not wish to be King of Mirkwood, much less of Middle Earth. I hope that my father never abdicates his throne —or Valar forbid, is slain— for I am wholly content as a prince of my forest and I wield my authority only when necessary to protect my people. “I do not allow others to bow to me, and would never expect deference. I am an equal, and I do what I can with the power given me, and do not wish for more. Why is that not ever enough for you? Why must you greedy men always desire more? “Above all else, I crave peace, and the Ring will never be able to grant that.” A tense moment of silence followed. The two warriors still held their weapons trained on each other, but neither made a threatening move. Their discussion had cooled their tempers for the moment at least. Boromir tightened his hold on his sword’s hilt, but only in frustration, not intent to make use of it. “The Ring promises eternal life, fame, and power, if not literally, then at least in legends and lore. For you, it is not alluring, for you are already immortal, well-renowned, and royal. All this is a given. For men, it is different. We live briefly and then we die. If we wish to be remembered, we must do valiant things worthy of the scrolls of history.” Boromir was utterly speechless as he watched a single sparkling tear slide down the pale cheek. Legolas turned his face away sharply, mortified, closing his eyes. It took all the man’s resolve to steel himself against the shock and pity that coursed over his spirit. The Elf refused to look at the man. He was clearly ashamed, but when he spoke, his voice betrayed none of it. “Immortality is a curse as well as a blessing. To be forced to live forever, watching those you love and those who love you be claimed by the cold hand of Death, and knowing that you will never see them again. That is the irony of immortality: it offers no ability to stay or even slow the inevitable ends of others, and no advice to assuage the pain of outliving.” Boromir shook his head. None of this made sense to him! He wanted to know what forever felt like! Why was that so much to ask? He did not understand why anyone would speak ill of such a wondrous present from the powers that be, and nothing about Legolas gave Boromir reason to think he deserved it. And yet he, along with the rest of the Firstborn, would survive on and on until he tired of these lands and answered the insistent call of the sea, while mere mortals such as himself would be forced to succumb sooner or later to the call of death. For them, leaving these lands was not a choice. It was the cruelest fate. “You would tout and then renounce your granted eternal life? I would give anything for that gift, and you think nothing of it! If all Elves think as you do, each one of you is a disgrace to your maker! IlĂşvatar ought to be ashamed of you, Legolas!” The Elf seethed before him, but said nothing. He did not wish to offer credibility to the stupidity of the man’s words by acknowledging them. That did not, of course, mean they did not infuriate him. Thunder rumbled threateningly above the two warriors. They did not even appear to hear it. They were languishing now in a silent stare-down. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n Boromir’s patience proved inferior. He broke the solitude of the stalemate. Howling a battle cry, he rushed toward Legolas, who readied himself by spreading his feet, effectively assuming a better fighting stance. Narrowing his sharp eyes, he watched Boromir’s rapid approach. Suddenly, everything was quiet, as if the whole world watched the attack with bated breath. The man swung the gleaming sword in a graceful arc. The silver blade whistled as it sliced through the air, descending upon its target with mind-boggling speed. If Legolas failed to stay the progress, it would undoubtedly divide the Elf completely and neatly in half. Fortunately, Elven reflexes proved reliable. Legolas lifted his crossed knives at precisely the right moment and caught the sword of Gondor between them. A shower of hot sparks exploded as metal screeched shrilly upon metal. He grunted with the effort of halting the rapid, deadly descent of the heavy sword. His wrists ached in agony, but his trembling fingers held fast to his weapons’ hilts, the knuckles white with strain. Bracing his feet, Boromir stood his ground. His unwavering determination was clear on his face, but his arms were positively shaking with the strained effort of holding his opponent at bay. Legolas locked his elbows and lunged forward, shoving Boromir backwards with astounding strength. The man stumbled. Boromir spun, swinging his mighty sword. Had Legolas not ducked, it would have severed the blond head cleanly at the neck. Retaliation was swift. The lithe warrior’s movements were in perfect rhythm, like poetry in motion. His knives flashed in the foliage-filtered sunlight as they sang a fell song of death. He leapt forward and slashed with unparalleled speed, agility, and precision borne of centuries of practice and experience. Time skidded to a halt as his left blade sliced through vulnerable skin. They both froze in sudden understanding of the startling turn of events. Checkmate. Legolas seemed almost as startled by his successful hit as his opponent, who let out a howl of agony. They both watched with morbid interest as hot blood spurted from the laceration on his right bicep, staining the crackling leaves at their feet a deep crimson. Utterly caught up in the moment, Legolas had no time to react as Boromir cuffed him, and he fell against an enormous boulder with a surprised cry, slamming into the unyielding rock. Releasing a rather loud string of Elvish obscenities, he tried to stand, but Boromir’s right foot connected severely with his chest. Legolas opened his mouth to scream in anguish, but no sound came out. There was simply no air! He could hardly bring himself to inhale. When he finally managed to suck air into his burning lungs, his ribs shouted in protest, and he could only gasp. They were at best fractured, and at worst broken. The man stepped forward and continued his assault, striking the archer on the side of his head with the hilt of his sword. The impact was unbelievably afflicting, consolidated in that one area with such force that it broke the delicate skin of the scalp. Warm, sticky blood oozed from it, mingling red with gold as it streaked through his hair. Legolas’s sight blurred, but he fought to remain alert. He could not afford to fall into blessed oblivion, although with the pain he was suffering, it seemed awfully tempting. But Boromir was advancing quickly, and Legolas knew he had to get to his feet before the man could do more damage, and it was horribly clear from the malicious glint in the hazel eyes that that was exactly what he intended to do, should the Elf give him the chance. For the life of him, however, Legolas could not get his shaking legs to cooperate. The pain was so intense it made his vision swim. He groaned in misery, struggling to rise, and managed to lift himself almost halfway before tipping forward and landing on his knees. There he knelt, too tired to do anything more, his shoulders slumping and his head lowering in shameful defeat. Boromir was upon him then. He grabbed a greedy handful of the abundant blond hair which had fallen forward to curtain his face. He yanked viciously, forcing the kneeling warrior to look up. Legolas stared up at him, hate burning in his clear eyes, but Boromir was undeterred. “Stupid Elf,” he growled. “You will not get in my way. The Ring should have been entrusted to me. I would see my city restored to all its blinding glory! I would see the Tower of Ecthelion shimmer brilliantly in the midmorning sun! I would see my father’s assumed kingdom stand strong against the forces of evil! What gives you the right to begrudge me such a simple desire?!” “You are an idiot, Boromir, if you believe the Ring could serve any will but Sauron’s! You cannot wield it for any purpose other than vengeance! It is evil!” Boromir struck again the insolent Elf. His voice was chilling as he declared, “You would take the Ring if you believed it could save your home! If it could protect Mirkwood, you would steal it as I would! You are as bound to that green forest as I am to that white city, Legolas, and if you love it as much as you say, you would do anything to keep it safe and see it flourish!” “I would not bring that wretched thing within five hundred leagues of Mirkwood!” “You lie,” spat Boromir. “You may not long for power, but you long for prosperity. The Ring could grant that, if only you wield it for the right reasons.” “Frodo bears the Ring! It is his burden! He made the choice to carry it when no one else would! What gives you the right to declare it yours? If you desired it so desperately, why did you not take it at the Council?” Boromir frowned. “Frodo? Frodo. Always Frodo! Curse Frodo! I have done nothing to Frodo! Everyone worries for him, but you find it appropriate to threaten me without warrant for his sake! Why do you insist on delivering a preemptive accusation against actions I have never committed?” “It is only a matter of time,” the Elf answered calmly. “Clearly you are not in possession of enough self-control to resist the sickness within you.” “My, but you are arrogant, son of Thranduil. Arrogant, and a hypocrite. You possess not the self-control to resist the temptation to threaten me, and over such a trivial matter!” “I did not threaten you because I was spoiling for an argument! I am trying to help you, Boromir! Can you not see that through the haze of your twisted lust?” “The Ring is MINE!” the man thundered, suddenly leaping toward the other warrior in a rapid attack. Legolas stepped aside, then kicked Boromir’s now quickly passing form, and he fell with a resounding thump, dropping his blade in the long grass. “It will never be yours.” Legolas spoke with total conviction, ire lacing each word. After a few minutes, Boromir turned over limply, his muscles aching from the collision with the very solid forest floor. Suddenly, a flash of silver drew his gaze, and the man was shocked beyond belief by the dire circumstance he found himself caught in now. A blade nicked again at the skin of his throat, this time drawing beads of bright red blood. How did we come full circle back to this moment? he thought warily, then decided with no lack of derision, Perhaps it’s Elf-magic. They’ve learned how to travel back in time. Indeed he was realizing quickly that he was in the very same predicament he had first faced before this ugly confrontation had really escalated into full swing. It was not a knife of Elvish making, however, that Legolas gripped between hands slick with sweat. Not this time. This time, it was the sword of Gondor. The irony of being threatened with his own weapon was not lost on Boromir, but he hardly had the time to mull it over. “I should kill you now,” the Elf mused aloud in a chilly murmur. “I should end your miserable life. It is painfully clear to me that you will only cause this Fellowship grief, should I allow your skulking existence to continue. You are worthless now that the Ring has taken hold of your soul and sundered you from your sense of reason. It steals your very essence, Boromir, and fills the void with dark magic. I will never trust you again, and I cannot afford to be so distracted while on such a dangerous quest. There are more important things to consider now than the life of one man.” “Then kill me,” Boromir hissed. Legolas gritted even white teeth, wanting more than anything to make good on his word. He tried, but his mind kept insisting that he have mercy on the man, who clearly was beside himself with greed and lust beyond his control. The Ring had that effect on everyone who listened to its taunting whispers. Even Frodo seemed to sway under its influence. He had watched the desire flicker through the Hobbit’s eyes, had seen him grip the dreaded thing through the fabric of his shirt and smile in relief that it still hung there. It obviously drove him to distraction. A strange thought occurred to him, pulling him from his anger into introspection. Rationalization, even. Would he kill Frodo, if the small creature exhibited the same symptoms? No! I could never! But with Boromir…it is different. He is dangerous. Frodo is innocent and unskilled. Boromir is quite adept with a blade, and as such could easily kill us all if we stand in the way of his beloved lust-object…perhaps I should see to it that he never has the chance… -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n Just as his resolve to do what had to be done for the good of the others was settling into terrible place, the Ring released Boromir from its foul embrace. Suddenly, the shadow lifted from the man’s gaze, startling the Elf. Boromir’s face went lax for a moment, and then his expression turned to one of honest confusion as he realized the Elf was holding him at knifepoint; and with his own sword, no less. “Legolas?” he asked haltingly, his voice meek. “What are you…” He trailed off in shock. The archer lowered the tip of the sword hesitantly, unsure if he could trust the man. Could this be a ruse? However, Boromir made no move to take advantage of the grace offered, and Legolas relaxed slightly with a sigh of relief. Either Boromir had fought against the shadow and won, or the Ring had simply tired of its seduction of him and had released him. Either way, for the time being at least, the terrible malice had fled. “You are hurt!” Boromir exclaimed, suddenly noticing the blood that dripped from the tips of the golden hair. “Who did this?!” he roared, leaping to his feet and looking around angrily as if hoping to see the retreating form of some enemy. Legolas could not fight a tired smile. This was the Boromir he knew. Always the protector, this soldier of Gondor. “You,” he replied simply. He immediately regretted admitting the truth when he saw the reaction it invoked. The man’s mouth dropped open as if his jaw had come unhinged. He just gaped, looking beside himself with horror. Ashamed for his brutal honesty in the face of such pitiful bewilderment, Legolas dropped his gaze. Seeking to distract himself, he bent at the waist gingerly, intending to wipe the blood from the shining shaft of the sword in the grass. Quickly he straightened with a gasp, his hand flying to his injured ribcage, as if afraid it had cracked anew with the motion. His bruised abdomen was aching from the movement too, and his stomach churned with the assault of pain. His eyes drifted closed as he sucked in a pained breath. Elbereth, but Boromir had wounded him far worse than he had first imagined. The man was watching this awful sequence of pathetic events with misty eyes, his expression as miserable as if his heart had been rent in two. He thought the only injury he had visited upon the fair Elf was the head-wound. Apparently, he had wreaked absolute havoc on the slender body. “Oh, Legolas, what have I done?” he asked, his voice barely above a meek whisper as he fought to speak around the lump that formed in his throat. “What madness brought me to commit this atrocity?” “The Ring,” came the dry response. Boromir was not surprised by this revelation, but he was disgusted and angered that the stupid adornment had caused such strife between the prince and himself. However, he was relieved to notice that the Elf’s voice was devoid of the disgust and anger he felt so strongly. His stomach knotted as he realized that Legolas simply sounded exhausted, and he was not entirely sure that that was any better. Boromir hung his head. “I am so sorry, Legolas. Please do not take my actions as evidence of hostility. I assure you I feel nothing but respect for you, and I am utterly furious to know I caused you such harm. I cannot imagine the dark forces that possessed me to do such a thing.” “You were not yourself,” the Elf offered wearily in explanation. Carefully he took the still-bloodied sword by the blade, offering its hilt to Boromir, who regarded it with eyes wide with apprehension as though dreading what might occur should he have his hands on it again. Seeking to reassure, Legolas grinned weakly. “It matters not. Consider it forgiven, son of Denethor.” Warily, Boromir accepted the weapon and quickly sheathed it without so much as glancing at it. He obviously no longer trusted himself. “Leave me,” Boromir whispered, but the words were without fury. It was more a pathetic plea than a harsh command. “Boromir—” “No, please, I know what you would say. Please do not tell me that it is all right. It is not all right. Things will never be all right again. I threatened, attacked, and wounded a Firstborn. An ally. A friend. How will I ever redeem myself? No. Leave me, please. I will not take a chance and possibly hurt you again, Legolas. I will be fortunate indeed if I ever can live with myself knowing the wrong I have already done to you.” The Elf stepped lightly up to his side, placing a consoling hand on the slouched shoulder. “You were not yourself,” he repeated quietly, his long fingers squeezing in a gentle, brotherly gesture of unity, “but I am glad you have returned.” Boromir sighed, looking down at the pale hand that ensured the sweet grasp the Elf had offered. His thoughts were sorrowful. To have felt a touch of immortality in the touch of an immortal. May that be enough. May you never long for more. Chapter 2 - Absolution The Elf's words were meant to comfort, but the fact that he offered forgiveness so readily only made the man of Gondor feel like the world's biggest wretch. “Legolas, for what it’s worth, I appreciate your amnesty, but I do not expect to find absolution for what I’ve done for quite some time yet.” “Consider it forgiven,” he repeated softly, then released his brotherly grasp and moved as if to retrieve the bow he had abandoned, but seemed wary of bending. Boromir was quick to offer his assistance. He also noticed the white knives glinting dully in the grass where they had fallen during the skirmish, and picked them up as well. He wisely did not say a word as he gathered the weapons, knowing that he could very easily do even further damage to the proud Elf’s dignity. Legolas shot him a noncommittal look as he accepted the proffered items, but his eyes glittered with relief and appreciation. “I will return shortly,” Boromir told him, “after I have made a little sense of this all and can think clearly again.” The Elf did not respond for a moment. He was busy cleaning the blood from his left knife with his gray cloak. He looked up as he slipped both blades back into the sheath nestled against his quiver and settled the strap over one shoulder. Legolas was silent for a moment, as if unsure that he should leave Boromir and risk him slipping back under the spell of the Ring. His judgment warred with itself for a moment, but then he nodded to his friend. “I will see you at the camp, then.” -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n He returned to the campsite near the river’s edge, leaving Boromir to lick his wounds and come to terms with the reality of his circumstances. He could hear Aragorn and Gimli discussing the merits of stone construction and the Hobbits bickering amongst themselves long before he reached the place where they had set up camp some hours earlier. When he came into view, however everyone fell silent. The other members of the Fellowship were startled beyond comprehension by the sight of the Elf. It was far from what they had come to expect of the fair prince of Mirkwood. During the vicious spar, the flaxen hair had come free of the thin plaits that had secured it. Tight waves crimped the top half, which lay haphazardly over his tunic in disarray. Blood stained locks of it a strangely pale crimson, mud was caked in it, and leaves were woven through the tangled locks. His warrior’s finery was covered in a fine spray of blood. His bow he held in limp fingers, and his quiver of arrows was slung absently over one shoulder. Not surprisingly, the sensitive Ringbearer was the most shocked out of all of them. His wide blue eyes were dark with confusion as they regarded the lithe Elf, but as he passed by Legolas simply ruffled the mop of curly hair and offered a soft, reassuring smile that the Hobbit was quick to return gratefully, seeming slightly comforted. The archer intended to head straight for his bedroll, but stopped short when he met the glare Aragorn had leveled upon him. Legolas opened his mouth, but did not have a chance to speak before the ranger stalked up to him, grabbed him by the elbow, and veritably dragged him a few feet away from the campsite. The man looked him over, and his brows furrowed, his eyes glinting with a trace of irritation. Aragorn seemed to inherently understand what had transpired. Legolas had been gone for quite awhile, which, to be fair, wouldn’t be unusual under normal circumstances. The Elf liked his privacy. But then there was the fact that Boromir as well had been absent. It wasn’t an enormous challenge to put two and two together. “What happened to you?!” the man hissed. “You look like you have just returned from battle!” For his part, the Elf just smiled dryly. “You could say that.” “Oh, Legolas, what did you do to him?” asked Aragorn, his tone heavy with concern and dread. He was not angry, for he knew Legolas was not given to fits of temper unless real reason drove him; however, he as well knew the prowess of the Elf in sparring. He worried for Boromir’s sake. “The Ring and its keeper are safe,” replied the archer calmly. His expression betrayed nothing as he shrugged elegantly. Aragorn released a frustrated sigh. “Is he still breathing?” the ranger inquired, not a trace of humor in his voice. “Of course,” Legolas answered with a snort hardly befitting an Elf of his breeding and stature. “He is only a bit riled. I barely nicked him with my knife, and we tussled a bit, but other than that he is completely unharmed. If you must know this to understand that I was not taken by insanity: Boromir drew first against me. I only wanted to confront him verbally. I never wished for it to escalate to a physical confrontation.” “I don’t care who started it, Legolas; you two are not children. I cannot speak for Boromir’s temper, but you are more mature than this.” “Look at me, Aragorn!” His friend spread his hands wide in a gesture of supplication. “Look at me! Do you honestly believe this was the work of a sane man?! What would you have me do the next time he assaults me, Aragorn? Shall I just stand there and let him maim me beyond recognition?” “Lower your voice,” Aragorn whispered as he glanced furtively toward the foursome huddled together by the fire. Gimli was not his concern; he had fallen asleep and still snored on, oblivious to the bickering between the two longtime friends. “You are frightening the Hobbits.” His words hit their mark, and Legolas’s eyes darkened. Surely he did not wish for that! He felt a twinge of regret as he looked over his shoulder and found that the small creatures were studying him worriedly, their eyes large and fearful. “The Ringbearer is safe,” Legolas repeated, much softer now. “That is what matters.” “What happened back there?” the ranger asked in a tight tone. He was obviously tiring of these cryptic responses. “It is under control.” The archer refused to say more, which further annoyed Aragorn. “He could have killed you!” Aragorn’s hold on his temper was slipping. “Do you know the danger of the situation you stepped into?” The blond Elf folded his arms across his chest. “This whole journey is dangerous, Aragorn.” “Then do not further endanger yourself!” “Far be it from me,” Legolas intoned. His friend frowned at him as he raked his fingers through his dark hair, annoyed with his sarcasm. “Legolas, this quest is causing enough emotional duress as it is, and tensions between the members can only further complicate things. As the new leader of this Fellowship, I must know when confrontations arise, and deal with them as a mediator, but I cannot do this without the cooperation of everyone. You are being very difficult, and consequently you are making my duty that much more difficult to uphold. I wish that you would desist with your vigilantism.” “Vigilantism?! Nay, Aragorn, this was not about justice. This was about safety, and not just for the Nine Walkers, but for Middle Earth. He wants the Ring, Aragorn, and you know what would happen if no one stopped him from taking it. I did what had to be done. I observed a problem, and quelled it before it could grow into a catastrophe. After all, is that not our purpose here in this Fellowship, Aragorn?” The bright eyes searched his. “Is it not our duty to protect Frodo from danger, both present and perceived?” When there was no immediate response, Legolas shook his head. “I am tired, Aragorn. May I return now? Is this discussion over?” Sighing, the man nodded, then watched as his friend walked back to the fire and gingerly took a seat before it, mindful of injuries that Aragorn could not see. He would have to treat them as best he could, and sooner rather than later, if Legolas would only abandon his pride long enough to allow him access. But for the moment, he let the Elf be and stood alone with his concerns. His restless mind had not been calmed at all by his friend’s explanations about what had happened. He could feel that the altercation had been more serious than Legolas had led him to believe. It had not just been a tussle in the mud to try to distract Boromir long enough for him to see how stupid and dangerous his desires were. After all, if the archer came to blows with another, it was because he felt there was no other option. The implications were not promising. Aragorn looked to the line of trees from which Legolas had emerged, sighing to himself and letting his shoulders droop with the weight of his worry. Whatever happened, Valar, let that be enough. Let nothing else happen within this Fellowship to endanger it. Boromir may have learned his lesson today. Soon he may find strength enough to ignore the Ring’s seduction. Somehow, though, Aragorn doubted this. Chapter 3 - Betrayal Author's Note: All characters, proper names of locations, and events are accredited to the creative genius of J.R.R. Tolkien, to whose memory I bow deeply and offer homage. Sincerest gratitude is extended to my reviewers; you have no idea what your encouragement has done to boost my desire to flesh out this tale. Feedback is of course welcome on this chapter as well, and I hope you enjoy the update! –Brandi -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n The fight at Amon Hen was nothing compared to what probably awaited the Fellowship down the road, but it was still something to be marveled at for its ferocity and violence. The moment Gimli encountered a rare break in the fray, he paused just long enough to yell out to Aragorn the question that had been nagging at him since the ranger left the camp. “Did you find Frodo?” He had been itching to ask it since he and Legolas had come to Aragorn’s side to help him ward off the Orc attack. Aragorn swallowed, not yet ready to admit his shortcomings. The truth was that he had chased Frodo away after nearly succumbing to the call of the Ring. The Hobbit obviously still believed his friend and protector was above the superficial temptation of the tool of Sauron, but he learned otherwise very quickly and likely would not fully trust the ranger again for quite awhile. He had desperately wanted to believe that Boromir’s absence from camp, presumably to gather firewood, around the same time Frodo had disappeared was coincidental, but the Hobbit had later informed him that the man had tried to snatch the Ring from him. Never one to be mistaken for a fool, Frodo had slipped the Ring on and vanished, then hastily made his retreat back to Amon Hen, where his subsequent reunion and near-confrontation with Aragorn had taken place. The poor Hobbit obviously had no luck; as for the ranger, he was swiftly losing confidence in himself. But his lack of ability to resist the power of the Eye was not his main concern at the moment. The Uruk-Hai that had poured from the woods like black oil were ruthless, and the battle at Amon Hen had only intensified after the Uruks realized that Gimli and Legolas had joined in. Aragorn shouted his response in the Dwarf’s general direction as his blade ripped easily through the leather-clad shoulder of an Uruk, cleanly severing the arm. “No, but he is probably fine.” The Dwarf’s dark brow furrowed in confusion. “Probably?” His reply was lost to the commotion of the battle, and before he could inquire further, the Uruks began advancing on him once more, foul weapons drawn and at the ready. He growled and prepared to begin defending himself once more. No complaints; just determination. As for Legolas, he was completely absorbed in his task. He had thus far not had a moment of peace, and therefore had no opportunities to chat. It seemed the Uruks were particularly interested in doing battle with him, but that was just as well, as he was very much interested in doing away with them. He darted and spun, his knives flashing as they dealt death from every imaginable angle (and some that seemed impossible.) There were a few precious occasions during which he was awarded an opportune moment and a distant target, and he’d swiftly switch to his bow and fire it with elven surety. He was completely focused on his task of the dispatching of these disgusting beasts, yet he could easily hear Gimli behind him, grunting with a mixture of annoyance and pleasure every time his axe met its mark. Aragorn was a few yards away, still fending off the filthy creatures with skilled slashes of his confidently wielded sword, AndĂşril. Suddenly, a horn blasted from somewhere deep in the forest. It sounded as if it came from miles away, yet was so loud it ripped through the commotion of the battle. It was unmistakable. Each of the three comrades recognized it immediately, and it sent a wave of concern through each of them. It was the horn of Gondor. Boromir was summoning them. Aragorn shot a desperate look in Legolas’s direction. The Elf understood his friend’s fear, but he was convinced that the three of them were safer as a group. Who knew what lurked out there in the darkness of the wood, waiting for them to break away and become vulnerable. He wanted to reassure himself, and Aragorn as well, that Boromir was a capable soldier, and could take care of himself and handle any situation he might find himself in. He was a trained defender of Gondor, after all, and the Elf knew firsthand how formidable a foe the man could be in a one-on-one spar, so he doubted highly that having many targets would lessen his skill. Boromir seemed to be resigned to the philosophy that the more targets, the merrier, anyway. He’d be fine. He might just be blowing the horn once to warn them that a host of Uruk-Hai were coming their way. Typically, multiple blasts meant assistance was needed; just one meant to be on alert for approaching foes. Yes, that had to be it. Then the horn sounded once more, shattering his moment of confidence. Legolas tried to be reasonable. Boromir was more than a comrade to Aragorn, he was a kindred spirit. He was a fellow man. Legolas sighed, convincing himself in spite of his trepidation that he would do the same thing if he was in Aragorn’s place, and it was an Elf that needed his aide. He would not be able to find it in himself to wait. A slight inclination of his friend’s golden head was all the encouragement Aragorn needed. He made a hasty escape from the skirmish, taking off into the forest at a desperate sprint, with about a dozen of Saruman’s carefully bred Orcs on his heels. Legolas’s stomach instantly tangled into a mess of anxious knots. His mind was screaming. Stop him! Do not let him go! Stop him! STOP him! But he could not heed its warning. He was too busy defending himself against the five Uruks that had advanced on him to watch his friend fleeing out of his range of vision. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n As for the fleeing friend in question, he did not feel the least bit compelled to stop. His mind was screaming, too, but it was the exact opposite of the Elf’s mental insistences. Go! Hurry! You must reach Boromir! Do not let anything slow your feet! Hurry! Faster! Fly! And Aragorn listened. He ran as if he had the Black Riders on his heels. He knew every second counted against him when a man of such pride as Boromir possessed was calling frantically for help. He was imagining every horrible possibility in vivid detail. He was hoping that he would not come upon the fray only to find his comrade captured, badly injured, or, Valar forbid, already dead. He expected to be assailed immediately with images of carnage; he was certain that blood would be everywhere, and he could only hope it was staining the ground black, and not red, so he would know Boromir’s was not chief among it. As for the Uruks who had been chasing him in his flight of rescue effort, they had given up and evidently decided it would be far more entertaining to slay an Elf or a Dwarf, and had likely gone back to do battle with his friends, but Aragorn could not afford to be concerned with that now. Boromir needed him much more. As his feet carried him closer, Aragorn braced himself for the chaos and commotion of battle, but when he finally neared the place he was sure the blasting had originated, it was very quiet. Unnervingly quiet. Aragorn approached the area cautiously, hoping that if Boromir was injured, the enemy had simply left him to rot. Perhaps that was why it was so eerily silent. Warily, he drew closer. As his eyes locked on the situation before him, his feet stopped short, and so did his heart. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n Boromir was calmly standing with his arms folded across his chest, a leer on his lips that sent a cold trickle of fear up Aragorn’s spine. Even more intimidating was the throng of Uruk-Hai that stood in a half-circle behind him, staring at the ranger with what could only be described as bloodlust. Too late, Aragorn realized with a detached feeling of dread as reality sank in and spread like a debilitating disease through him. He had walked into a trap. “Boromir?” he croaked uncertainly, and felt his heart twist at the burst of cruel laughter that came in answer. Aragorn just stood there, too stunned to speak. His heart was begging him to flee, but his mind was reminding him that it would be futile. The Uruks would react within a half-second, and he would probably make it about five steps before they caught up to him. His conscience instantly began scolding him. You fool! You should have listened to Legolas! There has not been one time that his instincts were wrong, and he has never misled you! How could you ignore his warning? “I knew your loyalty would be your undoing, Ranger,” Boromir announced. “I thought you were too smart to walk straight into the enemy’s clutches, but I stand corrected.” He uncrossed his arms and lifted his right, letting Aragorn get a good look at what dangled from his index finger. As his eyes beheld the cool glitter of the One Ring hanging from Bilbo’s chain, Aragorn felt as if the walls of his throat had collapsed. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up and gooseflesh broke out all over his body. Boromir had obtained the Ring, and everything the Fellowship had worked so hard and sacrificed so much for would be lost. The Elf warned you, a sinister voice hovering somewhere around the edge of his mind taunted darkly, and Aragorn felt rather than knew that it was Sauron. He gritted his teeth, but refused to chastise himself further, lest the Enemy hear it and take pleasure in his frustration. His thoughts turned instead to Frodo, and he hoped that Boromir had not hurt him, or worse, in his mission to take the Ring from him. Only a moment passed before Aragorn shook himself, forcing his attention back to the predicament he was currently forced to endure. He snapped back just in time to hear Boromir’s order: “Bind him.” When the Uruks began to obediently advance, he assumed a fighting position and quickly drew his sword from its scabbard. As the comfortable weight of AndĂşril was lifted from his hip, the weight of fear increased on his heart. Regardless of his misgivings about the odds of success, he knew he could not go quietly. He would go down fighting. He refused to do nothing and simply succumb to the enemy, knowing the Ring had fallen into the wrong hands. He owed at least this to the Fellowship’s cause. His was not the first sacrifice, but it might be the last. Perhaps his death would shake Boromir back to his senses. This was all he could hope for now. Boromir was not impressed by Aragorn’s show of bravado, or his apparent resilience and determination. He rolled his eyes and gave a subtle signal to the largest Uruk in the group, who answered to the name of Lurtz. The addressed Uruk nodded, evilly pleased by the implications as he drew his bow. Aragorn felt the searing pain flower immediately from the point of contact as the arrow embedded itself into his shoulder, then a troubling heat spread through his veins. He knew immediately that he had been poisoned, and yet had no time to truly concern himself with the prospect. He felt no more as wooziness overtook his balance and he collapsed. The ranger was unconscious before he hit the ground. His sword landed a foot or so away, immediately swallowed up by the blades of tall grass. An ugly cheer of victory erupted from the Uruks, and the deceitful man holding the One Ring truly knew the meaning of satisfaction. He now had everything he needed. The tool that would save his people, and the main opposition to his cause securely in his grasp. No one would be able to stop him this time. Legolas would likely be too torn by Aragorn's disappearance to be of any use to anyone, and the Fellowship would break, surely, without its beloved leader. It would be unlikely that he would encounter any resistance, and even if so, he now was the single most powerful being on the face of Middle Earth. His desire had been realized. Things were perfect. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n At Boromir’s command, the Uruks unceremoniously shoveled Aragorn’s body onto a litter they had hidden away in the forest for the wounded. Then they bound his hands and feet with thick leather thongs, for if he awoke prematurely, they would be in for trouble if he could resist their efforts to restrain him. This was their safest bet. Boromir himself inspected the binding efforts, then nodded his approval and gave a vague gesture that the Uruks interpreted as an order to lift the litter. They obeyed, and soon, the greedy, foul-hearted company, carrying their unresponsive captive, was retreating into the dark of the forest, leaving little behind to prove their presence in the first place. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n Legolas emitted a rather undignified grunt of satisfaction as he slew the last standing Uruk and watched absently as Gimli drove his axe into the chest of another that was still squirming on the ground in a vain effort to reach his weapon, which lay yards away from him. His eyes quickly surveyed the area to ensure that all was finally still. Once he felt certain that this particular fray was over, the need to find his missing friends overwhelmed him. The men would have returned by now if all was well. It had been at least a half-hour since Aragorn had broken free from the fight and disappeared into the woods, and with each additional minute that passed, Legolas verged more and more on panic. To his surprise, Gimli read his mind. “Go.” Legolas was taken aback for a moment, and then found himself sorely tempted, but he frowned and shook his head. “What if more come? That could have just been the first wave.” “I can handle a few Uruk-Hai, Master Elf. My axe and I will manage just fine; besides, I need to round up the little ones.” He was referring, of course, to the Hobbits, who had apparently vanished into thin air but would likely materialize now that things had quieted down. “Just go. You’re no good to anyone this distracted.” A cutting remark rose in Legolas’s throat, but he knew this was not the time. He had to get to Aragorn and Boromir. It might already be too late, his mind taunted, but he ignored it. “Legolas, go.” The Dwarf’s voice was gently insistent. When his friend made no move to depart, he added, “If you don’t go, I will, and you know you’re faster than I. It will take me thrice as long with these stumps for legs.” The Elf tried to offer a convincingly amused smile, but his worry was written all over his face, and his friend was not fooled. “You are right, of course,” he answered in a voice that he hoped came across as light and casual. It did not, but Gimli said nothing. A long moment passed as both friends looked around to ensure that the woods surrounding them were still quiet. It seemed things were secure for the moment. Legolas cleared his throat. “See to it that the Hobbits are safe,” he instructed needlessly. “I will return with Aragorn and Boromir, and then we will all hopefully find refuge elsewhere.” Gimli tried not to wince at the uncertainty that laced his friend’s tone during his last statement. “Hurry,” was all he offered in response. Legolas nodded and then he was gone, practically shooting off into the forest like a golden arrow. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n Legolas was sure he’d been running forever, or so it seemed to him, at least. Valar, please let me reach them in time…if I find them safe and unharmed, I will never again bicker with the Dwarf. I will return to my father’s kingdom and be a proper prince…anything. Just let them be in one piece when I come upon them. As he plea bargained with the powers above him, his certainty that he had gained no ground whatsoever intensified. Surely, he thought, he had come no closer to his friends. Still, the agile Elf was determined to continue. He crashed through the trees, blond hair whipping around him like a banner as his feet flew as if they had a purpose all their own. He ran as fast as his long legs would allow, instinct guiding his steps as his feet nimbly picked their way over jutting rocks and lifted roots. He wanted to check on Aragorn, who had gone to answer the frantic blasts of the horn long ago and had yet to return. But Legolas knew it was more than concern for his friend that drove his feet. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He finally reached a clearing where the ground had obviously been trampled to a dire degree, surely by the heavy, careless feet of Uruk-Hai. This had to be the location Boromir had been summoning Aragorn toward. As he looked around, keen eyes anxiously awaiting some sign of movement, some symbol of hope that his friends were safe, fear began to claim a choking grasp on his heart. There was no one. And it was so still. Legolas was confused. He had been certain that he would come upon a scene of violence. Surely it would take awful circumstances to cause Boromir to lay aside his pride and call for help. He began to wonder if perhaps the horrific fray had taken place elsewhere, but he could not convince himself. He felt it in his bones. This was the place. Worry for Boromir and Aragorn began to overwhelm him. Legolas tried to call his friends’ names, but his mouth was as dry as sand. As his eyes made one last desperate sweep over the area, he spotted something that struck him to the very core. His bow fell from limp fingers and clattered to the ground at his feet as his eyes alighted upon an object in the long grass. Aragorn’s own weapon, AndĂşril, glinted up at him. The Elf’s soul quaked. Aragorn would never leave that sword behind. Legolas stared down at it, but simply could not bring himself to bend and retrieve it. Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming upon him. Whoever it might be, they were approaching rapidly. His body tensed in anticipation of a potential assault, and he drew his bow faster than a mortal could imagine possible, whirling about on his heel and directing a deadly arrow at this newest presumed threat. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n To be continued… Chapter 4 - Treachery Author's Note: All characters, proper names of locations, and events are accredited to the creative genius of J.R.R. Tolkien, to whose memory I bow deeply and offer homage. Also, PLEASE remember that this is an Alternate Universe story, and therefore many details and events will be very different from “The Fellowship of the Ring” as presented by Tolkien in his trilogy or Peter Jackson in his films. Understand that this was done while I was in full possession of my mental capacities, and please do not flame me. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n Legolas looked upon the one who had approached him with surprise. This individual, he had not expected. Gimli stood about a foot away from the sharp tip of the arrow, his wide eyes staring down the length and meeting Legolas’s with no small amount of shock. He lifted both hands in a wary gesture of neutrality, as if afraid that his friend had gone mad and might think he meant to attack instead of merely stand there and hope the weapon was lowered. “Easy, lad,” he coaxed. Legolas made his annoyance clear. His tone was tight as he snapped, “If you were trying to get yourself killed, Master Dwarf, sneaking up on me is a very effective way to go about it.” “I made plenty of noise!” Gimli protested, his irritation becoming clear as well. The Elf rolled his eyes, but carefully loosened his taut grip on the bowstring and removed the arrow. “I suspect so, as you have proven yourself incapable of being stealthy on more than one occasion. I do ask, however, that you never come upon me like that again.” The Dwarf swallowed a scathing rebuttal, instead focusing on the biggest issue at hand. “Did you locate Aragorn and Boromir?” “No,” the Elf replied, sounding and looking utterly miserable. “They were not here when I arrived, and I have seen no sign of either one.” Gimli tried to be optimistic in spite of the sudden, irrational anxiety that came over him like a wave. “Boromir might be looking for the Hobbits.” Legolas was dubious. “And what of Aragorn?” Gimli shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. They had no reason yet, after all, to worry. Why fly into an all-out frenzy for what could very well be nothing? “Fool lad’s probably off gathering herbs.” "Herbs," Legolas repeated incredulously. “He’s a healer,” the Dwarf reminded him. The Elf, for his part, was not nearly as casual. He appeared ready to explode. “Who is he going to heal, Gimli?! The injured Orcs?! Boromir?!” Helplessly, he gestured around them with both arms. “In case you failed to notice, there’s no one here!” “Legolas, calm down.” “Calm down?! Our friends are missing, and you’re telling me to ca—” He stopped suddenly as a knot twisted in his stomach. "Where are the Hobbits?" Gimli thought for a moment. "Frodo had wandered off for a bit of peace, as I recall, and the others were beginning preparations for an early supper." "Frodo had wandered..." Legolas looked around, suddenly nervous. “Where did he—” He stopped suddenly as a patch of brush relatively nearby rustled loudly. Legolas's sharp eyes narrowed as he drew his knives and watched the branches quivering. He looked to Gimli, who gripped his axe and nodded grimly. Perhaps it was a wounded Orc, left behind so it wouldn't slow down the group. Or perhaps it was a simple forest creature. One way to find out. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n Silently and slowly, they crept forward and watched as it shook again. Gimli motioned to Legolas, and they hurried up to and parted the thick, tall undergrowth, simultaneously exposing a Hobbit each; Merry and Pippin were huddled close together on the ground, half-buried in leaves and looking up at them in relief. “What were you two doing, hiding away like that?!” Gimli couldn’t help but scold. “You’re lucky we decided to look before we hacked you to pieces!” “We’re sorry,” Pippin said quietly, “but we were afraid you’d do that very thing if we came out and surprised you.” “Where are Aragorn and Boromir?” Legolas could not hold the question back another second. “They…they left.” Merry frowned. “After they tied up Aragorn,” Pippin added. “They?” Gimli was perplexed. “Who are ‘they,’ Master Took?” “Boromir and the Uruk-Hai.” Legolas felt his stomach churn. Uruk-Hai!¬ He bowed his head for a moment and fought off a sudden, rather unusual wave of nausea. So Boromir secured the loyalty of Saruman’s company. How fortunate for us. He forced himself from his pessimistic thoughts and turned his full attention back to the current situation. “He was bound?” he asked, watching Pippin’s face closely. The youngest Hobbit trembled beneath the Elf’s hard stare. Legolas did not mean to be intimidating, of course, but he was obviously well-versed in the art of interrogation. “You saw the Uruk-Hai tie Aragorn’s limbs?” “Y-Yes, I-I did.” “Was Aragorn…” Legolas trailed off, and a pained expression crossed his fair features. “Was he…” “Alive?” Merry supplied, his voice cracking just a bit. “I’m…not sure. He was shot.” “Shot?!” In about two long strides, Legolas was upon Merry. He practically lifted the Hobbit off the ground as he grabbed him by the collar. Merry winced as the Elf’s stark blue eyes bore into his. “What happened? Who shot Aragorn? Where did he and Boromir go?” Legolas’s tone was demanding, but Merry was still too stunned by the Elf’s sudden, uncharacteristically rough movements to reply coherently. He stammered something unintelligible, and finally resorted to a wary shrug of his shoulders. “Legolas!” Gimli barked. The Elf turned sharply, as if he had been startled out of deep thought. “Put the lad down. You’re frightening him.” Sheepishly, Legolas offered Merry an apologetic look and released him gently. “My sincere apologies, Master Meriadoc.” The Hobbit cleared his throat as he brushed himself off. “No harm done,” he answered casually, trying to sound like it hadn’t rattled him a bit. Legolas’s patience was fading rapidly, but he struggled to keep himself composed this time. He hadn’t meant to scare Merry, but it was clear that he had, and he felt awful. So he took a slow breath, and asked quietly, “Can you recount what happened?” “It all happened so fast, and I was trying to hide, so I didn’t see everything. I’m sorry, Legolas, Gimli, but I don’t know much. Perhaps Pippin saw more.” He looked to Pippin, who shook his head sadly. Merry sighed. “We were both too confused to keep up with it. I still don’t understand what happened, actually. I may not be of much use to you.” “Do your best, lad,” Gimli prodded. Legolas was relieved to hear the tightness in his friend’s gruff voice; evidently, the Dwarf too was wound up with anticipation about what had happened to the men. “We heard the horn, and came here to see what was going on. Boromir was just standing here, blowing on it as if his life depended on it, but the Orcs—“ Pippin cut in. “Uruks.” Trying to hide his annoyance, Merry ignored his cousin and continued, “Well, they were just standing around with him. It was like they were waiting. Pippin and I just stayed here and tried to be as quiet as possible, because we didn’t know what Boromir was going to do or who he was trying to get the attention of in the first place. Then Strider showed up, and when he tried to fight them off, he was shot.” “Who shot him?” Legolas asked for the second time. “An Orc shot him.” “A Uruk,” Pippin corrected again. Merry rolled his eyes. “It’s the same thing, Pip.” His cousin was insistent. “Uruks are bigger!” “You heard Gandalf! They’re the same!” “They are completely diff—” Pippin trailed off into silence when Legolas held up a hand, looking a bit frustrated. “Then what happened?” It was Gimli who spoke this time. Merry thought for a moment. “They picked up Strider and put him on a…” The proper term was eluding him, and he closed his eyes and pursed his lips a bit as if that might help him think of it. “Litter,” Legolas supplied. He had dropped into a crouch and was rubbing his temples. The Hobbit was relieved that one of the individuals present knew the correct word for the apparatus, but he felt a little ignorant for not knowing it himself. “Yes, a litter. Then they left.” “You forgot the most important part, Merry!” Pippin chimed in, his brows knitted together. “You forgot to tell them that Boromir had the Ring!” The Elf and the Dwarf now sported identical expressions of horrified disbelief. Legolas, who had more or less seen this coming, was the first of the two to regain the ability to speak. “Which way did they go?” “They went that way.” Pippin pointed south. Legolas turned in the direction Pippin had indicated, and there was murder in his eyes. He was beginning to entertain some pretty terrible fantasies about what he might do to Boromir if they ever caught up to him. “Directly that way?” he asked, and did not look pleased when Pippin nodded. “South? They’re headed toward Mordor?” Gimli was confused. “Why would Boromir take the Ring to Sauron?” Legolas shook his head. “Mordor is farther east. They’re headed toward Gondor.” Gimli muttered a Dwarvish curse beneath his breath, beginning to pace in small circles. He was quickly putting the puzzle pieces together, and the picture so far did not look promising. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n Suddenly, Legolas sprang to his feet. “Frodo! Sam!” Gimli looked up, his expression quickly shifting from startled to anxious. “Where are they?” Merry and Pippin winced and shrugged in perfect unison. Everyone fell silent for a moment; then the Dwarf posited hopefully, “They might have gone back to camp, knowing we all would return there eventually.” “I’m going back.” Legolas was already walking away. “We must find them.” “Wait! We don’t know what’s out there!” Pippin’s protests were likely futile, but he felt the need to voice them anyway. “They might need us,” Gimli replied. It was clear he was as determined to go back as Legolas, so Pippin sighed and gave up, looking to Merry with worried blue eyes. Merry bit his lip. They did not want to see any more Uruks for the time being, but it seemed their friends Frodo and Sam might need them. “Hurry!” Legolas called over his shoulder, already beginning to run now through the trees. Gimli began to head that way too, not far behind the Elf. Merry and Pippin hesitated a moment, but then realized if they didn’t follow, they’d be alone. Frightened even more by that prospect, they hurried after the two warriors. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\r\n\r\n To be continued… ------------------------------------------------------------------ Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sun Nov 15, 2026 1:02 am