OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES
by Soledad
Author's Notes:
Now that we finally reached the point where our heroes have to face the Wargs, it's the honest thing to place some warnings here for you.
First and foremost: this one is a chapter I had to write, for continuity's sake, and because I put the darn beasts in the title. It took me more energy than I needed for the rest of the story - for all my stories put together, in fact. I can only hope that it's still any good, in spite of all the suffering it had cost me.
Second: the people who can write wolves, are Dwimordene and Thundera Tiger. So, if you want real action with the cursed beasts, you'd better go and read their stuff. True, there will be Wargs here, too, but the emphasis is on other things, as usual. Things that action-friends might find boring.
Third: all those Wood-Elven customs Legolas is speaking about, have been made up by me, completely out of thin air. I couldn't find any canon facts that would support my ideas - but neither any that would contradict them, so I stuck with my own imaginations.
Now you have been properly warned. Should you still be with
me, I shall love you for eternity - go on and enjoy!
Chapter Nine - Howling in the Wind
Gandalf stirred restlessly in his sleep, disturbed maybe by the loud snoring of the Dwarf, then suddenly he sat up and looked around as if listening. Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas followed his lead, but all they could hear - save Gimli, of course - was the wind hissing among the rocks and trees; but there also was a howling and wailing round them in the empty spaces of the night.
''How the wind howls!'', Boromir remarked absently. ''Would this fell weather never have an end?''
The others listened, too; then Legolas leapt to his feet.
''It is howling with wolf-voices'', he stated grimly. ''The Wargs have come west of the Mountains!''
Aragorn, too, got to his feet swiftly and ran to wake the Ring-bearer, while Boromir and Legolas tried to shake some consciousness into the other deadly weary hobbits. Gimli jerked awake on his own from all the protesting noises the little folk had made.
Needless to say, the hobbits were devastated by the news. Wolves had ever been feared among their kin, more so since the Fell Winter - and Bilbo's adventures with the Wargs only added fuel to their general fear.
''I doubt that the Eagles would come to help us this time'', Merry sighed.
''Nay, I think not, either'', Pippin agreed glumly.
''Need we wait til morning, then?'', asked Gandalf pointedly. ''It is as I said. The hunt is up! Even if we live to see the dawn, who now will wish to journey south by the night with the wild wolves on his trail?''
Are you satisfied now, Mithrandir? Now that we shall be
forced to take that evil and dangerous way that you had in your
mind ever since we set out?
Boromir glared at the wizard full of mistrust. Why would he intend to go through the Dwarf-mines when both Aragorn and Legolas were against it?
But out loud the son of Denethor only asked: ''How far is Moria?''
''There was a door south-west of Caradhras, some fifteen miles as the crow flies and maybe twenty as the wolf runs'', answered Gandalf grimly.
Boromir glanced at the clearly miserable hobbits on his side. They did not look as if they were able to go on just yet.
''We have to find a place where we can defend ourselves'', he said, ''and then start as soon as it is light tomorrow. The wolf that one hears is worse than the Orc that one fears.''
This was meant as a joke, not unlike the nursery rhymes he was taught in his childhood, and indeed, it seemed to cheer up Pippin a little. But Aragorn, of course, could not let him have even this small satisfaction.
''True!'', the Heir of Isildur said, loosening his sword in its sheath. ''But where the Warg howls, ther also the Orc prowls.''
Boromir rolled his eyes to that silly rhyme. Why some people felt the need to create bad poetry while they clearly had no gift for it, was beyond his understanding.
''I wish I had taken Elrond's advice'', muttered Pippin, thank to Aragorn's poetic efforts now miserable again. ''I am no good, after all. There is not enough of the breed of Bandobras the Bullroarer in me: these howls freeze my blood. I cannot even remember feeling so wretched.''
''You are not the only one who feels wretched'', said Legolas and shivered visibly. ''Can you feel them, Aragorn?''
The Ranger seemed as if listening for a moment, then he shook his head.
''Nay, my friend, I cannot. They are still too far for a Man to sense them - even for me, though I have hunted for wolves with your people many times.''
''I can feel them'', the deep, hollow voice of Gimli said; the Dwarf stood silently, his deep-set, round eyes burning. '''Tis a feeling as if something dark had entered the woods around us... and evil presence, like a black cloud, lays in the air. My father has often told me how it feels, but now I can sense it myself. They are no ordinary wolves.''
''Of course not'', replied Legolas, clearly irritated. ''They are Wargs, I told you so - and lots of them. 'Tis an unusually large pack... or more packs hunting together.''
''Your kind hunts these foul beasts all the time'', said Gandalf; ''what is your advice? Should we lay still and wait for them to cross the woods?''
Legolas shook his head.
''Nay, there is no hope that darkness and silence would keep our
trail from discovery by the hunting packs. Like all wolves, Wargs
follow their noses; and once they have picked up our scent, they
would not let us alone.''
''But we cannot stay here where we have no cover!'', said Boromir. ''The little ones would stand no chance, not even against ordinary wolves.''
''True'', Legolas agreed. ''Let us climb to the top of this hill and see what we can find there for our defense.''
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Aragorn and Mithrandir agreed, and so we climbed to the top of the small hill under which we had been sheltering. It was crowned with a knot of old and twisted trees, about which lay a broken circle of boulder-stones. Mayhap it was a small watchpost at the time of the North-kingdom; if so, we still had some hope to defend it successfully.
The Dwarf walked around the stone circle, knocking every single rock-piece with the dull back of his great axe, testing if they would hold against a massed assault, and found our defense perimeter satisfying. Yet though he grumbled something about ''good, solid stonework'', his eyes were still haunted. The things his father had told him about the Wargs must have been highly unsettling.
As for my part, I never had any encounters with the foul beasts of the Enemy, but there were some Rangers in Faramir's troup in Ithilien who had fled from the North to our land, and tongues get loose at campfires, so I have heard tales about Wargs - horrible tales that told about their shrewd and vicious nature, how they never gave up once they had picked up a trail, how they preferred living prey, and how many of them had been raised on the flesh of Elves and Men, so that they would despise lesser prey and thirst for our blood.
Aye, I could understand the fear of the little folk, and in spite of my liking for young Peregrin, I wanted for not the first time that Elrond had, indeed, sent him and Meriadoc home, tied up in a sack if necessary. Mayhap we had now Elrond's sons with us if he did, who are seasoned warriors and used to the harsh life in the Wild - or, at least, Elladan...
Nay, I cannot let my thoughts go that way, not now! I must stay focussed. I am one of the three true warriors in our midst; our lives can depend on my attention and the sharpness of my senses.
I left the fire that Gimli had lit in the midst of the circle where the others were dozing uneasily and went to Legolas who stood silently and motionlessly at a gap in the low stone wall, guarding the entrance like a young tree in the wind-still air. In his soft grey cloak he was almost indistinguishable from the shadows, only his eyes glittered brighter than the stars abowe.
''Can you feel them?'', I asked him in a harsh whisper.
''All Elves can sense the approach of evil'', he answered in a low voice, ''and we of the Silvan folk have a particularly keen sense for Wargs, having lived in their neighborhood for many long centuries. The darkness of their presence lays heavily upon my mind.''
''How far are they?'', I continued, wanting to know what I had to count on, as any good soldier would. I might not be the leader of our pathetic little group, but at least I knew how to fight. And so did the Elf, obviously.
''Close'', he said, ''and closing up swiftly. There are more than just one hunting pack, I fear. We shall be besieged ere the sun rises.''
''Do we have a chance?'', I asked, knowing that of all my travelling companions, Legolas most certainly would not lie to me.
The Elf shrugged.
'''Tis hard to say. The hobbits shall not be much of a help,
though the fire and these stones might provide us some
protection. And forget not Mithrandir who can wield fire like a
weapon; Wargs hate fire and fear it, just as ordinary wolves
do.''
''Yet you are not happy with our position'', I stated, for the distress on his fair face was obvious.
''Nay'', he admitted honestly, ''this place feels like a rat-trap. Were I with my own people, I would prefer to go over the trees and fight the Wargs from there. But neither hobbits, nor Men are made to leap from branch to branch like a squirrel, so we have to defend ourselves on the ground.''
What he just had said, stirred up many curious questions in my
mind.
''Have you often hunted Wargs in Mirkwood?'', I asked.
''All the time'', he answered with a slight shrug, ''or else they would kill all the deer and the wild boars and we would starve. There is not much else to eat in Mirkwood, other than wild berries, mushrooms and honey. The earth is soaked with evil in so many places, it refuses to bring out any tended fruits.''
I pondered about this tidbit of news for a while. After having spent two moons in the blessed abundance of Imladris, I never thought of Elves living in poverty. The few sharp reactions of Legolas I had witnessed during our journey suddenly began to make sense. Mayhap Mirkwood was not the best place to live in, not even for Wood-Elves.
''How old were you when you faced your first Warg?''
I knew not myself where that question had come from, but all of a sudden I would have very much liked to know the answer. Fortunately, Legolas did not take any offense.
''Twelve'', he said. ''I can remember clearly, for that is an important threshold in the life of a Wood-Elf. 'Tis called te 'First Circle'. Turning twelve, we leave the sole care of our mother and begin our training in archery. Of course, we all can handle a bow by then already; I received my first bow when I was only six. But reaching te First Circle means that we can go out with the hunters for the first time.''
''They took you out to a Warg-hunt at the age of twelve?'', I asked, utterly bewildered. Were these Wood-Elves all mad?
Legolas laughed.
''Nay, of course not. We hunted for deer... but Mirkwood was a
very dark place back then, worse even than it is now. I got
separated from the hunting party and lost my bearings, for I had
never been so far away from home before... a lost, confused child
I was, easy prey for a hungry Warg.''
I felt the blood chill in my veins. ''You were attacked? How did you survive at all?''
''I knew it not at that time, but I was not very far from the others'', the Prince of Mirkwood answered, his eyes taking on that far-away look Elves always have upon them when walking in the vast halls of their memories. ''So near, in truth, that my brothers heard my screams when the Warg leapt at me and rushed to my aid. But I had been severely mauled by then'', he shot me a wry grin. ''I would show you the marks all over my body, but the scars have considerably faded during the last three-thousand-and-some years. They can only be seen in direct sunlight.''
I shuddered involuntarily. ''You could have died, back then.''
''I very nearly have'', he nodded soberly, ''and my recovery was a long and painful one, for Warg bites get easily infected and are slow to heal, even by Elves. So be grateful for your mail shirt and forget not to wear your wrist-guards and gauntlet. It could spare you much pain.''
''But what about the Halflings?'', I asked. ''They are just as small as you have been at the age of twelve.''
''Nay, they are smaller'', Legolas said, ''but we shall put them up the trees once the Wargs get close. That way we would not have to divide our forces to protect them on the ground. Wargs cannot climb trees. At the end, they are naught but evil beasts.''
''So they are not sentient?'', I felt a little surprised. ''The old tales I have heard all suggested that they had a mind and a will of their own.''
''They have'', the Elf Prince shrugged; ''as do all birds and beasts, good or evil alike, and even most trees. But naught more. Wargs used to be ordinary wolves once, ere the Enemy infested their kin with the blood of werewolves and thus turned them evil. Still, in their very core they are interested in one thing only: the prey.''
''Which, in this case, would be us'', I added sourly.
To my surprise, Legolas grinned at me. Nay, this was not his usual radiant smile that seemed to clear up the sky on a rainy day. It was a wide, honest-to-earth grin, from one warrior to another.
''Fret not so much'', he said, ''we are not eaten yet.''
''Mayhap not'', I answered with a wary look at Bill the pony who trembled and sweated where he was, ''but I fear that dinner time might be close.''
For now I, too, began to feel the weight of a growing evil presence all around me. It was different from the Nameless Fear in Osgiliath, and still at some distance, but just as threatening.
''We have to warn to others'', I murmured.
''They know it already'', Legolas replied with a quick glance backwards. ''Go, help them get the hobbits up the trees. I shall remain here and watch, for my senses are the keenest.''
I did as I was told, for he was right, of course, and soon the Halflings were all safely seated up on the few trees that grow inside the stone circle rather than outside it, like small songbirds. They did not like it, thus much I could tell, and Peregrin muttered something about the whole situation reminding him too much of Bilbo's adventures to his liking. Apparently, the old midget I had met in Imladris did have some unpleasant encounter with Wargs. I made a mental notice to ask my little friends about it later - should we be spared from the belly of the foul beasts.
The howling of the wolves now was all around us, sometimes nearer and sometimes further off, and with it came that dread feeling, too. It lay heavily upon my heart, and I was sorely tempted to seek a moment of relief through the Stone, yet I dared not. According to the tales I was told, Wargs were quick as lightning; I could not risk any distractions if I wanted to be any good for the Halflings' defense.
''They have come'', the low voice of Legolas broke through my musings. The Elf retreated from his watchpost to join the rest of us.
I followed his icy glare. In the dead of night many shining eyes could be seen, yellow as brimstone, peering over the brow of the hill. Some advanced almost to our stone ring, and I felt myself swallow hard. I would never have admitted such weakness, but I was afraid.
More than that: I was scared to death.
This was an enemy I never fought before, and that put me to serious disadvantage. I knew not the strength of these beasts, nor their customs or fighting tactics.
I only knew they lived on the flesh of Elves and Men.
And that filled my heart with the mingless terror of a frightened
child.
Orcs I could handle. I have fought them all my life, I knew what they were like and what I could expect. They were a menace, for sure, but at least a well-known one.
Trolls, they were a different kind of monsters. They had become rare in the South, but they still dwelt in some deep caves in South Ithilien, not to mention the ones that served still in Mordor's armies. They were a devastating force of destruction, but they alwo were slow-witted and clumsy. So, I could handle them, too.
The Wild Men of the East and the Haradrim, I could even understand. They were only Men, after all, driven by the urges and needs and passions and fears shared by all peoples of Mankind. So they were no mystery for me.
But these beasts here... they made my skin tingle and my blood churn. How is a Man supposed to fight a foe whose only urge is to tear him to pieces and eat him? There was a hunger older than the greed of Men, and a horror deeper than any battlefield could call forth.
A slender hand touched my arm lightly, and the soft voice of Legolas whispered, audible only for me:
''They are just mindless, evil beasts. Kill them, and they are gone - naught remains for them, no ill will, no ghosts to haunt you afterwards.''
I shot him a quick glance and saw that he was pale in the moonlight, more so than usually, and I understood that he, too, was, if not truly afraid, then certainly very tense.
I could not blame him; these beasts could drive a grown Man mad with the evil they emanated, and Elves are much more sensitive to these feels than we are. And Legolas had had his own, very real experience with them to fuel his unease.
What must it have been like for a twelve-year-old elfling to face such a monster and nearly get eaten by it? He was probably smaller than the Warg itself. It had to be a very long recovery, indeed. How long did it take him to recover enough to face them again?
''Sometimes'', he murmured as if he had read my thoughts, ''facing our fears is the only way to keep our sanity. It took me another twelve years til I went to wolf-hunt with my brothers - and have never ceased to hunt them since that day.''
He broke off, giving a shrill whistle of alert through his teeth and raising his bow. I followed his aim and saw a great, dark wolf-shape at the gap of our stone circle. It was very large - almost as large as the poor pony shakking like a leaf behind the fire - and gazed at us from slanted, cold yellow eyes. Then it threw back his shaggy head, bared its gleaming fangs and a shuddering howl broke from it, summoning the packs to assault.
To my utter bewilderment, Mithrandir now left the fire he had guarded so far and strode forward, holding his staff aloft.
''Listen, Hound of Sauron!'', he cried. ''Gandalf is here. Fly, if your value your foul skin! I shall shrivel you from tail to snout, if you come within this ring!''
I gave a derisive snort, for all that wizardry had obviously clouded the old man's mind at the end. Did he truly believe he could impress these foul beasts with empty threats? Mayhap such a trick would work with obtrusive Halflings, but certainly not with Wargs. Even less so with hungry ones.
The wolf seemed to share my opinion, for it snarled and sprang towards us wit a great leap - so sudden, indeed, that I did not even find the time to draw my sword. Now I understood why all the tales loved to describe the greet speed of these monsters. Alone I would not have had half a chance against them.
Thank the Valar, I was not alone, though. There was a sharp tang as Legolas loosed his bow, and an Elven arrow hissed past my ear with a high-pitched whine. There was a hideous yell, and the leaping shape thudded to the ground: Legolas' arrow had pierced its throat.
I waited for a mass assault from the wolves, but it never came. Even the watching eyes were suddenly extinguished. Mithrandir and Aragorn volunteered to stride forward, but they came back with no news. The hill was deserted; the hunting packs fled.
''Is it over?'', I asked Legolas, for I did not want to give my King-to-be a chance to put on that smug face of his again. The Elf nodded.
''For now. They shall be back, soon - as soon as a new lead wolf had successfully fought for that position. This will be a long and hard fight. Go to sleep, you shall be in need of your strength in the morrow.''
I saw the wisdom in his words and did as I was told. We helped the little ones down from the trees and they cuddled together near the fire to try and find some sleep when Legolas kept watch.
All about us the darkness grew silent, and no cry came on the sighing wind. Yet we all knew that this was a treacherous peace.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The night was old, and westward the waning moon was setting, gleaming fitfully through the breaking clouds. Boromir lay a little apart from the others, halfway between the fire and Legolas' watchpost, unable to sleep. He yearned to touch the Stone, to lose himself in the warm presence of Elladan, to bask in the memories of their shared passion that the Stone could bring back so vividly that it almost felt real, but he dared not. It would have been too much of a distraction, now, that he needed all his senses sharp like daggers.
There were strange moments of temptation, stronger even than any lure of the Ring, to cast the whole quest away and turn back; to run straight back to Imladris and into Elladan's arms. To forget even his obligation towards his land and his people. The need to be loved again was so painful, it nearly clouded his mind. Had his father's heavy hand not beaten an unerring sense of duty into his heart, he might have faltered. He might have broken his given word to the Ring-bearer and his oath to the Steward of Gondor and returned to the one who loved him.
To the one he needed above all else.
Just one more time, he whispered tonelessly to any higher power that might have been listening, let me taste love one more time. I ask for naught else.
But the Lord Denethor had raised his Heir properly to take over his seat one day, and Boromir knew with a bitter certainty that his request will not be granted. For he was not allowed to be weak. Duty came first and foremost, just like it had come for his father through all his long life, and what ever his heart (or his flesh) might have yearned for, was of little consequence.
Suddenly, without any warning, a storm of howls broke out fierce and wild all about their camp, startling him from his thoughts. Legolas' estimate had been right: a great host of Wargs had gathered silently and was now attacking them from every side at once. Boromir gritted his teeth, shoving Pippin behind him, while Legolas did the same with Merry. The attack came so sudden they had no time to put the hobbits up the trees again.
''Fling fuel on the fire!'', cried Gandalf to the hobbits. ''Draw your blades, and stand back to back!'' As if the little ones had any chance to face one of those beasts.
In the leaping light, as the fresh wood blazed up, Boromir saw many grey shapes spring over the ring of stones. More and more followed as he watched them, seemingly weightless as the dark ash clouds floating above Mordor's black fields, yet quick and determined as the black arrows of Orcs in a fierce battle.
''Look out for the lead wolves!'', Legolas warned them, wielding his long, white knives with the deadly grace of a dancer, whirling around like the wind and striking with a brutal force that no-one would have expected from a being of such elegance; his eyes gleamed dangerously, and for a moment there was a disturbing alikeness between him and the beasts of the Wild. ''Should we succeed to kill them, the rest might flee.''
The others followed his lead, aiming at the greatest and wildest Wargs they presumed would be the leaders. Aragorn passed his sword through the throat of one with a thrust, while Boromir hewed the head off another with a great sweep, relieved that these were ordinary beasts after all and could be killed by ordinary weapons. Beside him Gimli stood with his stout legs apart, wielding his dwarf-axe, his every strike hitting its target unerringly.
For a moment they won some breathing room, enough for Legolas to grab his bow again and send arrow after arrow towards the attacking Wargs, hitting yellow eyes or furred throats every time. He stretched his bow with such incredible strength that many of his arrows went straight through some wolf's heavily muscled neck, the point of them coming out on the other side.
Still, he was not content with his own achievments.
''If I only had a good longbow, like the ones the Galadhrim use is Lórien'', he said through clenched teeth, ''I might keep them from coming this close.''
For regardless of all their efforts, the evil beasts kept coming, and Legolas' quiver was getting empty rapidly. The sheer number of the Wargs was overwhelming, their speed and wildness a force that was hard to withstand, even for an Elf, and Boromir was increasingly concerned about the hobbits. Should one of the great wolves break through their defenses, the little ones' fate was sealed.
Legolas, too, must have realized the hopelessness of their situation, for he looked around in cold fury as if searching for something - or someone.
''Mithrandir!'', he hissed, gritting his teeth in frustration, ''I suggest you finally do something!''
In the wavering firelight Gandalf seemed suddenly to grow, as if he had only been waiting for someone to call out to him: he rose up, a great, menacing shape, seemingly taller than the hills themselves, as the old tales said the Lords of the West to be if they wanted. Stooping like a cloud, he lifted a burning brench and strode forth to face the Wargs.
''Back!'', Legolas shouted to the others. ''Give him room to handle! Get out of his reach, or you, too, shall burn!''
Aragorn and Boromir retreated hurriedly, and Gimli followed them after a moment of doubt. The burning branch in Gandalf's hand cracked ominously, some other power than ordinary fire working under its smoldering bark. Legolas stretched his bow, the last arrow set on the string.
The wolves backed off a few yards before the frightening presence of the wizard. Their only remaining leader - a huge, silver-furred beast with fangs like bent daggers - gathered the strongest of them on his side, preparing for a new and lethal attack, while the others tightened their circle around the stone ring. A deadly silence came upon the hill, until Gandalf broke it, tossing the blazing brand high in the air, making it flare with a sudden, searing white flame like lightning, and crying out in a voice like rolling thunder:
''Naur an edraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth!''
There was a roar and a crackle, and Legolas made a great leap backwards, shouting to the others to follow him, for the tree above them burst into a leaf and bloom of blinding flame. The Elf stolpered and involuntarily loosed his bow, shooting his last arrow off with no aim. At the same moment the huge lead wolf sprang away, straight towards him, and the others followed like a dark cloud.
A series of highly creative Elven curses were overtoned by Gandalf's second command. The fire blazed up again, leaping from tree-top to tree-top. The whole hill was crowned with dazzling light; Boromir saw his own sword flicker like a living flame as it went through a large, furred body. Legolas' lost arrow kindled in the air as it flew, and plunged burning into the heart of the huge lead Warg, while the Elf sliced the throat of another one with his long knife.
Seeing the last wolf-chieftain falling, a frightened howl broke out from the back lines of the Wargs, and all of a sudden they turned and fled, with their tails between their legs.
''Are they gone for good?'', Pippin inquired, shaking with fear as he looked at the hideous monsters lying around, threatening even in their death.
''I know not, Master Peregrin'', Boromir answered tiredly, and looked at the Elf who was still cursing in several Elven tongues (including Doriathrin that was no common knowledge, even among Elves), examining the ruined sleeves of his favourite leather tunic and the long, bloody claw-marks on his upper arms. ''Legolas? What say you? Are they gone?''
''I hope so'', the Prince of Mirkwood shrugged off his tunic and - wiping his long knife clean in the silver fur of the dead Warg -, he simply cut the shredded sleeves about a hand's breadth shorter ere he put the damaged piece of clothing back on. ''But we have to make sure no-one has remained behind to spy upon us. Aragorn'', he called out to the Ranger in a commanding tone Boromir was sure no-one else would allow himself with the Heir of Isildur, ''come with me! Boromir, you stay with the hobbits.''
''But you are injured'', Aragorn protested, ''let me take a look at those wounds!''
''Later'', Legolas winked impatiently, ''they are but scratches and matter little. 'Tis more important that we scout around the hill right now.''
To Boromir's surprise, Aragorn gave in and left with the Elf. The son of Denethor helped the Dwarf to drag the wolf carcasses away from their fire so that the shaken and exhausted hobbits could lie down and rest a little. Gandalf retreated under the trees, outside the ring of stones, mumbling to himself darkly. Despite their unexpected victory, he seemed to be in a very bad mood.
Slowly the fire died till nothing was left but falling ash and sparks; a bitter smoke, like that from Mount Doom, curled above the burned tree-stumps and blew darkly from the hill. Boromir sat on the ground, tucking Merry and Pippin under his cloak as he did when they were fighting Caradhras, waiting for their scouts to return.
As the first light of dawn came dimly in the sky, Aragorn and Legolas finally came back, exhausted, but with relief written clearly on their faces.
''What did you find?'', Boromir asked the Elf quietly.
''Nothing'', Legolas answered with a tired voice. ''It seems they are truly gone. And so should be we, as long as we still can.''
But Aragorn shook his head.
''We cannot go on right now. Even if we could get the hobbits to their feet, which I very much doubt, Gandalf has drained his own strength with that last trick. He must recover ere we set our journey forth.''
Legolas shot a glance at the wizard and nodded grimly.
''Fine. We wait till the full light of day comes - but not a moment longer. This place is evil. I can feel it in my very bones. The longer we tarry here, the greater the peril grows.''
Once more Boromir was surprised that Aragorn did not protest, though he had to admit, it came naturally to obey Legolas when he was in full ''Prince of Mirkwood''-mood. The authority the Elf radiated in these real moments of true leadership let one forget his beauty and youthful apprearance and see his strength and wisdom only.
''Then let me, at least, tend to your injuries'', Aragorn asked, accepting his defeat.
''Of course'', Legolas nodded. ''Now that we have the time, it would be foolish of me to refuse proper treatment. I shall need all my strength for the next part of our journey. For I fear we are going from twilight to true darkness when we set forth.''
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End note:
Well, the torturous wolf chapter is finally over. Unfortunaltey,
stetching it so long meanst that I will have to add one more
chapter, in order to round up the story properly - especially
because I still haven't figured out what the heck happened to all
those dead wolves in the next morning. Any ideas?