They trudged up the mountain for two more miserable days. A desultory silence had descended upon the company since Frodo had nearly lost the Ring. Boromir had withdrawn into himself, staying far away from the others. Frodo trusted no one, cowering against Gandalf if anyone drew too near. The temperature had plunged below zero. Even Legolas had begun to suffer from its effects, ice forming on the bridge of his nose and his joints were growing stiff from the unrelenting cold.
        “Legolas, how are you?” asked Strider, falling into step beside him.
        “Well, but my eyes are watchful,” he replied, his eyes shifting momentarily to Boromir, who was shambling a little behind the rest, eyes fixed upon the ground.
        “I am of the same mind,” concurred Strider, speaking in a low voice only Legolas could hear. “I do not trust him.”
        “Nor I. My heart tells me he will lead us to ill fortune.”
        “We must be especially vigilant Legolas. We can risk no harm to Frodo or the ring.”
        Legolas watched Boromir for a moment. “What troubles him that he desires the ring so?”
        Strider sighed. “The land of Gondor was once the crown jewel of the race of men. The white city was a wonder to all who beheld it. The strongest and wisest of all the kings of men was enthroned there. Alas, the once-mighty city has been in a steady decline since the disappearance of the ring. Orcs and famine have ravaged it. Boromir’s father is the steward of Gondor. He is a wise and just man, but his health is failing, and his leadership with it. For some time, there have been whispers of rebellion. The people are starving and battered by the endless bands of orcs who plague them. With men, bread is often valued above reason. Boromir is a proud man, and he much desires to see Gondor restored to its former glory, and he would do anything to make it so.”
        “How do you know this?”
        “A Ranger knows many things if he closes his mouth and opens his ears.” Strider’s grim mouth twisted into as much of a smile as he could muster.
        “Does he not see that the good, even the survival of Gondor, depends on the destruction of the Ring?”
        “He sees only that the ring grants power to he who wields it. In his mind, with such power, he would heal Gondor’s ill. He does not see that the Ring is beyond his control.” Seeing Legolas glaring contemptuously at Boromir, he added, “Do not be so quick to judge, Legolas. If the life of Saryn were imperiled, would you not do everything within your power, and some things beyond it, to save her?”
        Legolas stopped and fixed his companion with a steady gaze. “For her I would brave the very fires of Hell. It is for her that I accompany this fellowship; I would give my life so that she not suffer under the lash of Mount Doom.” He dropped his gaze and resumed his travels.
        “I expected no less from you, Legolas,” said Strider. “Be on your guard.” He clapped him on the shoulder and moved on.
        Legolas let his mind drift as he walked along. He wondered how Saryn was doing without him and if she longed for him as he did for her. If she was following her normal routine, she would be bathing in their private lagoon, the water beading and glistening on her fair skin. Her soft flaxen tresses would be plastered to the swell of her breasts like an alluring second skin….
        It wouldn’t do to continue along this line of thought. It was igniting passions in him that would not be easily extinguished. Better to fix his mind on less alluring things. His eyes alighted on Gimli’s rounded back. That was better. Already the flames of passion were guttering. It seemed there was a use for dwarves after all.
        Arahala Ga-hwei, came the soft muttering on the shrieking wind. The voice was unpleasant, a rusty razor across his delicate earlobes. “I hear a foul voice on the wind,” he cried, freezing like a deer that has scented danger on the wind.
        “It’s Saruman,” bellowed Gandalf, eyes smoldering with fury.
        “He’s trying to bring down the mountain,” screamed Strider, trying to be heard over the shrieking wind. “We should turn back.” A clump of snow crashed down as he spoke.
        “No,” refused the old wizard, obstinately wading a few more yards. He stopped, arms outstretched, ancient wizard’s staff clutched in one hand. To Legolas, he looked like a phoenix about to be consumed by flame. “D’legoltyh mtri imnoi shala,” he intoned, arms shaking with effort.
        At first, the counterspell seemed to work The mountain calmed, and the wind abated, but only for a moment. Then the sky darkened to a tumorous black, and the air began to roil with an acid, pulsating energy. Then the grating, baleful voice of Saruman thundered down on them so loudly that Legolas had to stifle a scream of pain from the pressure in his ears. “Frytoliy gylit asa duml.”
        There was a thunderclap so loud it rattled his teeth, and then a fist of lightning smashed down upon the side of the mountain. A low, rumbling roar filled the thin air and Legolas looked up to see a wall of white bearing down upon them. Gandalf stood poised to utter another counterspell, pale with tension. He stubbornly refused to see the oncoming danger. Lunging forward, he grabbed the wizard by the hem of his faded rob and jerked him under the overhanging precipice just as the avalanche buried them all.
        For a moment, he was so cold and wet that he couldn’t react. The falling snow had struck him with such force that he lost his breath. He lay, gasping like a fish, waiting for his senses to return. When he was sure he was not going to suffocate, he began floundering about until his head emerged from the cloying snowdrift. All around him, a tangle of arms and legs was slowly emerging from the snow like monstrous plants. When he got his bearings, he groped beneath the writhing white cover in search of the wizard.
        “Gandalf?” he called, plunging his hands into the shifting snow. His hands settled on the top of Gandalf’s head, and he pulled until the old mage surfaced with an indignant cough.
        “Leave off, Legolas, else I appear as I did the day I drew breath,” he groused, rubbing his offended scalp.
        “Forgive me, Gandalf. I feared you grievously injured,” apologized Legolas, trying to suppress a laugh.
        He helped his companion to his feet, and when they had all extricated themselves from their icy shrouds, they gathered to survey the damage. The heap of snow completely blocked their path. It towered three feet over the head of even Legolas, the tallest of the group.
        “There is no way around this,” said Boromir, passing a hand of his waxen face. “It would take us days to dig through it, and even if we could, it would take days. There’s no promise that Saruman wouldn’t bring more down upon our heads.”
        For once, Legolas agreed with him. He could see no way to proceed up the treacherous mountain pass. He felt a heavy resignation sinking into his bones, one that was mirrored in the faces of his friends. Even Gandalf looked grim.
        “If we cannot go over the mountain, why not go under it?” suggested Gimli.
        Gandalf’s bony shoulders stiffened as though he was about to protest, then slumped. “Let the Ring-bearer decide,” he said.
        Frodo’s breath stopped in his throat. Not since his decision to carry the Ring to Mount Doom had he been asked to make such a crucial decision. He wanted to flee from this responsibility, to hide away from all of this until someone else accepted the burden. The realization that his next words could lead them all to their deaths rose in his large, docile eyes like acrid smoke from the ruins of a forest fire. Looking at him, Legolas felt a sharp pang of pity. He looked haunted, hunted. He was a rabbit caught in a terrible snare, a rabbit who knew the only way out was in the arms of death.
        “We go through the mines.”
        “So be it,” sighed Gandalf. His words hung in the bitterly cold air like a death knell. Eyes downcast, they turned and headed back down the mountain.

        While the company was engaged in a tense standoff between Aragorn and Boromir on the mountain trail, Saryn and Telvryn were having a dispute of their own. Her face was hard, fierce as she crouched beside the still unconscious Cerek outside the gloomy entrance to the fetid Bay of Basylis. “I’m not leaving him here,” she snapped, eyes flashing.
        “We cannot take him with us; we’ve already sent the horses on their way around the swamp, and it’s impossible to carry him,” reasoned Telvryn.
        “All the same, I’m not leaving him for the orcs to find,” she insisted, crossing her arms across her chest.
        “What do you propose we do then? Every hour we wait is another hour from your husband,” he countered.
        The mention of her absent husband earned a strangled mewl of misery from her, and he instantly regretted his words. He reached out a hand to grasp her shoulder, but she gave a sudden squeal of delight and clapped her hands together. It was a gesture so unlike her since their brief acquaintance that it startled him.
        “A raft,” she exclaimed, eyes alight, “we could build a raft.”
        “Wha-,” he started to ask, but she continued as though he hadn’t made a sound.
        “Yes, that’s it. There’s enough dry kindling and flexible reeds here to build a serviceable raft. It wouldn’t hold us all, mind, but it might be enough to keep him from drowning.” And before he could say a word, she was off scrounging in the dense underbrush for fallen branches.
        “Why do you care so much what happens to him?” he asked, bewildered about her staunch refusal to leave the elf behind. “Even if he awakens, he’s not going to be pleased to see us. He might even try to avenge himself upon you for trying to put an end to him. We’d fare better without him.”
        She stopped so quickly that it looked like she’d struck a stone wall. When she turned to face him, he was shocked to see tears glistening in her eyes. She was trembling with barely suppressed rage. “I do it because it’s what I would want someone to do for Legolas if it came to that.” Her voice was so low it was nearly a growl, and she was looking at him with something akin to hatred in her eyes. “Now are you going to help me, or am I going alone with the elf?” Her bloodless fingertips clutched the cord of wood she held so tightly that he could see fingernail marks in the dry bark.
        Telvryn suddenly felt very ashamed of himself. He fought to swallow a sudden lump in his throat. “How much do we need?” he said. They both began to hunt.
        Two hours later, the raft was finished. A pitifully flimsy construction, it was a long rectangle, six feet by four feet. Its body was composed of water-logged cypress branches tied together with triple-twined dry reeds. A small hole had been bored into either end, and through these had been pushed the thin leather belts from the sentry uniforms she and Telvryn wore.
        “I don’t think this is going to hold,” Telvryn said doubtfully as he surveyed their handiwork.
        “No,” she agreed, “but it’s the best we’ve got. Now help me get him onto it.”
        Grabbing their comatose companion from either end, they quickly arranged him on the fragile raft. Telvryn noted with a glimmer of hope that he stirred slightly as they shifted him. Maybe he would regain consciousness soon. Grasping the thin leather straps, the picked him up and headed into the bog.