Disclaimer: I do not claim the hobbits nor Middle-earth nor anything by anyone else that I did not write about first.
A/N: I noticed that several of you out there have taken an interest in the way in which I wrote this piece. I've always been fascinated by the character's thoughts, for they are the soul of the story. Since this interest some of you, even though it really isn't a story at all but merely the thoughts and fears of those we have come to love, I've extended it further, written a little more. Perhaps, if you like and I am in the mood I will continue to do so. In any case, it is in your hands and I hope you enjoy.
AND THERE WERE FOUR
PROLOGUE
This Ring, it drags so. I should wonder--is it getting heavier? But what silly nonsense. How could a little ring grow heavy. It's a small bauble, simple and altogether quite plain. How dreadfully ironic it is that we might risk our lives for this golden band.
It hurts so! What is this? I cannot breath . . . it hurts . . . the life hurts . . . Perhaps in death I shall be given mercy. Surely I am already dead.
Why, hullo, Sam. No, no, I am fine. These caverns, they're so dark. I must have stumbled over a loose rock. Yes, that's it, a loose rock. How are Pippin and Merry? Ah, there they are. Is Pip alright, Sam? He looks awfully pale. Perhaps, Gandalf ought call a halt. Eru knows I could certainly use the rest. Good ol' Merry. He always was one to look after Pippin, even when the rascal wouldn't take care to look after himself.
Aye, but I miss home, Sam. Bag End would be such a healing balm right now. I can almost smell the gardens. They are magnificent things, Sam, and I have you to thank for it.
Sam? Sam, where'd you go?
Ai, it hurts! Something awful, it does. Perhaps just a small break? Certainly the others wouldn't mind. No, certainly they wouldn't.
~IN THE MINES OF MORIA~
Gandalf keeps to the fore with Gimli at his side. Often, the two speak in low, gruff whispers, deciding upon our course, or at least that is what I surmise. I cannot make out what they said, though I try.
Merry and Pippin stumble along up ahead, the younger one oftimes falling to his knees and only manages to scramble to his feet with the aid of Merry. Boromir has kept close to them, all this long trek through the Mines. It seems the Man of Gondor has taken it upon himself to watch these two, whether for he cares for them or he feels they may hinder, I know not, though I suspect the latter. I honestly care not, for with those two looked out for I may keep a close eye on Mr. Frodo.
I am worried for my master, for he seems not at all aware of what transpires around him. His eyes are glazed and they focus on nothing I can see but look at something beyond. He never makes a word of complaint, nor any words at all. I have tried to get him to talk, if to say but a word, but Frodo never will. His mind is preoccupied on something else, and I have the disquieting feeling that his thoughts lie about his neck, on that silver chain.
Legolas is as rearguard. He walks so that none can hear him, not even Strider, who comes behind Frodo and I, and before the Elf. I see him eyeing Frodo from time to time. I know that he took up that position purposely, for he deems I cannot look after my dear own master. Well, he most certainly has another thing coming if he thinks I will let harm befall Frodo. None of us will--I most assuredly not.
I am not all that certain how long we have been in the Mines of Moria. Several days at the very least, I am sure. I am feeling a bit insane with this constant walking in the dark. I am starting to forget what the sun looks like and have long forgotten the feel of her upon my face. More than once I have been tempted to inquire about the remaining journey but always I stop myself. Though I've tried to coax Frodo to talk, I do not like to speak myself. Not in this darkness . . . in this place of evil.
I think Eru laughs at us Hobbits. These Big Folk, they are so tall! and one easy step for them is as three scrambling ones for us. This world outside the Shire, too, is big and certainly we hobbits are out of our element. This is not for us--these dark lands filled with Men and Elves and this adventure, or whatever one would call it. That is the name Bilbo would have given it had this been one of his favorite tales. Certainly, not, though, for who in there right mind would want to hear this story? Not I! If dear old Bilbo even thought to tell it to me I would cover my ears with my hands and hum to myself. Black Riders, orcs, goblins, Dark Lords--what a tale to tell to young hobbits!
I wish I was back home in Tuckborough pinching mushrooms from good ol' farmer Sigismond. I even miss Pearl, Nel, and silly little Perry and I'd kiss all three of them on the cheek if only I could go home and see Mum and Dad. I wonder what they think happened to me? Merry told me to tell them about our Conspiracy but it was just a game then and to tell anyone would only ruin it. I was a fool. They probably think me dead. Unless . . . yes, good ol' Merry told Uncle Saradoc what we were about and surely he'll let my parents know. I hope Mum isn't too upset.
The ground reaches up and snatches me down. I fall hard and the breath leaves my lungs and, at first, refuses to return. I debate whether or not to just lie there, then perhaps the Fellowship would ignore me and leave me to die in peace. I am so tired.
To both my relief and dismay, Merry stoops and grabs me by the arm. "Up you go, Pip," he grits, pulling me up. I aid him little, for I just want to sleep and if he wants me to continue on with them so badly he can just very well drag me along. Otherwise, I am content to lie.
Behind me, I hear Frodo. "You alright there, Pippin?" I turn, half on my feet, half in the arms of Merry, and look at my cousin in surprise. I haven't heard him speak once this day, and only little the day before. I know this is the Ring's fault and though I had pointed this out to Merry yesterday he just nodded and told me to hush. I suppose everyone can see what it is doing to Frodo but, for some reason that I cannot understand or accept, no one will talk about it. Sure, it is a Ring of Power, The Ring of Power in fact, but this is my cousin's life we are talking about and I am not going to just sit back and watch It steal him away from us.
I nod and the concern in Cousin Frodo's eyes lessens slightly. "Just slipped." I push away from Merry and fall back to talk to Frodo. "How are you, Cousin?" But as soon as I ask, the haunted look in his eyes returns and he says nothing more. I look at Sam but the gardener will not catch my eye.
All of us, we see what's happening to him but we know not what to do. This task is not for Hobbits. We ought to be home, drinking at the pub, annoying my sisters, enjoying a bit of Old Toby, and pinching mushrooms from cranky old farmers. This task . . . this Thing . . . does not belong in the hands of a hobbit, especially not Frodo's--our dear Cousin Frodo. He is suffering and there is nought any of us can do about it. Nothing . . . .
I watch them--Sam and Pippin and Cousin Frodo. I watch them all, for if not I then who will do so? Sam? He is good for Frodo, certainly, but has no concern for himself. He spends all his time fussing over his master and yet he does not have wits enough to remember Sam. What good, I ask you, will he be to Frodo when he himself has taken ill, or steps off a cliff face, or just plain keels over from weariness? Not a lick of good, that's what.
Frodo? The Ring has taken hold and though I watch him fighting it, he is falling farther and farther into darkness. If I could light a torch to banish the shadows, I would, but I'm afraid a torch will aid my cousin not in the least. Perhaps if I am just there, if I speak to him and let him know, "Cousin, I am here should you need me," and if I keep reminding him of that then things will turn out all right.
And little Peregrin? Hah! that kid falls over and just lays there like a rag doll. I'd leave him there to rot, too, if the thought of not having him around didn't scare me as the Black Riders can--I love him too much. Not only that, but half the time I want to lie down right beside him. Perhaps, then, we'll wake up together at Brandy Hall and find this whole nonsense was nothing more than a fleeting nightmare.
Oh, Eru, what I would give.
I caught Pippin chuckling to himself some time ago and when I asked him what was so funny, he told me we were fools. "What have we gotten ourselves into, Cousin?" he asked of me and I could not answer. What, indeed?
Again, I watch him fall, though this time I'm fast enough, and I catch him before the ground does. He looks at me, his gaze somewhat grateful, though there is a touch of irritation in his gray eyes. "You keep this up," I say, my lips curling in a weak attempt at a smile. "And the goblins will find us by no fault of Gandalf's. All they need do is follow your trail of blood." Already, I can see bloodstains upon his jacket from where he had whipped his scrapped palms. I shake my head. His mum would have my hide if she could see what I had done to her little angel.
I squeeze his arm and pat his back. His balance restored, we continue our long trek through the ruined dwarven city of Khazad-dum.
The shadows are ever near. They do not sleep and why should they? Things of evil have no need of the dream world, for they are wakefulness and they are nightmares. They haunt my every movement; my every thought the Shadow knows. They catch me in the light and they have me in the dark. I am ever surrounded; I am ever alone.
I dare not move, for they will see me. I dare not stay, for they will find me. I dare not breath, for they will surely hear me. I dare not live, for they will kill me.
I am dead to this life. I died long ago. Yet, the pain and hurt and sorrow follow me even now. Cannot they let me be? Cannot they see I understand? I understand life as many never will. The sorrow, bitterness and everlasting anguish. I understand that goodness is fleeting. I know now that friends are lost. They were lost the moment I found that envelop upon the mantel and took it up. I should be angry with them, with those who put me up to this. But I cannot curse them, for I am too tired . . . so terribly tired.
~*~