Chapter 7 – In The Shadow Of Your Heart
Pippin groaned as he came back to his senses. His head was swimming and his stomach felt somewhat sea-sick. But the nauseous bobbing didn't belong to a ship – as he opened his eyes slowly, he realised that he was being carried on the back of a big orc. With that realisation, all other perceptions decided to kick in simultaneously – the stench, the sound of heavy footsteps and angry grunting, as well as the biting pain in his wrists (not to speak of the pain in his head). With his senses his memory returned as well.
He looked around frantically, which wasn't as easy seeing that his hands were tied around the orc's neck. Boromir wasn't hard to miss; he rode on a horse (different from the one he had departed on, as Pippin noted) at the end of the caravan. It took him a while to find Merry though, who was limply hanging from the back of an orc some steps in front of Pippin.
"Psh, Merry!" Pippin whispered, but Merry didn't stir. He seemed to have received a worse head wound than Pippin, judging from the dried blood on his front. But, then again, Pippin could neither see nor touch his own head. "Merry!" he tried again, this time a bit louder.
There was no reaction from Merry, but instead from the orc at the head of the horde, who seemed to be the leader. He was by far the tallest, almost as tall as Boromir, and his cruel face was made even more gruesome to behold by the white war paint smeared across it. "What was that? Do you have anything to say, rat?"
Pippin didn't reply, scared of infuriating the orc further. Despite himself, his eyes darted towards Boromir, who was looking on to the reason of the sudden stop with no spark of care.
"Don't look to him for help! He's as dumb as a fly, and is more likely to fall from his horse than to help you!"
Most of the other orcs joined in his sneering laughter at that, but others didn't seem to be quite so amused.
"Why have him here in the first place, then? I can't stand his shiny teeth and man stench. Let's end the fly now, Lurtz, and the little critters too, while we're at it."
The leader, Lurtz apparently, gave a fierce growl and shoved the other orc aside forcefully. "These are not for eating! Are you too rotten in your brain to see that the prisoner was a trap for the little bugs? We have strict orders to bring them whole and unharmed."
"But what about the bait? Now he's fulfilled his purpose, he can't possibly be of further use," a third, smaller and guileful looking orc chimed in, "He'd give meat for at least three days, I'd say."
Some of the other orcs agreed noisily to this. Pippin gasped and thought that surely this would alarm Boromir, but the Gondorian man didn't even seem to be listening to the conversation. He was just loosely sitting in his saddle, looking as if the slightest breeze might sweep him down. His head was hanging too, like that of a broken toy.
"You're all useless maggots, the whole Mordor lot!" Lurtz shouted angrily, "If any of you try something, I will disembowel you on the spot! Saruman needs his puppet for further traps, you dim-witted scum!"
A tense silence ensued, but then he turned to the still unconscious Merry and grinned maliciously. "So, our guest is still sleeping! How about we'll give him some good orcish medicine to wake him up, eh?"
It seemed like he wanted to keep the horde in good spirits and his authority unchallenged. Pippin watched in horror as one of the orcs opened a flask and started to pour a dark liquid into Merry's mouth. His cousin choked and came alive with heavy coughing.
"Stop! Please!" Pippin called out, more out of despair than really expecting them to head his words.
"What? You again, rat?" Lurtz had stopped laughing and was standing right in front of Pippin now. "You'll watch your tongue or I might as well decide to make it a bit shorter!" Seemingly annoyed of the whole debate now, he started to walk back to the front – when suddenly he halted in his steps and looked around, sniffing the wind.
"What is it?" asked one of the smaller orcs.
"Men flesh!" Lurtz barked, but his dramatic expression didn't have the desired effect on the others.
"I know," the other orc groaned, "since one bloody week! Can't believe you've only noticed now!"
"No, you worm-brain!" Lurtz shouted and slapped the other orc across the face. "Someone else! They're following our trail!"
The whole horde squawked out in anger and fear now, looking around in shock.
"No more breaks! We'll march through the day!" Lurtz commanded and with that everyone started running again, much faster than before.
"Aragorn," Pippin whispered hopefully. He still didn't know what was wrong with Boromir, but he was pretty sure that Aragorn would find a way to make everything all right again. If only he were able to leave a sign for him.
"What are you doing?" Merry whispered, his voice still hoarse from the flaming liquid.
Pippin kept tugging at the Lórien brooch with his teeth until it came off and then he spat it to the ground. The orc behind him stepped on it at once, but it still lay there, unbroken, in the mud and Pippin could only hope that Aragorn's eyes would find it.
THOMP. THOMP. THOMP.
Silence.
THOMP. THOMP. THOMP. THOMP.
Boromir reached to his temple, but the hammering sound didn't stop. It took several minutes until he realised that for once the sound wasn't inside his head, but came from the hooves of the horse he was on. Right. He was on a horse; going where?
He lifted his eyes, looking around.
THOMP. THOMP. THOMP.
This was his heart beat, for sure. The sound felt foreign, and it reverberated painfully in all of his body. Black spots appeared in front of his vision and the more he tried to make out his travelling companions, the harder it became to see anything at all. In the end he had to blink a few times and avert his gaze again, taking slow breaths.
This all felt wrong. He knew he wasn't supposed to be here. But he had no idea where he should be instead – in fact, he had trouble remembering anything at all, including his own name.
Panic rose in his chest, as he tried to make sense of it all. His knuckles went white, gripping the reins in his hands. Wasn't there somewhere that he came from? Someone waiting for him?
An electric shock went through him, making him cower and bend over. He felt like vomiting. The hammering in his head started again and his vision blanked completely. Then there was a voice. He remembered that voice now, filling his mind and giving him nightmares.
"Find the halflings and bring them to Isengard. Don't harm them. They should trust you, but fighting a few orcs might ensure it."
Boromir remembered frowning at this part of the orders. He had a hard time placing the voice to a face. The only thing he was sure of was that this voice belonged to his master and that he had to obey it. Maybe he'd feel better once he had fulfilled this mission.
"Don't worry, the other orcs won't notice," the voice had explained, "they'll wait for you."
Orcs had waited for him. Orcs were running in front of him now. He had killed orcs. He closed his eyes as the pain became unbearable, and the contradicting thoughts left his focus. What were orcs again? Since he travelled with them, didn't this mean he was an orc too? Surely that would make sense.
He looked down at his hands. There was blood and dirt on them. His gaze went to his sides, seeing a sword and a horn. The latter was skilfully carved and decorated with silver. It brought back something to his mind, a gleam of white in the distance.
A scorching pain and a flaming eye. He gasped out in pain, his skull on fire. Grasping his head didn't help, tearing his skin didn't end the burning. Voices, tearing him apart from inside, made his blood feel like a river of poison, rushing through his veins and searing his flesh. Lightning split him in two, and then a merciful numbness ensued, still echoing with the voices, that told him to stop doubting.
THOMP. THOMP. THOMP.
Pippin groaned out in pain as someone threw him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He hadn't meant to, but since the orcs virtually hadn't stopped running in two days, he had fallen asleep while being carried through these endless plains. He adjusted himself into a half-comfortable position, taking a look at his surroundings.
Merry had been dumped a few metres away and he looked as tired as Pippin felt. On the far end of the orc group he could spot Boromir. He wasn't just sitting there, as most times, but it looked more like he was relieving himself of the contents of his stomach. Not that they got much to eat– Pippin hated hunger as much as any hobbit, but he thought he still preferred it to the stony and stinking bread that the orcs gave them. His stomach promptly grumbled in protest of this. He would like to walk over and try to comfort Boromir, but he wasn't entirely sure if that was a good idea. There was also the fact that his wrists and ankles were bound and he couldn't go anywhere.
Merry seemed to have found a way around this, though. He was slowly crawling towards Pippin, looking like an overgrown caterpillar. It would have been funny if it hadn't been for their situation. Stopping every now and then to check whether anyone was looking at him, Merry finally arrived at Pippin's side, now looking dirty on top of tired.
"You could have tried to walk on your knees, you know, might have been less painful," Pippin opened the conversation, trying to be his usual light-hearted self.
Merry shot him a look. "Don't be silly, Pip. Obviously that would have drawn everyone's attention!"
"If you say so," Pippin shrugged. He tried to lay his head on Merry's shoulder but only ended up wrenching his neck. He sighed and looked up to the dark night sky. Usually the orcs walked through the night, but after the last non-stop marching, even they had to rest. At least for a few hours, or so Lurtz had proclaimed. Pippin didn't want to think about where they would take them and what would happen if Aragorn and the others didn't catch up with them.
A sudden, new sound made him look to the edge of the camp. It had been the familiar creaking of a tree's branch, which seemed to stem from another world after the last few days. He hadn't noticed until now that they were resting right next to what appeared to be a huge forest. He could only make out the silhouettes of a few trees, but they were looming into the darkness like giants.
Starting to drift off after a few minutes, a sharp pain brought him back to reality. His ankles were hurting badly, being sore from the itching and far too tightly wrought rope. "I'd give all the pipe weed I ever owned for a good knife," he whined, not having any particular end in mind.
"There's a sharp one, right there," Merry stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
Pippin followed his cousin's eye line and saw what he meant: only a few steps away, an apparently drunken orc was sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree trunk. He was fast asleep, judging from his heavy snores, and tugged into his belt was a barbed scimitar.
"Not exactly what I had in mind, but it might work," Pippin whispered, not wanting to wake up the orc by accident. Merry starred at him, appalled. He had made a joke, but Pippin seemed to be dead serious about this.
"Pippin, no!" He whispered furiously, but it was already too late. Pippin had lowered himself to the ground and was trying out Merry's method of movement. He was skilled enough at it, Merry had to admit, maybe even better than himself. With his breath held, he watched as Pippin paused shortly next to the orc and slowly pulled out the knife from his belt. It seemed to take ages and Merry was expecting the orc to wake up with a grunt any minute – that or the others noticing them. But looking around, he found that most orcs were busy with food and drink, and many others were asleep as well. It seemed that the last days really had tired them out.
Finally Pippin was holding the knife in his shaking hands and tried not to cut himself while crawling back to Merry. He couldn't believe that it had actually worked. He didn't even dare to say anything to Merry, but merely grinned sheepishly at him. "Quick, cut the ropes on your feet and then mine!" Merry almost hissed.
Pippin did as he was told, trying to be as quick as possible. It was still a slow business with his hands bound together, forcing him to hold the knife at an awkward angle. But he managed to free himself and promptly helped out Merry.
He was half way through cutting the rope around his wrists, when things started to go wrong. The orcs around the camp fire started to shout and growl, probably arguing about something. Pippin didn't let that stop him, but he startled and almost let the knife drop, when he heard a cry of outrage, not far from him.
"I don't care, the horse men are coming at us from one side and the stinking rats' friends from the other! What's the point in keeping them alive? I say, it's either them or us! We should just- HEY!" The orc had walked over to them and realised what they were doing. He snarled and snatched the knife from Pippin's hands, lifting him by his collar with the other.
"Will you look at this! The filthy, little squeekers tried to run away! Will you listen to me now?"
Pippin noticed that it was the same orc who had proposed to eat Boromir two days ago. He tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but it was no use.
"Put that down!" Lurtz had risen from his log around the fire place and had drawn his sword. "We either deliver these to Saruman or kill them during battle, but not a second before! I warned you, Grishnak!"
Grishnak looked at Pippin, considering, but didn't put him down. Instead he raised the knife in his right hand and muttered, "Nothing but rotten meat for two weeks; a few bites can't hurt."
Pippin closed his eyes in fear and heard Merry cry out. But there was no stabbing or cutting, nor anything. When he opened his eyes, Grishnak was still holding him by his collar, but his head was turned towards the fire. At first, Pippin noticed that everyone else was staring as well, and then he realised why. Lurtz had collapsed on the spot, an arrow in his throat. The moment of silence didn't last long though as chaos ensued soon enough. Orcs screamed in terror, grabbing their weapons, and putting out the fire. Even Grishnak was claimed by the collective panic and let Pippin drop, drawing his own sword. Pippin wasted no time to see who their attackers were, as he quickly jumped up and ran after Merry, heading straight towards the woods.
Just before they reached it, though, he stopped dead. "What about Boromir?"
Merry turned and stared at him in shock. Apparently he had completely forgotten about him. Pippin looked back and saw with relief that Grishnak wasn't following them. But Boromir was looking around in confusion, completely at a loss of what was going on. Arrows were being shot everywhere and Pippin thought he saw long-haired men between the orcs now, and also a good deal of horses.
"Pippin!" Merry called, dragging his sleeve. "Let's stay out of the fight! These are men, I'm sure they won't hurt Boromir!"
"But it's so dark! What if they take him for an orc?" Pippin virtually pleaded, imagining the worst. Despite his strange behaviour, to put it mildly, Pippin hadn't lost his affection for the Gondorian, and never had doubted that he would return to his old self sooner or later.
Merry looked terribly scared now, himself not quite sure whether it was because what Pippin had said might actually happen or because it was so accurate. He stopped pondering this though, when he saw a horse coming towards them at full speed.
Pippin, who didn't see it coming, was once again taken by surprise as Merry pushed him to the ground. A white horse, gleaming ghostly in the night, stomped its hooves into the mud right next to his face only seconds later. He screamed, jolting away.
"Come on, Pip!" Merry was trying to drag him to the forest, but Pippin couldn't help but look back one last time.
Boromir wasn't where he had been only moments before and Pippin already feared that he might have been trampled to the ground. But then he saw him and he froze on the spot.
"Merry!"
Boromir was kneeling on the ground, orcs besetting him, biting, stabbing, cutting. It was as if the battle around them didn't even take place, they wrestled their own fight. Pippin heard Boromir cry out in pain, and it was probably the scariest thing he had heard so far, including the ring wraiths and wargs.
He was already moving back towards the camp, without having realised it, when a spear landing only a few inches from him, made him stop. How often had he been nearly killed now?
"You!"
"Quick, Pip, run!"
Pippin didn't even have time to look over his shoulder to see who had called out, but he was sure it was one of the orcs. He blindly ran after Merry, the black forest soon swallowing them and drowning out the sounds of battle. There were still footsteps and growled curses behind them, so he kept running, despite the worried voice in his head, who wondered whether Boromir had been overwhelmed by those orcs by now.
In front of him, Merry had started climbing a tree, and motioned towards him to do the same. Pippin rushed to the next tree with low hanging boughs, trying to get a foot hold on the mossy bark. The orc behind them shouted out in frustration, not knowing which hobbit to follow first. But when Pippin looked around he saw that he had managed to take hold of Merry's foot and was dragging him down. He was already bracing himself for jumping down again, when he noticed something strange – the tree he had climbed seemed to have eyes.
Éomer was half blinded by the orc blood that was trickling down into his eyes, and half by his fury. Théodred was dead. He was sure that Gríma had helped with that. His uncle had exiled him and he hadn't even had the chance to talk to Éowyn before being thrown out of his own home like a criminal. He hadn't known what to do or where to go then. His men still had followed him, but he hadn't been sure whether their faith in him was justified.
Now he was glad to have them beside him. They had discovered the orc trail a few days ago and the pursuit had been the only thing on his mind since then. He didn't know what to do afterwards. The option of riding for Minas Tirith had come to his mind – ask Boromir for help. But it was a far too long journey. He couldn't stand the thought of his sister and his uncle being alone with that worm of a man.
Everything was getting worse and worse; and the orcs kept destroying the land, more coming each day. Now that they had surrounded this group, they had to find that these orcs were something completely different – taller and stronger, and less fearful of daylight, judging from the miles they had covered in such a short time.
He had lost his patience then, giving the order for attack before doing even a precise head count, which would have taken hours in the night. He had shot the first arrow himself, grabbing the bow from Hengest, who had proposed to wait a little longer. While not being precisely his weapon of choice, he was a good enough bowman to hit the leader of the horde fatally. It had been no problem to make him out, being by far the tallest and shouting threats into the air, right in front of the fire.
Then he had ridden head first into battle, not even considering dismounting. He had fought ferociously, but now he could feel the tiredness creep into his bones. He hadn't slept much since leaving Edoras, finding it hard to find rest when everything he loved was going down the drain.
For all he knew hours might have passed; he had lost all connection to the outside world. Wiping the blood from his brow angrily, he spurred on his horse, a war cry issuing forth from his lips.
After some minutes more he realised that all orcs were either dead or had fled into the forest. No one would follow them there though, Fangorn was a name still whispered with awe and fear in Rohan. He caught his breath, trying to think clearly. The next step was to tend to the wounding, bury the dead, and burn the corpses of the orcs; the usual grim and bitter procedure.
"My lord!"
Éomer turned around, his blood chilling at the familiar tone of dread and shock. This felt too much like finding Théodred back in the Westfold. He walked over to Deorwine, who was crouching on the ground, next to someone.
He closed his eyes for a second, bracing himself for the unbearable. He knelt down and immediately wiped his eyes again, for clearly this was a trick of the night or the enchanted forest nearby. This was simply impossible.
But no matter how often he blinked or stared, the sight before him stayed the same. Boromir, mud in his hair and blood mingling with the earth. His clothes were ripped badly, and he had been stabbed with several knives and swords. There was a thin stream of blood running down from the corner of his mouth, right next to a tiny liver spot. The rain drummed heavily onto his lifeless form, forming a small puddle in his jugular notch. It was like seeing a ghost.
"A red sun is rising," Legolas stated, eyes fixed on the horizon. "Blood has been spilled in the night."
They had followed the orc trail as best as was possible in the yet short grass of the plains and the mighty rocks, which were strewn across the land like stars across the night sky.
"They have marched for two days, with no rest – they must slow down, sooner or later," Aragorn mused, waiting for Gimli to catch up with them. The dwarf was cursing endlessly, yet he never accepted any of Aragorn's offers to have a short break.
"Either that or they'll just keep marching like this all the way to Isengard," Gimli huffed. By now they were sure that these orcs had been sent by Saruman, seeing that they were headed towards the north-west of Rohan. "And we'll follow them right into the arms of the traitor!"
Aragorn smiled in his best comforting way and laid his ears to the ground. The trampling sound of the orcs was gone, but instead he could hear something new – something that was steadily coming closer.
"Riders!" Legolas called out. "I can see their blonde hair and spears glisten in the sun!"
Aragorn quickly followed the elf and dragged Gimli towards a looming rock. Who knew how the Rohirrim would take to strangers in these troubled times.
They had to wait only a few minutes, until the first horses appeared on the horizon and came thundering towards them. Thanks to their elven mantles they rode right past them, but Aragorn couldn't let this chance go of finding out about their loyalty and whether they had any news concerning the orcs.
"Riders of Rohan! What news in the mark?" He boldly asked, stepping out of the shadow of their hiding place.
The riders reacted at once, steering their horses around in a perfectly synchronised motion, and coming to face Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, in a circle. Neither their faces nor their spear tips pointed at them looked all too friendly. Aragorn noticed that some of the horses had no rider, while others were carrying wounded men. But then he saw the leader of the group, who was carrying a wounded man in front of him in his saddle.
"What do an elf, a dwarf, and a man do in the riddermark? Speak, quickly!"
Aragorn sensed that Gimli was annoyed (and intimidated) by this harsh welcome, but before the dwarf could speak, he stepped forth and stared at the wounded man in disbelief. He was unconscious, draped in a blanket, and anything but sitting upright, but there was no mistaking him.
"Boromir!" He made to touch him, but Éomer steered his horse away.
"You know him?" He asked in surprise. Then he looked at each of the strangers and back to Aragorn. "You don't happen to be Aragorn, do you? Who set out with Boromir from Rivendell?"
Aragorn's eyes grew wider by the second. "I am! So Boromir told you of us on his way back! But what happened? Is he...still alive?"
As far as he could see, his condition was bad, to say the least. There were several wounds on his chest and abdomen, bleeding through the make-shift bandages.
"Barely. We found him like this among the horde of orcs that we attacked and defeated last night. Pray tell, can you help him? I don't think he will last until we reach Edoras." His brown eyes darted to Legolas, apparently he had heard of the wonders of elvish medicine. His whole demeanour had changed completely, now that he knew that they were friends of Boromir.
"I will try," Aragorn replied. There were so many questions he had, but most of them had to be left unanswered for the time being. Except one.
"Have you found hobbits among the orcs as well? They're very small, like children. We've been hunting these orcs, because they caught our friends."
"We found no one else, no children." Éomer said as he dismounted carefully. "Now lend me a hand."
Together they lifted Boromir from the horse and laid him down on the grass.
"Legolas," Aragorn turned to the elf. "Do you still have the small bag with Athelas that I gave you?"
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