A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Seventeen~

The snowdrifts were thinning the more they hiked. Boromir, who was holding Sam, no longer tripped every few feet. Legoas shot the human a fast glance of encouragement from his spot in the lead, lighthearted but not so empathetic, then sprinted away to check on Aragorn and Merry. Caranthir stepped forward to take his place.

Legolas had always given the two shouts of instruction when he took the front, though it was truly unnecessary. Anyone could see him, even through the whistling snow; an elf cloaked in bright woodland green, standing out much like a jester at a funeral. As Caranthir pulled to the front, he found shouting directions useless.

We should have known this was hopeless. It was a dream, now, to cower back, maybe even to Moria, to avoid them. Even now Glamdring kept shining, though it had become a fainter blue. As if that would lift up their hopes. As if that would mean Middle-earth wouldn't be slaughtered, the Fellowship surely with it.

They stopped at a bare stretch, snow not so much as deep but bearable. Samwise and Merry were dropped down, to wait. It would be one more, maybe two, trips to get the rest across, if no one thought to compromise and let Caranthir carry Gimli. Besides, the dwarf was too proud to suffer being carried, especially by an elf. In turn, Caranthir was a high prince of the Ñoldor, and would not take any lesser beings to be lugged around, like he was a pack horse rather than a prince. That job could be left to the humans.

Sam held them up right at the last second. "Hold on!" he called, struggling forward. "I just want to remind you . . ."

"What is it?" said Aragorn, in an even voice to mask his slight impatience.

For a moment, Sam froze, seeming slight embarrassed. Then he swallowed. "I was . . . going to tell -- no, remind you . . . not to forget Bill."

Several laughs rang through the small crowd.

"Of course not, we'll obviously be carrying him too," snorted Caranthir.

Boromir scoffed slightly at the Noldo's joke. "That pony is fine. Gandalf, no doubt, has him. Do not worry for the creature's sake."

Sam bristled for a moment in indignance, presumably about to speak up in defense of his animal, then thought better of it. He grimaced for a moment. "All right then," he said in a vain attempt to ignore things. "Sorry to . . . hold you up."

"Do not dwell on it," said Aragorn, already turning away. His face hardened, surely bracing for more work.

Caranthir trudged ahead, sulking. His right boot had become a current puddle, soaked in and ruined by leaking snow. What kind of idiots would ever design boots like that, so they flooded through with every winter snow? His right foot was soaked and freezing; it would probably end up horribly stiff the following morning. Why couldn't they keep the old designs? Even in primitive, First Age Beleriand, one wouldn't find such poor quality in footwear, much less make money off it. (Especially when Caranthir controlled half the trade in East Beleriand.)

"All right up there?" came Aragorn's voice, startling him.

Caranthir scowled downwards, gaze landing conveniently on the boot in question. "My gear is terrible," he muttered. "Stupid boot's leaked through completely." He was unsure why he even bothered conversing with him.

There was a wry laugh from the ranger. "Thought I knew that look. Leaking shoes are terrible. Try wrapping it up with something, perhaps . . . that might keep the snow out."

Caranthir nodded, inwardly pretending to be shocked: Aragorn couldn't cook up an herbal treatment to fix that! "Whatever. Hope it does not utterly fall apart before . . ." Then he paused. A chill swept over him, the moment before he said the word he had in mind, like some shadow had been waiting, poised. He coughed, though, and went on. "Before the next course of this journey."