Title: Far From Home
Author: aces
Rating: PG
Warnings: Hobbit!angst. Also, unsavoury living conditions and bad, bad company.
Summary: Faith and hope aren't always easy to find.
Notes: For Marigold's third challenge, I was told to expand upon the trek across Rohan of Merry and Pippin in the company of the orcs as shown in the movies. I'm not sure how much actual expanding I did, but…well, see for yourself, hmm? The quotes in between sections and the flashbacks in italics are all also taken directly from the movies, mainly from FOTR.
FAR FROM HOME
They're careering madly through the fields, the tall stalks of corn smacking them in their faces and arms as they tumble through. Pippin is laughing, a bubble of joy/fear/glee too large to contain. He can hear Farmer Maggot yelling behind them, along with the dogs' excited and ferocious barks.
Running over Frodo—literally—only adds to the fun, and the naming off of the vegetables, the conversation with Merry, is all part of the game, showing off for Frodo and Sam. Even the breathless, reckless, wild falling leap over the sheer hill cliff—"A detour, a shortcut!" Merry asserts—is just another giddy lark; Pippin has never thought flying could be so much fun but now he aims to try it more often and see if he can't get better at it, see if he can't keep the dizzying, soaring feeling prolonged a little longer before the fall.
But a fall there must be, and when they land this time a Wraith stands in front of them, bearing a blade, and suddenly the Shire is no longer a friendly, loving, welcoming place in which to play but a dark, brooding, ugly world which forgives nothing.
Pippin is terrified.
The Wraith is stalking toward him, toward all of them, and Pippin does not know who it will go for first—Frodo? Sam? Himself?
"Merry!"
Pippin wakes up screaming.
"I think…we might have made a mistake leaving the Shire, Pippin."
--Merry
The only thing that existed was running.
Pippin and Merry had been running for—was it only hours now? Surely it must have been days. Was it only hours ago they saw Boromir fall under an onslaught of arrows?
"What's he doing?" Pippin had asked in confused fear when Frodo had stared at them from his hiding place in the crook of some tree roots and would not move. The youngest hobbit had looked to his older cousin for understanding, and seen the light dawning in Merry's unhappy eyes.
"He's leaving," Merry had replied.
And for an instant, Pippin still didn't understand. He could not comprehend why any hobbit would choose to do something alone when he could have friends and cousins along to chat and play with, and he could not comprehend why Frodo would choose to undertake this task by himself when so many were willing to help.
And even when he did understand, he could not let it happen.
"No!"
But as soon as he'd stood up, they'd heard and seen the orcs coming. And Frodo, oh Frodo with eyes wide in fear and indecision, but Merry was determined and strong and Pip didn't think he'd ever seen his cousin so grown-up-looking. "Go," he'd told Frodo, and Pippin didn't even get to say good-bye but there was no time, and he knew that if he couldn't accompany his cousin on that journey he could at least help him in other ways.
Pippin was quite good at causing distractions, after all.
"It's working!" he'd yelled as they ran, throwing insults at the orcs, and Merry had puffed back, "I know it's working; run!"
And when running wasn't going to be effective anymore, and the only option seemed to be fight or die—or, more simply, fight and die anyway—Boromir had come.
Boromir was marvellous in that fight. He was almost frenzied, mad, as he slew orc after orc after orc, protecting the little ones. Pippin and Merry fought in their own ways, but still it wasn't enough, there were too many, and when the first arrow hit Boromir the whole world seemed to pause for an instant, the screaming and shouting and sounds of combat dying away to a surprised, frightened stillness.
He still fought, as arrows continued to strike him. He still fought, even as he fell to his knees, to the earth, to die. Arrows piercing his breast, his side, his back, and still he fought.
How could a Man like this die?
The hobbits screamed as one, rage and despair tearing at their throats, and set forth to die honouring their friend and protector.
They didn't die. Pippin saw Merry grabbed up bodily, by his neck; Pippin felt another orc pick him up and toss him around the foul thing's side, and he couldn't even stay with Boromir as he died.
Pippin wanted to howl, to scream again, but the sound was too big to fit through his tightened chest.
And they had been running in the orcs' company ever since, thrown back to the ground and ordered to keep up or else. There hadn't been a single rest yet, and Pippin's legs felt shaky, ready to collapse under him at any moment, while his chest burned and his right side pierced him with pain every couple breaths.
Even Aragorn hadn't pushed them this much, he thought tetchily. But he was wise enough to keep the thought to himself.
Sometimes he caught glimpses of Merry; more often he was too surrounded by filthy-smelling orc to see anything bar their ugly armour and faces. At first he'd thought he would faint from the smell, but now he was almost used to it. He wasn't terribly thankful for that, though he supposed he should have been.
He wanted Merry. He wanted Frodo. He wanted Gandalf. He wanted Boromir. He was angry at all of them (well, perhaps not Merry), angry at them for leaving, but if they'd only come back he would instantly forgive them. And perhaps he was a bit angry at Merry too, irrationally so, for not being forced to run nearer to him so he'd at least have a bit of company.
Finally they stopped for a short rest, when night had long fallen and Pip couldn't see anything even if he'd wanted to (he had no idea where he was, maps and directions and such never having been a strong suit of his). He was given a tiny chunk of bug-infested bread and some dirty water to drink. He tried very hard not to think of all the cake and goodies and ale at Bilbo's last birthday party, or of lembas bread and cold, clean water in the company of the Fellowship. Merry was still too far away for talking, but at least Pip could keep an eye on his cousin's curly head.
He was too exhausted to keep his eyes open for long.
"I think in his heart Frodo's still in love with the Shire. The woods, the fields…the rivers."
--Bilbo
Fireworks.
Gandalf's arrival always means fireworks. And ever since they've realised how big this birthday party of Bilbo's is going to be, and ever since they heard Gandalf is supposed to be coming, Merry and Pippin have been making plans.
"No, no, the big one, the big one!" Even in a hurry and in fear of being caught Merry has Grand Ideas. Not that Pippin minds as he's just dug up what looks like the most perfect firework ever. Judging by the grin splitting Merry's excited, nervous face, the older cousin agrees.
"You're supposed to stick it in the ground."
"It is in the ground!"
"Outside."
"This was your idea!"
Even the clean-up detail afterwards can't entirely erase the sheer good fun of watching the explosion and the breathtaking dragon soaring through the sky. And Pippin has a sneaking suspicion Gandalf actually quite enjoyed the sight; he's only irked he didn't get to set it off himself.
They both pause in the washing of dishes to listen to Bilbo's speech. Pippin has always enjoyed Bilbo's speeches, though he is never entirely sure he understands them as well as he ought. He is sure this one will be especially good, considering how especially lovely everything else about the evening has been (bar, perhaps, the washing of dishes).
But Bilbo seems oddly distracted and confused, unnerving Pippin even though he's often seen his distant cousin distracted and confused (but never like this, never so clumsy and ill at ease in his own eccentricities).
And when Bilbo puts on the Ring, he turns into an orc, growling and yelling, a blade in his hands as he leaps for Frodo.
The first time Pippin dreams he wakes up screaming. By the second time, he knows to keep quiet.
"I miss the Shire. I spent all my childhood pretending I was somewhere else. Off with you, on one of your Adventures…My own adventure turned out to be quite different."
--Frodo, to Bilbo
Well over a day of travelling now. Pippin and Merry had been given occasional lifts, clutching unhappily to orc backs, but though Pippin's legs and heart and whole body enjoyed the rest he didn't much enjoy the ride. All this running was so mindless, so exhausting, so uninspiring. Even while his body was exhausted, his mind was restless.
The orcs were a bit more spread out now, as they ran, so he could see more of where they were running through. It made little difference; these jagged, high rocks and this scraggly dried-out grass were as unlike the Shire as he could imagine (though he'd never imagined lands like this before; perhaps there were stranger, worse places in Middle-Earth—perhaps, probably, Frodo was heading to one of those places even now, if Frodo hadn't also been captured by orcs and why hadn't he allowed his cousins to come along with him?). And still Pippin didn't get to see much of Merry, a rare glimpse of curly head and Elvish cloak and that was all.
They had all left him. First Gandalf, and then Frodo, and then Boromir, and now Merry. If they were all going to fall away, how could he survive?
It had been easier, with all the Fellowship surrounding him. Despite Aragorn's sharp commands and Gandalf's irritated curses, Pippin had felt—cushioned, held in place by all the other members, somewhere between Legolas's light-footedness and Gimli's muttering breaths and Boromir's readiness to teach them combat. And even at Weathertop, even in the avalanches of Caradhras, even in the mines of Moria with orcs and a troll attacking from all sides, there had been none of this mind-numbing-beyond-all-enduring endlessness.
Pippin had been scared, badly frightened, each time. Each time he had come up against something he had never known before and had felt how very small he was in the world (of course he'd felt small too next to the Elves and the Men, at Rivendell and in Lothlorien, but no-one there had set out deliberately to make him feel small like this). The battle in Moria, like the battle later when Boromir had fallen, had given him no time to think, only time to act, the air filled with sounds of yelling and fighting and battling. He had thrust his blade forward almost blindly in the hopes of hitting something fatal, hating all the discordant noise (these were not the sounds of hobbit lads and lasses playing a game of tag in a field on a spring afternoon) and only having time afterwards to be shaken by all he'd seen and done.
This was most definitely afterwards.
"I cannot do this alone."
--Frodo
"Merry!" Pippin hissed.
"We've got to try," Merry whispered back fiercely, that determined look in his eyes again. Pippin was seriously beginning to dislike that look; it hadn't boded well so far.
"They'll kill you!" Pip tried to keep his voice low, tried to keep hysteria out of it, but he'd been running or jogged along on an orc's back for over two days now, and he was so tired. He couldn't think anymore, he didn't want to think anymore, and he didn't want Merry, the only other one left, to get hurt.
They were on a short rest break again, and at last Pip had managed to crawl over to his cousin's side. Even before Pippin could open his mouth, Merry had declared a plan to escape. A stupid, foolhardy plan that even a Took wouldn't think twice about, as Pip had been quick to point out, but Merry had pulled out that determined look again and Pippin was beginning to despair.
Merry grabbed his hands, despite their binds, and looked at him hard. "You stay here," he said. "Just in case. Even if they catch me, I don't think they'll hurt me, but…just in case."
"What? Merry, what're you talking about?"
"They've been awfully careful with us so far, haven't they? I'm not sure why…but why should they change their minds now?"
Pippin shook his head. "Just wait, Merry," he begged. "Please. Give us time to think of something proper to do."
But Merry just looked at him again and said, "This is something to do. We're on our own, Pip; we've got to look out for ourselves." He squeezed his cousin's hands, and Pip squeezed back compulsively, wishing he could hug the older hobbit. Hobbits are tactile creatures, Pippin even more so. "Stay put."
Merry looked around. It was night again, though there was perhaps a glimmering of white dawn over the horizon, lending the night a surreal misty quality. The older hobbit began to edge away from the main body of orcs. Either he was lucky or (and Pippin was willing to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt, after having planned many a game and plot with him over the years) he had chosen his moment well, because the majority of the orcs seemed to be in an argument about something. They usually seemed to be arguing about something, as far as Pippin could tell, though he tried not to listen to them too much. All their growling gave him a headache.
He watched while trying to appear as if he weren't watching, anxiety twisting his hands in their ropes. And then he crept after his cousin, because he couldn't very well let Merry get into trouble alone after all these years.
"Pip!" Merry hissed at him, even as he kept moving. "I told you to stay put!"
"They won't hurt us, remember?" Pippin responded, eyes darting about everywhere. The orcs still seemed engaged in their own fight. "Or were you just saying that to reassure me?"
"Of course I wasn't! That doesn't mean both of us have to risk it!"
"Oh yes we do," Pippin said. "I am not going to be left alone with a bunch of orcs only for company. That would be unduly cruel of you, Merry."
He thought Merry might have been laughing silently, breathlessly, but as Pippin himself didn't even feel like laughing he wasn't sure how Merry could have.
It was at that point he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, and all thought fled to be replaced by terror. Merry was wrong, all wrong; they were going to die without ever seeing the Shire or their friends and family again—
Merry struggled in the grasp of another orc that held him; more orcs came lumbering up to them. Pippin was being dragged backwards; Merry was surrounded by the creatures and Pip couldn't see what was going on, but he thought he saw Merry slump over.
Oh no—
"Merry!" he yelled, and the orc holding him cuffed the back of his head.
"Silence!" it roared at him, and Pip fell silent. He'd already learned that was the only response that would leave him relatively in peace; the orcs might have been under orders not to kill them or even hurt them too severely, but that didn't stop the occasional whip cracks across legs or shoulders, or the jeers in their awful scratchy voices, or the shoves and pushes.
The orc picked him up and threw him over its back, and they were running again.
"Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity."
--Gandalf
"Merry!"
It was the first he'd seen of his cousin since last night, and already the sun was beginning again to wane. "Merry!" It looked like Merry was—sleeping? Was that all?
Oh please let it be all…
"Merry! Merry, wake up!" He couldn't keep the desperation out of his voice; before last night at least he'd caught glimpses of his cousin, could reassure himself that he wasn't truly alone. But he hadn't seen his cousin in ages, and Merry's breathing sounded raspy, wrong, his head lolling and his mouth open.
He saw an orc gulping down water from its container and spoke up, directly spoke to one of them for the first time since they'd started this mad journey. "My friend is sick! He needs water!" And then he forced himself to add the unhappy, "Please."
The leader overheard him and made a comment about medicine, and the dirty, fetid water was forced down Mer's throat, gagging him. He spluttered, coughing, and Pippin quickly protested, impotent, unable to make a move to back up his words. "Stop it!"
"Can't take his draught," the orc jeered.
"Leave him alone!"
"Why?" The orc looked at him directly, sharply, and Pippin would have shrunk away if he could, even as he couldn't turn away from those eyes. He had spent the past three days avoiding their gazes, trying not to see the lust and the ugliness there. He wasn't sure if they wanted him for food or—or other things, and he'd decided it was better not to know. "You want some?" the orc leader continued. "Then keep your mouth shut."
Pippin just looked away, looked to his cousin, so near, too far away. He whispered "Merry," incapable of stopping the two syllables from escaping his mouth no matter what the consequences may have been.
And this time, at last, Merry answered, his voice slurred and rough (not like the orcs' voices, never like that). "H'lo, Pippin." He turned slightly, awkwardly, and Pip could see blood on his cousin's forehead.
"You're hurt!" he said, horrified. We weren't supposed to get hurt. We weren't supposed to get hurt!
"I'm fine. It was just an act."
Pip's forehead wrinkled up as he responded incredulously, "An act?!"
"See?" Irrepressible Mer, grinning. "Fooled you too."
Slowly Pippin grinned back, and wished that he could reach across and squeeze Merry's hands. If Merry could still be grinning, things couldn't be that bad. And if he could just keep close to Merry and share a grin with him, then perhaps he wouldn't have to think about how all the others had left them.
And then Merry sobered again, with something of that determined look in his eyes. "Don't worry about me, Pippin."
"Why should I worry about you when I've got myself to worry about?" Pippin immediately countered and met Merry's sharp glance with one of total innocence. Slowly, Merry's frown collapsed into another grin, and Pip beamed back at him.
If he'd had to be left alone with only one other hobbit, one other person, in this ordeal, then he would have immediately asked for Merry. But Pip knew that went without saying.
Pippin's attention was caught by the orcs arguing ahead in the group; despite himself, he overheard their words about "Manflesh" and being followed and, in his sudden and almost overwhelming hope brought on by speaking with Merry that they would survive this, he knew who was tracking them.
"Aragorn," he breathed aloud, heart beating faster. He looked up and caught Merry's confused look; either Merry hadn't overheard the orcs or he was being unusually slow. Pippin gave him a blazing grin, then looked around quickly, intent on finding something to help their friend—their friends, for surely Aragorn wouldn't be alone!—track them more easily.
He looked down, and his eyes lit on the brooch holding his cloak closed. What more obvious signal to Strider than a metal leaf cut by the Elves of Lothlorien? It was as out of place here in this land—Rohan, had one of the orcs called it?—as Peregrin Took of the Shire was.
He bent his head forward, clamping the brooch between his teeth and working it free from the cloak as quickly as possible. He looked around only once to make sure no-one was paying attention to him before spitting it out onto the ground, hoping that even the trampling feet of the orcs wouldn't bury it into the ground so deeply that Aragorn would miss it.
But no, Strider was a great tracker; Pippin knew this after having travelled with him so long. And—who knew who was with the Man? Gimli, Legolas, Sam—or had Sam loyally gone after Frodo?
It didn't matter. Pippin didn't feel so alone anymore. He even felt he could almost forgive Gandalf, and Frodo, and Boromir, for leaving them. For leaving him.