So Much for Fellowship

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


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, Andúril.

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.



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.



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 Andúril 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.



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.



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.



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, Andúril, 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.



To be continued…