A/N: Much thanks and credit goes out to Zephyr for the first two
paragraphs. I tweaked them a little, yes, but she wrote the majority of is
written there. Muchas gracias, mi amiga for the inspiration it gave me to
write more and for your epic reviews which also sparked some little things.
*g* Much thanks once again, and I'm sure she'll also be the one behind some
of the plot later on. ^^
Sam peered around the cell. Frodo was talking to himself, and Pippin was curled up in a murky corner, rocking gently back and forth. Almost no hope remained in the Hobbit's heart. He had lost track of the time they'd been in there. He could only guess at a few days. Or was it a week? Sam couldn't tell. His mind was too busy worrying about his master, who seemed to have given up entirely. But Sam had to cling to what shards of hope were left. He bravely held on to the thought of the rest of the Fellowship helping him, whenever that may be. His brain sternly told him there was nothing left to hope for, that the Fellowship didn't necessarily know they were in Isengard. But being the lively Hobbit he was, his heart told him to hope beyond reason, that they may yet be saved. Somehow.
"What?" Pippin's head shot up unexpectedly, startling his other two companions mildly. Sam looked over at the young hobbit, who in turn looked slightly embarrassed as he slowly lowered his head, picking at his toes abashedly. The gardener's face twisted into that of fret. There was another problem that Sam was dealing with. Lately, the youngest member of their group had been talking to people who weren't there, looking for someone who couldn't come. It worried Sam, and he feared that Pippin was on the road to loosing his sanity. And again, his head told him, all hope was lost.
~***~
Boromir groaned loudly in protest when Aragorn urged his two comrades to climb the steep hill they found set before them. "I sense a darkness upon us, we *must* journey forth, press harder! I assure you, once we round this hill I will give you rest!"
"Aragorn, please – neither of us cannot take this much longer," Gimli said, glancing at the Steward's stumbling body. "We have been trampling through these woods for days now without much of a rest. Every time we ask for a moment's peace, you protest that something bad will occur. For pity's sake, Aragorn, let us sit for five minutes at the least!"
"No," Aragorn snapped, "we cannot linger. Do not take me for a fool, son of Gloin – I know the scent of the Forest far better than I should, and I can tell that if we stop for even five minutes, we will surely pay a wealthy price for our pause."
"At first I thought you are crazy, then I thought you were mad, now I think you're insane," Boromir interjected, leaning against a tree. Through pants, he continued, "We do not deny your skills as a Ranger, but please, that hill is as steep as Caradhras, and our muscles scream in protest with every step!"
Aragorn sighed. "Would you rather be mauled by Orcs?"
"How does anyone ever put up with you," Gimli muttered under his breath. Throwing a swift glare in the Dwarf's direction, the Man strained his ears to hear the voices of the Forest.
"I completely understand your weariness, friends, and I promise you a lengthy rest as soon as we reach the bottom of the hill. Until then we *must* press on."
Moaning, Boromir lifted himself to his feet and shuffled over to where the other Man stood. "Alright, then. Off we go."
Gimli made a sound of weak protest before sighing heavily, following behind the two Men with his axe slung over his shoulder. "You're so difficult, Aragorn…"
Biting his tongue to keep from spitting out a saucy retort, Aragorn carefully replied, "It's a talent."
"A talent that needs to be disposed of, and with haste."
Three heads turned to meet the hard gaze of the new voice, only to lock eyes with those of fire and death. Aragorn and Boromir drew their swords immediately without hesitation, baring them at the unwanted arrival. Legolas smirked and swung down from his high perch amongst the trees, lethal dagger drawn and ready for use. His bow and arrows hung about his back in case they were needed; Gimli shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, growling at the Elven prince, eyeing the quiver warily. His axe was in both hands, gripped so tightly that his knuckles were white – his gloves he had taken off. There was an uncomfortable silence until Legolas made the first move.
He attacked Gimli first, being the closest to him. Axe and blade clashed against each other, spitting flecks of light at sporadic moments, and the Dwarf feared for his life. He knew the Elf he was fighting had a strong background in combat, he had seen it with his own eyes, and he was not going to be an easy kill. Boromir swung behind Legolas, bringing his sword down to the armoured shoulder, but he found himself falling backwards, but quickly regaining his balance in time to strike against Legolas' keen Elf blade, pulling an expert swordsman trick on him to give him the opportunity he needed to sheath his sword in the flesh on Legolas' left side.
But Legolas was too quick.
He knew of the Man's intent, and grinned at him with his deathly fangs mockingly when he sent the human sprawling across the leaf-cloaked floor of the Forest, whirling swiftly around to confront Aragorn, their swords colliding on their sides, faces drawn to the blunt edge, Legolas snarling and Aragorn glaring. "I can't believe you're doing this, Legolas," he hissed to the Elf. "What has gotten into you?"
His leg kicking out behind him to meet with Gimli's stomach, Legolas managed to fan kick Boromir out of his way as he felt Aragorn's body move to slash his blade against him and throw him over his back, but he had other ideas. Quickly dropping his hands to the ground, he lifted his body up into the air and snatched Aragorn's head between his ankles, arching his back and throwing the Man into a nearby tree, taking up Anduril, that of which Aragorn had lost in the attack. His feet made contact with the ground immediately, his upper body shooting up in time to knock Gimli backwards with the blunt side of Anduril with a mighty blow with his left arm and duel with Boromir fiercely with his right, still holding onto his Elven blade.
After a bit of sword fight, Legolas got Boromir to lift his arm high enough that held his sword to leave a nasty gash across his chest, cursing when he didn't sink his sword into the Man's body instead. Kneeing the Man in the gut and striking the hilt of his sword on Boromir's head, knocking him out, the Elf jumped back at the Dwarven axe that came whizzing through the air, narrowly missing his stomach. Sheathing his dagger, Legolas retrieved his bow and an arrow from his back, pulling the taunt string to his cheekbone in threat, eyes slitting in a glare at the Dwarf. Gimli roared and charged, deftly cutting the fast arrow neatly in half to avoid death. He had remembered how Legolas himself, before all this confusion had taken place, taught him to slice a released arrow with his weapon with great expertise, and smiled inwardly at the Elf's maddened expression.
"Forgot already, Legolas? I believe it was you who taught me that little trick, was it not?"
"Indeed, I have let that lesson slip my mind. No worries, though, I will do away with you soon enough."
"Ha! You expect me to believe your words? I have slew hundreds of Orcs and I am unscathed; do you expect me to start now with wounds, while I fight a mere Elf?"
"Choose your words wisely, Gimli," Legolas responded icily. "They may be the cause of your death."
"And you had better take more care in watching your back, Legolas."
Crying a hideous shriek of pain, Legolas's hand clamped down on his shoulder, the black blood seeping out of the fresh wound. Turning to see Aragorn bearing an Elven dagger he had no memory of seeing prior to this, he snarled, smacking the Dwarf, kicking him rudely when he fell to his side, taking a stride over to the Man. "You have certainly caught me off guard. I was not expecting that, and you will pay for your gift."
"I'd rather know why this happened, mellon." Aragorn's stern glare leveled with Legolas's gaze of hate and blood thirst. Studying the unmoving creature with trained eyes, he rubbed his fingers across the leather bound hilt of his weapon with suspicion. "You look and act as one of Saruman's unholy devices of destruction," he mused aloud, seeing the flame of hate change to a fire burning with repulsion. Aragorn was silent, his icy blue eyes biting into Legolas's yellow-tinted ones. "You have joined with him, haven't you," he asked flatly, knuckles turning white with force on his sword strong enough to break an ordinary one. Legolas didn't falter.
"Your questions and your probing tires and angers me," the Elf steadily answered. "I came here for one reason and one reason alone. To destroy you, and I have every intention of carrying out that plan."
"Did your slime ball of a master order this of you?"
"No," Legolas replied as sweetly as he could. "This was my own plan. And now you are mine to torture and mine to kill, so please, if you want to die a less painful death, it would be wise not to struggle as much as you idiotic humans tend to do."
Aragorn swung his dagger to clash with Anduril, his own sword, which Legolas had discarded and then picked up once again. He knew how to fight against one who had been trained with those of great skill and practiced in many years to perfection, but Legolas was one he would not expect to defeat. The Elf had a mean control over his own sword, and was using the way he had seen his foster father, Elrond, wield it in a time of great battle along side his sons against Orcs. Desperately he protected himself against Anduril's unforgiving blade, the sword singing as it cut through the air to connect with his arm, his shoulder, his side. Biting back cries of pain, he was grateful when an old Ranger's trick he had picked up knocked Anduril out of Legolas' hold, giving him the chance to advance and leave a neat wound on Legolas' chest, one that would indeed scar when it healed.
Cursing wildly, Legolas unsheathed the Orcish dagger that was presented to him, feeling the surge of power through the hilt to his hand an up his arm. Grinning involuntarily, he fooled with Aragorn a bit more until he saw him weaken. Like a Cat he sprung forward, sending the Elvish blade into the air and into his hand, leaving Aragorn weaponless and vulnerable to any attack. Even so, he misjudged Aragorn's combat ability and was caught by surprise when Aragorn backed up against a tree, and grabbing hold of some seemingly unhealthy branches, climbed easily up with his back to the shaft, pushing off hard with his feet and landing a few feet off from his assailant, picking up Boromir's sword for defense.
Legolas laughed harshly. "How delightful, you have been taught well."
"Heh heh, Elrond was indeed a skilled tutor, was he not?"
Smirking in return, Legolas charged at he Man with Elven speed, pushing off with his right leg to lift his left and rid Aragorn of his newly acquired item of war, sending him to the ground. With both swords at his neck, Legolas watched the Man pant heavily, unable to move from under his body. Aragorn's eyebrows relaxed, his eyes softening in hopes he could change Legolas's mind. "Legolas, please – I don't know what's come over you, I don't know why you are doing this, I don't know your reasons and your explanation for your cruelty, but I do know that the memory of the things we shared have not left my mind, nor will they ever, no matter what you do. Even if you kill me now, I will recall the moments of that one night… you remember it, don't you? I can tell. I can see that you yourself cannot bring your mind to forget it. It is strange how this happened, isn't it? The day this all started you were pulling harmless pranks on us, dropping acorns on my head and enjoying it all the while. Ah… yes, you *do* remember. Peculiar, isn't it? Then you come to this. What have we done, Legolas? Why have you allowed Saruman to pry and disease your mind with his games?"
"Enough!" Legolas bellowed, fighting against his mixed feelings and oncoming headache from the turmoil bestowed upon them. "Enough of your words, Aragorn! You will be silent now and silent you will be forever!"
As he got ready to draw the sharp edge of Anduril across its owner's throat, a voice probed into his head. *What did I say, Legolas? Do not kill him, I told you. And now you try to disobey me? I wouldn't take that chance if I were you, my pretty Elf. Return to me now, I have new work for you.*
Roaring in dismay, Legolas dismounted Aragorn's body, throwing Anduril to his side and sheathing his own blade. "Next time we meet," he swore, "I will finish you off with my own hands!" And he was gone.
Aragorn stared after him, then closed his fist around Anduril's hilt. "No, my friend," he murmured to the bloody blade, "I believe he will see to my death with his own hands – and yours as well."
~***~
Pippin nibbled on his lower lip, flinging a pebble at Frodo unintentionally, earning a glare for his troubles. Sighing, he looked over at Sam questioningly, hoping he would be the answer to his boredom. Alas, he was not, for the Hobbit gardener was too busy stacking shards of stone and pebbles into a pyramid, blissfully unaware of Pippin's eyes on him. Frodo had resulted to staring at the ceiling, his lips moving but his voice not making a sound; closer inspection proved that he was reciting a verse of poetry taught to him by his uncle Bilbo.
Scooting back into his corner, he found himself thinking of Merry for the first time since the day they were put into their prison. Tears leaped to his eyes at the very thought of his deceased cousin, but he refused to let them fall. Memories flooded into his mind of days past, days of scourging through Farmer Maggot's field and patches, stealing mushrooms, corn, and carrots by the sack, laughing heartily as they were chased from the fields, collapsing onto lush green grass to observe their inventory, then bursting into rapturous fits of giggles when Merry made some 'casual' remarks about their expedition that left the Took smirking for weeks. Pippin smiled unconsciously when Merry's mental image came into his head. The voice he heard his head from time to time calmed him somewhat, to hear the reassuring talk of a female ease him back into the world.
Pippin smiled wanly at that. That little voice he knew was not his imagination, nor would he ever believe it was. Surely Sam thought he was mad to reply verbally to questions and statements made by the female, and he flushed a deep red whenever he was caught in the act. Frodo didn't seem to care. It was if Frodo didn't care about anything anymore, ever since they were snatched away in that gruesome battle. The Ring, though, was still with him, and he was often seen fondling the golden band before depositing it back into his pocket, Gandalf's words still echoing in his head, no doubt.
Cracking his big toe and scrunching up his nose at Sam when he looked up, Pippin adjusted the scarf adorning his neck, running a dirty hand through even more dirty hair. Sighing softly, he fidgeted, feeling Frodo's eyes on him momentarily before turning elsewhere. *He's really beginning to scare me,* Pippin thought to himself. *I swear I would slap him if I had the chance, but I wouldn't risk it, no sir.* Sighing again, he found his thoughts had returned to the unfortunate Brandybuck who for all he knew was lying dead on the blood-splattered grounds of Orthanc, his body caked in mud of death. He knew there was nothing he could do.
But Merry… oh, he could never forget him, no matter what he did. Merry was so young, so…
"Psssssssst… hey, Pip, Frodo, Sam, up here!"
All three Hobbits looked up at the barred ceiling simultaneously. Pippin gave a cry, springing to his feet.
"MERRY!!"
Sam peered around the cell. Frodo was talking to himself, and Pippin was curled up in a murky corner, rocking gently back and forth. Almost no hope remained in the Hobbit's heart. He had lost track of the time they'd been in there. He could only guess at a few days. Or was it a week? Sam couldn't tell. His mind was too busy worrying about his master, who seemed to have given up entirely. But Sam had to cling to what shards of hope were left. He bravely held on to the thought of the rest of the Fellowship helping him, whenever that may be. His brain sternly told him there was nothing left to hope for, that the Fellowship didn't necessarily know they were in Isengard. But being the lively Hobbit he was, his heart told him to hope beyond reason, that they may yet be saved. Somehow.
"What?" Pippin's head shot up unexpectedly, startling his other two companions mildly. Sam looked over at the young hobbit, who in turn looked slightly embarrassed as he slowly lowered his head, picking at his toes abashedly. The gardener's face twisted into that of fret. There was another problem that Sam was dealing with. Lately, the youngest member of their group had been talking to people who weren't there, looking for someone who couldn't come. It worried Sam, and he feared that Pippin was on the road to loosing his sanity. And again, his head told him, all hope was lost.
~***~
Boromir groaned loudly in protest when Aragorn urged his two comrades to climb the steep hill they found set before them. "I sense a darkness upon us, we *must* journey forth, press harder! I assure you, once we round this hill I will give you rest!"
"Aragorn, please – neither of us cannot take this much longer," Gimli said, glancing at the Steward's stumbling body. "We have been trampling through these woods for days now without much of a rest. Every time we ask for a moment's peace, you protest that something bad will occur. For pity's sake, Aragorn, let us sit for five minutes at the least!"
"No," Aragorn snapped, "we cannot linger. Do not take me for a fool, son of Gloin – I know the scent of the Forest far better than I should, and I can tell that if we stop for even five minutes, we will surely pay a wealthy price for our pause."
"At first I thought you are crazy, then I thought you were mad, now I think you're insane," Boromir interjected, leaning against a tree. Through pants, he continued, "We do not deny your skills as a Ranger, but please, that hill is as steep as Caradhras, and our muscles scream in protest with every step!"
Aragorn sighed. "Would you rather be mauled by Orcs?"
"How does anyone ever put up with you," Gimli muttered under his breath. Throwing a swift glare in the Dwarf's direction, the Man strained his ears to hear the voices of the Forest.
"I completely understand your weariness, friends, and I promise you a lengthy rest as soon as we reach the bottom of the hill. Until then we *must* press on."
Moaning, Boromir lifted himself to his feet and shuffled over to where the other Man stood. "Alright, then. Off we go."
Gimli made a sound of weak protest before sighing heavily, following behind the two Men with his axe slung over his shoulder. "You're so difficult, Aragorn…"
Biting his tongue to keep from spitting out a saucy retort, Aragorn carefully replied, "It's a talent."
"A talent that needs to be disposed of, and with haste."
Three heads turned to meet the hard gaze of the new voice, only to lock eyes with those of fire and death. Aragorn and Boromir drew their swords immediately without hesitation, baring them at the unwanted arrival. Legolas smirked and swung down from his high perch amongst the trees, lethal dagger drawn and ready for use. His bow and arrows hung about his back in case they were needed; Gimli shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, growling at the Elven prince, eyeing the quiver warily. His axe was in both hands, gripped so tightly that his knuckles were white – his gloves he had taken off. There was an uncomfortable silence until Legolas made the first move.
He attacked Gimli first, being the closest to him. Axe and blade clashed against each other, spitting flecks of light at sporadic moments, and the Dwarf feared for his life. He knew the Elf he was fighting had a strong background in combat, he had seen it with his own eyes, and he was not going to be an easy kill. Boromir swung behind Legolas, bringing his sword down to the armoured shoulder, but he found himself falling backwards, but quickly regaining his balance in time to strike against Legolas' keen Elf blade, pulling an expert swordsman trick on him to give him the opportunity he needed to sheath his sword in the flesh on Legolas' left side.
But Legolas was too quick.
He knew of the Man's intent, and grinned at him with his deathly fangs mockingly when he sent the human sprawling across the leaf-cloaked floor of the Forest, whirling swiftly around to confront Aragorn, their swords colliding on their sides, faces drawn to the blunt edge, Legolas snarling and Aragorn glaring. "I can't believe you're doing this, Legolas," he hissed to the Elf. "What has gotten into you?"
His leg kicking out behind him to meet with Gimli's stomach, Legolas managed to fan kick Boromir out of his way as he felt Aragorn's body move to slash his blade against him and throw him over his back, but he had other ideas. Quickly dropping his hands to the ground, he lifted his body up into the air and snatched Aragorn's head between his ankles, arching his back and throwing the Man into a nearby tree, taking up Anduril, that of which Aragorn had lost in the attack. His feet made contact with the ground immediately, his upper body shooting up in time to knock Gimli backwards with the blunt side of Anduril with a mighty blow with his left arm and duel with Boromir fiercely with his right, still holding onto his Elven blade.
After a bit of sword fight, Legolas got Boromir to lift his arm high enough that held his sword to leave a nasty gash across his chest, cursing when he didn't sink his sword into the Man's body instead. Kneeing the Man in the gut and striking the hilt of his sword on Boromir's head, knocking him out, the Elf jumped back at the Dwarven axe that came whizzing through the air, narrowly missing his stomach. Sheathing his dagger, Legolas retrieved his bow and an arrow from his back, pulling the taunt string to his cheekbone in threat, eyes slitting in a glare at the Dwarf. Gimli roared and charged, deftly cutting the fast arrow neatly in half to avoid death. He had remembered how Legolas himself, before all this confusion had taken place, taught him to slice a released arrow with his weapon with great expertise, and smiled inwardly at the Elf's maddened expression.
"Forgot already, Legolas? I believe it was you who taught me that little trick, was it not?"
"Indeed, I have let that lesson slip my mind. No worries, though, I will do away with you soon enough."
"Ha! You expect me to believe your words? I have slew hundreds of Orcs and I am unscathed; do you expect me to start now with wounds, while I fight a mere Elf?"
"Choose your words wisely, Gimli," Legolas responded icily. "They may be the cause of your death."
"And you had better take more care in watching your back, Legolas."
Crying a hideous shriek of pain, Legolas's hand clamped down on his shoulder, the black blood seeping out of the fresh wound. Turning to see Aragorn bearing an Elven dagger he had no memory of seeing prior to this, he snarled, smacking the Dwarf, kicking him rudely when he fell to his side, taking a stride over to the Man. "You have certainly caught me off guard. I was not expecting that, and you will pay for your gift."
"I'd rather know why this happened, mellon." Aragorn's stern glare leveled with Legolas's gaze of hate and blood thirst. Studying the unmoving creature with trained eyes, he rubbed his fingers across the leather bound hilt of his weapon with suspicion. "You look and act as one of Saruman's unholy devices of destruction," he mused aloud, seeing the flame of hate change to a fire burning with repulsion. Aragorn was silent, his icy blue eyes biting into Legolas's yellow-tinted ones. "You have joined with him, haven't you," he asked flatly, knuckles turning white with force on his sword strong enough to break an ordinary one. Legolas didn't falter.
"Your questions and your probing tires and angers me," the Elf steadily answered. "I came here for one reason and one reason alone. To destroy you, and I have every intention of carrying out that plan."
"Did your slime ball of a master order this of you?"
"No," Legolas replied as sweetly as he could. "This was my own plan. And now you are mine to torture and mine to kill, so please, if you want to die a less painful death, it would be wise not to struggle as much as you idiotic humans tend to do."
Aragorn swung his dagger to clash with Anduril, his own sword, which Legolas had discarded and then picked up once again. He knew how to fight against one who had been trained with those of great skill and practiced in many years to perfection, but Legolas was one he would not expect to defeat. The Elf had a mean control over his own sword, and was using the way he had seen his foster father, Elrond, wield it in a time of great battle along side his sons against Orcs. Desperately he protected himself against Anduril's unforgiving blade, the sword singing as it cut through the air to connect with his arm, his shoulder, his side. Biting back cries of pain, he was grateful when an old Ranger's trick he had picked up knocked Anduril out of Legolas' hold, giving him the chance to advance and leave a neat wound on Legolas' chest, one that would indeed scar when it healed.
Cursing wildly, Legolas unsheathed the Orcish dagger that was presented to him, feeling the surge of power through the hilt to his hand an up his arm. Grinning involuntarily, he fooled with Aragorn a bit more until he saw him weaken. Like a Cat he sprung forward, sending the Elvish blade into the air and into his hand, leaving Aragorn weaponless and vulnerable to any attack. Even so, he misjudged Aragorn's combat ability and was caught by surprise when Aragorn backed up against a tree, and grabbing hold of some seemingly unhealthy branches, climbed easily up with his back to the shaft, pushing off hard with his feet and landing a few feet off from his assailant, picking up Boromir's sword for defense.
Legolas laughed harshly. "How delightful, you have been taught well."
"Heh heh, Elrond was indeed a skilled tutor, was he not?"
Smirking in return, Legolas charged at he Man with Elven speed, pushing off with his right leg to lift his left and rid Aragorn of his newly acquired item of war, sending him to the ground. With both swords at his neck, Legolas watched the Man pant heavily, unable to move from under his body. Aragorn's eyebrows relaxed, his eyes softening in hopes he could change Legolas's mind. "Legolas, please – I don't know what's come over you, I don't know why you are doing this, I don't know your reasons and your explanation for your cruelty, but I do know that the memory of the things we shared have not left my mind, nor will they ever, no matter what you do. Even if you kill me now, I will recall the moments of that one night… you remember it, don't you? I can tell. I can see that you yourself cannot bring your mind to forget it. It is strange how this happened, isn't it? The day this all started you were pulling harmless pranks on us, dropping acorns on my head and enjoying it all the while. Ah… yes, you *do* remember. Peculiar, isn't it? Then you come to this. What have we done, Legolas? Why have you allowed Saruman to pry and disease your mind with his games?"
"Enough!" Legolas bellowed, fighting against his mixed feelings and oncoming headache from the turmoil bestowed upon them. "Enough of your words, Aragorn! You will be silent now and silent you will be forever!"
As he got ready to draw the sharp edge of Anduril across its owner's throat, a voice probed into his head. *What did I say, Legolas? Do not kill him, I told you. And now you try to disobey me? I wouldn't take that chance if I were you, my pretty Elf. Return to me now, I have new work for you.*
Roaring in dismay, Legolas dismounted Aragorn's body, throwing Anduril to his side and sheathing his own blade. "Next time we meet," he swore, "I will finish you off with my own hands!" And he was gone.
Aragorn stared after him, then closed his fist around Anduril's hilt. "No, my friend," he murmured to the bloody blade, "I believe he will see to my death with his own hands – and yours as well."
~***~
Pippin nibbled on his lower lip, flinging a pebble at Frodo unintentionally, earning a glare for his troubles. Sighing, he looked over at Sam questioningly, hoping he would be the answer to his boredom. Alas, he was not, for the Hobbit gardener was too busy stacking shards of stone and pebbles into a pyramid, blissfully unaware of Pippin's eyes on him. Frodo had resulted to staring at the ceiling, his lips moving but his voice not making a sound; closer inspection proved that he was reciting a verse of poetry taught to him by his uncle Bilbo.
Scooting back into his corner, he found himself thinking of Merry for the first time since the day they were put into their prison. Tears leaped to his eyes at the very thought of his deceased cousin, but he refused to let them fall. Memories flooded into his mind of days past, days of scourging through Farmer Maggot's field and patches, stealing mushrooms, corn, and carrots by the sack, laughing heartily as they were chased from the fields, collapsing onto lush green grass to observe their inventory, then bursting into rapturous fits of giggles when Merry made some 'casual' remarks about their expedition that left the Took smirking for weeks. Pippin smiled unconsciously when Merry's mental image came into his head. The voice he heard his head from time to time calmed him somewhat, to hear the reassuring talk of a female ease him back into the world.
Pippin smiled wanly at that. That little voice he knew was not his imagination, nor would he ever believe it was. Surely Sam thought he was mad to reply verbally to questions and statements made by the female, and he flushed a deep red whenever he was caught in the act. Frodo didn't seem to care. It was if Frodo didn't care about anything anymore, ever since they were snatched away in that gruesome battle. The Ring, though, was still with him, and he was often seen fondling the golden band before depositing it back into his pocket, Gandalf's words still echoing in his head, no doubt.
Cracking his big toe and scrunching up his nose at Sam when he looked up, Pippin adjusted the scarf adorning his neck, running a dirty hand through even more dirty hair. Sighing softly, he fidgeted, feeling Frodo's eyes on him momentarily before turning elsewhere. *He's really beginning to scare me,* Pippin thought to himself. *I swear I would slap him if I had the chance, but I wouldn't risk it, no sir.* Sighing again, he found his thoughts had returned to the unfortunate Brandybuck who for all he knew was lying dead on the blood-splattered grounds of Orthanc, his body caked in mud of death. He knew there was nothing he could do.
But Merry… oh, he could never forget him, no matter what he did. Merry was so young, so…
"Psssssssst… hey, Pip, Frodo, Sam, up here!"
All three Hobbits looked up at the barred ceiling simultaneously. Pippin gave a cry, springing to his feet.
"MERRY!!"