Tinder for the Flames

'From this day to the ending of the world,

[...] we in it shall be remember'd;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition[.]'

Shakespeare's Henry V, Act IV, Scene III

-(())-

Chapter One: Pride before the Fall

Aragorn felt so utterly stretched. There was little peace in the temporary lull of travel he was permitting them all, even when he wandered on his own to catch a meal. His lonely trudge along the shingle to the scant growth of true land soon lost its already floundering gusto, and he found himself seated on a large boulder grown smooth with the chastising of the wind and fervent enthusiasm of the river in flood. He rubbed at his temples, absently wondering why life insisted on placing him in these positions.

The Fellowship was in great trouble. Gandalf's authoritative presence was sorely missed, and the growing ripples of discord within the group were starting to tear it apart ... it was a bit like watching a bridge crumble under its own weight. Aragorn was the weakest point in the structure, the keystone that was meant to hold all others together ... except he was the wrong material for the purpose, dried mud rather than rock. He was trying, the Valar knew he was giving it his very best, but there was nothing he could do to quell the rising conflict within the group...

The hobbits were fine. All their lives, they had known each other, and barely a bad word had ever passed between them. Indeed, the level of kinship between them was inspiring and, at times, touching. There was little they would not do for each other, a good and pure attitude to hold. Gimli, gruff as ever, seemed to have found his ground within the strange confines of the Fellowship: he had appointed himself the hobbit's minder, in a respect, guiding them in the ways of the Wilds and ensuring their education in such things was thorough and consistent.

It was between himself, Legolas and Boromir that the trouble lay, but particularly with the Gondorian warrior and elven archer. Their stay in Lothlórien had done little for their relationship. Legolas had left the company of the Fellowship, wishing to spend some time with his southern kin. Aragorn understood the need the elf felt, having been raised by elves himself. Being with his own kind and in turn away from the Fellowship was as close to healing his grief over the loss of Gandalf as Legolas could get ... Aragorn had actually been able to pick out his best friend's voice amongst the many others singing a lament for the fallen wizard one night, a pure and keening song so heavily strung with sadness that Aragorn found himself stirred to tears for the first time since their loss.

Boromir had found no rest in that fair place. The Lady of the Wood had unsettled him greatly with the depth of her knowledge of Gondor's failing stewardship, and he now perceived the elven magic that had touched him as something dark and controlling. There was never any love between Legolas and Boromir before, but now the levels of mistrust the man felt for his immortal travelling companion had reached a peak that the elf could neither ignore nor overcome, feeling it an unjustified and dark prejudice. Legolas receded from the group more and more frequently, not wanting the clashes of personality that nearly always occurred when man and elf shared a space. It did not aid matters that when he was there, his demeanour was more often than not cold and distant. Aragorn recognised his friend's behaviour for the self defence mechanism it was. Boromir perceived it was an aloof and haughty demonstration of elvish superiority, an unwillingness to mingle with those that Legolas – in Boromir's view – regarded contemptuously as below him.

And then there was Aragorn's own relationship with Boromir...

It had all been so much easier with Gandalf. He always knew what to say to defuse a situation: he could reprimand any member of the Fellowship, from the most youthful to the very oldest, a patient word here, a quick chastisement in Sindarin there, and all would listen and heed his words. Aragorn held no such power. The hobbits listened to him ... but they were afraid and completely reliant on those around them for support and protection. They had lived their lives in shelter and quiet, sleeping under the stars only when it pleased them. Being thrown into the wider world cast uncertainties on their futures that none of the four had ever needed to account for, and now they were discovering all too quickly that the lands beyond their Shire were marred with darkness and the wicked things of childhood stories really did stir in the shadows.

Boromir, Legolas and Gimli were in no such need of protection. All of them had been hardened to the world's darkness long before. It was protecting them from each other that was proving the greatest difficulty. Elf and dwarf – to Aragorn's amazement – were now getting along fine. There was the odd sniping comment thrown between them, but there was a steady respect beginning to form, which was both encouraging and bizarre. Gimli was well aware that Legolas' father had confined his own father in his prison cells, but he seemed content now to allow that insult to pass. Aragorn wondered if it would be a different story if he ever found out that, actually, it had been a sentry group headed by Legolas that made the capture in the first place; he certainly never failed to notice the quiet mischievous glint in Legolas' eye whenever the event was mentioned.

Legolas and Boromir did not fare nearly so well with each other. A challenging triangle had formed between the three: the friction caused by Boromir's distrust of Aragorn's leadership between the two men invariably resulted with the elf becoming involved, both through his loyalty to Aragorn and in defence of his own people. Out of respect for Aragorn, Legolas tended to back down when it was demanded of him, but Boromir did not have a decades-long friendship with Aragorn to hold dear, or with Legolas. Aragorn knew what the other man saw whenever he looked at him: an opposing force, a man landed with a title he was yet to be proven worthy of, harbouring a mistrust of his own kind and too keen a connection with the First Born. It offended him on the deepest level, and he could not see beyond that layer of hurt and disgust...

He pulled at his face wearily with his hands, and rose from his awkward seat. Flexing his muscles, he set off on his lonely hunt once more. For the time being, he would concentrate on catching dinner; his troubles would all be staring back at him upon his return, after all.

Silence dominated the camp space, punctuated only by the fervent snapping and hissing of the fire. There was only so much anyone of them could say about a river they had canoed down for the past few days, and it had already been said. These times of silence stretched between them more frequently of late, a jagged and pained period of time when the lack of activity showed them just how daunting their task truly was. For the hobbits, there had been something of a game to it, an adventure with the other free races of Middle-earth. The underlying seriousness of what they did had been deliberately veiled in a shroud of mirth and adventure by them. But the shock of Gandalf's death had shaken their reality: now the world was black and dangerous to them. This was no longer an adventure, but a lethal game of cat and mouse with forces bent on their destruction, and they felt that pressing danger just as acutely as they sensed the mounting strife between the four warriors.

Frodo had taken himself a little way from the meagre camp fire, preferring the solace of his own company. Such needs were becoming more and more frequent for him. In truth, there was little he wanted more than to be alone with his thoughts, the weary yet persistent antics of his cousins and watchful worry of Sam grating on his nerves. It was colder here, out of the fire's glow, but oddly soothing. He liked the idea of the darkness shielding him from the demons that hunted for the Ring, and him in turn. That childhood assurance of if I can't see you, you can't see me was a thin comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Aragorn was hunting somewhere in the surrounding wilderness. Whether he would return with any game was questionable. Frodo had seen neither hide nor hair of anything more substantial than a river rat for days ... but then, he was no hunter, and he figured if anyone would catch something worthwhile, it would be Aragorn. The majority of the remaining Fellowship idled about the fire, the three hobbits tired and subdued, Gimli chattering away to them as he ran a whetting stone over a small hunting knife. He did not know where Legolas was - a fact that didn't concern him: he rarely knew where Legolas was – and Boromir was searching for firewood with the assistance of a torch he had made. The blazing stick danced through the darkness like some kind of wraith, and Frodo could not help the shudder that took hold for a moment at the imagery. Boromir's presence frequently made his heart cold ... he caught the looks from the towering man, the thinly veiled lust and desire for the simple gold evil he held too close to his heart. He wanted to trust Boromir as he once had, but beyond Lothlórien, something had changed within the man, and Frodo felt there was no going back to what once was for him.

As though in answer to his thoughts, the Gondorian's heavy boots sounded his coming, and Frodo knew, unerringly, that the man was heading for him, his suspicion confirmed when the orange bath of light fell over his huddled form, perched so stiffly on his rock. He looked up into Boromir's face. For the warrior's part, his demeanour was open and strong, the face Frodo had initially entrusted his life to.

"Why so alone, little one?"

A genial enough question, but Frodo's throat closed down on any words he might offer that would satisfy his taller travelling companion, and found himself saying nothing. Boromir did not seem to actually expect an answer, for he stalked away, dropping his load of gathered wood at the fire's edge before returning to the hobbit's side, heavily seating himself on the shingle and stretching his legs out, crossing his ankles. He was silent for a time, apparently enjoying Frodo's company, before: "I know how weary you are, Frodo."

There was compassionate warmth in the warrior's timbre, a friend giving voice to his concerns of the wellbeing of the other. Frodo felt a snake of cold trepidation clench about his spine.

"You should not be upholding this load on your own, Frodo," Boromir continued, ignoring the hobbit's uncomfortable silence. "It is neither fair, nor sensible, not when it wears at you as clearly as it does. It would be far wiser to share this burden."

Frodo cast a fleeting glance to the rest of the Fellowship for aid. They were out of earshot, dozing and complacent, blissfully unaware of his plight. He felt compelled to say something, the need to defend both himself and the Ring rising in his throat like bile. "Lord Elrond granted the task of keeper to me only, Boromir. I must accept his wisdom."

Boromir gave a snort, his contempt thinly veiled. "Wisdom! The wisdom of the elves would have us all surrender to ruin before this war is over. Don't you see, Frodo? It was trusting our fate to the elves that brought this dilemma on your shoulders! Is that fair, Frodo? Would you not rather be at home while those with the power to wield the Ring for good did so to vanquish the evil in the East?"

"There is no good to be wrought from such a device, Boromir. You would do well to set such ideas from your mind."

Frodo started at the addition of the new voice, his questing eyes finding its source in Legolas, the elf seeming to melt from the night like a lone star in a black sky. He felt a flicker of relief at the sight of the archer. The distant camp fire threw his features into sharp relief, and there was an unmistakable warning in his bright eyes, reflecting pale copper in the dim light. Legolas rarely looked at Frodo these past few days. They had never exchanged many words before, and for the elf's generally silent stoicism, Frodo found him a little intimidating. But there had always been a steadfast reliability to Legolas: he was there to protect and serve, and Frodo felt more than a little relief at the defensive attitude in his usually gentle tone ... clearly, he understood that it was not always the bow he pledged to Frodo that would be needed to ensure the hobbit's safety.

Boromir was not so content to have their discussion interrupted. A rumour of dislike played across his features, an emotion Frodo had never glimpsed in him before. "Is the hour so late your watch is over, Legolas?"

"My watch is not over, no," Legolas replied without hesitation, not at all phased by Boromir's dismissive resentment. He was standing at ease, his hands folded lightly over the top of his propped up bow. "It is my duty to guard from threats both exterior and within."

Frodo was stunned at the sheer bluntness of Legolas' words. There was no tact, no chance of graceful withdrawal for the Gondorian: the statement was thrown down between them like a gauntlet. He felt Boromir's rage seethe next to him, a terrible great bird wanting freedom, and scrambled away from it, moving for the light of the fire and safety of the rest of the company. The man rose to his full height, a slight tremble to his form. He and Legolas were near enough a match height-wise, but Boromir had more obvious physical power about him. Legolas was lithe and powerful in his own way, but he did not look, to Frodo's eye, as though he would have a chance should they come to blows.

"How dare you!" Boromir spat, stepping into the elf's personal space. His aggravated voice peaked the interest of the others, their heads lifting to regard the argument with confusion. "You pious wood rat! How dare you accuse me!"

Legolas returned Boromir's glare coolly, not a muscle flinching at the physical threat the Gondorian displayed. "You presume much of me, Boromir. I never said anything of that threat being you."

Boromir's face bloomed dark with sudden mistrust. "Do not try to cloud my eyes of your judgements with clever words, Legolas. I know what you were implying: you insult me with your elvish trickery!"

For the first time, the elf's eyes flashed briefly with dangerous anger. "I assure you, Boromir, that I seek to defend, not the Ring from you, but you from the Ring, and in turn, Frodo from both forces. Do not try to so unfairly trap him in the middle of yours and its desires."

Boromir fell silent, his intense glare seemingly attempting to burn through his fair companion. But still, Legolas did not flinch. He returned the warrior's gaze unblinkingly, and a shadow of discomfort flitted over Boromir. "I understand what you hear," Legolas toned softly. "I hear the whispers in the night that beckon the desperate to what seems the only light of salvation."

"I am not weak," Boromir growled, his pride blanching at the implication of the other's words.

"Again, that is not what I said," the elf replied evenly. "I understand the intensity of the power in our midst, and I know you see its capacity."

A glimmer of hope flitted over Boromir's countenance. "Then you know this entire fool's errand to be folly. Surely, if we could together forge something similar in strength to the allegiances of old-"

"I know this to be the only course." Legolas' tone had become abrupt now, losing patience in the argument the man should have come to terms with long ago. "I can no more help you save your people than you can help me save mine. No creature should have access to power that unbending. I will see it destroyed before it corrupts these lands and their people any further than it already has."

Any thread of bartering was done with in Boromir, replaced only by the original contempt. He raised an accusing finger, stabbing it firmly into the archer's chest. "You cower behind your own conceits, just like the rest of your kind. The mighty elves, too engrossed in their own pride and falsities to stand up with the rest." Boromir stepped back, open dismay and disgust twisting his mouth. "Your naive youth betrays your ignorance!"

The rising taint of fear Frodo felt at Boromir's challenging tone crept along his spine with deft fingers, Galadriel's prediction ringing in his ears. Uncertainty gripped his shoulders as he watched the pair who had sworn allegiance to him seemingly a lifetime ago war with each other. He wished desperately for Aragorn's return, knowing that if the two warriors should come to blows physically, there would be nothing he or any of the others could do about it.

"'Naive youth'?" Legolas laughed. It was nothing like the usual lilt that poured from him in times of mirth as the hobbits were used to, but rather a harsh and cold irony, soaked in bitterness and resentment. "I might look a youth to your eyes, Boromir, but believe me when I say I have seen countless provinces of Men rise to greatness and fall to ruin in a blink. I have borne witness to wars of your kind that have passed into legend for your people. You speak to me of ignorance, and do blatantly display your own! It was the weakness of Men that brought all lands close to ruin before: speak not of ignorance to me, Boromir, for this entire mess is the result only of your own!"

Legolas started to turn away, made weary and unhappy with argument ... but he understood the change in tempo of Boromir's breathing and the ring of leather against steel, and he had already spun into the swipe of the oncoming sword as Sam voiced his fear into the night, his twin white knives clanging as they met the much larger weapon. "What madness has taken you?" he demanded, the shock and betrayal reverberating in his voice as his eyes asked the same of the warrior's soul.

"You will neither defile my honour nor that of my people!" Boromir hissed, the cold fury of his voice echoing in the bull-like strength he threw against the elf as his sword arched again, trying to get inside the elf's defences. Lithe as Legolas was, he danced inside the sword's long swipe and caught it deftly with his own weapons, again throwing the blade away from himself. But Boromir pivoted, recovering his balance from the powerful deflection to bring his blade back again with a terrifying might, forcing the elf to again defend himself. The meeting of steel blades and strength shattered the cloak of night-time tranquillity.

Gimli threw down his pipe, stumbling through the camp to the fray. "Legolas! Boromir! Cease this madness!" The dwarf fretted on the outskirts of the battle, horrified that such a thing was happening between allies, and frustrated that he could not get in there to stop the fight himself as his words fell unheeded. As much as he desired to get in there and pull them apart, he was wise enough to accept that his stature did not offer him the required force to bring two such powerful combatants to peace. "Stop it, I said!"

Legolas deflected another blow, appalled that the fight was lasting so long. He was not tiring yet, but it unnerved him that the man kept facing down his self-defensive blows and going for him with such murderous ire, fighting against him with all the gusto of an enemy. "Boromir!" he barked, throwing the knife in his left hand down to shield his flank from fresh attack. "I will not raise my knives against you! Desist with this!"