They followed the trail left by the orcs through the day and
into the night until human strength failed, and even dwarf
and elf strength flagged. Then, at last, they made camp,
lighting a small fire and feeding themselves from the
supplies they'd been given in Lothlorien. As soon as they
were finished, Aragorn wrapped himself in his cloak and fell
into the deep slumber of exhaustion.

Legolas was making a last pass around their crude camp to
check the track of the orcs and to ensure that there would
be no unexpected visitors in the night.

Unwilling to shut his eyes yet, Gimli pulled a comb from his
pack, then undid the braids in his hair and beard, and began
to comb them out. He did not consider himself as vain about
his appearance as an elf, but they were caught up with
leaves and twigs and things less pleasant from the fight and
the chase immediately after.

When his beard was once more as clean as he could make it
and rebraided, and he reached behind him to deal with the
rest of his hair. The elf returned and said, "We have gained
on them, but they are still several hours ahead of us. If
they make camp for the night, we might yet catch them if we
keep going."

Gimli snorted. "To do so, we would have to leave Aragorn
behind. Would you do that?" he asked, nodding towards the
human who was leader to their band, fractured as it was.

Legolas shook his head. "No. We stay together, even if the
company is broken." He sat down on the ground next to the
fire, staring into the flames with an expression of defeat.
"Do you think he was right to let Frodo and Sam go alone?"

"He has good reason," Gimli said reluctantly, tying off the
last braid. "The ring drove Boromir to the point of
attacking the halfling. Who would it subvert next? Would one
of us try to take the ring from him by force?" Legolas was
strangely silent. "What are you hiding, elf?" Gimli growled,
although in his voice there was none of the accusation that
it might have held when they set out from Rivendell.

"I have heard voices in my dreams," Legolas said softly.
"Telling me of the great things I could accomplish with the
ring. But the voices are weak, and I have ignored them."

Gimli grimaced. "I have heard them too. Last night they were
louder, even though we were still in the edges of the
witch's forest. They promised me the power to cleanse the
mines, restore them to greatness as a monument to my cousin,
Balin."

"And no doubt they promised such things to Boromir as well,"
Legolas said sadly. Gimli grunted and nodded. He had not
been fond of the human, who had been arrogant in the way so
many of his kind were, but he had deserved better than he
had received from the orcs. "But what of Frodo and Sam?"

"The halflings seem strangely immune to the evil of the
ring. Perhaps they do not hear the voices." Legolas lifted
his face to stare up through the branches of the trees, as
though he could force them away to reveal the stars above.
The firelight flickered across his features, fine and
smooth, bare of hair without the need for a blade. No dwarf
male past the age of puberty would dare show a face so
naked, and yet, on the elf, it looked right.

"Maybe, but the journey before them is long and perilous.
Can they do it alone?"

Gimli looked back in the direction they had come. In the
distance was a faint glow, perhaps from the fires of Mount
Doom itself. He sighed. "Pray that they can. Otherwise, we
are all doomed."

He turned back and found Legolas combing through his own
hair with his fingers, looking more than half asleep. "Come
here," he growled, and waved his comb when Legolas shot him
a questioning look. The elf must have been tired, as he did
not protest. Instead, he moved to sit between Gimli's legs,
where the dwarf sat on a fallen tree.

Working as delicately as many elves said dwarves were
incapable of, Gimli undid the elf's braids and began to run
his comb through the long golden hair. It was much like
Galadriel's in color, but straight where the elf witch's was
curled. Legolas had taken the time to tend it during their
time in the elven woods, and it ran like silk through
Gimli's hands, even though, like Gimli's, it had become
stained and caught with debris more recently.

"What do you think will happen if we fail?" Legolas asked in
a voice nearly a whisper, leaning slightly against Gimli's
leg, an expression of trust he had not expected.

Gimli hesitated in his combing, not wanting to face the
question. "We will die," he finally answered. "And many
others as well. But I will not see it, since I will not
admit failure until I breathe my last breath," he added
strongly as he tied off the last braid in Legolas' hair,
restoring it to the style it had been when he had sat
proudly, haughty elf, at Elrond's council.

"True," Legolas sighed, though Gimli could feel a faint
smile pressed against his knee. "I would expect no less from
the son of Gloin. So we shall win, or we shall die trying."

"Indeed," Gimli said, softly stroking the shining hair,
finer in color than the finest gold he had ever had the
pleasure to craft with, singing softly to himself, though
his voice was a hoarse croak compared to Legolas. He had
seen nothing to equal the pale shimmer, even on other elves.
Indeed, he had seen very few that were Legolas' equal in
anything, be it in valor, skill, or beauty. Skin so fair
that it was nearly white, even though he spent his days in
the sun. Limbs long and slender, so unlike any dwarf. Fast
with knife and faster with his bow, even at such close
distances that only a fool would use a distance weapon.
Light on his feet, Gimli reminded himself, remembering how
the elf had run across the surface of the snow banks that
his companions had had to push through. In the forest he
moved silently, almost invisibly through the trees.

Gimli chuckled to himself, although his humor was tinged
with sadness. His father, Gloin, would take up his hammer to
knock sense back into his son's head if he knew that Gimli
was falling in love with an elf. A *male* elf. And yet, how
could he resist? Legolas was impossible to resist.

Suddenly he realized that he was still stroking the elf's
hair, like one would a child's. Or a lover. He withdrew his
hand guiltily, looking to see if Legolas was insulted by the
liberty.

And yet, the elf did not draw away. Instead, he sighed
deeply and said, softly, "Sing some more, please."

Gimli smiled, and returned to his stroking, softly singing a
lullaby his mother had sung to him when he was young.
Legolas sighed, and moved closer, pressing against Gimli's
leg. Gimli continued to sing, although he continued to watch
the forest surrounding them, his axe close at hand.

When death loomed, one took what small pleasure one could.

>>>~~~<<<

The two hobbits lay in a heap where they had been tossed,
hands and feet tied to keep them from trying to escape in
the night. Their swords had been taken from them, but
thankfully their cloaks had not, and they huddled together
for warmth as best they could. From not too far away, they
could hear the orcs jabbering in whatever language it was
they spoke, arguing over things that neither of their
prisoners wanted to know.

Merry sighed, and tried to find a more comfortable position
without attracting the attention of their captors. It was
not easy, but he finally found a position which did not
pinch too badly. "Pippin?" he whispered softly.

A soft sniffle answered him. Then Pippin shifted slightly,
moving closer until he could bury his face in Merry's neck.
His nose was cold and probably leaking, but Merry didn't
protest. He needed the contact as well.

"Do you think they reached him in time?" came the question
he did not want to consider, muffled by his cloak.

Merry sighed, not wanting to kill hope. "I hope so," he
said. " Surely the others were coming, called by his horn."
But they both knew: Boromir was surely dead, slain while
trying to protect them. Merry felt a tear trickle down his
face as he considered the kind-hearted man of Gondor. Even
in the worst of times, Boromir always had a kind word for
them, time to show them how to track, how to fight with the
swords they knew nothing of the use of. His heart ached at
the last sight of the man, an arrow growing out of his
chest, knocked to his knees.

Pippin sniffled again. "It is my fault. If I hadn't touched
the body in the mine. Thrown stones in the water. If not for
me, we would have come through the mines without incident,
and Gandalf would still be alive. If Gandalf were still with
us, we would have known the orcs were coming, Frodo would
not have left and Boromir would be alive. If I had not
dragged you to Farmer Maggot's fields, you would not be here
at all. You would be safe, back in the Shire. It is all my
fault. Gandalf was right. I should have thrown myself into
the depths."

"Shh," Merry whispered, trying to soothe his friend. "It is
not your fault. The goblins were so many, they would have
found us even if we had been as silent as ghosts. And as for
safe in the Shire, if the quest fails, no place will be
safe."

"Do you think Frodo escaped??" Pippin asked, pulling his
face away from Merry's neck. His eyes were red and tears ran
from them.

"I don't know," Merry admitted reluctantly. "But I think he
did. These strange orcs went to great trouble to take us
alive, so surely he escaped. Otherwise he would be with us,
right?" Or he could be dead, he did not say, but he wanted
to cling to hope, just as much as Pippin.

Pippin brightened slightly at that. "Right! Then he and Sam
must be all right." He fell silent for a time, then said,
looking over Merry's shoulder to where the orcs were
butchering some poor animal to slow to escape, eating it
raw, "I'm glad we're together, even in this, although I
would prefer that we were someplace safer."

Merry smiled at Pippin, covering up his own fears. "So am I.
And don't worry, we'll get away, somehow." He did not speak
the truth of their situation, though. He knew that if Frodo
was all right, then the company must follow him and see him
safely to Mordor, even though it seemed at their last
sighting that Frodo intended to travel on alone. The company
must go on, not stopping to save two small hobbits. If they
were to escape the orcs, they must do so on their own, even
though they'd tried to leave a trail for help to follow.
Just in case.

Pippin snuggled closer to him and quickly fell asleep, but
Merry found slumber more elusive. The sound of the orcs
feasting on raw flesh was horrific, reminding him of their
likely fate.

But like Pippin, he was glad they were together, regardless.
He sighed, and pressed his cheek against the well-loved
curls. Once, twenty years earlier, he had seen the younger
hobbit as an annoyance. A child without brothers to follow,
teased by his sisters, Pippin had latched on to the older
Meriadoc Brandybuck. Merry had not wanted a mere child, even
a Thain's son, following him around. And yet, Pippin had
always been of such good cheer that he caused smiles
wherever he went. Well, perhaps not on the face of Farmer
Maggot.

So, after a year or so of trying to escape the determined
child, Merry had first resigned himself to Pippin's
presence, then grew to welcome it. Pippin's love was pure
and sweet, and nothing could compete with it. They had sworn
never to be seperated, by family or marriage or even death.

A single tear wound its way slowly down his cheek. No matter
the cost, he would keep that vow.

>>>~~~<<<

The night grew cold quickly once the sun set, but they
didn't dare light a fire, even if they could find the
material with which to make a fire. Instead, they had eaten
cold rations, then spread Frodo's cloak on the ground in a
small nook among the broken rocks of Emyn Muil and huddled
under Sam's cloak, still wet from the river Anduin. If
nothing else, the rocks, sharp enough to cut through
clothing and into flesh, sheltered them from the chill wind.

Nothing sheltered them from the glow on the horizon, though,
and Sam shivered from more than just the wind. Even though
they had far to travel, the light of Mount Doom beckoned
them, warned them, taunted them. And behind them, was
pursuit by things unknown and dark.

Sam wrapped his arms protectively around Frodo, shielding
him as best he could from wind and more. Poor Frodo was
already asleep, no doubt exhausted by his trials. He had
told Sam of how Boromir, driven mad by the ring, had
attacked him. Tried to take the One Ring from him. No wonder
Frodo had tried to leave alone. It was so like him to try to
protect the rest of the company.

But Samwise Gamgee never broke his word, and he had promised
Gandalf not to leave Master Frodo. If he were going to break
his word, he would have done so before they left the Shire.
Or in Rivendell, he could have said he was going home.
Master Frodo would have understood, sent him back to the
Shire with his blessings. But even though he would not break
his word, without it he would still be in this place, here
and now, for he would never have let his beloved Frodo leave
without him.

Frodo shivered in his arms, and Sam held him tighter.
Frodo's face was warm to the touch. Was the ring making him
fevered? Did the Dark Lord's influence reach through it to
do this?

"Sam?"

"I'm here, Mr. Frodo," Sam said soothingly.

"Sam." The word was more sighed than spoken, bringing a tear
to Sam's eye. Frodo sounded so tired. "Promise me
something?"

"Anything, Mr. Frodo. You know I would do anything you
asked."

"If... If I can't do this, promise me you'll finish it for
me. I know it's not fair to ask you to, but..."

"But it must be done," Sam said, nodding slightly. He knew
what Frodo was asking. A few small tears escaped his
control. He knew that Frodo would rather die than fail. He
would only be asked to keep this promise if Frodo were gone.
"I promise, no matter what, that the ring will be
destroyed."

"Oh, Sam. Loyal Sam. I should never have dragged you on this
quest." Frodo was crying too, now, even though earlier he
had been all determined smiles.

"Don't be foolish," Sam said, using the sleeve of his shirt
to wipe away Frodo's tears, then kissing the flushed cheeks
softly. "Where you go, I go too. Now hush. Sleep. We will
need all our rest to find our way through this place
tomorrow."

"Love you, Sam," Frodo said softly.

"And I, you," Sam replied, then pressed his lips to Frodo's
forehead.

Yes, if need be, he would carry the ring to Mount Doom
alone. And there, he would cast it into the fires. After
that, he would follow it, for without Frodo, there would be
no light in his world.

And they slept.

END