Disclaimer: Sad as it makes me to confess
this, Pippin does not belong to me...and neither do the rest of
them.
*Okay, so I got yelled at for making Sam all mean to Pippin in my last fic, and it's not going to get any better here...you wouldn't believe me if I told you I love Pip to death and that he's my favorite character, would you? But really, stick with it, because it gets better for the little guy.*
"Numb"
It all seemed to happen in slow motion, prolonging my feeling of helplessness as I watched. It seemed to take days for Boromir to fall, the Orc's arrows still protruding from his chest. I stared, my mouth hung open in a horrified stupor as I felt every inch of my body freeze, rendering me immobile. One of my hands reached out and clutched at Merry, seeming to have a will of its own, searching for something to do, some way to help him. But I couldn't. All I could do was stand there and stare as Boromir, barely clinging to the life left in him swung at the Orcs to protect us. As if we were important. As if I was important.
What had I done of any import? Ever? Almost got my closest friends killed, that's what. And Gandalf. I killed him. It was my fault. I alerted those Orcs, and probably the Balrog too, down in the mines. That was my work. And because of it, Gandalf was dead. I remember the sharp pains in my chest as he fell. Frodo's cry as Gandalf's fingers released the edge of the precepice pierced my heart and made me feel ill as I realized what I had done. I had caused my dear cousin so much pain, and cost our brave friend and leader his life. I remember collapsing outside and sobbing into Merry's lap, the pains exiting my body and leaving me there in the snow, numb. I didn't even feel the cold, I didn't feel anything. I was sobbing, I wanted to give up right there. I never wanted to move again. I didn't deserve to. I killed Gandalf.
And now, Boromir too. He was dying in front of me, martyring himself to spare my life, and I couldn't even help him. It seemed like ages passed as Boromir suffered on the ground, throwing himself about in an effort to ward off the Orcs. It took so long, as if time had slowed just so I could feel the pain of worthlessness longer, so I could wallow in it, letting it penetrate every pore of my being and saturate me, slowing me, freezing me, numbing me. Why couldn't I just move? Why couldn't I even go to comfort him as he died? Why couldn't I do anything?
He wasn't a bad person at all. He'd taught us to fight, and when we attacked him on behalf of the Shire....he smiled. He had actually smiled and laughed. He WASN'T just this bitter old man. I don't think any of us had ever seen the man smile before, but he did. He was alive, and real, and complete. He told us tales of Gondor, describing its magnificence and beauty and promising to take us there as we rowed with him down the River Anduin. He proteced us as if we were as valuable as the ring itself. And now, all of that was fading, draining out of him in a scarlett stream that stained his tunic
Merry grasped my shoulder suddenly, jarring me back to reality, speeding up time. Suddenly I felt alive, I could move again, I could help. I drew my sword from my sheath and held it up, screaming out my hatred towards the Orcs and any other foul creature that had anything to do with this blasted mission, I realeased all my pain in one war cry, plunging headfirst towards them, barely aware of Merry's presence at my side. I was barely even aware of Boromir at that point, I was only aware of my own rage and melancholy. I'd never felt it before, I felt as if my heart were going to be torn in two.
I didn't even get one of them. Not one. One of them scooped me up as if I were no threat at all. Well, I don't suppose I was, was I? Another had Merry, and it was a few moments before I realized that I wasn't going to be killed, but taken. They wouldn't even let me die, they were taking me away. Probably going to torture me. As if my guilt weren't torture enough. What did it matter anyway? I would probably be dead before that anyway. Maybe that would be best. What had I ever done but hurt the rest anyway? Boromir and Gandalf were dead. Frodo was gone, off on his own, with little hope for survival. Sam would surely be lost without him. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli...they would suffer endless battles, the Orcs would take them eventually, I was sure of it.
And Merry. They would torture Merry too, they would hurt another of my friends. My closest friend. But Merry was with me, not with them. No, I thought, NO. Not again. I was NOT going to let them hurt another one of them. I would get us out of there. I would make up for all the harm I'd done. No longer would I rush in impetuously, I would plan things out, carefully, and methodically. I would escape from the Orcs with Merry, and I would prove myself. I could do this, I wasn't worthless. I still had time. The Orc's nails dug painfully into my flesh, and its stench made my gorge rise, the armour scraped at my soft hobbit belly as it flung me over its shoulder, but a new determination had risen in me. I would not allow myself to go numb anymore.
*Okay, so I got yelled at for making Sam all mean to Pippin in my last fic, and it's not going to get any better here...you wouldn't believe me if I told you I love Pip to death and that he's my favorite character, would you? But really, stick with it, because it gets better for the little guy.*
"Numb"
It all seemed to happen in slow motion, prolonging my feeling of helplessness as I watched. It seemed to take days for Boromir to fall, the Orc's arrows still protruding from his chest. I stared, my mouth hung open in a horrified stupor as I felt every inch of my body freeze, rendering me immobile. One of my hands reached out and clutched at Merry, seeming to have a will of its own, searching for something to do, some way to help him. But I couldn't. All I could do was stand there and stare as Boromir, barely clinging to the life left in him swung at the Orcs to protect us. As if we were important. As if I was important.
What had I done of any import? Ever? Almost got my closest friends killed, that's what. And Gandalf. I killed him. It was my fault. I alerted those Orcs, and probably the Balrog too, down in the mines. That was my work. And because of it, Gandalf was dead. I remember the sharp pains in my chest as he fell. Frodo's cry as Gandalf's fingers released the edge of the precepice pierced my heart and made me feel ill as I realized what I had done. I had caused my dear cousin so much pain, and cost our brave friend and leader his life. I remember collapsing outside and sobbing into Merry's lap, the pains exiting my body and leaving me there in the snow, numb. I didn't even feel the cold, I didn't feel anything. I was sobbing, I wanted to give up right there. I never wanted to move again. I didn't deserve to. I killed Gandalf.
And now, Boromir too. He was dying in front of me, martyring himself to spare my life, and I couldn't even help him. It seemed like ages passed as Boromir suffered on the ground, throwing himself about in an effort to ward off the Orcs. It took so long, as if time had slowed just so I could feel the pain of worthlessness longer, so I could wallow in it, letting it penetrate every pore of my being and saturate me, slowing me, freezing me, numbing me. Why couldn't I just move? Why couldn't I even go to comfort him as he died? Why couldn't I do anything?
He wasn't a bad person at all. He'd taught us to fight, and when we attacked him on behalf of the Shire....he smiled. He had actually smiled and laughed. He WASN'T just this bitter old man. I don't think any of us had ever seen the man smile before, but he did. He was alive, and real, and complete. He told us tales of Gondor, describing its magnificence and beauty and promising to take us there as we rowed with him down the River Anduin. He proteced us as if we were as valuable as the ring itself. And now, all of that was fading, draining out of him in a scarlett stream that stained his tunic
Merry grasped my shoulder suddenly, jarring me back to reality, speeding up time. Suddenly I felt alive, I could move again, I could help. I drew my sword from my sheath and held it up, screaming out my hatred towards the Orcs and any other foul creature that had anything to do with this blasted mission, I realeased all my pain in one war cry, plunging headfirst towards them, barely aware of Merry's presence at my side. I was barely even aware of Boromir at that point, I was only aware of my own rage and melancholy. I'd never felt it before, I felt as if my heart were going to be torn in two.
I didn't even get one of them. Not one. One of them scooped me up as if I were no threat at all. Well, I don't suppose I was, was I? Another had Merry, and it was a few moments before I realized that I wasn't going to be killed, but taken. They wouldn't even let me die, they were taking me away. Probably going to torture me. As if my guilt weren't torture enough. What did it matter anyway? I would probably be dead before that anyway. Maybe that would be best. What had I ever done but hurt the rest anyway? Boromir and Gandalf were dead. Frodo was gone, off on his own, with little hope for survival. Sam would surely be lost without him. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli...they would suffer endless battles, the Orcs would take them eventually, I was sure of it.
And Merry. They would torture Merry too, they would hurt another of my friends. My closest friend. But Merry was with me, not with them. No, I thought, NO. Not again. I was NOT going to let them hurt another one of them. I would get us out of there. I would make up for all the harm I'd done. No longer would I rush in impetuously, I would plan things out, carefully, and methodically. I would escape from the Orcs with Merry, and I would prove myself. I could do this, I wasn't worthless. I still had time. The Orc's nails dug painfully into my flesh, and its stench made my gorge rise, the armour scraped at my soft hobbit belly as it flung me over its shoulder, but a new determination had risen in me. I would not allow myself to go numb anymore.