Disclaimer: I own none of the following characters or the world in which they live. Tolkien owns such.
A/N: The following tale sort of came out on its own, a manifestation of many things we deal with today. I realize that some of the story may be hard to follow or not make sense at some parts. You needn't comment on this (or you may if you like) but I wanted to point out that life is like that. Many things that happen make the least bit of sense and have nothing to offer us later, they just are.
A tale of friendship and dark paths.
Being the Tenth Part of….
To Tread the Path of Darkness
When Evil Awakens
"Frodo, do something!"
Frodo, do something . . . . the world echoed mockingly.
"He's not breathing! Pippin!? Frodo, help me!"
Not breathing . . . Frodo . . . .
The night shrieked in agony; the darkness screamed in pleasure. He could not escape It for It was everywhere--all around him, in him, apart of him. He knew he could not escape It, no, nor did he want to. It's touch gave him life, for he breathed It into him. He desired It even as It desired him.
"Frodo, what's the matter with you? Pippin--Pip, can you hear me?"
A voice called him but it was irrelevant. Frodo knew this to be so. Someone was calling to him, pleading with him, but it was not important.
This darkness was, for it comforted him when nothing else could. He wanted away . . . and It could take him away.
Merry did not dare touch his cousin. Pippin did not breath, Merry knew, for his chest neither rose nor fell. He did not know if he lived, though, and debated whether or not to check his pulse. He hung back, fearful, not knowing what to do. Frodo was no help--he stared blankly ahead, nothing Merry said registered. He yelled at him but with no response he turned back to Pippin, hanging over him indecisively. Finally, he whirled and took off back to camp, brushing by Frodo who did not so much as blink.
"Aragorn!" Merry cried, running as fast as his short legs would carry him. He crashed through the forest's underbrush, low branches slashing at his face and roots entangling his feet but somehow he managed not to fall. "Aragorn!" he screamed, heedless of the fact that other ears aside from his friends' might hear. "Aragorn!"
Suddenly, the Ranger was before him, reaching out and catching him in a strong, firm grip.
"Aragorn," Merry gasped, breathless. His round face was pale and his small body shook, but he managed to grasp the Ranger with such a grip that Aragorn knelt before him, his dark eyes shadowed with worry.
"Merry," Aragorn spoke softly, though his eyes ever roamed the woods, watchful of danger. "What is it? Where are your cousins?"
Merry shook his head, fighting for breath, but could only point behind him and gasp, "Pippin!" Aragorn rose to his feet and ran in the direction the Hobbit had indicated. Merry watched him go, his eyes filling with tears. "Pippin," he sobbed again.
He turned and followed the long-legged Ranger, stumbling after him in a haze of fear and grief.
He came upon Aragorn kneeling over his cousin, feeling for the pulse that he had been too afraid to find--or not find. The Ranger looked up at the Hobbit's approach. "He's alive."
"But he doesn't breathe," Merry said and Aragorn saw that the Hobbit wept. He sheathed his sword (as he had drawn it for fear Pippin had been in danger of Orcs or Men of Saruman) and tilted the halfling's head back with a large, callused hand. He took a breath of air and knelt down and placed his mouth over Pippin's. He breathed into him gently, once . . . twice . . . three times . . .
Merry watched, holding his own breath--perhaps in fear, perhaps in the hope that the less he breathed the more air there would be for Pippin. Breathe, little cousin, breathe, he prayed.
Pippin coughed and breathed.
Meriadoc sobbed in relief and flung himself down beside his cousin . . . but once again he hesitated, hovering just beyond touch, fearing he might somehow hurt such a delicate, tortured thing.
"There, there, that's a good lad," Aragorn soothed softly, brushing aside his curls. "That's it, deep gulps, young Took, deep gulps.
"I will not touch him." He said this to Merry, though his eyes did not leave Pippin. The halfling breathed evenly now but did not wake. "I know not how injured he is. I will wait for Gandalf to come, for his skill in healing far out does my own.
"Where is Frodo?" he asked suddenly.
Merry glanced around, for the first time noting that his elder cousin was nowhere to be seen. "I--I do not--" He scrambled to his feet. "He was here but a moment ago . . . when I left. He was here when I but left." He scanned the woods, frowning. "Frodo?" he called. "Frodo-lad, where are you?"
"He is not here, Merry," the Ranger said, looking to the ground and spying the Ringbearer's footprints. "There," he said, pointing to the tracks and following them with his finger. They continued on . . . South.
"Why--" Merry began, confused, but the Ranger cut him off.
"Return to the Fellowship. Bring Gandalf and hurry back. Do you know the way?" Merry nodded. "Then go."
"But--"
"Go, Merry!" Aragorn hissed, his patience wearing thin as things were happening which he did not understand. "We must see to Pippin first. When Gandalf comes I will go after Frodo."
Merry nodded and fled back to the remaining Fellowship.
"Frodo! Frodo-lad, where are you?"
Merry? In the darkness, Frodo could not find his cousin. He looked around, lost, alone, confused. 'Indeed, where am I?' The land that he looked upon was none that he knew. His feet sank into burning ash and he could not breathe for the suffocating darkness around him--he wondered even how he could see.
'Is this Mordor?' he wondered, his heart constricting in fear. He had heard tales of this land, mainly from Gandalf (though, too, from Lord Elrond and his Cousin Bilbo) but words alone could not describe the desolation laid out before his horrified gaze. 'Is this the land of the Dark Lord?' Frodo shuddered and though he wished for nothing save to close his eyes and banish the sight from mind, he found himself drawn to the blackened and twisted wasteland.
'Home!' The thought entered his mind in a flash of longing desire. It was his own thought, though at the same time one he did not recognize, for it was darkened with malice and devout of logic, for Mordor was not his home; it was the home of none he knew save the Dark Lord.
He took a step forward, his heart drumming with excitement at the foul-smelling landscape, for it seemed to feed off a sort of dead life that he had long been without and now desired more than ought else. He looked upon the shadows and wanted to dash forward into them, mold with them, become apart of them . . . but something held him back, something he had forgotten . . . . Something that he should not have forgotten . . . .
~*~