A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Six~

It is quite remarkable, thought Caranthir as he journeyed, that an ancient blade -- even a puny knife, in that matter -- of Gondolin made it into the hands of that halfling, after thousands of years of the Sun. A slight chuckle left his mouth as he remembered that Ring. The Enemy is becoming foolhardy, if their articles of power have become lost so simply into the hands of the common.

As if a gesture of revenge, his throat throbbed and ached, and he clasped a palm to it warily. The skin burnt at his touch, just as he knew it would. Draining his energy as he did, Caranthir overlooked it. It was all too clear the effects were even worse for Frodo. Although the hobbit was in constant denial, each step he took was pained, tentative. And only worsened by the Ring he wore around his neck.

Caranthir swallowed a growl. Aragorn had once seemed so sure of this, that they would make it, and this Elrond, an "elf lord" by the standards of this age, yet a name Caranthir had never known. Could he be a Noldo, maybe of the house of Finwë? Caranthir wasn't sure what he felt about that. He would surely be descended from the line of Indis, therefore holding no importance in Caranthir's point of view. Everyone on that side of the family tended to be arrogant snobs. Of course, it would be even worse if he was of some other family. He didn't need to deal with a sniveling, arrogant dark elf. No, he would go there, teach the young one his place and leave.

Frodo Baggins, from up ahead, stumbled over a root. Staggering, he stretched a hand to his friend Merry for balance. Caranthir narrowed his eyes.

A gruff whisper crept into his ears. "We are running out of time," Strider hissed in Sindarin. "Even now, he continues to weaken."

Caranthir glanced at the ranger, and then back to the hobbit. "There has to be a faster way to get there."

Aragorn continued in disquiet.

The sounds of the wild were dimmed today, Caranthir noted. No birds sang in the trees, and the gentle, swaying wind was absent, leaving the the branches of trees hanging still. Caranthir found himself recalling that hour when he'd first awoken. Light. Denial. Warmth. What had at last awakened him?

Here he was now, back under the icy stars of Arda. Even after however long -- he still did not know the reaches of his absence -- in the Halls, alone, gone, had been, only one feature seemed to have changed. That star. Gritting his teeth, the elf swallowed the custom tidal wave of his fury, his failures, that accompanied that one subtle thought. At least, he mused, in a false attempt for peace, the jewel is in the sky, not lost in the hands of the Enemy.

~

Traveling further, despite all their efforts, was slow. They could not venture so far at night, with the weakened Frodo Baggins in tow. Caranthir and Strider both strove to push them, yet it seemed their efforts came as fruitless.

Regardless of their attempts, the days slipped by, and became ever shorter. Subtle, insugnuficant differences, but Caranthir caught them all. He sensed the night creeping, and with it the power of the Enemy.

One day, when mist fell thickly over the quiet dawn road, they came across a troll-cave. Caranthir's hand snapped forward, stopping an ambling Pippin right in his tracks.

"Don't move," he hissed. Pippin stared back with wide eyes.

Caranthir let out a growl as he scanned the brutes. Three total loomed stiffly above a lumpy mound, which after closer inspection Caranthir identified as the ancient remnants of a campfire -- although it was custom for the beasts to use a cooking spit. Odd. Why haven't they moved yet? he thought, glaring furtively at the statues. And no troll in their right mind would leave a campfire like that.