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“Mordor, Gandalf. Is it left or right?” Frodo whispered urgently.
“Left,” Gandalf whispered back, hand clutching Frodo’s left shoulder.
Slowly, the Fellowship made its way out of Rivendell, following Frodo and Gandalf. The two spoke quietly, taking care that none of the others could hear them, save for Legolas who chose not to pay attention to their words. Instead, he and Aragorn discussed the orc parties that had been seen making their way south. Towards the front, the other three Hobbits were chatting animatedly about their time spent in Rivendell. Gimli and Boromir were silent.
Soon they had left Rivendell behind. They traveled close to the Misty Mountains, staying in the rocky foothills. Aragorn said it would be far easier to conceal their tracks the closer they stayed to the mountains. No one dared disagree with him; they were all thinking of what would happen if the enemy caught them.
The first few days were tense. Gimli loudly proclaimed the mistreatment his father had received at the hands of the Elves during the quest to reclaim Erebor. Frodo thought he saw the glimmer of a smile on Legolas’ face each time Gimli complained and he remembered what Bilbo had said about the capture of Thorin’s company. It wasn’t like Legolas was much better, though, as he often made snide remarks regarding Gimli’s lack of woodland skills. This continued until Gandalf pointed out that Legolas would be hopelessly lost in a mine, causing Gimli to guffaw until Gandalf turned his attention to the Dwarf, reminding him that Thorin’s company would not have been captured had they stayed on the path. Gimli subsided into sullen mutterings.
Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin seemed to treat the whole thing as some sort of grand holiday. They cracked jokes, positively howling with laughter. They ignored Aragorn’s warnings, scampering away from the Fellowship and over the rocks until Boromir was forced to retrieve them. The two liked to pull pranks, which wouldn’t have been bad if it weren’t for their habit of pushing the others past the point of laughter into irritation. Perhaps it was their way of dealing with the strain of their quest but Gandalf was finally forced to put his foot down after Gimli threatened to silence Pippin with his axe.
“Like herding cats,” Gandalf muttered more than once.
Sam kept a close watch on Frodo. Before they’d left Rivendell, Gandalf had pulled him aside to tell him to keep an eye on the Ringbearer.
“The Ring will take a toll on Frodo,” he said.
“I’ll take care of him,” Sam promised.
Even now, though, barely after setting out, Sam could see that Gandalf was right. Frodo ate less, slept less. It was subtle and so perhaps it wasn’t obvious to the others, but Sam knew Frodo better than Frodo knew himself. Already, the Ring was beginning to work its magic on him.
All told, the first few days after setting out on the quest were not happy ones. By their third day on the road, even Merry and Pippin had become withdrawn and unhappy.
“We need to do something,” Aragorn told Gandalf quietly as they set up camp that night. Gandalf looked surprised.
“We can’t go on like this,” he continued, motioning to the Hobbits. “Merry and Pippin will lose heart and Frodo- Frodo needs hope if he is to continue with his burden.”
“What do you suggest?” Gandalf suggested.
Aragorn turned to the Hobbits, his expression turning thoughtful. Merry and Pippin, in their boredom, had taken to throwing rocks at each other. He was surprised to see that their aim was excellent. Briefly, he considered asking Legolas to teach them to shoot. But he discarded that idea. Too well did he remember Legolas teaching him to shoot and how they had started by spending hours sitting still, blindfolded, until he could hear everything around him. It would not suit Merry and Pippin at all.
His gaze fell on Boromir. Now there was an idea that could work, he thought.
“Boromir,” he called, motioning him over with his head. “How would you feel about training the Hobbits?”
Boromir glanced at the four, keen eyes seeing the boredom in Merry and Pippin and the thinly veiled frustration in Sam. “Would certainly be the most unusual students I’ve ever had,” he murmured. He turned back to Aragorn. “But not the first.”
He stood back up, drawing his sword, and began putting himself through his paces. Merry and Pippin stopped throwing rocks at each other, distracted from their game. Sam looked up from the dinner preparations. Even Frodo seemed mildly interested in what Boromir was doing.
“On your feet,” he told the Hobbits. They looked mildly surprised. “Come on,” he urged them.
“Why?” Pippin asked.
“Why?” Boromir repeated. “There’s an army of orcs between us and Sauron. You want to be ready, don’t you?”
Merry and Pippin leapt to their feet. This was far more exciting than sitting around. Frodo followed them almost reluctantly. Sam looked more than a little regretful that he was going to have to sit out but, after all, he had done supper every night until now. There was no reason to think he wouldn’t do so this night either.
Gimli came up beside him. “You join them, laddie,” he told Sam. “I’ve got this.” Sam threw him a grateful look as he got to his feet.
“Will you really be able to teach us?” he asked, joining the small circle around Boromir. “We’re not like your usual group of soldiers.”
“Nonsense,” Boromir said, correcting Merry’s stance. “You’re not much taller than my brother was when I first started training him.”
“You have a brother?” Pippin asked.
Boromir nodded. “Faramir,” he said, more than a hint of pride in his voice.
Pippin grinned. “Is he like you?”
“Not in the slightest,” Boromir laughed. “And he is much better for it, I’m sure.”
Aragorn watched the four Hobbits and Boromir, smiling. Boromir seemed to naturally have a way with the Hobbits that even Gandalf didn’t have.
“That was neatly done,” a voice said in his ear.
Aragorn turned to see Legolas crouching beside him. He quirked an eyebrow, inviting the Elf to explain further.
“Not many would have known how to help them,” he continued, gesturing toward the Hobbits. “It was very- very kingly of you.”
Aragorn shot him a sharp look. Legolas glanced down, sporting a small smirk.
“Legolas is right, you know,” Gandalf said from his other side. “It’s not a common skill. I’ll wager your father taught you?” His last words were directed at Legolas, who inclined his head in agreement.
“Your father?” Sam asked, distracted from his lesson. He wondered if they’d met his father in Rivendell. “Who’s your father?”
“Thranduil of Mirkwood,” Legolas replied. Gimli snorted but Boromir paused in his instruction.
“Not King Thranduil?” he asked. He’d never met the man but his brother had. He’d returned from Mirkwood, in awe of the Elf King’s negotiating skills- which he said consisted of a single raised eyebrow, at which everyone hastened to do his bidding.
Legolas nodded, a wry smile on his face. “The same.”
Sam looked impressed but Gimli growled, “Oath breaker.” The rest of the Fellowship chose to ignore him.
“Come on,” Boromir urged, drawing attention back to him. “We’ve got quite a bit of training to do if we’re to make warriors out of you.”
As the days went on, it became common to hear the clashing of swords each time they stopped for a break. Merry and Pippin improved rapidly and Boromir claimed at the end of each lesson that they were soon to become even more skilled than he. Sam had little skill with a blade but had strength enough from the years of gardening and so Gimli had begun to teach him the basics of wrestling. After the first few days, Frodo had begun to tire quickly during the practice sessions. Gandalf suspected a combination of the Ring’s evil and the lingering effects of the Morgul blade were the cause of Frodo’s weakness. He’d put a stop to Frodo’s training to give the young Hobbit more time to rest.
The days fell into an easy routine. They traveled during the day, stopping rarely and for only a few minutes at a time. Rest stops were taken up with brief training sessions. They tended to stop early in the evening to give Aragorn and Legolas time to hunt for supper, while Boromir and Gimil tended to their charges. The rest of the evening was given over as a time for fellowship, building bonds between the companions. The night was divided into three watches, cycled between Aragon, Legolas, Boromir, Gimli, and Gandalf.
Gimli often took the midnight watch, claiming the pitch dark of the night reminded him of the caverns he’d grown up in. Such it was a night not long after Boromir had begun training the Hobbits. He hummed quietly to keep himself awake, glancing often at the Hobbits to make sure he didn’t disturb their rest. He’d grown fond of the Halflings and knew how much of a toll the long journey was taking on them.
“It’s a beautiful song,” Legolas said quietly from beside him.
Gimli jumped. He hadn’t realized that the Elf had crept up to join him. “Is my watch over?” he asked, shaking out his numb legs.
“Nearly,” Legolas replied. Gimli shot a look his way. “I couldn’t sleep,” he offered as an explanation.
Gimli sighed, settling himself back down. He doubted that Legolas would let him leave his watch early, as there was no love lost between them. “You’re welcome to join me, princeling,” he said reluctantly, sure that Legolas would do as he pleased whether Gimli gave him permission or not.
They sat in silence for a few minutes before Legolas suddenly said, “What’s it about?”
“What’s what about?” Gimli asked, confused.
“The song you were humming.”
Gimli hesitated. He knew that Elves were fond of songs but he didn’t think that Legolas would really approve of this one. “The fall of Erebor,” he said finally. He paused again and then softly sang:
Far over the Misty Mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, ere break of day
To find our long forgotten gold
“My father taught it to me,” he said. “All dwarrows used to learn it as children, before we reclaimed Erebor.”
Legolas seemed pensive but then, to Gimli, he always looked like that. “Your father…Gloin?” Gimli slowly nodded, wondering where this was going. “I met him once in Mirkwood.”
“I know,” Gimli muttered. He’d heard the story of how his father had met the Elvish princeling many times. It had always been his father’s greatest regret, that he’d lost the locket his mother had given him before departing to Erebor.
“I always wanted to see him again,” Legolas said softly, picking up a stick and twirling it between his hands. Gimli looked sharply at him. “But whether I traveled to the Lonely Mountain or whether the dwarrow traveled to Mirkwood, I never seemed to find him.”
“He returned to the Blue Mountains after the Battle of the Five Armies.”
“Ah… I’d hoped to see him in Rivendell after I saw him at the Council of Elrond but I’m afraid my hasty words did little to endear me to him. He refused to speak to me.”
The Dwarf was more than a little surprised. He hadn’t heard that the Elvish princeling had asked to speak with his father in Rivendell. “Can you blame him?” he finally stammered out. “After everything that happened in Mirkwood?”
Legolas shrugged. “There is not much that I regret about the treatment of Thorin’s company but I do regret that I took the locket. It couldn’t have harmed anyone if I’d let him keep it, not like the weapons we confiscated. But I was more reckless then, not as wise.”
“You’re wise now?” Gimli asked, unable to keep himself from asking.
Smiling, Legolas said, “Not according to my father.” He paused and then said, “I opened myself up to that, didn’t I?”
Gimli chuckled, thinking to himself that the Elf wasn’t such a bad sort when he wasn’t putting on airs.
“I always meant to return the locket,” Legolas continued. “Perhaps I could have sent it with one of the Dwarven ambassadors but it always seemed like the sort of thing I should have returned in person.” He glanced down at the stick he fiddled with. “But it seems I’ve lost my chance.”
Gimli didn’t quite know what to say to that but he didn’t have to say anything as Legolas reached into his jacket and withdrew the locket. He held it out to the Dwarf. “I suppose it’ll have to come from you instead.”
Jaw dropping, his fist closed around the locket. Almost reverently, he opened it to see the portraits of himself as a child and his mother. He turned back to say something- anything, really- but Legolas said, “I’ll finish the rest of your watch. Get some sleep.”
If, the next day, Gimli’s comments to Legolas were perhaps a bit more teasing than harsh, no one commented.
The days dragged on.
After one particularly tough training session, Merry commented to Aragorn, “Why do we never see you practice?”
“I do,” Aragorn reassured him.
“When?” Pippin piped up.
Sam was sure that he’d never seen anyone look quite so cornered as he saw the Ranger look now.
“Later,” Aragorn said.
“We never see you,” Frodo said, a smile lurking on his face. Sam was relieved; Frodo hadn’t smiled like that in days.
“You’re not spending your time on watch training when you’re supposed to be watching, are you laddie?” Gimli called from the other side of the campfire.
Aragorn looked offended. “Of course not.”
“So when?” Legolas asked innocently. Aragorn shot him an irritated look but the Elf smiled blandly.
He threw a quick glance at Gandalf, seeming to hope that the wizard would offer some help, but was disappointed to see him chuckling merrily.
Turning back to Merry, Aragorn began to talk his way through an excuse. Quicker than anyone could see, Legolas lobbed a small stone at him. Caught off his guard, the stone thwacked him square on the head. Aragorn whirled around to face the Elf.
“Tsk, tsk,” Legolas admonished, shaking his head. “Getting slow in your old age.”
“I’m not getting slow,” Aragorn said through gritted teeth.
“And here I thought I taught you better than that,” Legolas continued loudly, speaking over him. Merry and Pippin giggled gleefully.
“You didn’t teach me anything,” Aragorn pointed out.
Legolas scoffed. “I am the only reason you can shoot a bow. If it weren’t for me, Lord Elrond would still be gathering up pieces of broken pottery.” The snickers from the Hobbits turned into full-bellied laughs.
“Come on, old man,” Legolas urged. Aragorn slowly climbed to his feet, muttering Elven curses under his breath. He retrieved his sword from his bedroll and settled into a fighting stance.
Legolas began to call out various stances and positions: “Taracu!” “Alasaila!” “Angbor!” Aragorn moved through the paces fluidly. Merry and Pippin stopped laughing, watching the master swordsman.
“That, Merry and Pippin, is what you should aspire to be,” Boromir said gently.
However, Legolas did not seem impressed. “Sloppy,” he called, voice no longer teasing. “Mind your feet.” He circled around Aragorn until he was behind him.
“Watch your back,” he added. “A skilled warrior could do this-” He flicked his wrist and a throwing knife no one even knew he had flipped forward to land hilt-first against Aragorn’s back. Aragorn stumbled, off balance. Legolas’ short sword slithered out of its sheath and rested against the Ranger’s neck.
“Dead,” he commented. Aragorn’s mouth twisted, clearly disappointed in himself.
“I thought Aragorn was really good,” Sam said quietly.
“He is,” Gandalf assured him. “One of the best. There are few people who would know to exploit that weakness, all on our side.”
“Again,” Legolas commanded. “Better, this time.” Aragorn’s practice began anew.
The days turned into weeks. Almost without realizing it, the Fellowship was turning into a brotherhood. It was true that Legolas and Gimli still danced around each other. It was true that Frodo still withdrew from the others at times. It was true that both Aragorn and Gandalf still watched Boromir for signs of corruption from the Ring. But they were forming bonds of friendship and love.
Merry and Pippin never failed to make Boromir laugh. Legolas spent many long hours telling the Hobbits about how he’d helped raise Aragorn and the mischief the young Man had gotten into. Gandalf occasionally set off a few of his smaller fireworks, mere sparkles really, as a surprise. Gimli regaled them with Dwarven fairytales, which everyone enjoyed even though they all seemed to have a moral attached to them.
It wasn’t long before the long marches were punctuated with conversation and laughter. Gandalf now led the way, knowing more about the way to Mordor than Frodo did. He seemed pleased to see that the Fellowship was getting along so splendidly.
Oftentimes, he would send Legolas or Aragorn or both ahead to scout the way. They would both come back with good reports, stating that there was little ahead of them, although Legolas seemed more concerned than was warranted about a dark cloud amassing far to the South.
“Gandalf,” Sam said during a lunch break one day. “How are we getting to Mordor?” He’d been wondering this for some time. Mordor lay to the east but their current course had them going straight south.
“We must hold to this course west of the Misty Mountains for forty days,” Gandalf replied. “If our luck holds, the Gap of Rohan will still be open to us. There our road turns east to Mordor.”
Sam nodded, satisfied. He finished cooking up the sausages he was preparing and brought them over to Frodo. Before them, Merry and Pippin were practicing once again with Boromir. He liked this routine, he thought to himself, the traveling and the practices and the camping. As he settled down next to Frodo, he hoped it would never change.