Prompt: Someone almost burns down the camp of the Fellowship and they investigate. (sorry if it's not a good prompt)
The day was unseasonably warm, the afternoon sun blazing high in the winter-blue sky, as Legolas and Aragorn strode through the long yellowed grass, empty-handed and frustrated. The hunting was poor in Eregion in the winter, when most animals have gone to ground and many more avoided the area ever since the Elves had abandoned this country.
“The Hobbits will be disappointed,” Legolas muttered in Sindarin, shifting his bow uncomfortably. “It would have been nice to surprise them with something fresh.”
Aragorn huffed in agreement, slightly out of breath trying to keep up with the Elf uphill. It had been a long march the night before, and he had not yet slept. Legolas looked at him as subtly as he could manage, noting the dark circles under the Ranger’s eyes and the weariness that shadowed his spirit. He made a note to himself to discourage Aragorn from keeping watch again until he was better rested.
“When we return to camp, you should rest,” Legolas remarked, giving Aragorn a gentle nudge. “I do not mind taking the remaining watches. Caradhras was not so wearying for me as it was for you and the others.”
“I am fine,” Aragorn huffed, but a teasing smile graced his lips. “The rest of us may lack the vitality of Elves, but that is no reason for you to push yourself beyond your limits. You think I have not noticed, dear friend? You have been taking too many watches from the Hobbits, letting them rest instead.”
Legolas pulled a face in mock outrage, but did not deny the charge. He could feel his own tiredness, deep down in his bones, ignored for now - but Aragorn had the truth of it. He shrugged easily and grinned. “I, at least, can rest as we march.”
They crested the ridge, looking out on the grassy slopes and dells that were typical of Hollin. The camp of the Fellowship was still several ridges away - Aragorn and Legolas had gone far in their search for game - but it was not technically far as the crow flies.
Legolas stiffened, confused, scanning the horizon. Something was wrong, something, something, somewhere nearby? His senses were calling out danger, danger, danger, but he could not pinpoint the source. Orcs? Crebain? What was it? His keen eyes picked over the landscape, holding up a hand to shush Aragorn when his friend worriedly spoke to him. The wind shifted direction and began to swirl past them instead, bringing with it a sharp scent that screamed unnatural.
“There!” He pointed, keen eyes noting the drifting hint of grey at a nearby ridge. Beside him, Aragorn squinted, observant as a Man could be, but still lacking the far-sightedness of Elves.
“Smoke,” Legolas clarified. “Not much yet, but in this land and with the dry weather…” Like all Elves of the woods, he knew all too well how quickly and devastatingly a fire could sweep through the undergrowth. “It is not our camp, and does not smell as a grassfire should.”
“Deliberate?” Aragorn’s tone was sharp. Legolas nodded, almost absently, studying the landscape.
“The way the winds are heading,” Legolas said, motioning with his free hand, showing the pattern of the wind. “Any flames or smoke will be driven right towards the Fellowship.”
No more needed to be said. Without hesitation, the two sprang forward, all tiredness forgotten as they raced back towards their camp. Should the wind pick up and whip the fledgling flames into action, all escape could be cut off.
The two burst through the tall grass, Legolas just a moment ahead of Aragorn, drawing an alarmed shout from Gimli, who was on watch. The commotion startled the remainder of the Fellowship to wakefulness. Aragorn dropped into a half-crouch, breathing hard from their punishing speed; it was no easy task to keep pace with an Elf.
“Up, all of you, up,” Legolas cried, clapping his hands. “There is fire in the grass and we must away.”
“Fire?” Gimli queried. “From where? What madness is this?”
“We sighted smoke, not far from here,” Aragorn said, his breathing slowly steadying. “We must move the camp.”
Gandalf and Boromir were already on their feet, long years of experience and instinct moving them even as their bodies protested. Legolas moved amongst the Hobbits, helping them up and gathering up their blankets.
“We must make haste then,” Gandalf said, taking charge once more. “Quickly now. Aragorn, lead the way out; the Hobbits will stay close to you, with Boromir behind—”
“What about Bill?” Sam’s voice was high, with a fearful edge.
“I have him, never fear.” Legolas took the pony’s halter from Sam, quieting the nervous creature with soft Elven words. “He will be safe enough with me.”
“Gimli and I will take the rearguard,” Gandalf finished, as though he had never been interrupted. “It is imperative that we remain together. This could be a trap to scare us into the open.” He fixed the Hobbits with a stern glare, and they obediently shuffled closer together, defensively ringed about Frodo, almost unconsciously. “Lead on, Aragorn!”
By the time all had made ready to go, the air was thick with the smell of smoke and the crackle of flames not far behind. The land was sharp with rocks and pitted with many hidden holes that might turn an ankle, making their retreat difficult and slow, but still they struggled on. The Hobbits staggered and stumbled, weary yet from their trials on Caradhras, and the Big Folk faired little better. Legolas spat Sindarin curses under his breath, even as he coaxed and cajoled Bill onwards, though the pony was half-crazed with fear. A little further, ai, a little further more.
“There is a stream ahead,” Aragorn called back down the straggling, coughing line. “We should be safe enough on the other side.”
The stream was, thankfully, not terribly deep, nor fast - though Boromir did take the added precaution of walking alongside the Hobbits to ensure that if they were swept off their weary feet, he would be downstream to catch them.
Once they were all safely on the other side, waterlogged, soot-streaked and shivering, Legolas looked back - the area where they had been camped was now caught tight in the grip of the fiercest flames. He shivered again, wondering what might have happened if he and Aragorn had not been out hunting, if they had all been deeply asleep, unaware as the fire crept closer.
Legolas turned back to the group, mouth open to suggest that, once the flames had gone out, he might go investigate the source of the fire - but a fierce look from Gandalf killed the words in his throat.
“What now?” Pippin croaked.
“Our plans remain as they were,” Gandalf said. “Doubly so, even, since our way back is now cut off. We must go on, to Moria, and whatever might lie beyond it.”
