A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Fifteen~

"It is the middle of the night," grumbled Gimli.

Legolas looked down, the corners of his mouth forming a smirk. "Yes, and I cannot believe you missed the entire incident."

Gimli dusted himself off, looking indignant but slightly sheepish. "Half of you here," he muttered, looking at several hobbits, "look like you're suddenly reconsidering this quest, and the other half" -- he glanced at Caranthir, Olórin and Aragorn -- "look like someone died."

Caranthir's mouth twitched. "Died? Rather alarming thing to say; not at all a metaphor I'd use. Dying hurts."

Gimli stared.

That was a joke, for Eru's sake! Caranthir thought, crossing his arms irritably. If not a bad one . . .

Merry whispered something into Pippin's ear, that made him turn pink with choked laughter. Aragorn frowned at both of them.

"There were crebain," said Olórin, fingers curling back around his staff, "that passed over us. Hollin is no longer safe."

Gimli, at once opening his mouth for questions, was hastily pulled aside by Legolas to be filled in. Caranthir backed up with Olórin, Aragorn, and Boromir, of which the former two had returned to their usual, grave, demeanor.

"Nice to see all of us were paying attention," said Aragorn amusedly, although his eyes were quiet and grave. This certainly predicts good things awaiting the quest.

"We should get going soon," muttered Caranthir. "Those things will come back." And it would be their fault when they came with orcs the second time.

"Should we really leave now, when none of us have rested?" whined a listening Merry.

"Well, we do know Gimli found sleep," muttered Boromir.

Everyone seems to be in a fine mood today, Caranthir thought, an inner part of him sighing. Middle-earth needed warriors for this job, not several underage hobbits. And what was the point of the Fellowship, if all they would accomplish was joke and laugh around in the face of death? He, Caranthir, seemed the only mature one in this quest. He might be better alone than a mere companion to the Ringbearer, the Ringbearer surrounded by fools. What did the so-called halfling, barely more than a child, do to be Middle-earth's last hope?

Caranthir straightened, choking down a wry laugh. It was just that Ring, once more playing with his mind -- the usuals. As if he didn't have enough obligations towards jewellery.

The Fellowship kept moving. Several days passed, as the company jogged uphill on a road whose quality was more than questionable. It was becoming clear they had left Eregion.

Caranthir wished he could have stayed longer. It had been a fine country, fair climate and well located, but even more interesting was the old realm's history. Celebrimbor had ruled it, after Artan-- Galadriel now, he corrected -- left with Celeborn. Following this, Hollin had fostered a long friendship with the Naugrim. All that now lingered was rubble.

On one morning, when the sun had faded behind some heavy fog, Caradhras loomed above them all, in part reminding Caranthir of the myths he had heard from Finwë about mysterious towering giants that made their homes here. It had all seemed like cheap warnings to him then.

Olórin stood in the front, tasting the air. The wizard looked to Aragorn with a deep frown. "There is no chance," he muttered softly to him, so that Caranthir had to prick his ears to notice, "we will make it through there unnoticed. Your choice will fail."

Ah, the dwarven-mines. Caranthir drew back. So they were still debating this . . .

Aragorn regarded this, leaning to one side stiffly. "Those crebain may not follow us here, into the Redhorn pass. And it is a safer route than what you suggest, if we are to chose between a little cold and shadow."