Help From another World

by Scribe of Worlds

Gandalf's plea from Isengard Tower reaches farther than he could ever imagine. Even to four demigods relaxing in a park after the Battle of Manhattan. Naturally, they respond. The Fellowship of the Ring is formed. A grand adventure from the dark of Moria to the beauty of Lorien. Dark paths, epic battles, annoying demigods. Middle Earth will never know what hit it.

21. Alone

LE GASP! What's this? An actual update for Help from Another World!? After two months!? That's an miracle!

XD

Hey, guys :). I'm not going to make any excuses for my...two month break, as I'm sure none of you are interested in hearing them. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing this story (Though I've been noticing a definite 'evil'theme in the reviews XD) Yes, I know I've left this new chapter too long, but hey, remember how Moffat tossed Sherlock off a building and made us wait a year? Yeah, I'm relatively nicer :P For those who wished me good luck in my exams, I got some good results, so thank you!

I started this chapter late January. For those of you who have been wondering where I've been, check out the updated Moria chapters (and some of you say I've been doing nothing XD) I've changed them to two chapters and revamped those two chapters. For those who are in the Doctor Who fandom and follow fairytaleslayer's Storm of the Wolf, you may have noticed something I did there. Anyways, for THIS chapter, there are some people I need to thank! Thanks to Lady Vanya, who generously offered to beta my story, (And made me turn red at the amount of mistakes she found in my first draft) and also thanks to Alone on the Water for greatly helping to improve the style (And only giving it back to me today :P). Lastly, of course, I need to thank you! Yes you, the readers and reviewers who are the reason why my idea isn't still in my head gathering dust. Thank you for reading and your encouragement. :)

On with the Tale, Allons-Y!

Alone (noun) = Separate, without companionship, desolate, forlorn.

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Alone

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Merry

Merry looked out with wonder upon this country, of which he had heard many tales upon their long road. It was a skyless world, in which his eyes, through dim gulfs of shadowy air, saw only ever mounting slopes, great walls of stone behind great walls, and frowning precipices wreathed with mist. He sat for a moment, half dreaming, listening to the noise of water the whisper of dark trees, the crack of stone, and the vast waiting silence that brooded behind all sound. He loved mountains, or he had loved the thought of them marching on the edge of stories brought from far away, but now they seemed to weigh upon him. He longed to be back home, perhaps at an inn, with a pint of Green Dragon beer in his hands.

Thalia flopped down beside him. "My behind aches!" she complained. "Three days – Three days – of riding with no rest! Over passes, valleys, thousands of mountains, and across a hundred streams! If I ever see a horse again it'll be too soon for my poor backside."

Merry grinned. "My...butt hurts as well."

"Oh, and did I mention I hate mountains?"

Merry smirked, remembering Thalia's fear of heights. "Yes Thals. Once, twice, perhaps twenty times? Might have been a bit more. I remember a girl with a very white face." He shrugged.

Thalia flicked a blade of grass at him. "Remind me again, who was the one riding that cute little pony beside Theoden's majestic white horse?"

Merry sank back on the ground, electing to let that comment slide. "We're probably going to have to ride more soon, the Muster is almost complete."

Thalia groaned. "Don't remind me. We just arrived yesterday afternoon and we're already leaving again. Those Riders must have butts of iron."

Merry rolled his eyes, still smiling. He was glad Thalia was with him, or he would have been unbearably lonely. First being separated from Frodo, Sam and Annabeth, then Gandalf had left for Gondor and taken Pippin with him. Only recently Aragorn had left for the Paths of the Dead with the Percy, Nico, Legolas and Gimli, and two days ago Boromir had ridden on ahead in response to something the Blue Wizards had said to him. If not for Thalia, he would have truly been alone, a stranger in a strange land. He very much suspected Thalia felt the same way. She wasn't used to waking up alone in her tent, and soon they found themselves sharing a tent.

"We're leaving today?" Merry half rose, taking in their camp.

"Yeah, I was just talking to Eowyn. She says Theoden isn't waiting any longer. We're leaving right after the women say their farewells."

"Is Eowyn leaving too?" He wondered.

"Pfft, as if Theoden could actually make her go." Thalia chuckled.

"He could, actually." Theoden walked up to them, a wry smile on his face. "She is not only my sister-daughter, but also my subject."

"But are you going to?" Merry wondered.

Theoden chuckled. "Nay. I now understand her, her fierce loyalty and high spirits. Even if I forbade her I know she would have found a way to evade me. Better to ride with her and watch her than have her sneak into battle unknown."

Thalia smirked. "Yeah, she totally would. I like her."

Theoden ignored her, turning to Merry. "But you, Master Hobylta…"

Merry's eyes widened. "Oh no, you don't. You're not making me leave, not now, not here! I have sworn myself into your service. You're not making me leave!"

Theoden did not argue, he simply asked, "In such a battle what would you do, Meriadoc?"

Merry opened his mouth but found he had no answer.

Theoden sighed. "I will say no more. I have spoken to Eowyn and Lady Thalia last night concerning you, and they had convinced me to make this your choice. Choose wisely, Master Hobylta." He strode back towards the direction of camp.

"Well?" Thalia asked slowly. "You heard him."

Merry tilted his head. "Of course I'm going. I'm not going back to Edoras alone, that would be a nightmare, and also, I'm not leaving you." He smiled. "The only friend I have right now."

Thalia broke into a grin and suddenly hugged him. "Thanks Merry."

Voices rose from the camp, and the pair of them finally returned to see what was happening.

From dark Dunharrow in the dim morning

With thane and captain rode Thengel's son:

To Edoras he came, the ancient halls

Of the Mark-wardens mist-enshrouded;

Golden embers were in gloom mantled

Farewell he bade to his free people,

Hearth and high seat, and the hallowed places,

Where long he had feasted ere the light faded.

Forth rode the king, fear behind him,

Fate before him. Fealty kept he;

Oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them.

Forth rode Theoden. Five nights and days

East and onward rode the Eorlingas

Through Folde and Fenmarch and the Firienwood,

Six thousand spears to Sunlending,

Mundburg the mighty under Mindolluin,

Sea-kings; city in the South-kingdom

Foe-beleaguered, fire-encircled.

Doom drove them on, Darkness took them,

Horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar

Sank into silence: so the songs tell us.

The song faded into silence as grieving women and children returned to their homes, some saying a last farewell to their menfolk. They had ridden together for three days, but now the Rohirrim were riding to war, and those who could not fight were forced to ride home.

"Did they actually make that up on the spot?" Thalia wondered.

Merry elbowed her. "Not the time."

Theoden stood aside, watching the partings with a glint of regret in his eyes. Merry learned that they numbered over six thousand men, each with his horse and spear. It was less than half of what Theoden had hoped for. And though more Riders had been promised, they would have to join them on the road. Theoden could wait no more.

"Onwards!" Trumpets brayed as Eomer marshaled the Rohirrim.

Merry climbed onto his pony. Thalia threw him his pack, which he barely caught in time before it would have whacked his head. He stuck out his tongue at her, a gesture which she returned. She climbed aboard her own horse gingerly, nursing her sore behind. They followed as the horsemen galloped again towards Gondor.

The Muster was complete.

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Four Days Later.

He was awakened by a man shaking him. "Wake up! Wake up Master Holbytla!" Merry groaned, looking outside the tent.

"What is the pressing matter?" He asked. "The sun has not even risen!"

"The King calls for you. And the sun will not rise today, Master Holbytla, nor ever again, one would think under this cloud. Make haste!"

Looking beside him, he found that Thalia had already gone. Merry crawled out of his tent and looked at the sky shrouded in black cloud. The clouds were so thick and dark they effectively blotted out all light. The world was dark, and all about things were black and grey and shadowless. There was a great stillness.

"The light seems to be failing, does it not?" Eowyn remarked, coming by his side. "The cloud came from Mordor, beginning last night at sunset."

"I can't see the sun..." Merry muttered. To him the notion was utterly alien.

"Come along, the King has summoned us both."

They passed Thalia dancing in a middle of a field. She was muttering Greek curses under her breath as she brandished her spear at the sky, perhaps trying to summon some wind. She looked a comical sight as she waved her arms, stomped her feet, alternately yelling or cursing creatively in Greek and the Common Tongue. Merry spotted several Rohirrim with their hands over their mouths as they watched.

They entered the King's tent, just as a man was finishing his report. "From the hills in the Eastfold of your realm I saw it rise and creep across the sky, and all night as I rode it came behind eating up the stars. The stars are going out. Now the great cloud hangs all over the land between here and Mordor, and it is deepening. War has already begun."

Thalia entered, glowering and looking exhausted. "Can't clear it." She spoke through short breaths. "Clouds…not natural. Too thick." She pinched a skin of water from Eowyn and gulped down several mouthfuls. "I could create a hurricane if I really tried, but that's not my area."

"It is clear that this fume is a device of Mordor," Theoden nodded. "A darkness to demoralize us and to allow his troops greater freedom of movement. I am afraid that the darkness will not lift until Sauron is destroyed."

"The darkness will likely greatly hamper our movements," Eomer said.

"Yet it could also be to our advantage," Erkenbrand replied. "The very darkness which he seeks to hide his troops could serve to hide us as well on our ride to Gondor."

"How long more until we reach Gondor?" Thalia inquired.

"We had hoped to reach Minas Tirith in three days, but now we would be fortunate to make it in four," Eomer answered.

"Won't that be already too late?" Eowyn asked in concern.

"Need brooks no delay, yet late is better than never." Theoden sighed. "We shall make all speed, but I fear we shall arrive to find Minas Tirith in ruins. Yet at the very least we shall disturb the orcs and swarthy men from their feasting."

"Retain your hope, Theoden King." One of the wizards spoke from where he had been standing. "You may arrive exactly when you need to arrive."

"What of the Druadan Forest? It will be impossible to navigate it swiftly in this darkness." Eomer pointed to the forest which they were now encamped in.

"As my companion Alatar has said, retain your hope," the other wizard asserted. "You may find help and friends unlooked for. Despair, and you have already failed."

Theoden inclined his head. "Thank you for your encouragement. Is there any other advice you wish to impart?"

Alatar opened the flap of the tent, gazing outwards. "The armies of Mordor will reach the fields of Pelennor tomorrow. You have two days to ride through the Druadan Forest and reach Gondor. Otherwise...you shall arrive too late to aid Minas Tirith." So saying, he left the tent.

Exclamations of dismay filled the room. Theoden shook his head in disbelief. "Two days? Two days are not enough!"

"Especially if we must traverse it at night, for it will be dark and full of perils," Eomer agreed. "An army of six thousand spears will not pass easily."

"I have heard tales of the Woses," a captain spoke. "Do you not hear their drums pounding in the distance?"

"Woses?" Eowyn inquired. "The Wild Men of the Woods?"

"Remnants of an older race." Pallando explained. "They haunt the Druadan woods still. Be thankful they are not hunting you, for they are wood-crafty beyond compare, and they utilize poisoned arrows."

Merry shuddered. He did not like this talk of wild men or poisoned darts.

"All this means that we have marshaled too late." Eomer gritted his teeth. "Aragorn was right. We took too long. Unless the wizards have some wise advice or unexpected surprise, we will be too late."

"And here is the wizard's unexpected surprise!" Alatar entered again, smiling widely. Behind him was the most curious figure. A strange, squat shape of a man, gnarled as an old stone, and the hairs of his scanty beard straggled on his lumpy chin like dry moss. He was short legged and fat-armed, thick and stumpy, and clad only with grass around his waist.

Alatar smiled widely. "I have not Radagast's skill with woodfolk, but even so I have managed to come to an understanding with the Woses. They go not to war with Gondor or the Mark, but they have offered their services to Theoden King, as they are troubled by the darkness and the coming of the orcs. They fear the return of the Dark Years. I have brought their headman to speak with you."

To Merry's surprise, the Wild Man spoke in the common tongue, albeit in a halting fashion, and interspersed with uncouth words, but the meaning got across. "Father of Horse-men…We fight not" He said. "Hunt only. Kill gorgun (orcs) in woods, hate orc folk. You hate gorgun too. We help as we can. Wild Men have long ears and good eyes, know all paths, paths Tall Men and gorgun know not. "

"But our need is for aid in battle," Eomer replied. "How will you and your folk help us?"

"Bring news," the Wild Man answered. "Gorgun and men out of faraway sit on horse-road. Very many. More than horse-men."

"How do you know that?" Erkenbrand questioned suspiciously.

The Wild Man's tone was sullen with displeasure, though his face conveyed no expression. "Wild Men are wild, free, but not children," he answered. "I am great headman, Ghan-buri-Ghan. I count many things: stars in sky, leaves on trees, men in the dark. They have more, many scores more. They have holes and killing sticks built to kill horses. They are waiting. Big fight. Who will win?"

"Just as I feared." Theoden put a hand to his temples. "The Enemy has already erected trenches and stakes to stop us from ever reaching Minas Tirith."

"Let Ghan-buri-Ghan finish!" The Wild Man said. "More than one road he knows. He will lead you by road where no pits are, no gorgun walk, only Wild Men and beasts. Many paths were made when Stonehouse-Folk were stronger. They carved hills as hunters carve beast-flesh. They went through Druadan to Rimmon with great wains. They go no longer. Road is forgotten, but not by Wild Men. Over hill and behind hill it lies still under grass and tree. Wild Men will show you that road. Then you will kill gorgun and drive away bad dark with bright iron, and Wild Man can go back to sleep in the wild woods."

"Should you prove faithful, Ghan-buri-Ghan, you shall have the friendship of the Mark forever, as well as rich reward." Theoden promised.

"Dead men are no friends to living men, and give them no gifts. But, if you live after the Darkness, then leave Wild Men alone in the woods and do not hunt them like beasts any more. Ghan-buri-Ghan will not lead you into trap. He will go himself with father of Horse-men. And if he leads you wrong, you will kill him."

"So be it." Theoden agreed. He cast Alatar a thankful look. "Thank you, my lord. We will not reach Gondor today, but we shall arrive in time."

"Always be the optimist." Alatar advised. "The hoper of far-flung hopes, the dreamer of impossible dreams. Then despair will not overtake you, and you shall always stand tall."

"This is Middle Earth's darkest day and blackest hour!" Pallando stared them each in the eye.

"Literally!" Thalia quipped. "You know, since there are those black clouds out there." Several groans were heard around the room.

The wizard ignored her. "Chin up, shoulders back." He challenged. "It's time to see what the heroes of Middle Earth are made of."

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Loud trumpet blasts announced the time to start riding. More Wild Men emerged from the woods, and with the Rohirrim in tow, started to lead them deep into the Druadan Forest. Merry swallowed hard. He had never been in a full-scale battle before. The King's words came back to him. Now, now that he was actually going to ride into a battle, his doubts came to the forefront. "'In such a battle what would you do, Meriadoc?'

"Just this. Encumber a rider, and hope to stay in my seat and not get trampled by many horses!"

A hand gripped his, pulling him up to her horse. Thalia winked.

Merry nodded, consciously jutting his chin forward and putting his shoulders back. "Darkest day, blackest hour."

A smile crossed his face as Thalia did the same with exaggerated movements. "Eh, not my first," she quipped. Her face was set, but Merry knew her well enough by now to recognize the doubt in her eyes. They looked at each other, taking in each other's resolve.

"I'm glad I'm not alone." Merry admitted.

"So am I."

The Rohirrim galloped towards Gondor.

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Pippin

Farewell we call to hearth and hall!

Though wind may blow and rain may fall.

We must away ere break of day,

Far over Wood and Mountain tall.

With foes ahead, behind us dread,

Beneath the sky shall be our bed,

Until at last our toil be passed,

Our journey done, our errand sped.

The memory still stood out sharp in his mind. Four young, perhaps reckless hobbits, already making plans to leave the Shire, to go to see the Elves! Four of them, off on some grand adventure together! They knew there would be perils, but they would face them together! And they did. They had found a new family in the Fellowship of the Ring! Majestic cities, awe-inspiring sights! They had faced down many dangers together, killed or evaded countless monsters. But he had been caught off guard by the one monster he had never expected to face. It had finally caught up with him…Loneliness.

Pippin stood guard at the foot of Lord Denethor's seat in the Hall of Kings. He stood guard dressed in the full livery of the Tower Guard. Upon the black surcoat, beneath a silver crown and many pointed stars, was the blossoming white tree of Gondor. In his belt was the elvish knife he had kept with him throughout his travels. And yet, despite his newfound place, he was alone.

Denethor, of course, had made sure he was treated well, and the Tower Guard regarded him with a mixture of awe and respect, hailing him as a warrior 'small, but doughty'. But he was lonely, and never more so than now, standing in the Hall of Kings, under the gaze of countless kings of stone. Behind him, Denethor could have been a statue too for all he spoke and moved. For days on end he only gazed impassively forward, seemingly never in need of conversation.

His duties were almost a laugh. All Denethor had requested of him the past few days was to tell him of his travels with the Company. Pippin had been hard pressed to reply, wondering how much to say and how much to withhold from his liege-lord. Discretion, Gandalf had called it. Pippin wished he had been born with more of it. More often than not he felt like kicking himself for revealing more than he felt was necessary. Other than that, Denethor had requested him to sing songs of home and joy, oblivious to – or perhaps choosing to ignore – the cracks in his voice and the deafening silence around them. For him, the songs did nothing but worsen the hole in his heart.

He had been here nine days by his reckoning. Since Gandalf had been exiled, six had been spent alone. Every morning, he would run to the walls and turn Eastwards. He remembered Gandalf saying how Minas Tirith had always dwelt within the shadow of Mordor, and he saw firsthand the truth of his words. Every day the darkness thickened, the foul black clouds stretching ever closer.

Lately he had heard disturbing rumors among the Guard that Boromir's brother, Faramir, was not doing well in his defence of Osgiliath, the bridge-city. If Osgiliath fell, Mordor would have a straight line of attack towards Gondor. And that wasn't even the worst news. Scouts had reported signals of red fire and green lightning flashing from beyond Ithilien, and a great host of orcs and men issuing forth from the Dead City, with one of the Nine upon a Fell Beast at its head. If the reports were accurate, then any day now a line of orcs would appear in the horizon, marching straight towards the White City.

And he was here, in Denethor's court, standing by his seat. Helpless, unable to do anything other than watch and listen as the news grew grimmer every day, and stew in his own thoughts. In these times, he wished he was different, perhaps a formidable rider, to cut through lines of enemies like hot knife on butter. He yearned for a friend to stand beside him, to reassure him, to smile at him and tell him it was going to be fine, but nobody came.

He wondered where in this strange world Merry had got to, where Gandalf had ridden, and how the rest of the company still in Rohan were. His heart was heavy as he thought of Annabeth, Frodo and Sam journeying through the darkness of Mordor, or so he hoped. He could not bear to think that they had failed. Of the merry little band that had set out from the Shire, they had been strewn all over the map of Middle Earth.

He was alone, a stranger in a strange land, under a strange Lord.

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"Why have the gates been opened?" Denethor wondered aloud, startling Pippin out of his brooding thoughts.

"Opened, sire?"

"The gates of Gondor have been opened," Denethor replied. "I can hear it. Who would come uninvited as such times? It could not be Faramir!"

"Make way! Make way!" The people were cheering. Pippin even heard strains of joyful song fill the air. He restrained the urge to rush towards the window, settling for straining his ears. Something very important must have happened to have garnered such a reaction!

The great doors groaned open, and a Man alighted from his steed and strode inside, tall, strong, yet slightly favoring one leg over the other. The man bowed before Denethor, and removed his helm.

"Father, I have returned," said Boromir.

There was a long silence. Pippin wished to greet Boromir, but hesitated, unsure if it was appropriate. Apparently Boromir was not any more comfortable than he. His gaze roamed the room before he recognized Pippin. "Pippin!" He strode over to him and clasped his shoulders. "I had hoped to meet you here." He raised an eyebrow, taking in Pippin's attire. "You have done well for yourself, haven't you? A member of the Tower Guard!"

"Boromir! You have no idea how good it feels to finally see a familiar face," Pippin rejoined, the first smile in days breaking through.

Denethor finally spoke. "Imp…Imposs..Impossi…" His stuttering lips could not even form the word.

"Father?" Boromir turned his attention back to Denethor.

"This cannot be. What sorcery is this?" Denethor eyed Boromir as a rabbit would eye a snake.

Boromir took an involuntary step back at this welcome. "Father?" He cast a confused glance towards Pippin.

"You're dead. My son is dead." Denethor closed his eyes, then opened them again, as if trying to make sense of the figure before him.

Boromir turned to Pippin, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

"He wouldn't give us a chance!" Pippin protested. "And when Gandalf tried, he got banished from Minas Tirith!"

"Banished?!" Boromir groaned. "I fear I came too late. The wizards were right, Father. You have grown unreasonable of late."

Denethor stiffened, hands gripping the arms of his seat. "Wizards?"

Boromir paced the room. "Mithrandir advised me to ride with Theoden of Rohan to show the alliance stood, but when the Blue Wizards brought news of you recent decisions, they advised me to come to you. Theoden and I agreed that it was for the best."

"So Boromir now takes the words of a wizard."

"I have overcome your – my prejudices, father. Why can you not?"

Denethor turned away. "I saw you die."

Boromir blinked at the abrupt change of subject. "What?"

"In a vision, too vivid to be untrue," Denethor spoke quietly. "You were in a glade by Amon Hen, battling orcs. HE was there –" Denethor pointed to Pippin. "You succumbed to the orc arrows." From a drawer he drew out two halves of a horn and threw them before Boromir. "My son is dead. I do not know you."

Boromir took several deep breaths. "The vision was true, Father, I did fall to the orc arrows. Yes, my horn was cloven. But I survived, Father. I went into the Halls of Waiting. I saw Mandos and Manwë face-to-face, but I did not die. Mandos himself granted me passage back to the living." He searched Denethor's face for even a trace of emotion. "Are you not gladdened to know this?"

Denethor put his hands to his head. After a while, he spoke again, his voice impassive as ever. "If you are my son, then tell me this. Where is the Ring, Boromir?"

"Father?" Boromir's voice was incredulous.

"The Halfling has told me of meaning of Isildur's Bane. You were with this…Fellowship. Who bore the Ring? Where is the Ring now?" Denethor's voice held an edge to it. Pippin shuddered, remembered Denethor asking him the very same questions.

Boromir stood his ground. "I cannot, and will not say, Father. I have experienced the power of the Ring, and I declare that it is best kept far from our reach."

"Pray, imitate not your brother's high handed 'nobility'. Tell me. Is the Ring…in Mordor?"

Boromir hesitated. "Yes."

Denethor stood up again, allowing marked displeasure to show on his face. "This is how you would serve your city? You would risk its utter ruin?!"

"I did what I judged to be right, Father!" Boromir defended himself. "You don't understand the Ring, I didn't understand! Not until I stretched out my hand to that thing and fell!" His breaths came in gasps. "Yes Father, I FELL! And it was only by the leave of Mandos and Manwë that I did not suffer the same fate as Isildur himself!"

Denethor made to speak. Boromir cut him off. "And if I HAD succeeded, if I had wrested the Ring from the Halfling and claimed it for my own…" He closed his eyes. "When I returned, you would not have known your son."

Denethor scoffed. "Already I do not know you. You were loyal to me! You weren't some wizard's pupil!" His voice grew to a rant. "You allowed the Ring of Power to be sent into Mordor in the hands of a witless Halfling! It should have been brought back into the citadel to be kept safe. Hidden, dark and deep in the vaults. Not to be used…unless…at the uttermost end of need." Pippin didn't like the look in Denethor's eyes.

Boromir's eyes hardened. "Do not even consider that, Father. If the Ring had been used in Gondor, Barad-Dur would have fallen, but the darkness would survive. Minas Tirith would become the new home of the Darkness. Would you have wanted that?"

Denethor's face was shadowed. "I would have done whatever it took to save Gondor."

"So would I father, but I would exercise wisdom," Boromir argued.

Denethor raised an eyebrow sardonically. "Now you claim to have wisdom? You truly have become a wizard's pupil."

"I see no wrong in that."

Denethor was silent for a long while. "You've changed."

"I have, father." Boromir inclined his head.

"I do not know you anymore." His voice was still silent, but Pippin had stayed long enough to know to be afraid.

Boromir did too. "Father?" He asked cautiously.

Still in the same, dangerous tone, Denethor continued. "I trusted you, once, but now you have gone down the same path as Faramir."

"What are you talking about?"

"You've betrayed my trust."

"No – Father – "

"You're not my son."

"What?!"

"My son is dead."

"Father – "

"Boromir is dead and YOU remain, a different man who bears his features."

"Father listen to me! I am still your son!"

The façade of calm broke. Denethor surged to his feet, sending a goblet flying across the hall. "MY SON DIED BACK IN AMON HEN! MY TRUE SON!"

"NO – Wait – "

"MY SON WOULD HAVE HELPED ME, HE WOULD HAVE REMEMBERED HIS FATHER'S NEED! HE WOULD HAVE BROUGHT ME A KINGLY GIFT!"

A wild light in his eyes, and his voice was hoarse from screaming. "MITHRANDIR, MITHRANDIR, EVER I CURSE YOUR NAME. FIRST YOU HAVE BROUGHT A KING TO SUPPLANT ME, THEN YOU UNDERMINE MY AUTHORITY, NOW YOU HAVE ROBBED ME OF BOTH MY SONS!"

"FATHER! I AM Boromir, YOUR Son! I AM still loyal to you!"

"IF THIS IS WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME AFTER DEATH, BOROMIR, THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN MANDOS' HALLS!"

Boromir looked as if he had just been stabbed in the heart. Pippin and he stood rooted in their places, too stunned, too hurt to even react.

The sudden burst of fury receded. Denethor wilted before their eyes. "Leave me," he whispered.

Boromir stretched out a plaintive hand, his eyes wide with shock, hurt and fear.

The fury returned with a vengeance. "I said LEAVE ME!" The roar echoed several times in the stone hall.

Boromir's proud visage crumpled. His chest heaved, betrayal etched on his face. He drew himself up, cast a sad glance towards Pippin, then spun on his heel, threw back his hood and strode out of the hall. He swung onto his horse and galloped off, much in the same way Gandalf had.

Unable to help himself, Pippin ran out the doors as well. It was dark, the sun concealed behind a cloud. He ran to the passage that jutted out of the walls. From there, he could only watch as a lone horseman departed Gondor, riding swiftly in the direction of the River. The line of orcs advanced closer, but were still too far away to do much harm. Why was it so dark?

Only then, glancing upwards, did Pippin notice the sky was completely dark, a thick black cloud obscuring the sun. The land was bathed in grey in the middle of the afternoon, and the darkness was thickening even as he watched. The sun was going out.

Head bowed in grief, Pippin returned to his post. The sky was black, the orcs would arrive in a day at most, and there was no one he trusted in this city. As the doors groaned shut, Denethor broke down, his anguished sobs echoing around the hall.

Pippin stood guard at the foot of Denethor's throne, alone once more.

=o=o=o=o=o=o==o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o

Sam

"Annabeth…" Sam touched her unmoving form. He glanced at the Ring in his hand, shining dully. He slipped it into his pocket and stood slowly. He chafed her wrists and placed a hand on her neck, but no pulse could he detect. Just like Frodo. Black despair overwhelmed his heart and for a long time he remained motionless by Annabeth's body.

Finally he found the strength to lift his head again. How long he had spent simply mourning he did not know. Hours or days could have passed for all he knew. Nothing had changed. Annabeth's limp form still lay before him. It hadn't been a nightmare.

Annabeth was gone, Frodo was gone. Gone where he couldn't follow. He thought about searching for Frodo, but he doubted he could find his master's body after the long chase through the winding tunnels. He did not even know the way out to Mordor. For a moment , he considered spending the rest of his life, as short as it had become, hunting down Gollum and avenging the deaths of Frodo and Annabeth. But the soft voice of reason wondered, "Was that what Annabeth or Frodo would have wished?"

But what was he to do now?

Go now? And leave Frodo and Annabeth cold and unburied down in this hole? Go on? Must I? Could I?

"I'm sorry Sam. I'm so, so sorry, but I'm afraid there's only you left now. It's all up to you now."

He fingered the Ring in his pocket. There's only me left now. It's all up to me.

"Goodbye Annabeth." He turned the way he remembered coming. "Goodbye Master Frodo. Forgive your Sam. He'll come back to this spot when the job's done – if I manage it." He sighed. "Rest you quiet till I come back, and I won't leave again." Tearfully, he kissed Annabeth's forehead, then resolutely stood and hoisted the Phial. He sheathed the glowing blue blade of Sting into his belt.

Glowing blue blade?!

He himself was not aware of any conscious decision. His hands simply brought the Ring off of the chain about his neck, and without looking, slipped it onto his finger. The world darkened. Everything was mist and shadow, the world perceived in shades of grey and black. What his sight lost his hearing gained exponentially. He heard the orc tramping, louder than ever before, and by some gift of the Ring he found he could understand orc speech.

"By the Eye!" One gasped. "She's dead!"

A clamor of confusion and fear came over the orcs. "Shelob? The great spider? Dead?!"

"I told you that dwarfling wasn't alone, Gorbag you fool" One shrieked. "Now there's some mighty elf warrior loose in Morgul! Who else could have done this!"

"Keep your mouth shut or I'll shut it for you, Shagrat!" The other returned. "Look what I've found." Sam peeked out, and his anger boiled as he saw Annabeth slung over the orc's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Looking at the other one, he found Frodo too slung on his shoulder. He considered slitting their throats. HE had the Ring. He could do it…

The orcs were…different. There seemed to be two different sides, one faction wore armor with emblazoned with a White Moon, but with a face of death on it. The other wore armor with the dreaded Red Eye. Orcs from the tower and orcs from Mordor, he supposed.

"Is that the one that did it? Killed Shelob? That's no elf!" One of the White Moon orcs yelled.

"I don't rightly know, but this one certainly helped! Look at the blood!"

"So you think there's another one loose, eh Gorbag? It wouldn't look very good for you if you caught the mouse but left the cat loose." The leader of the orcs from Barad-Dur snickered.

Gorbag , evidently the leader of the Minas Morgul orcs, angrily shoved the him. "If you know what's good for you, Shagrat, you will shut up. There is no other one. Now bring them to the Tower!"

"Keep a good watch on them" Shagrat cackled. "You never know, that mighty warrior might decide Gorbag is not a challenge after killing the great Shelob herself!"

"Are they for eating?" One orc asked hopefully.

Gorbag knocked him down with one swipe. "NO you idiot! they're to be kept alive and all their items recorded and catalogued."

"But they're dead, ain't they?"

Gorbag gave a long suffering sigh. "This shows what blinking idiots you all are! You see that dwarfling wrapped in Her Ladyship's silk? He's not dead, just asleep! Her Ladyship prefers her meat warm and blood flowing. And this…mighty warrior ain't dead either. Now keep your traps shut and bring them to the Tower!"

Sam's eyes were wide open in pure shock. For moments he was unable to even respond. Not Dead? Not dead?! Sam you idiot! Don't listen to your head, it's not the best part of you. Annabeth! Frodo! I have to save them?! He rounded the corner as fast as he could, but his enhanced hearing had deceived him. The orcs were far ahead, and even as he watched they marched into the dark doorway of the Tower

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

"You can't take that! That's MINE!" A shriek rang from the Tower. "Give that back!" Annabeth screamed. Sam marveled at how the Ring had increased his hearing. He was standing at the walls encircling the Tower, and yet he could hear conversations atop the Tower itself. He strained his ears all the more, trying to understand what was going on.

"Shaddup!" He heard a cry of pain. He gritted his teeth.

"Eh, why are you holding that useless piece of sea-rock?" Shagrat's voice.

"Every item needs to be catalogued, you fool! And besides, it's entertainment watching her scream." Gorbag was speaking.

"Suit yourself! I claim to this shiny shirt meself."

"Hands off filth! Try to make off with any of these items and you'll get tossed off this Tower with whatever you stole!" Gorbag threatened.

"It ain't yours either!" Shagrat retorted.

"You know," Annabeth seemed to have calmed down, her voice was level. "Between all this infighting, I just can't tell who's the leader around here." Both orcs gave spluttered protests, but she cut them off. "You," she began, "look like a leader, but you're reduced to arguing with this idiot about the rules. I can't imagine the amount of frustration you feel."

"Yes!" That must be Gorbag

"And you, you seem like someone who has a lot of intelligence! Cunning! But you're bossed around just because you're from another unit!"

"Aye!" Shagrat mutterd.

"I wonder, who's the real leader here? Who's really in charge? Who decides our fate? Who gets to keep our trinkets?"

"I do!" Shagrat announced.

"Filth!" Heavy blows were heard, and the sudden clang of iron swords.

"Oh is that how you're going to decide? A duel? Well that would certainly prove who is stronger!"

"Aaargh!" Shagrat screamed.

"Oh my! Use your cunning! Call your orcs to your aid!" A symphony of orc grunts and squeals as more orcs entered the room.

"Can you kill them all? Has he finally outwitted you?"

"Spectacular swing! But I think you need more helpers!"

The two orcs cried, respectively summoning their own factions to the fray. The orc sentries at the gate turned and ran into the Tower, different units met on the way and instantly set on each other, their tenuous peace broken. The whole Tower resounded now with cries and ringing of swords. Sam's enhanced ears rang from the din now spreading through the Tower.

Sam breathed hard. He would never get a better chance. With a strong tug of his will, he wrenched the Ring off his finger. The world came once more into focus as his hearing dulled. He stood alone before the huge arch. He gazed up. He saw nothing, but the sense of overpowering malice emanating from above was clear. The Watchers were waiting with a dreadful spirit of evil vigilance. They would forbid his entry, or his escape. He steeled himself, reaching a hand into his pocket and pulling out the Phial.

It lay dark in his hands, glowing dimly as a firefly. He remembered the starlight contained inside. "Oh Elbereth! Gilthoniel!" [Oh Elbereth, Starkindler!], he if sustained by his will, golden light flared, from the dull glow of a firefly to the fiery blaze of Gandalf's fire. Hideous shrieks rang from above, and the waves of oppression cut off. He lunged through the gate, just as a dreadful tolling, clanging came from the Tower.

Well, I've rang the front door bell.

Sam drew Sting, which itself had transformed into a shining blade of sapphire. He smiled. He looked up at the Tower which imprisoned Annabeth and Frodo and charged.

There were a few sentries at the archway, but at the mere sight of him they quailed and ran like rabbits. Sam imagined he must have been a fearsome sight. He caught sight of himself in the polished dark stone of the Tower and paused in shock. He was a shining bright figure, his right hand holding a pure golden star, his left a sword of blue light. Around his neck hung an orb of molten gold.

He burst into the Tower and up the stairs, yelling defiant cries. The orcs were already fighting amongst themselves, and his sudden appearance only served to heighten the confusion. "HAI! Here is a elf warrior! Who challenges me!" He cried, waving Sting. The orcs took one look at him and scrambled to squeeze up the stairs, trampling dozens underfoot.

The entire Tower was chaos. Orcs flailed desperately against each other in confusion, sometimes even striking down their own cohort in their panic. Sam's presence only aggravated the situation, and more often than not Sam entered a room to find the floor strewn with recently killed or trampled bodies, marked with either the Red Eye or a White Moon disfigured by death. Some were still grappling each other, others had knives or arrows sticking out of their backs. The floor was slick with dark blood.

He was lost. The Tower was bigger than he expected, and he had not expected the winding passageways dug deep into the mountain. Annabeth and Frodo were upstairs, he knew, but he could search a day before he found the stairs in this maze. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, for the terror was returning now that the rush of energy was gone. He lifted the Phial higher, observing his surroundings.

To his utter shock an orc suddenly burst out of one of the openings. At one glance at him he turned tail and ran again. Greatly heartened, Sam gleefully gave chase. To his delight he found stairs leading upwards. He soon lost the orc at one of the floors, but he didn't care. He had found the right road upwards, and he was keeping to it.

On his way upwards he found more dead bodies. A sudden fearful thought struck him. What if Annabeth's ploy had worked TOO well? What if there was so much confusion that...Annabeth and Frodo had also been killed? He dashed away the thoughts, unwilling to think about them, and made even more haste upwards.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps rushing downwards. There was no alcove for him to duck into, so Sam did the only thing he could. He gave a yell of defiance and stepped into the orc's path, holding the Phial so it shone directly into the orc's eyes. The orc gasped with shock, then snarled and shoved at him in a blind panic with a bundle covered in cloth, throwing him aside. Before Sam could react the orc was past him and making great haste downwards. Only later did Sam realize it had been Shagrat bearing away the spoils of the capture.

Briefly, he wondered whether to go after him and reclaim his companion's possessions, but concern for his friends far outweighed their possessions. He climbed and he climbed, recalling to mind the Secret Stairs that he had scaled barely a day ago. After what seemed like an age, he stopped short in dismay. It was a dead end. The stairs came to a little dais and climbed no more. On all three sides were walls. There was not even a window. This couldn't be the top of the Tower! What can I do now?!

He slumped down, considering his next move. Shagrat had come flying down the stairs, which meant he had come from somewhere up here, but where? If only he could figure it out! His head whirled as he tried to make sense of it all.

A moan.

Sam's ears perked up. He knew the voice of his Master anywhere.

"Shush, Frodo. Shush."

Sam got up and paced the platform agitatedly. They sounded near! Impossibly near! He ran back down the stairs, wondering if there had been an opening he had missed. He felt along the walls desperately, fumbling for catches or niches where a handle might have been concealed. He found none. Almost groaning in frustration, he rushed back up the stairs. An idea came to him. He half shouted, half sang, "Though here…at journey's end I lie, in darkness buried deep, Beyond all Towers strong and high, beyond all mountains steep!"

For long, agonizing minutes, there was silence, then Annabeth's voice, weak but clear, sang from above.

"Above all shadows rides the Sun, and Stars forever Dwell.

I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell~"

Sam paused. The voice was coming from...upwards. He glanced up, and finally saw high in the roof a wooden trapdoor. Recalling all of a sudden a ladder he had seen propped up against the stairs, he ran down in a flash to retrieve it.

Sam burst into the room, a cry of joy escaping his lips. "I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell."

"Sam!" Annabeth gave a joyful cry.

Sam rushed to her and threw his arms around her, sobbing. He turned to the figure beside Annabeth, and sobbed even harder, for here was his Master, alive! His heart was full once more. "Frodo! Mr Frodo! It's Sam! I've come!"

"Am I still dreaming?" Frodo muttered. "But my other dreams were horrible."

"You're not dreaming at all, Master! It's real. It's me. I've come."

Frodo smiled blearily and his head fell back again.

"He's delirious," Annabeth whispered. "He hasn't fully recovered from the Spider venom."

"How long have you been here?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. Feels like weeks. Though I suspect it must have only been hours, a day at most." She suddenly gasped and clutched Sam's arm as she doubled over, retching.

"Are you alright?!" Sam cried, alarmed.

"No," she admitted honestly. "Frodo was bitten by a paralyzing venom. The Spider tried to kill me. The venom I got was her killing venom. The only reason I am alive is that it wasn't a bite, but a mere graze. But even that is far worse than what Frodo is experiencing." She grimaced as another bout of pain hit her.

"I've got to get you out of here." Sam sliced the bonds that held Annabeth and Frodo.

"We'll need disguises," Annabeth announced practically.

Frodo gasped awake again. "The Ring! Where's the Ring?!" His hands scrabbled furiously around his neck.

"It's here Mr. Frodo! Annabeth passed it to me!" Sam brought the Ring out from under his shirt, still hanging on its chain.

"Give it to me!" Frodo's voice changed abruptly. "Give it to me! Give it to me at once! You can't have it!"

Sam leapt back, rather startled, he passed the Ring over with a strange feeling of reluctance. "But begging your pardon sir, you're in the land of Mordor now, sir; and you'll find the Ring very dangerous now, and very hard to bear." Annabeth's hand was suddenly on his shoulder, trying to quiet him, but he couldn't stop himself from saying "If it's too hard a job, I could share it with you, maybe?"

The Ring was snatched hard from his hands. "No, NO!" Frodo cried, his eyes wide with anger. His voice was as one speaking to a deadly enemy. "No you won't, you thief!"

Sam fell back, aghast, his heart stabbed from his master's tone. Annabeth's hand gripped his shoulder comfortingly. "He's not himself, Sam," she whispered.

"I know." Sam choked out.

As fast as the change had come over Frodo it passed, and Frodo's face morphed to one of confusion and bemusement. "Sam? What have I done? What have I said? Forgive me! I saw...I saw Gollum in front of me... Oh, it's this horrible power of the Ring! I wish it had NEVER been found!"

"The Ring is your burden," Annabeth remarked sadly, before suddenly turning green and running to the window. Retching sounds came from her.

"I'll get the disguises." Sam forced a cheery tone.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

They had delayed too long. Shagrat had found allies. A troop of Mordor orcs were making their way to the Tower, all on high alert for funny little creatures or powerful elven warriors. Annabeth guessed they would reach the Tower in thirty minutes.

"What's the plan?" Sam whispered as the three of them watched from their perch high above the courtyard.

Annabeth mumbled a muffled curse as her eyes rolled back again in pain. "There are too many of them to ambush," she got out. "Our only advantage is the element of surprise. We'll need lots of light, and noise."

"Do you have any more of those explosives?" Frodo asked.

Annabeth shook her head glumly. "No. The last orb I DID have was in my backpack, which was taken by Shagrat. Even my knife is gone. We'll need another option." She took a deep breath and slowly turned around, taking stock of their surroundings. She picked up a long, heavy coil of rope, noting several other such coils in the room. She crept over to the trapdoor and opened it, checking the distance to the landing below. Slowly, her eyes lit up.

"Sam, where's that Phial? Have it handy. Frodo, take Sting. I need both of you to get as much lantern oil as you can carry, and also pick up as many orc spears, shields and swords. I'll handle the rope. Go!" She threw a tied one end of a coil to another rope, and tossed one end out the window. Sam didn't wait to see more, already descending the ladder to find oil.

Fifteen minutes later they met up again with all they had found. Annabeth set about constructing a diversion, calling out instructions. Sam marveled at her dexterity. Hands flew around the materials, binding them together and placing them in position, and despite the occasional grimace or gasp, she rarely faltered. Within ten minutes the diversion was set. They took their places in the courtyard near the doorway.

Annabeth waited until more than half the orcs had marched into the Tower before she yanked hard at the rope she was holding. The rope that hung down the length of the Tower and went through the window of the topmost chamber. She had used five whole coils of rope before the end reached the ground. Immediately the net of ropes she had rigged over the trapdoor unraveled, and all the weapons and armor that had been resting on the net fell to the landing below and down the stairs. The explosion of noise shattered the silence of the night as the iron shields and steel armor clanged and rang on their long way downwards. And right on cue, a fire broke out in the topmost chamber as three torches were pulled down onto oil-soaked wood.

As they had hoped, the orcs attention unanimously swiveled upwards to the fire, and growling and snarling, they rushed into the Tower and made for the stairs. When there were only twenty or thirty orcs yet to enter, Annabeth and Frodo pulled out iron shields and banged swords on them as Sam stood up and opened his hand, revealing the Phial of Galadriel. If possible, it shone even brighter, fueled by his indomitable spirit. The orcs nearest to them staggered, blinded and deafened at the same time.

"Gilthoniel, A Elbereth!" [Oh Elbereth, Starkindler!] Sam cried the elven phrase, charging forwards. The orcs scattered at once. Frodo raced behind him, Annabeth following last.

"Aiya Earendil elenion ancalima!" [Hail Earendil, brightest of Stars!] Frodo cried, running behind, Sting glittering and reflecting the Earendil's light, the Star-Glass' light. Annabeth ran last, making sure they weren't being followed.

The light of the star glass blazed once more upon the Watchers, and once more they recoiled, the bright, pure light shattering the barrier. Sam rushed ahead, exhilarated by their escape. They were making it! Annabeth suddenly stumbled and fell behind them. Sam skidded to a halt, ready to run back, but Annabeth waved them on, picking herself up.

There was no warning, just a sudden chill in the air, and the sudden, shocking knives of fear piercing into their hearts. Unnatural panic flooded their veins.

"STYX!" Annabeth cursed.

A black shape hurtled out of the looming darkness and swooped over Annabeth. Before Frodo or Sam could react, the Nazgul and the Fell Beast shot back into the gloom above, leaving bare ground where Annabeth had been standing. Her scream trailed off into the gloom as the sound of beating wings grew fainter.

"ANNABETH!"

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

Two figures huddled down at the bottom of a rocky, barren valley.

A voice asked in dead tones. "What do we do now?"

There was long pause before the reply came. "We go on. Just as she would have wanted us to."

"Is there nothing we can do for her? I rescued you! I could rescue her again!" The voice rose in desperate hope.

A sad, reasoning voice. "Sam..."

A choked sob, then a resigned sigh."...You're right. It's what she would have wanted us to do. Here, take some waybread and we'll be on our way."

Of the three figures that had set out into Mordor, only two remained, two forlorn figures dressed in filthy orc rags, picking their way slowly towards the dark mountain.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

Yes, I'm still evil. Blame Sherlock and Doctor Who. Come to think of it, blame Moffat. Moving on!

I'm going to allay your fears one more time, I'm definitely not abandoning this story, how could I? It's too much fun to write, and to know that people are enjoying it too makes it three times as great, especially when they encourage (or hurl motivational insults, but that's okay) me to keep writing. Nope, this story is going to be completed. Hopefully by this year, I don't know. Seriously, I started it when I was fifteen and here I am, still here after almost two years XD. It's great.

Anyways, see you in the next chapter! Don't forget to leave your thoughts by that box! (Seriously, please do ;))

Signing off