A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Twenty-four~

"Don't move," Caranthir hissed. He said the words again, and they came in the same desperate rasp he'd known they would. "None of you make a sound."

The two stared back up him through eyes foggy with sleep, huddled next to each other on the ground. Frodo seemed to be sitting rather than crouching in the grasses. There a heaviness in his blue eyes that didn't come from sleep.

Caranthir sucked in a breath and shifted forward. The stolen orc blade was tight in his hands, an unwashed hilt digging into his fingers. What irony, to carry such a blade. A sword made of filth and death.

But the other, purer blade was out as well, glowing no dimmer in the stagnant air. It was no better than the murmuring growls, humming through the air from a distance. At least it was a distance.

Wargs again, Caranthir thought with a twinge of worry. He wished they had a bow, some arrows, to perhaps pick some off from a distance before things got ugly. . . Oh, where was that stupid Sinda when they needed him? With some luck, they had to be traveling the same general direction.

Frowning, his eyes raked over the moonlit, ominous lands. They were in a sort of valley, almost, mountains looming by either side from a distance. Like some kind of funnel, closing them in from two sides. Or a doorway, came a different, sneaky voice.

It was no use—they had to go somewhere. Oh, if only they could, if only there was some high ground, some place where they could hide and stave off a fight. Caranthir wished desperately he could use his right arm, and cursed the orcs, the Ring that failed them even now, everything.

"Nowhere to go, right?" Sam spoke up, his voice sunken.

Caranthir looked down at Sam. He was still crouching, form sticking out much higher than the hobbits, who seemed natural for hiding. "They'll smell us, Sam. They brought Wargs with them, I think. . . Can you hear?"

Another growl, sliding from far in the distance, no more than a murmur. Wargs rarely howled, unless they were wild. That would give them away to their prey.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. How. . . far do you think they are?"

"They'll get us before the night's done."

A nod was all Sam could really break out. "So hiding's no use, then."

"Of course it isn't," Caranthir scoffed. "We could, of course. . . keep moving. There's no high ground we could get to. The stream won't slow them down, of course, but. . ."

"It is a landmark," Frodo said. "But the water could maybe cleanse our scents from them, if only for a while."

"There is no way I would have you bathe in that cursed water," Caranthir said with a hiss. "And the Ring. . . since we've already revealed ourselves, we'll still be forfeit. They'll find us anyway." No, he had given them up. Put them all on the line. And in the end, it seemed he'd only failed them.

It was a wonder that Mandos would do this—a foolish, pathetic wonder. Of all the dead souls and sinners, what a wonder he'd chosen the one least suited. Despite the age and power of his soul, the means he went to were pathetic. Anyone would have worked better—even his stupid brothers, just as belligerent as himself. Even Curufin, damn him, would know what to do. Of course, Curufin had always seemed to know what to do.

But with that thought, a wry, pained smile touched the corners of his mouth. Until Menegroth, at least.

Caranthir gave a cough that shook the hobbits back from their own, uneasy silence. "I suppose we must make our way as far as possible. The stream may not help us, but if we went along that way—without touching it, of course. . ." The smirk on his face solidified, became something more true. "Yes. We could at least make it a little ways. Like Frodo said, it's a landmark. There might be. . . others, along the same general trail as well."