Guess who's back? We had a bit of a longer break here, sorry about that. This chapter is a fairly short one, but it's given me such grief writing it – the writer's block has been crazy and I didn't know how best I wanted to show you guys the scene. I hope you enjoy the end result!

Anyways, thank you so much for the amazing response to the last chapter, and as ever, please forgive my inevitable mistakes. Also, a massive thanks to johnsarmylady, who pointed out that the story's 'M' rating means it won't show up on the usual browser page - thank you for pointing that out!

Read, enjoy, review!

Chapter Ten # The Innocents' Warrior #

The first thing to pass through Pippin's mind when a loud horn made him jump from his seat was that it was a terrible time for a marching band. The second thought, prompted by the immediate, muted cries of his companions, was that it would be a rather suitable time to panic.

He could see very little in the pale moonlight, since they had doused their torches upon leaving Weathertop. No need to draw attention to themselves, Thorin had said. Craning over his shoulder, Pippin could just about make out the oncoming hoard of orcs charging their way. From the size and shape he guessed that there would be wargs, too, and his heart began to dive repeatedly into his stomach.

Clutching his pony's reins, he stared up to the front of the group. Thorin, Dwalin, Aragorn – they would know what to do. They must know what to do…

It was Aragorn that let out the cry.

"Hold ranks!" he said. "Do not flee."

"Don't flee?" Orla cried, her little face so pale that it seemed made of moonlight.

Mist left his mouth in short bursts. Pippin tried to slow his breathing, to unbuckle his sword but his fingers were shaking and he did not know what to do –

"Form ranks!" it was Thorin, this time, who gave the order. "Ûhaskhajam-okilondin!"

The phrase punched Pippin in the stomach. For a moment, he saw Fíli and his father melting away into a dark forest, and he saw Fíli's blood on his hands. No – that was not important now. Ghosts of that night had been banished for years, and Pippin could not lose his head now because Thorin had given the order to 'save the children.'

His fingers fumbled with the reins, bringing his pony towards the centre of the group. It was a rank they had practised many a time on the journey over. A drill, a game, a just in case. Now it was the real thing. On his way to the second ring, Bróin threw Bodin onto Pippin's horse. The hobbit caught the dwarfling easily – he had been expecting it. Bodin may have lived the same number of years as Pippin, but the dwarfling was still very much a child, and now Pippin had to take care of him.

The orcs' jeers grew closer, but he could no longer see them. He and Vinca were in the centre of the group. Bodin was in Pippin's arms, and Frerin and Eyja both clung to his youngest sister. The twins' pony stood in between Pippin's and Vinca's – they were the core. The most vulnerable.

The safest, and the guiltiest. In a tight ring around them were the other tweens, and then the adults spiralled out around them, from Ellie closest to the middle all the way out to Dwalin at the front. Aragorn rode forward, and glanced over his shoulder.

There was a wild look in his eye, though his mouth was set in a hard line.

"For as long as you can," he said, "hold ranks."

With that, he charged. The hooves of his horse thundered against the hard ground, and Pippin's heart seemed to pound to the same beat. A flame slashed the air, and Pippin realised that the man had lit a torch to wield in his left hand. The sword in his other hand caught the light, and glowed red.

For a moment, Pippin was reminded fiercely of Fíli and his dual swords.

And then Aragorn leapt off his horse, which careened back to the company. The man kept running forward until he was sixty paces from the others, and then he met the orcs, and the fight began. The man swung down with his sword, and Pippin watch the first orc's head fly. Several wargs rode past Aragorn, only to be shot down by bows and slingshots from the waiting dwarves.

Pippin barely saw them. He could not take his eyes away from Aragorn, blazing a way through the pack of wargs with fire and sword. On his left, orcs and wargs were burning, and on his right they were crumpling to the ground. Nothing seemed to touch Aragorn – he ducked and spun and danced away from every blow that Pippin saw coming.

Please, Pippin thought, please, Aragorn, please be alright, please let it be over! Let it end, just let it end…

He wished to see the others ride forward and help, but Aragorn had commanded them not to – hold ranks, he said. And Pippin was sure that Aragorn knew best

With a shriek that made the little ones cry, a fire-shrouded orc tore through its own pack, and Pippin saw the pack begin to scatter. A couple of wargs approached the group, and Soren, Dwalin and Ehren broke from the outermost ring, charging forward to take them down.

Dwalin's battle cry rang out over the shrieks of the orcs, and on Vinca's pony the warrior's two children screamed. For the first time in his life, Frerin was screaming louder than his sister.

Pippin was hanging over the shoulder of a young man he did not know, and his Fíli's blood was all over his hands, and his Papa was getting further and further away. Gimli ran beside him and there were orcs coming, and Pippin could not understand why his father and Fíli were not running too.

"Papa!" Pippin cried, stretching out his tiny hands over Estel's shoulders.

"Adad!" Frerin cried, stretching out his tiny hands over the front of Vinca's pony. Pippin's sister had to grab him and hold him close to stop him from launching over the pony's head.

Pippin did not know what to do. He was the one who was looked after, comforted, protected. He had been the baby, until he outgrew Bodin and the smaller ones were born – no one had taught Pippin how to be the protector. But in front of him, Bodin was trembling, and so Pippin wrapped his arms around his little cousin and held on for dear life.

Crying and crying and crying, Pippin clung to Fíli's arm as the bad dwarves and bad orcs did nasty things. And made them do nasty things. Pippin never wanted to ever cut nasty letters into Fíli's back but the bad ones made him.

"Don't worry about it," Fíli said to Gimli. "Worse things happen in the mines, you know-"

Then Fíli screamed, so loud and with so much pain that Pippin held on tighter. His Fíli was hurting. And then there were two hands tugging at him, and though he held on for dear life, Pippin was ripped away.

Pippin shook his head. His family thought he had forgotten the memories, and he knew that the current moment was much more important than the scary story of his past.

He focused his eyes ahead, and saw something that made his heart jolt. Dwalin, Soren and Ehren were moving slowly towards a single, upright figure, surrounded by a sea of corpses. Was it over?

It could not be over so quickly, could it?

Aragorn was standing, swaying slightly, like a single stalk of corn that survived a thunderstorm. He turned, the low burning torch still in his hand, and took a shaky step towards the group. He swayed again. It looked as though he was about to collapse.

Pippin's heart stumbled in its race. "Aragorn…"

It seemed that Dwalin had noticed the danger – he was running hard towards the man. Pippin wanted to ride forward himself, the threat had passed now, surely, but when he tried to move forward Nelly blocked him and shook her head.

For once, Pippin did not argue with his sister. Instead, he swallowed and held on a little tighter to Bodin. He could feel Bombur's son crying now. What would Merry say?

"It's alright," he whispered. "We're going to be fine."

Bodin just sniffled.

A long whistle pierced the air and Pippin's head snapped back up. Aragorn's horse responded immediately to his call, galloping from the back of the group to his master's side. The man collapsed against the horse, leaning on its side, and then Dwalin reached him, putting his hand on the small of the man's back.

They were much too far away for Pippin to hear words, but he saw Dwalin help Aragorn up onto his horse, and then they walked slowly back.

Frerin was still screaming. "Adad! Adad! Adad!"

The moment that he reached the group, Dwalin pushed through the ranks and took the squirming child in his arms.

"Enough," he growled gently, "that's enough screaming, lad."

Frerin shoved his face into his father's shoulder. "Thought you were gonna go way. Like Sigin'adad left you."

Dwalin rocked his son on his hip, pressing his face gently against Frerin's.

Pippin felt a lump in his throat, and he automatically looked for his own father. Paladin was staring right at him, and smiled sadly. Returning the smile as convincingly as he could, Pippin helped Bodin into his uncle Bofur's arms.

"Ah, lad, it'll take more than fifty orcs to take this Adad away." The dwarf paused, and held out his arm towards Aragorn. "Anyway, this gem of a man took them all down, almost single handed! Gandalf knew what he was doing."

Pippin looked over to Aragorn. The man was holding his left arm close to his chest, and his smile was weary and pained. Still, he looked more tired than hurt.

"Where's Bali?" Frerin demanded suddenly, commanding Pippin's attention again.

"He didn't make it," said Dwalin.

Frerin's lower lip wobbled. "No… I want Bali!"

"It was a noble death, for a pony," Dwalin assured his son.

Pippin had not noticed that they had lost a pony. Soren and Ehren were still mounted. He looked out, and saw the pale white shape of the creature that Frerin had named for his Uncle Balin. The hobbit's heart sank – he grew very fond of their ponies. A pony was not a cart, or a mechanical vehicle. It was a living, feeling thing, that you could quickly love – a thing that would love you back, especially if you fed it enough apples.

Pippin patted his own pony's neck.

"We should not linger," Thorin said. He looked oddly pale. "Dwalin, take one of the baggage ponies-"

"Too slow," Aragorn murmured. He seemed almost dazed. "We should leave immediately."

"No problem," Vinca said, "Dwalin can ride Pippin's pony."

Pippin blinked. "What?"

"You'll ride with me," she said.

For a moment, Pippin was irritated, but then he saw the benefit of this, and hopped off of his pony. He clambered up behind his sister and leant against her back, closing his eyes. They were safe now.

By the time they began to ride again, he was snoring.

"It's been twenty odd years," Paladin said, his eyes on his son, "and I still have no idea how he does that – dropping off to sleep as if nothing's happened…"

"But that raises a question," Esmeralda replied, edging her pony on to ride beside Aragorn's. "When can we rest? Pippin is wont to sleep where he chooses – why, I've seen him keep hiking in his sleep before – but the rest of us are not so skilled. When the adrenalin fades, it won't be long before someone falls off a pony. Or a horse, by the looks of you."

"Esme…" Paladin groaned.

"No offense," Esme rolled her eyes, pleased to note that Aragorn was smiling.

"None taken, my lady," he bowed his head, his smile fading. "In response to your question, I do not know. I fear that it will be several miles before we are able to find any real cover, and we may not be so lucky again. Those orcs were trained for pillaging – not battling warriors. Should we come across soldiers, we would be in greater trouble. What's more, I do not doubt there are more of them out there. A party of fifty odd orcs, to tackle a guarded group of thirty? But we cannot ride forever…"

"We should get out of sight of the corpses," came Thorin's strong, steady voice. "Rest then, 'til morning, and then make for Rivendell with all the speed we can muster."

No one had the strength to argue. In scarce half an hour, they had found a slight outcrop on the back of a small hill, and had set up camp. They had three people on each watch, to lower the risk of tired eyes closing, but they met no more foes that night.

When daybreak came and they found themselves in one piece, they set off at once, eating their meagre breakfast on horseback. Their ponies were not too happy, but were spurred on by the elvish words that Aragorn would call over the group now and again. The wolves were coping better, being used to long journeys, but their tails hung lower than usual.

The company pushed their beasts as hard as they dared, riding until the daylight was through and taking the most sheltered camps they could during nights of fitful sleep. Finally, Aragorn let out a soft cry of relief, and led them to the ford of the Bruinen.

Then, earlier than any could have hoped for, the hunted group of lords and ladies made their way into Rivendell.

I hope you enjoyed that chapter! It's not my favourite but plot demanded it be here, and I think it's okay :) It might seem a little anti-climactic, but there is a reason for that :D

As a quick note, I know there are LOADS of characters right now. Very soon, things will be split into much smaller groups and that should be easier to follow. I'm also working on some sort of chart to help you guys know who's who in a pinch, but uni work takes priority right now :)

Anyway, yes, I hope that you enjoyed this chapter and I hope that the next one will be up fairly soon. Please, if you would like, leave a review. They mean the world to me, they really do.