Letters for Ithilien: Chapter One

To Hope and to Give up Hope

Rating: PG-13 (for violence, gore, intense themes, etc.) May be upped to an R in the future.

Genre: Angst/Drama/Supernatural. Total Alternate Universe: the Riders of Rohan have never intercepted the Uruk-Hai, and Merry and Pippin have never escaped to Fangorn — leaving them pitched into Saruman's clutches, without help from the Ents, or indeed anybody else.

Disclaimer: I do not own anybody or anything in this fic — they either are property of JRR Tolkien, the great creator of Middle-Earth, or they are property to themselves.

A/N: It is interesting to reverse one seemingly unimportant event in LOTR, and see the backlash it takes on its domino-effect occurrences. Indeed, if Merry and Pippin really had not escaped and run into Treebeard and his Ents, it would have been a totally different story for Saruman and Orthanc. Expect weirdness — I write my fics at 2AM in the morning.

And now, let the madness commence

Letters for Ithilien

To Hope and to Give up Hope

The crunch, crunch, crunch of coarse steel boots echoed throughout the countryside as the troopers of the Uruk-Hai army sped south under cover of the sprawling trees. As their clamor and clanging ravaged throughout the woods, birds fled from their perches, foxes and other land fauna scurried to the cover of their holes — even the ladybird beetle that sat upon the green leaf of a wild strawberry plant unfurled its wings and flew away in alarm as the creatures sped past. And at the very rear of the ugly convoy were huddled two tiny figures; ropes binding their lithe bodies, scars, blemishes and filth sullying their once fresh and charming appearances. They were the captured Halflings, now property of the Army of the White Hand.

Neither Merry and Pippin knew what was to happen to them, other from torture and a certain, unpleasant death. The ropes the held them were bound fast unto the point that they slit their delicate skin and were soaked with blood; and although their entire bodies ached, the pads of their feet raw and throbbing with every single step they took, every time they slowed their pace the troopers that held their leashes would simply give a hard tug, sending waves of sharp agony coursing up their forearms. They didn't even know where they were heading, let alone what was in store for them — and, in the name of good Ilúvatar, they did not even know why they were not simply killed off when the Uruk-Hai had first intercepted them at Amon-Hen, instead of being dragged off and submit to this torment. They half-heartedly wished that it had been the other way around — it at least spared them the pain, the misery — and, most of all — the fear that accompanied the anticipation.

The one thing they did not understand was that, although they were being dragged and goaded along like chained cattle, the Uruk-Hai had provided them with food and water at every one of their stops. And although it happened to be coarse fare — meat, and some stiff trenchers that faintly resembled stale bread — it was enough to keep them alive, and for that the hobbits did not give any mental complaints about their weapons having been confiscated. It at least was a worthwhile trade — and they perhaps were going to end up living a bit longer than if they attempted an immediate escape, armed and all, and were promptly shot down by their captors.

Nevertheless, it had been utter Hell the hobbits were pitched into. And utter Hell was perhaps the only adequate way to phrase the situation — if not still inadequate. In all their childhood years, living happily in the peaceful Shire, they did not once imagine that there existed, or was possible to exist, such incredible agony — such unthinkable misery. Compared to this, life was still happy for them even while they were trotting along with seven others in the very middle of nowhere — at least their Fellowship friends were still friends — still protectors — still kind and civilized. And they were safe, as long as they were together. But now, the only kind of aid they could stem from themselves, and bestow each other with, was purely metaphysical aid — sympathy, compassion, and their undying friendship. And even that, strong as it was, was simply not enough to avail the otherworldly torture that tormented them day by day, hour by hour, minute by crawling minute, for a time that seemed an eternity in their lifetimes.

The Halflings could think of no crime they had ever committed that henceforth deserved such punishment. They did not even know where the other members of the Fellowship were, besides the ever-faithful Ringbearer, and his loyal-unto-death servantand of the poor Gondorian Prince, the very last they had seen of him was when he knelt, slumped, in the clearing of trees, three arrows of monstrous girth impaled into his chest, the orcs running, jumping, stepping over his fading body. They had turned their eyes to the Valar, and the Valar had averted their all-knowing glances — they had prayed to Eru Ilúvatar, and Eru Ilúvatar himself had forsaken them. Indeed, nobody, nothing upon the face of Arda, the world, could see themcould feel them, their tumultuous emotions, their coursing tearsand nobody was ever to hear from them again.

Merry and Pippin were going to die, and they knew it.

"I am sorry, my friend," the voice echoed. "It is no longer within my power to aid you, or your companion — or anybody else."

Pippin stared at Boromir's shadowy form as he spoke his words slowly. The two were surrounded in white, ghostly mist — ah, such cold, chilling, biting mist — making his Gondorian friend appear as limpid and ethereal as a smoke-like wraith in the bluish lighting. A needle pricked at the corner of one of Pippin's large amber eyes, and a single sparkling tear eked its way down his pale face.

"But why?" he retorted, his voice coming in a shrill plea. "Why, Boromir? You promised to protect us. You swore to protect us. Are you abandoning Merry and I?"

The wraith of Boromir shook his head sadly, and his gray eyes shimmered — so lifelike, and yet so ethereally un-lifelike. "I have no choice but to abandon you and your companion, my dear Pippin," his voice spoke again. It was strange; for although his lips moved to the syllables of each word as it was uttered, the voice seemed superimposed to him, not spoken truthfully — as if somebody else, somebody who resembled him so closely, and yet differed, were speaking it for him. "I cannot help anyone."

"Boromir!!' Pippin cried, and he took off flying, sprinting for his form, hands outstretched to seize him — but ere they were about to make contact, Boromir vanished — or, ebbed away in an instant, like he were the reflection in a perfectly still pond that had rippled into a blur as a leaf floated down onto the water, disturbing the peace, marring the perfection. Pippin's arms hit nothing at all — and he stumbled back a few paces and gasped.

Where Boromir stood, there now appeared Strider. His self, if possible, looked even stranger than Boromir's — one moment it was sparkling and as sharp as reality, clear enough for Pippin to imagine the feel of his rough skin, or his dirt-caked hair — and the next moment it faded some, now looking just as ghostly as the former had — before it rebounded again and became solid in the swirling fog. He looked as if in a sitting posture; and his head was bent down, the shoulder-length locks falling about his face like a veil, staring into his lap. Pippin called out his name, and Strider slowly turned around.

"Master Took," he returned, and a smile momentarily graced his chapped lips.

"Aragorn!" Pippin echoed, and he fell down onto his knees. "Strider, Masterhelp us!"

Aragorn simply looked at him, and his fleeting grin faded. He shook his head, the gray-streaked hair drifting slightly as he did so. A sigh then permeated the thick air, before he parted his mouth, and a hand of his suddenly let go, the action followed immediately by a sharp, metallic ringing. Pippin saw that his sword, Anduril, lay — or, more like, floated — next to the Ranger now.

"I am not sure whether I shall be able to comply with your request," he said, and a slight resentment and melancholia tinged his wont.

Pippin felt himself grow outraged. "Cannot help us?!" he protested. "The purpose of a Fellowship is for its members to help each other!"

The Ranger shifted. "I wished to help you," he replied. "I wanted to help you. But I simply do not know whether I can now oblige my wants, my wishes — or your demands. I am sorry, Master Peregrin — but I must have time, and plenty of it, if you wish for my assistance."

"Time," heaved Pippin miserably, and more tears trickled down his face. "What time do we have? Time will be our undoing. Time shall be my undoing. Every second of time that passes leads me closerI don't know what"

"I understand your desperation, Master Hobbit," said Aragorn. "But I have no means to give remedy to your desperation, or to quench your desperation. I fade, Peregrin Took."

Pippin jumped up to his feet and gave a furious sniff. "What do you mean, you fade?" he cried, with all his hobbitish vigor that remained in him. "Stop talking to me in riddles, Strider! Straight answers are the only things that may help me, and you said you wanted to help me! Why are you fading'?"

And indeed, at that moment, Aragorn faded, wordlessly, and vanished — this time, not blurred and drained away as Boromir had been, but, rather, blown away, into the dark distances of Pippin's hazy vision. The hobbit slumped down to the ground — or indeed, some sort of ground, as it was too mundane a feel to be considered solid ground — and he broke into convulsive sobs.

A gentle tap tap resounded in his ears, and he lifted up his honey orbs to see the two toes of a pair of boots, standing right in front of him. Two very pointed, elegant-looking toes. Pippin raised his curly-haired head, and he gasped anew, the tears stopping their welling inside his eyelids, as he looked upon Legolas Greenleaf in all his elven glory.

"Pippin," cooed the Prince — and this time the voice of the phantom sounded as true and believable as if he had spoken his name right next to him.

Pippin could not answer Legolas — he could only gawp. Instead of Boromir's ghost, or Aragorn's half being, half ghost, Legolas looked completely sparkling, whole, and real — and he did not fade away from Pippin every now and then. His pale golden hair fell in a silky waterfall from behind his ears, and in his arm, he held — not his bow, but, strangely, Elessar's sword Anduril. His own weapon was slung behind his back — and it and its quiver were also accompanied by a deft-looking weapon that, in Pippin's mind, faintly resembled Gimli's axe.

"Why do you carry Strider's sword?" asked Pippin, at length. "I thought he would not let anyone touch it."

Legolas's eyes closed with a flutter of black eyelashes, before they opened again. "I now carry Aragorn's burden," he answered mysteriously, in the same soft, wanton tone. "And Gimli's burden is also mine. I have become their epitome now, Pippin."

"But" Pippin croaked, and he wiped the wetness of his cheeks with a sleeve. "What do you mean, you've become their — their epitome?" He bounded yet again to his feet, and rose up indignantly at the towering Legolas. "Why do all you apparitions speak in such abstract ways?" he shouted. "And why can't you stop wasting your time, confusing and confounding me, when you could have considered coming to my aid? Boromir says he cannot help me, though I do not know why, Githoniel's eyebrows and Nienna's nightgown, and Aragorn says that he's fading. What is the meaning of this all, this trickery, this play?"

Legolas gave a sigh that seemed like cool, liquid water floating down on Peregrin's ears, so refreshing it was to hear. And yet it sounded so sorrowful. "They do not lie," whispered the voice. "Boromir is truly beyond aiding you, now, and Aragorn does fade, even at this very moment. And please do not be angry, dear Pippin," he cajoled. "I shall come to you. I will try to find you and Merry."

"And you will help us, no, Legolas, mellon?" Pippin pleaded, wild hope sparking in his heart. He drew a bit closer to the elf prince — so close that they were separated by a mere few inches — and he seemed so lifelike Pippin fancied to have felt an aura — a coldness — emancipating from his form.

"I shall come to you," Legolas echoed, ignoring Pippin's question. "And I will try to find you and Merry."

"Only find, come?" Pippin pleaded, now even more confused. "Why not help as well?"

"I shall come to you," the elf resonated, and at that moment his golden hair fluttered and swirled as if a wind had come upon him — and he, too, disappeared from Peregrin's vision.

The hobbit gaped, and whirled 360 degrees from the spot on which he hovered. "Oh!" he cried, and he was a bit both amused and bewildered to hear that his voice also echoed and sounded thick and coming from everywhere, just like Boromir's. "Confound it! What is going on here?"

Amazingly, as if in reply to his question in vain, an entire phantom panorama appeared in front of Pippin's eyes. The mist had not subsided; but the glow that illuminated the scene was now a warm gold, and the ground grew solid under his large hobbit feet. He stood in a large room, both wide and long, lofty and upheld by massive pillars; and upon either side of him a great number of people, some clear, some blurred, dressed in flowing gowns and robes, sulked, walked and skulked, in a drifting fashion as if they had no purpose in life but to wander. And at the far end of the room was a great chair, a throne beaten out of gold, under a jeweled canopy — and a white figure, adorned with a white staff whose tip glowed, sat upon it. He was old, bearded with hair as snowy as his garments — and he looked dreadfully familiar. Pippin's lungs inflated in a seething gasp, and his eyes widened dramatically.

"Gandalf!" he shouted, and he ran towards the old wizard, his cape billowing about him. But, as he drew near, he perceived the look on Gandalf's face — utter impassiveness — and he slowed to a standstill, yet still yards from the throne.

"Gandalf," Pippin repeated, "I thought you were dead."

Gandalf eyed him back without even the commonplace twinkle of his blue eyes — no, they weren't blue anymore, they were gray, a total drab gray — and his mouth twitched ever so slightly. "I am neither dead nor living, Peregrin Took," he proclaimed solemnly, and Pippin shuddered upon hearing his tone. It sounded nothing like the wizard's soft, kind touch — seemingly the voice of a god, so powerful, beautiful yet harsh it was, and it floated and rose, soaring around the lofty columns of the huge bright room, mingling with its many ricocheting reciprocals in the hazy fog that hovered at the distant ceiling.

"Neither deadnor living?" Pippin stuttered, totally lost. Unexplainably, a force pushed down upon him, on his shoulders, and giving away against it, he fell onto his knees. "H-howwould youjustify that? I don't understand!"

Gandalf did not reply — and Pippin, after quiet some time of going on unanswered, reverted to staring around the large throne room. Strangely, he recognized many of the people who walked about — there was the Lady Galadriel, her husband Celeborn, and their border guard Haldir, and many other Lorien elves; he saw Elrond, accompanied by a large entourage of the members from his council, along with Arwen and Glorfindel; Gimli appeared amongst a huge crowd of dwarves, and Aragorn and Boromir, even, were flanked by many men. And — incredibly — there stood his own parents, Eglantine and Paladin, in a far corner, his many siblings swirling about them; and there, of course, were Frodo and Sam — the former staring at him sadly, the latter wearing a dreary half-smile. Indeed, he saw all the people he had know and recollected, either standing or walking right there in the room — and the only two people that he did not see were Legolas and Merry.

"Where am I?" he asked, alarm rising slowly in his heart. It was all too unreal.

"You are in a place where the Real becomes Unreal, and Hopeis a mere illusion," Gandalf said, and he lifted his head slightly. "Those that come here only come, dreaming of false realities and living within their own fantasies. All in this world, sometimes, or all the times of their lives, belong within this Hall of Illusion — and none yet have fully escaped it. Only those that live and subsist purely by their own will, and not by their own wild aspirations and prayers, may have their bounds with this heavenly and sacred location severed. And with such dark times that come upon us, the entire world walks within these shadowy Halls of Illusion that we both exist in."

"But, Legolas and Merry!" Pippin blurted out, before he could stop himself. "I do not see them here!"

Something feathery light grazed his shoulder right as he finished speaking, and Pippin looked up to see the elf prince himself, extremely fuzzy-looking but recognizable, staring down on him as he bent over; and a slight updraft swirled momentarily at his right. Merry had joined him, standing.

"Do you see?" said the wizard. "There is no escaping these Halls unless you truly make it, by your own will. And only after escaping here can you even hope to live past your present ordeal, Peregrin Took. It is a trial that everybody must take, once or even several times in his life — and indeed, most — MOST — are doomed to fail, simply because their character is too weak. And yet it does not matter whether they do succeed or fail, for their blurry souls are relatively unimportant and carry no weight upon the world, or how Fate would play out its role in the shaping of things. But you, Peregrin Took — " and at that Gandalf raised himself slightly off his throne and leaned forward toward the hobbit. "You are one of the Nine, a companion of the One Ring of Power, and you cannot fail easily. Nor will your failure be taken easily by our world of Arda. This situation you face now IS your trial — and if in your dreams, when your soul forsakes its body and takes flight, you still pray for hope, and for help, which will not even ever come for you, perhaps - you are not going to succeed. It is that simple."

Pippin was terrified — and with a little squeak he sank down. "But — but — what happens if I do fail?!" he cried.

Without warning, two icy-cold hands went down on Pippin's shoulders and clamped them, tightly, and some of Legolas's hair grazed his forehead. Merry sank down next to him and clasped his right hand. Pippin was utterly bewildered, and frightened — he knew it was a dream he played in now, yet — you weren't supposed to feel other people, holding and steading your shoulders, clutching your hands

"You know what will happen, Peregrin Took," said Gandalf, and suddenly Pippin realized that everybody in the room had stopped in their tracks, and were staring at him — not simply with blank faces, even, but with malevolence. "You know what will happen"

"And what if I don't?" Pippin squawked, and he trembled. Legolas's grip on his shoulder tightened.

The beings opened their mouths, one by one, and cold, mocking laughs sprung from their throats. Pippin panted, eyes opened as big as saucers, and cold sweat dripped down his forehead, wetting his golden curls.

"And what if I don't?" Pippin almost screamed — and his voice, as if processed by a muffler, immediately degraded from a frenzied yell to a reverberating whisper. The laughs continued, sounding in multitude — and all the beings slowly turned, walking away, and faded soundlessly into the thickening mist.

"GANDALF!!!" Pippin shrieked, but ere the word departed from his mouth the wizard, his staff, the throne that he sat on, all the pillars of the entire room, the marble floor — everything — disappeared, and the golden light now became gray, like the dusky atmosphere that immediately followed the setting of the sun. He leapt up, looked wildly around, and saw that even Legolas and Merry had gone.

"Oh!" he cried, and he slumped down onto his side. "Ilúvatar damn phantoms, and their obscure ways!" And as soon as his body had given away, a sudden something burst within him, and he found himself jumping up onto his feet, and pacing about in circles. Why did he see all these people, some of whom he thought had already forgotten? What did Gandalf mean, that he was neither living, nor dead? And was he truly obliged to believe the old Maiar's - cacophony gibberish — about somesome trial? And why was Boromir unable to help him, Aragorn fading, Frodo pitying him, Sam smiling at him?

And why had Legolas and Merry gone?

Had they abandoned him?

Or had they been taken away from him?

Pippin's entire body racked with sobs, and tears dripped without abandon from his face. He didn't even know why he was crying so hard, and he didn't even care that he was crying so hard — he couldn't even control himself. And all around him, as if sensing his tumultuous emotions, the air grew even colder and darker, and a wind kicked up, its icy fingers slithering beneath his layers of dirty, weather-stained garments. Behind him, he heard eager pat-pats of footfalls, and somewhat reluctantly, he turned around, and looked up, his sniffs and sobs unavailing. Merry once again stood in front of him, a bright light trained upon his form - and this time the phantom apparition wore a smile — a genuine grin.

"Pippin!" Merry greeted jovially. "Why are you crying, my friend?"

Pippin fought hard to master control of his erratic breathing, before he could voice up — and the words lodged in his throat, coming out with difficulty.

"Everybody has left me," he said vehemently, and though he did not know why he chose to say what he had said, the words were borne into the air anyhow. "Nobody cares about me anymorenobody will stay with me"

The ghost of Merry walked up to Pippin, and took both of his cold, clammy hands into his warm ones, grasping them tightly. "What you say is not true, Pippin!" he rebuked. "I am staying with you. Remember, Pippin? Even though everybody back in the Shire said that Tooks and Brandybucks don't mix, we were as inseparable as brothers! And we are brothers, Pip — I am not going to leave you!"

Pippin glared and wrenched his hands from Merry's hold. "And what would I know, of youryour honesty and sincerity?" he retorted, still sobbing. "You've said what you've just said a hundred times since we met, and yet you still laughed at me and left me, just a few moments before. And now you're coming back, barely minutes later, to profess your loyalty, your brotherly devotion! What kind of heart do you have, Meriadoc Brandybuck? A hypocrite's heart, or a treacherous heart?"

The smiled on Merry's face immediately vanished, and the look on his countenance was now forlorn. "Pippin," he said gravely, and he placed one hand on his chest. "The heart that I carry in my bosom is true, and only true. I shall always be true to you, Peregrin Took, even if the truth costs me anything that I own — even my very life. I can swear it to you. And to prove it to you for once and for all, I'll take out my heart and show you!"

And with that, he pulled out a long, gleaming Elven knife from the folds of the robe he wore, and plunged it deep into his chest. Thick, red blood spurted out from the stab, and all Pippin saw was Merry — in slow motion — the hand holding the knife handle still gripping it in a white-knuckled grasp — and with one final gasp, his friend turned his eyes up and slumped down to the ground with a hollow thud.

The scream that had been imprisoned in Pippin's lungs tore free, and unleashed it lashed through the thick fog in all directions with the sting of flying arrows, a bloodcurdling shriek, a heartrending cry. He pulled Merry up into his arms — sobbing, gasping, crying, and a bittersweet taste gurgled up into his mouth — and he retched. A splat of red liquid, just as red and real as the puddle that began to pool out from Merry's wound, landed right on the ground — and after several convulsive coughs Pippin shrieked:

"I'm sorry, Merry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'M SORRY!!!"

"Pippin, Pippin! Wake up, Pippin, wake up! Wake up!"

"I'm sorry!!" Pippin bawled, for the final time, and a bitter freezing suddenly rushed unto him, completely surrounding and drowning him, enveloping him. And, as suddenly as the updraft had come, the visions, the feelings, the sensations, everything — vanished. Pippin's eyes snapped open, and pain suddenly besieged him all over his sore body — the dream had ended.

"Oh, Merry," he whimpered, shaking like a leaf pummeled in a breeze.

"Pippin," returned Merry, and his voice was hoarse. "You were crying out my nameoh Pippin, you spat out some blood!"

"I did?" Pippin said faintly, and with great effort he raised his head slightly. There, on the front of his tunic, was a large, dark stain — and it smelled fresh. A lightheadedness overtook him, upon seeing that horrid sight, and he fell back down — and a cruel, twisted smile convulsed at his lips.

"Then, it was real."

"What was real, Pip?" came Merry's voice again.

Pippin hesitated, then uttered a soft laugh. "The dreams, the phantomsthe Hall of Illusions"

"What Hall of Illusions?" asked Merry, profound concern registering in his voice.

"And youstabbing yourselfplunging a knife into a chestso that you could show me your heart."

A pause followed the statement.

"What?"

Another pause.

"Pippin, you're having nightmares," said Merry.

"Don't you have nightmares?" snapped Pippin. His teeth were starting to cut into his lip.

"At least I don't talk, orspit out bloodbut my point is, Pippin, nightmares aren't real —"

"THAT WAS REAL!!!!" Pippin squealed, rage erupting inside him.

No sooner than he had finished shouting an orc cuffed both of them by the collar and dragged them to their feet. Pippin spluttered and more blood flecked his clothes, but the orc either did not notice in the dark night or did not care.

"Up on your feet," it growled menacingly, in a guttural tone. "We have one last bit of marching to do."

Both of the hobbits, still not recovered from either one's shock, felt their hearts palpitate. One last bit of marching — and then, what?

The end?

The moon was full, casting a silvery, wanton light onto the plains they now walked upon. During marches, neither hobbit could talk to each other, or think to themselves, even — for the pain and fatigue was too great a thing upon them for any sort of concentration. But this time, Pippin was too far off in his own delusional world, to care, or even feel, the agony that riddled his body — and Merry was both too terrified and worried for his friend, and for himself, to give a care either. And neither knew how long the final segment of their seemingly interminable march across Middle-Earth lasted — but it was only when they had finally halted for the last time, and the orc that pulled them in front stopped, nearly making them run into him, that they realized how much time had passed. Several hours.

By now the moon had already gone, and the faint tell-tale purple of approaching daybreak graced the horizon, dotted with the last stars of the evening and flecked off by the craggy range of snow-capped mountains. Before them rose a long, black gate, seemingly stretching into infinity from side to other extreme side; and above it, a black tower, four sharp lethal-looking spires clawing at its very pinnacle, shot into the heavens. And then, suddenly, Merry and Pippin finally knew why they had been captured, and where they had been taken to.

The unending gate that loomed before them was the barrier that separated Isengard from the countryside — and the evil-looking tower with the spires was Orthanc. And they had landed right into the clutches of Saruman the White — and what he wanted from them was the One Ring of Power.

Only, they carried no Ring upon themselves.

End Part One

A/N: Well? It shall be up to you reviewers to decide whether you want this fic to go anywhere or not — I don't seem to have much inspiration for this one, I'm just interested in expanding the AU plotline (and toying with supernatural and metaphysical elements). Constructive criticism and flames shall also be accepted. At your request, it shall be updated in a few days — or it shall be deleted. Until later, Namarië, and Kudos! ~ Verok