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Three trolls were making their way at some great pace south towards Isengard, a journey of at least another four days. It had been a long journey as it was, four more days would be nothing compared to the days that preceded them.

“They aren’t wrigglin’” one of them muttered. “Are you sure they aren’t dead, Bert?”

“Quite sure, Bill,” the second, Bert, said. “What does he want these little stinking things for anyway?”

“I dunno,” replied Bill.

“Quiet you two,” the third spoke. “Or them orcs’ll ‘ear us and take our booty. Or worse, us as slaves.” He halted to listen for a moment and ushered them closer, his face sticking out between the two sacks he carried slung over his shoulders. “I heard they has something an’ ‘e wants it, see. Well, if ‘e wants it as bad as all that, ‘e can give us what we want for it.”

Bill and Bert looked at him, blinking stupidly. “What do we want for it?” Bill said.

The third huffed in exasperation. “Close your mouth, you idiot, or them orcs’ll ‘ear us and we don’t want to end up chained to some . . .”

He fell silent and looked up. The sky was lightening up and they quickly turned for the deeper crevasses to hide their presence.

“My feet are aching,” Bill mumbled to himself. “We’ve been walking for several nights in a row, and only taking short naps. And this daylight business, ain’t natural,” he grumbled.

“Still, I liked that drink the White Wizard gave us,” Bert put in as they walked. “Do you think ’e’ll give us some more?”

“You’re lucky ’e didn’t give you a knife in your belly,” Bill retorted. “That drink only makes us immune to the sun.”

“Even so, I liked it,” insisted Bert. “And I’m thirsty.”

“What does ‘e want with all these ‘obbits anyway?” Bill wondered. “This is the fourth trip we’ve made an‘ still ‘e hasn‘t found it. They don’t make a good meal like a roasted ‘orse; ‘ardly a mouthful on ‘em.”

“He wants what they’ve got, the more of ‘em we take, the fewer of ‘em ‘e has to kill later” the third put in suddenly. “Something very precious, ‘e said. ‘E didn’t say what it was, just that it was precious. Now, will you two pipe down?” he growled.

A shriek up ahead told them they were not alone. Orcs were nearby. The trolls began to run, but with their heavy burdens they could not run very fast. The orcs were gaining on them. Finally the trolls dropped their precious prizes and made a mad dash for the caves, but it was too late. The orcs’ chains flew around them in every direction, until finally they were subdued.

They cried and wailed, but it was no use. Hands bound behind their backs, they were forced onto their feet and led away. The sun rose and bore down on them, hurting their eyes, but instead of turning them into stone they didn’t die. They cried longer and longer, until their voices grew hoarse and they forgot to speak. The strange drink was doing it’s evil, coating their minds with a numbing sleep, while their bodies stayed awake, and orcs kept going. They howled, feeling like they had lost something, but could not remember what it was, and the orcs kept going. They roared like beasts, trying to speak, but not knowing what to say or how to say it, and still the orcs kept going. They knew where they were going; to Mordor, but mindless slaves did only what they were told, and all thought of their precious prize was forgotten.

She woke with a pounding headache, like someone had hit her over the head with a brick. In fact, her mouth was hot, and thick, and she felt nauseous. Sitting up, she wriggled out of the sack and held a hand to her head. She groaned. She blinked her eyes open. She soon shut them again, there was far too much light. The sun was shining right into her face. She rolled over onto all fours and blinked to ease her eyes into the sudden daylight. It had been dark where she had been before, but she could not remember where that was.

She lifted her head and looked around her, trying to remember who she was, but nothing came. Around her lay four other sacks with smaller feet sticking out. She pulled the sacks off them to reveal small beings, children. She remembered now. She was escaping with her four children, westward through the hills. Some large dark shape, she don’t know what it was, had grabbed her and put her in a sack, after that she had been somewhere cold and dark, almost like a tomb.

Around her there was no sign of the hills, the cave, she guessed that it had been a cave, or the large creatures. She could see nothing but trees, and more trees, and yet more tress. She was afraid. There were voices coming through the trees towards her, but as they approached, they silenced. Around her the little ones groaned awake.

She bent to hush them and as she did so an arrow swished past her head, a second punctured her side. She grunted, but did not cry out. The children abruptly lay down in silence. She was pleased and turned her attention to those approaching. Orcs, was her first guess, but as another arrow struck the tree above her hiding place she retracted that idea. It was an elvish arrow, made with fine implements and practiced care. She looked again at the arrow sticking out of her side and shook her head to clear a sudden rush of wooziness. She did not have time to pass out, she had to protect the children.

This was bad news. They had not had dealings with elves for many a long year, and had not even seen one in at least five hundred years. They kept themselves to themselves, rarely if ever meeting outsiders; that is, until the Wild Men drove them out of their holes. Now it seemed the elves wished them dead, too. Was there no peace to be had? She silently cursed all the big folk.

They were moving slowly through the trees, stalking them; probably thought she was a Wild Man herself, or perhaps a stray orc.

Another arrow flew and landed beside one of the children. That was it. No one threatened her children. She drew her short sword and smirked. This was one creature they would not subdue so easily, and one they would not attack again in a hurry, if she felt lenient enough to leave one alive.

The first appeared close by her, rounding the tree, arrow poised and bow readied as he came far too close for her liking. Reaching the thicket they were using for cover, he drew back the bow, aiming straight for the youngest. He sneered, but the arrow never found its mark. He fell dead at her feet, the arrow falling useless to the ground. She looked at her now blooded sword and wondered how many there were to this hunting party. If there were many, her own hurts would get the better of her and her resolve would break.

A second and a third elf appeared and she dispatched them just as swiftly. Another two called out through the trees to their fellows, who did not reply. She eyed the fallen and cursed this turn of events. Had they not heard that war was brewing? Even her own insular kind had heard the rumours. Every warrior would be needed, and here they were throwing themselves upon her sword. What a waste.

The last two came towards her position, but abruptly looked up as to their right an answering call through the forest came to their ears. They were agitated by the voices, but she did not seem to notice. She took her chance. If she hadn’t she would probably have been overrun and the children dead. She did not know what their quarrel with her was about, but she did not desire to wait around to find out.

Snatching the arrow from the tree trunk she jumped forward as silent as a summer breeze and stabbed both elves in the throat. She nodded to the little ones and they followed her before the bodies hit the bed of pine needles.

Before she had even registered the sound of voices to her left, they were running down the gentle slope to the small nook hidden among the rocks. Diving inside she pushed the children to the back and blocked the entrance with her own body. She heaved at each breath, and each time pain coursed through her being. She had not the time to pass out, the strangers were upon them.

“These tracks are several hours old,” Aragorn noted. “But these are fresh, they lead into the thicket.”

“In here,” the elf called. Legolas knelt beside one the bodies of the fallen and turned him over.

“They came upon something small hiding in here,” Aragorn noted.

“How can you tell?” Boromir asked.

“His arrow was pointing downwards when he died.” Aragorn eyed the ground intently just a foot or two from where the elves lay dead. “Troll sacks,” he noted. “Empty. Whatever they caught was not animal, and it escaped.”

“Where are the trolls?” Sam wondered, “Wouldn’t they have turned to stone?”

“I don’t see any trolls,” Legolas responded. “The sun should have turned them to stone, and there are troll tracks here, but not old enough to have been left before dawn.”

“That makes no sense,” Gimli noted. “Trolls cannot come out in the day. Unless there’s magic at work here.” The thought of it made him shudder.

Aragorn looked again at the disturbed ground inside the thicket. “This is strange,” he said touching the still warm spot where small feet had left indentations in the needles.

“What is it?” Gimli asked.

“These are hobbit tracks, unless I am very much mistaken.”

“Hobbits?” Frodo repeated in surprise. “But we are far from the Shire. What are they doing out here?”

“I do not know,” Aragorn replied. “What I don’t understand is that four of them are about half your size. These tracks are hurried, interwoven and disorientated. It is difficult to make anything of them at all, except for this pair beside the tree, which are much larger.”

“Then they could be dwarves,” Gimli said hopefully, but then eyed the dead elves and retracted that hope with an uncomfortable glance at Legolas. “Oh, this is not good,” he added quietly.

Aragorn rested a hand on his shoulder. “Fear not, friend Gimli, These tracks are definitely hobbit. They are bootless.” He raised his head and followed the indentations in the forest floor down the incline. “They went that way.”

“They may be dangerous. We had better be on our guard,” Legolas warned, reaching for his bow.

Sam looked up sharply. “Now, wait just a minute . . .”

“They are scared,” Boromir noted, pointing to drops of red in the needles. “And hurt.”

Aragorn touched the drops. “This blood is already drying. The elves attacked first.”

Legolas stared at him, horrified. He could offer no suggestion and closed his mouth.

“Then we approach them with caution,” Gimli said. “They will have less reason than a dwarf to trust an elf.” This fair rankled Legolas, until he spied the twinkle in Gimli’s eyes.

Was the dwarf teasing him? Aragorn shot off down the hill in the direction of the footprints and the rest followed. Suddenly he skidded to a halt spraying needles before him as he slowed. Turning just his head to the others, he pointed to a small opening in the grass-covered cliffs.

Boromir quickly shepherded the hobbits away from the opening and drew his sword, keeping the hobbits behind him. Gimli flexed his axe arm, also getting ready to defend them.

“Unless I call, you are to stay outside,” Aragorn suggested, Boromir nodded. Gimli bristled, but agreed. “Legolas, put away your bow.”

Legolas tightened his jaw, but relented with a sigh, placing it over his shoulder to hang down his back. In silence he followed the heir apparent into the darkness. The opening was a tight squeeze, the cavern beyond some 10 feet across. It was bare and empty, having been forged by weather rather than pick. Water dripped in some hidden recess, of which there were many, and pooled among the rocks at the far end.

Legolas’s hands twitched for his weapons, but he restrained himself. Searching the darkness he noted Aragorn’s questioning gaze. Could he hear or see anything? He searched the black shadows among black rocks. He turned his head to his left and looked at Aragorn, cocking his head to the niche.

She stood at the ready, the light from the opening just enough to outline them against the gloom. Where she stood she was hidden, even in plain sight. Her sword in one hand and the arrow in the other, she tensed.

Legolas took a step towards her, not seeing her clearly in the dark, but her aura was clear like a halo. He frowned slightly, it was not an aura he was familiar with. Even though his hands were empty, a knot of fear passed between the little ones behind her at his approach. Legolas froze, the sound of frightened whimpers came to his sensitive ears. Aragorn stepped passed him, but his arm across his path stopped him. “I hear children, very small,” Legolas spoke in a whisper in his own tongue.

Aragorn eyed the niche and strained his ear. He took a step forward and heard a dust of breath on dark air. Children, no matter what the kind, had the same sound. He stepped closer and heard a whoosh sound just past his ear. He flinched, still seeing nothing. His eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, but evidently the strangers’ were not.

“One more step and the next swipe will not be a warning,” a low voice grated in the dark.

Aragorn could feel a tingling at the very top of his right ear, and knew instantly that this was one mean hobbit, out to protect her brood at all costs. He stepped back, feeling a trickle of blood wend its way down behind his ear.

“You are hurt,” Legolas spoke. He took a step forward and a swipe whooshed across his belly. His skin began to feel warm and sticky wet. He felt no pain, but something told him he just had too close a call, and he wisely stepped back.

“What do you care, elf!” the voice spat back. “You tried to kill my children. Come any closer and I will defend them to the expense of your life.”

“Please,” Legolas said, looking straight at her. “We have just come across the mountains from Rivendell on a mission into Mordor. We have not come to kill hobbits, much less children. We found elves dead in the forest. I seek only answers.”

“You attacked first. I defended. What more explaining do you need?” the voice forced through gritted teeth.

“I am not one of those who attacked you. I am Legolas, of the Woodland Realm, this is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Who are you, and what are you doing so far from the Shire?”

There was a long pause. “This is some trick to make me lower my guard,” the hobbit replied. “I assure you, it will not work.”

“No tricks,” Aragorn promised. “You are wounded. I have medicine that will help.”

“Outside,” the hobbit ordered. “I want you in plain sight where I can see you.”

Aragorn backed away, holding his hands out where she could see that they were empty. Legolas slipped out through the opening and Aragorn followed, much to the astonishment of the others. Aragorn was bleeding a little from a slight flesh wound to his ear. Legolas, on the other hand, sported a long red welt across his stomach, any deeper and he would have been disembowelled. His shirt and tunic were in tatters and blooded. He turned pale at the thought, or would have if it had been possible.

The hobbit emerged, followed closely by four small hobbit-lings clutched together behind her. They blinked into the sunlight, wary and afraid. Not more than two feet from the opening she stood still staring at Frodo and the others where they stood gazing back at her from behind Boromir. She was a good head taller than them, but obviously from the same stock, her pointed ears and curled hair were a testament to her identity. She eyed the four in wonder, never having seen the like of them before.

“Stoors,” Frodo noted, without meaning to speak.

“Stoors?” Merry put in. “But I thought they were things of ancient history.”

“Halflings,” she realised and turned to eye Sam. “Though, you are not one of them. You’re a Harfoot,” she said, as if he were the poor relation, unwashed and dressed in rags cast off from a pauper.

Sam sneered at her. There was no love lost for the aggressive Stoors, and even now instincts overrode years of peace and distance, and hands went to swords should they be forced to defend themselves, and with good reason.

“Well, now that we recognise each other,” Aragorn began blandly. “Let me tend your wound, and you can tell us where you have come from and how you came to be east of the Misty Mountains.”

The Stoor lowered her arms. “East . . .?” She turned to look at the mountain peeks through the trees. A sudden despair overcame her as she turned her tear-filled eyes to Aragorn. “I do not know.”

“Not barrow-wights,” Aragorn decided. Sam, whose suggestion it had been, frowned. “Trolls. Barrow-wights always summon up the unnatural sleep to lull their victims. They do not hit them over the head.” He turned to the arrow sticking out of the Stoors’ side and looked at Legolas with a meaningful glance. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Mernia,” she replied.

“Well, Mernia, hold still. This is going to hurt.”

With that he held her down on the ground by an arm across the chest and hips, and Legolas pulled the arrow free. Mernia screamed and promptly passed out. Pressing freshly chewed herbs into the wound, Aragorn bound it and left her to wake up on her own.

“If she is right and Wild Men are on the move, there is trouble in Eriador,” he said quietly to the others.

“We don’t have time to turn back and help them,” Boromir told him. “Our errand is far more pressing.”

“I agree,” Gimli added. “Getting the ring to Mordor is far more important. He can deal with Wild Men later. Besides, we still have to reach Lothlórien before nightfall.”

Aragorn nodded. “There is still time.” He watched a still angered elf eyeing the arrow in his ands with disdain. “Who’s arrow is it?”

“I am uncertain,” he replied. “And I did not recognise the elves dead in the woods. Their smell was all wrong.”

Aragorn turned his head fully towards the elf. “What do you mean?”

Legolas stood and turned to him, at once angry and very worried. He held up the offensive weapon in Aragorn’s face. “This is not an elven arrow. To the untrained eye perhaps it might seem like one. What is different with this is that the head is of roughly forged iron, and not steel. If I am right, the dead are not elves but orcs, a new kind of orc I never seen before.”

For a moment no one spoke.

“If this is true, and I have no reason to doubt your word, then we have more reason to flee than before,” Aragorn stated. He turned to the Stoor, only to find an empty space. “Where did she go?”

At once they were alert, eyes searching through the spindly trees.

“Legolas,” he urged.

“That way,” he said.

“Then let us be after them.”

At a run, they made their way through the trees, footprints growing fainter with each passing minute. After a while they could hear the swift movement of bodies through the undergrowth just ahead of them.

Up ahead, her fear drove her on. Behind her, the children followed. To her ears came the sound of many feet. The elf was following her. She vowed not to be caught off guard again by the murderous creatures. Never again would her kind trust others, even in their offer of kindness she knew there would be strings.

On she ran, the children following. She turned, waving them before her, protecting their escape. She chirruped a warning and the children dropped to the ground. Suddenly they were camouflaged like little chicks, their beige and brown clothes blending in with the leaf litter.

Mernia looked back the way they had come. She could see them. The elf was close on her tail and behind him came two men and a dwarf, weapons at the ready. The elf was not armed, she noted. She put that down to complacency. It would be his undoing.

Breathless from the run, she could go no further. Propped up behind a tree she pressed at her aching side. The wound had stopped bleeding. At least the herbs were harmless, she would give them that at least. The problem now was to slip away without the elf seeing her and her children.

Legolas peered at the ground. The footsteps had shortened, meaning the runners had slowed. A little further and the marks stopped altogether. He eyed the large tree directly in front of him, knowing that they were on the other side. He smiled gently. They had not gone far. Carefully he rounded the tree and popped out from behind it to step right into the circle in the midst of the shrubs.

He tensed, expecting a vicious attack, but nothing happened. In fact, the clearing was empty. He looked around in surprise. Tipping his head slightly, he frowned in confusion. Where did they go?

“Legolas?” Aragorn called as he came into sight. “What do you see?”

“Nothing,” Legolas replied. “They’ve gone. I have never seen hobbits move with such speed. They must be a mile or more ahead of us.”

“How can that be?” the man questioned.

“Fear is a better motivation than most at forcing a turn of speed,” Gimli puffed.

Legolas nodded. “And I doubt that any words I can say will persuade them as to the innocence of my kin.”

“Actions speak louder than words,” Frodo noted as he finally slowed to a halt.

“What do you mean?” Boromir asked, wondering why his eyes were on him and not Legolas, who his suggestion was addressed to.

“I do not believe even the Stoors could outrun men, therefore they must still be in this area.” Frodo said.

“But I cannot see them,” Legolas reiterated.

“The arrow, you say, is not elven. Then leave it here. It serves no purpose taking it with you other than to cast doubt on your own heart of your innocence.”

Aragorn gazed at the Halfling in wonder, not completely understanding the meaning of his half-spoken suggestion. “We have no time for riddles,” he decided. “We must reach the woods of Lothlórien before nightfall.”

Frodo sent one last gaze at Legolas who stood undecided with the arrow between his fingers, before following the rest of the Fellowship as they ran for the edge of the plains. Legolas watched him leave for a second before understanding came to him. Clearing a space in the leaf litter he exposed the dark soil and lay the arrow in clear sight. He knew Frodo was right. The Stoors had to be nearby, even if he could not see them. He straightened, casting his eyes about him, but nothing stirred. With exaggerated care he took one arrow from his quiver and tied around it a small gem on a gold chain that he pulled free from his own throat. Gently he laid the arrow beside the other and gave silent honour to the place, before turning and running at full speed after the retreating forms of his fellows.

Uncurling herself from the trunk of the tree, she looked down at the arrows left behind. Curiosity won over her distrust as she stooped to take a closer look. The chain tied around the smooth wooden-stemmed arrow glinted in the sun as she lifted it up. In her other hand she lifted the arrow that had been pulled from her side, her blood still marked its triangular head. The stem was light, but not made of wood.

She considered the two arrows for a long, silent moment. One was elven, she had seen him take it from his own quiver. And the other? She did not know, but it was not elven. She realised keenly the mistake she had made. Turning her eyes south, the group had gone from sight. She could not hope to catch them up, and even if she had wanted to she could tell that her presence would be a burden to their task.

She looked up sharply, hearing cries to the northeast. Orcs. Rousing the children, she ran. Crossing the river at the ford, she took them north to the elf road through Mirkwood. Now they would wander no more, she knew exactly where to go.

The ground changed again to open and treeless and the woods of Lothlórien stood green and pure in the distance. Aragorn saw them first, a smile spread across his face. They were almost to safety. Almost passing the encounter off as a dream. They continued on, in wordless wonder. Despite searching the ground as they went, they never saw any sign of the Stoor and her children again.

Much later, at the end of the war, Legolas received a small note, carried to him by the great eagle who had come to their aid at the height of the battle. Aragorn had been surprised to find the elf smiling, feeling overwhelmed by some piece of news that eluded him.

“What is it?” Aragorn asked him. “We won, Sauron is finally defeated, and yet here you are with tears in your eyes.”

Legolas smiled all the wider. “Mernia reached safety.”

For a moment Aragorn’s memory came up blank, and then he slowly remembered. “Where is she?”

“It seems the gift I left for her aided her in gaining audience with my father.”

“Gift? What gift?”

Legolas smiled and said no more. Frodo, lying in his bed, read the short note Legolas passed to him. He smiled, sharing the secret between them.

El fin

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