A/N: Another Hobbit chapter here, introducing a pair of fan favorites. I switch around between the groups, like in the beginning, until we get them back together, if they get back together... I own nada.
Deep within the shady forest with its huddled, brooding trees that the horsemen of Rohan so feared, a pair of hobbits walked without regard to the long, tortured memories of the life surrounding them. Merry and Pippin were so relieved at their fortuitous escape that they barely gave their immediate surroundings any thought, save for the younger hobbit's unconscious scans of the undergrowth for anything that might be construed as food. "No mushrooms, no berries - I haven't seen so much as even a wilted little crabapple since we walked in here," Peregrine muttered under his breath, looking into the thick branches that blocked his view of the sky as if those twisted limbs hid an answer to his belly's nagging gurgle.
"Always thinking with your stomach, Pip," Merry laughed, giving his cousin a light tap in the abdomen. "There's plenty of moss and lichen." The elder hobbit plucked a low hanging tendril of the former and passed it under his nose, as if savoring its aroma before dangling the unappetizing growth before his companion.
"Ugh." Pippin made a disgusted face, turning slightly green when he smelled the rotting, bone-colored plant material. "There's not much else here, though. No animals. No flowers. I haven't even heard any birds. Just big trees, rocks, and moss."
Tossing the offending "food" into the carpet of old leaves; Merry was inclined to agree with him. The woods would seem rather empty, compared to more lush glades like Lothlorien, if it were not for the staggering maze of gnarled, moss-covered trees that cast the forest floor into perpetual gloom. Merriadoc began to fear that he and his cousin had escaped sure death in the hands of the orcs only to find sure death by starvation in these thick woods. Although Merry thought that it had been starved into submission during the long, arduous march with the orcs, his stomach began to complain against this train of thought.
"You know, you're right. And I am getting a little hungry. Why don't we head for that big cliff over there? It looks a bit sunnier than the rest of this forest. Maybe we'll find a berry bush or something," he said, pointing out a sheer, stony hill where a meager wisp of pale sunlight fought its way through the tangled braches.
"We've got a little bit of lembas left," Pippin noted with a hint of his normal optimistic good humor returning. "We could have a picnic, as if we were camping out on the edge of the old forest, just like we did when we were boys." The flicker of wisdom and lost innocence Merry had noted during their escape from the Uruk Hai came once more over his cousin's face, and Meriadoc paused for a moment in mourning for those spirited, jovial youngsters. They had both seen too much to ever be "just like when they were boys" again. Dear old Peregrine was trying to keep up appearances, though, just to keep up their badly bruised spirits. "Come on, lazy legs, I'll race you to the top," he laughed, and Merry followed after.
It was indeed much brighter as the young hobbits scampered up the rocky, barren hillside, which brightened their hearts, even if the ledge offered neither berries nor other type of refreshment to soothe their complaining stomachs. This steep lookout seemed even more barren than the rest of the forest, with no life making itself evident above the lowest ledge save for a gnarled old tree at the summit: tall, thin, and bearded with a long tail of moss. Merry did not recognize its type, for the leaves were tattered and drooping, perhaps an oak or a very old elm, but he never had seen an oak with bark quite so scarred and knotty as that. But then, of course, Merry would have been the first to admit he knew very little of trees. Sam was the one who spent all his time in a garden; the young Brandybuck only went into the wild clutches of nature in order to procure frogs or other slimy, scaly, and many-legged horrors for his supply of pranks.
Pippin was the first to reach the top of the cliff, tapping the tree before his cousin. From the mischievous smile on his younger cousin's face, Merry expected to never hear the end of Pip's bragging, but then to the two hobbits' mutual and complete surprise, the tree tapped them back.
It picked them up in a pair of spreading branches, blinked large yellow eyes that reminded Merry of a gigantic owl, and then looked straight at them as if they were a pair of interestingly shaped bugs. To be more precise: bugs it was considering pinning to a tree to add to a collection. Then, quite unmistakably, the tree spoke. "Hurrrum..." it said in a deep, whispering, ponderous voice. "What have we here? What has disturbed my rest? We must not be hasty now... I have heard word of orcs, and of humans, several of such creatures in my forest, but these do not appear to be the former or the latter. Are they some type of orcish spy? Those tree-cutting, axe-wielding, flame-burning, branch-breaking orcs have been in my forest, but I must not be hasty. What sort of creatures could these be? Too small and hairy for a human, but not enough for a badger..."
"I'm a Took, sir, Peregrine Took. My cousin Merriadoc Brandybuck and I are hobbits, although normally folks call me Pippin, or just Pip, and him Merry." As usual, Pippin was the first to find his tongue. Whether or not he had managed to do so by sticking his foot into his mouth in front of a very strong tree that was holding them both between its fingerlike branches was beyond Merry's current knowledge. "I've never seen a talking tree before, sir, are you the only one who can? Merry and I did meet a tree that tried to eat us once, but that's a whole different story."
"Hurrum, hobbits, I have never heard of hobbits before. They are not spoken of in the old poems, the lists of names of all the creatures." The owl eyed tree mumbled to itself. "Leaf and lichen, root and twig, how strange and hasty these are. Giving away their proper names with no thought or word of having the kindness returned. How do they know that I will be careful with them? There are folk in this forest that are kind to hasty strangers and those who are not, you know. But curious, one cannot fault them for that. Hurrum, hroom, now, how to answer the small hasty folk?" the being pondered. "I am called Fangorn by the elves, or Treebeard, in your tongue, if you prefer. My real name would take much too long to say, for names tell stories in my language, and my story is a long one, indeed. But I am no talking tree as much as a shepherd of trees, the eldest of my people. We ents are not a prodigious species, never have been, since we are long-lived, and there have been no new ents since the entwives were lost to us. But how is it that you came to be forgotten by the other free folk?"
Merry shrugged and decided to speak up. The ent creature seemed as odd to Meriadoc as he must to it, but the slow thinking, slow moving old Treebeard made him think of one of his numerous great-uncles, who was willing to humor the little ones with a story of his past, but was quickly worn out by observing wild childish antics. "Many small creatures tend to be forgotten, none more so than hobbits, for our folk generally wish to be left alone in their hobbit-holes."
"That sounds like a very proper wish, indeed." Fangorn gently placed the hobbits upon his gnarled, woody shoulders. From this new vantage point, Merry could see that even if the ent only moved slowly, his long strides had carried his small passengers quite a distance from the hill as they talked.
"Now where are we going?" Merry questioned himself, not even certain he had said it aloud until the tree-shepherd responded. Pippin watched the rate of their progress avidly, counting the giant's long strides as the ent glided along the forest, each pace starting from his long root-like toes and then continuing through his stiff, tree-trunk legs. Merry imagined the walk might look very comical indeed, if any could keep pace with Treebeard to watch.
"We are headed for one of my homes, deep within the forest. I like to hear of news from the outside world, but not too quickly, not too hastily. I cannot bend to sit, but I imagine you young hobbits may wish to rest," Fangorn replied to Merry's query. "Root and twig, but I am becoming somewhat hasty in my ancient years, even as my oldest friends get slower and slower, becoming more like the trees they guard. I mean you no harm, my hasty young hobbits; we will be quite safe from orc attacks where we are headed, and I would prefer not to be interrupted."
"How far is it to your home?" Pippin asked, losing count of the ent's great strides.
"I suppose it would be considered far by your reckoning," Treebeard replied after a few more "hurrums." "It is very deep in the forest, on the side of another – what do your folk call them again? Oh, yes, hills – hill, just on the edge of the mountains. Why do you ask?"
"Pippin and I just don't have very many supplies," Merry replied. "We only have a little bit of food, although I suppose it will stretch to almost five days, as long as we've got water." He bit his lip as he dug through his pockets for lembas crumbs.
"And we don't have any sleeping rolls nor blankets, neither," Peregrine added helpfully.
"Do not worry too much about those things, young hobbits," Fangorn's rumbling voice contained the hint of laughter. "My home has very nice places to sleep, and I have a potion that is exceptionally good for growing things: hroom, yes, I believe my entdraught will keep you green and growing for quite some time."
"But that doesn't settle the matter of the journey along the way," Merry argued.
"Our journey is nearly at an end, young Merry," the ent chided him, and indeed, Treebeard and his hasty passengers were fast approaching a garden, in which the bounties of the forest were gathered in a riotous celebration of life, contrasting pleasantly with the grim, gnarled trees that made up the rest of Fangorn Forest. "Simply because I am deliberate in my thoughts does not mean that I am slow to action once my mind is set." The tree-shepherd who shared his name with his forest laughed, and then a reminiscent expression came over his craggy wooden visage. "This garden once belonged to Fimbrethil, one of the most beauteous ent-maidens it has ever been my pleasure to meet. She and I used to take long walks in this forest when the world was young. But that was before she and the other entwives were lost to us."
"How did they die?" Even Merry, who admitted to himself that he was still quite young and hasty, flinched at his cousin's forthright phrasing of his question.
"I did not say that the entwives were dead; simply that they were lost to us," Treebeard corrected. His deep voice, which reminded Meriadoc of whispering leaves, now took on tones of thunder, but quickly softened. "We ents care for the trees and the wild things, but the entwives have always preferred order amongst their charges. They were the first to grow farms and gardens, and taught the other races, as well. On their last journey, for the ent-wives were ever wandering about the lands of the free peoples, they disappeared and were never heard from again. I believe they were headed north, but how far and for how long I cannot say."
"The Shire's in the north," Merry spoke up as Fangorn's yellow eyes wandered regretfully over the garden and the wild guardian trees surrounding its colorful, neat rows. "Our folk have always been fond of gardens and farms. Perhaps the entwives went somewhere around there," the hobbit attempted to reassure his gigantic new friend. Treebeard smiled slightly, but remained in silent thought.
"Speaking of farms and gardens," Pippin said with a hand upon his belly, "One thing that we love the most about them is the food they give us. There wouldn't happen to be such food here, would there?" he asked hopefully.
"It is yet much too early in the season for this little garden plot to provide you with good things to eat," Treebeard smiled gently at his guests. "The birds and creatures that inhabit this patch of forest will probably have eaten anything that matured too early in here anyhow. But if you will join me in my abode, there is a draught that I have been told outstrips most other forms of nourishment awaiting us. Let us retire, and you can tell me of the events beyond my forest."
Entering a ring of thin, vertical rowans that formed a living wall at the back of the garden, the three entered a large, and to the hobbits' hole-dwelling eyes, most unusual house. The walls were made of living trees, growing close enough together that their branches intertwined to form a solid structure that would be impenetrable to the worst of a rainstorm, and the ceiling constructed of their tightly woven upper boughs. There was no furniture as Merry and Pippin recognized such, but soft piles of leaves and a natural, mossy material made wonderful sitting places for the small travelers as Treebeard gently removed them from his shoulders. With frequent interruptions from one another, Merry and Pippin began to narrate their adventures so far for Treebeard. He appeared to recognize the name of Gandalf – "The only wizard who really ever cared for the trees," as Fangorn sadly referred to him – and wondered why the hobbits spoke of him in the past tense. "You speak as if he were a tale that has come to its end," the ent studied them bemusedly.
"And a sad end it was," Merry replied mournfully. "He fell into darkness while leading us out of Moria." Pippin sniffed and nodded, saluting an unseen memory with his mug of entdraught before polishing off the last half of the container in one sip.
"Wizards are full of clever tricks, young Meriadoc," Fangorn replied with a gentle twinkle in his eyes. "And Mithrandir is more clever than most. I would not be so hasty as to count him out for good yet."
"Gandalf would need more than cleverness to make it out of that fall in one piece," Merry replied. Treebeard did not comment, but nor did he abandon a faint, knowing smile as he sipped deeply from his much larger glass of clear entdraught. "But anyways, after we got out of Moria, we entered Lothlorien. It's a very pretty forest, but the lady who rules there isn't highly thought of by most humans or dwarves. Gimli was ready to jump at every birdcall upon our entry, and I heard that Mistress Chev'yahna had a right row with Lady Galadriel."
"Well, I heard that it was with Boromir, but they seem to have made up pretty well, eh, Merry?" Pippin interrupted with a lewd wink as he elbowed his cousin. "I don't know why some folks don't like Galadriel. She was really nice to us," he continued thoughtfully, leaning his refilled cup against his bulging stomach.
"Are she and young Celeborn still taking care of the trees, then?" Treebeard asked.
"Yes, it's really beautiful in there," Merry replied, trying to fend off the satisfied drowsiness that came with a full stomach after so long on a starvation diet. "All those yellow leaves..." he trailed off.
"Root and twig, I am glad to hear of that small comfort at least," the ent replied. "Now if we could only find a way to make Saruman remember his duty to the forests. Hurroom. You were lucky to encounter such friendly Wargs. The wolves about Isengard have started to not only stop defending their homes from the tree-killing, branch-spoiling, axe-wielding orcs; I have heard tell that they welcome them and help with their destruction. Well, the moot will find a way to settle this."
"Pardon me, but what's a moot, Treebeard?" Merry butted in to the ent's rambles.
"A moot is the great ent council, in which we debate matters of extreme importance to our society. We do not have them often, and decide upon a course of action in an even greater time than the moot takes, but in the morning we go to decide what we should do, if anything, in reaction to the affairs of men, elves, and orcs."
"But I thought that you were on our side," Pippin said, surprised.
"'Our side?' I did not realize that you had already drawn sides," Treebeard's yellow eyes took in the young hobbit owlishly. "If it comes to that, I suppose I am on my own side, and that of the forest. But my side and your side may go along with one another, for a time yet. Tomorrow, we shall see for certain when the ents meet for our moot."
"I think we've come by this way before," Sam mumbled, scanning the rocky badlands. Given the distinct lack of paths through the barren wastelands of Emyn Muil, where the ground was fissured and mounded sharply at random intervals, as if shaped by the whimsy of a malign, maddened hand out of daggers and blacksmith's detritus, it was highly possible that their battered hairy feet had indeed passed through this crevasse before. A constantly gloomy, overcast sky had prevented Frodo and Sam from using the sun for a guiding compass.
The lack of sunlight also left them chilled to the bone. Frodo missed the warmth of his old home in Bag-End more every day that he trudged through the hilly wasteland that offered no shelter from icy winds. He missed it even more upon drizzly nights with naught but a worn-out sleeping roll, moldering from its exposure to the elements. It still quite often amazed the hobbit to think of how far away Bag-End and the wealth of the Shire was as he took stock of their dwindling supplies. But to keep that home safe, he knew he must continue to turn his feet away from it, down the dreary, dangerous road to Mordor. The extent of their travels and occasional worries about supplies was all Frodo allowed himself to concentrate upon.
Certainly, the two hobbits needed to keep a watch out for mysterious followers, but whenever the Ring Bearer turned his thoughts to such matters, his ears were filled with the shrieks of the Nazgül, his eyes blinded with visions of the burning, lidless eye, and his burden seemed to redouble in its weight. Who would have thought that such a little ring could become so heavy? Frodo was embarrassed to mention such a silly fancy to Sam. Gods knew that his poor friend had taken on enough as it was, without having to comfort Frodo's flighty imagination. He knew that if it got much heavier, Sam would offer to help Frodo carry it. For some reason, this idea sent shivers down Frodo's spine. The older hobbit tried to reassure himself that this was only because he did not want Sam exposed to the temptations he had to live with, but he was beginning to fear that the Ring had finally driven him completely mad, just as it had Gollum and Boromir. Frodo surely could not be any stronger of will than Lady Galadriel, whatever she might say, and even the wise elven lady had nearly fallen under its spell from a single encounter. How could one small hobbit do any better?
At least he was still sane enough to question his sanity, Frodo thought dryly. That would have to be enough. There was nothing else. There was no one else who could take the Ring. This bleak mantra was all that kept him going at times. Yet he could not go on forever like this. Blind wandering had gotten them into Emyn Muil, but to advance past it, they would need some surer method. Frodo and Sam were only a pair of village-dwelling hobbits, when it came down to the quick of things. Sam's botanical knowledge did not extend far past the kitchen garden, and Frodo could not even navigate his way about the library at Bag-End at times, much less determine a path through this endless, featureless maze of rocks.
"I believe you're right, Sam. What do you say we stop here for the evening, instead of going over the same path again?" Frodo yawned. "At least it may appear fresh under a new sun."
"But the sun hasn't set yet, Mister Frodo!" Sam replied, approaching the nearby rocky wall to begin another fruitless ascent. "For that matter, I haven't never even seen it rise since we entered this place, and I haven't been sleeping in late, neither."
"I know. We have been hardy wanderers, for all the darkness along the route, haven't we?" Frodo helped boost the larger hobbit up the cliff before throwing the packs up to him. Larger no longer contained the connotation of fatter, Frodo noted as he reached for Sam's calloused hand at the apex of his own climb. They had both lost weight as their supplies dwindled dangerously low, but they had hardily and uncomplainingly adapted. "Strider would be proud of us," the older hobbit thought to himself.
"He would be, and rightly so," Sam echoed, letting Frodo know that he had unwittingly spoken the last part aloud. The questions and concerns accompanying this statement went gratefully unspoken, but were written plainly upon the younger hobbit's open round face.
"I'm sure they're all right Sam, Aragorn and all the others. He wouldn't let them come to any harm. I just don't want them to have to suffer the effects of the Ring. I don't want you to have to bear its weight." Frodo attempted to explain himself to those large, questioning eyes. Of their own detached will, his fingers crept towards the burden hung around his throat.
"It's getting heavier, ain't it?" Sam's mind did not work quickly, but when it grasped a fact, he fastened upon it like a deranged, starving Warg upon the throat of the last elk in the forest. The younger hobbit stared at Frodo, holding his eyes as tightly as his hand. The Ring bearer stood for a moment in that precarious position at the edge of the cliff, with only one foot and Sam's hand assuring him of safety, the other hairy toes wedged uncertainly in a narrow gap in the cliff wall. Frodo knew his mental situation was no surer than this awkward place in the climb. Mentally, as well as physically, he might be able to make it without the trust and support of his best friend, but given how things had been going so far, he doubted it more and more every day of their journey.
"It is," Frodo replied at last. "Its power is getting stronger. I fear the Ring, Sam, but I fear losing it worse. Sometimes, I don't know if I'll be able to complete this quest. I mean; what if I get there and I can't give it up? I could end up as mad as Isildur or Gollum or Boro-" Frodo swallowed the end of the last name, but it was too late. Sam stared at him levelly; knowing his suspicions about the human had been confirmed.
"So that's why we left them," he said simply, nodding. "I always knew that Boromir was a bad apple and no mistake, Mister Frodo, but I think the others would've liked to know where we were off to. They deserved a little trust. I can understand you wantin' to be a little more secret-like after Boromir came after you, but you can't judge the whole barrel by one bad apple, beggin' your pardon, Mister Frodo, sir."
"There just wasn't time," the older hobbit started, unable to explain the treachery of the Ring and the blind panic he had felt. He wasn't sure he would want to explain his increasing paranoia and the sympathy he was beginning to feel for the man, even if he could. That led to too many questions of power and strength, questions Frodo was not sure he could answer objectively.
"Do you still trust me, Frodo?" Sam asked bluntly, a hint of fear in those honest brown eyes.
"More than I trust myself, Samwise," Frodo squeezed his best friend's hand before they laid out camp for the night.
They fell asleep soon after, not hearing the muted, maddened mutterings from the cliff above them. "Thieves, precious, nasssty little thieveses. They stole it from us, precious, and we wants it back, gollum." Long, spidery fingers propelled the spindly, half-starved form down the cliff wall, large bloodshot yellow eyes narrowed in the moonlight. Those same bony hands reached for Frodo and his hidden burden, ready to choke the life from the sleeping hobbit. Sam snorted in his sleep, and the pale bringer of death and vengeance retreated with as much speed as it had begun its strike. "Mustn't risk it. Too risky, gollum," it intoned in a raspy whisper that ended in a muffled cough. The yellow eyes lingered longingly upon Frodo's throat. "We wantsss it. We will haves it, precious, yes. No more waiting." Once again the spidery creature inched towards the sleeping hobbit. Its foul breath, smelling of rotten fish, brushed over its unaware prey, disturbing the hobbits' sleep. Sam groaned again, causing Frodo to whimper and shiver in sympathy. As the yellowed, jagged claws approached their target, the Ring bearer bumped into his friend and guardian, awaking Samwise from his uneasy rest.
Sam's eyes flashed open, and before the gardener realized what he was doing, he found himself wrestling with a pale wraith of skin and bone. He grasped at the skeletal arms and threw punches at the exposed ribcage, but he received more bites and slaps than he could hope to keep up with. Gasping for breath, Sam found those long, snakelike fingers wrapped tightly about his trachea, cutting off all his air. Suddenly the phantom assailant dropped hard to the ground, with Sam still loosely held in its iron clutches, and then the hobbit at last felt the death grip upon his throat ease up.
"Let him go." Sam recognized the form of his best friend, sword in hand, and snarl of rage upon his usually genteel features, but that tone was too steely to be truly from the soft-spoken elder hobbit. "You recognize this sword, don't you, Gollum? This is Sting, the blade that almost killed you before. It will kill you now if you do not let him go. I know what you seek, and why. I am the one you want, not Sam." Frodo's short sword was pressed against the beast's throat, but his face softened, and Samwise thought he detected a hint of growing sympathy in his friend's tone.
The creature gagged, its oversized eyes widening further. Sam drew his own breath in raggedly, pushing the now limp, bony fingers away from him. "So the little sneaker shows his face at last," he growled as he stood. "Guess he ain't man enough to face us when we're awake. He knows we'd've tied him up and left him, after we gave him a thrashin' suitable for tryin' to hurt you, Mister Frodo. I recommend we do at least the first part. We can't afford to have him followin' us."
"No!" the creature formed the first recognizable word the two hobbits had heard out of it, then curled into a ball; covering its pinched face with its thin hands. "You can't leave us. They will find us! We can't let them find us," it wailed in grating, pitiful tones. "They will take us back to the black place, back to Mordor."
"Do you know the way to Mordor?" Frodo asked, lowering his sword. He never took his eyes of the creature's lantern-like orbs as it nodded rapidly and made the noise that named it in the back of its throat once more.
"Beggin' your pardon sir, but have you lost your marbles, Mister Frodo? That thing just tried to kill us," Sam shot his best friend a look before turning his suspicious gaze back towards the unwelcome follower.
"We need a guide, Sam. We've been wandering through Emyn Muil for far too long. This thing – Gollum – will guide us out of here and into Mordor. We'll keep him tied up with the elven rope to make sure he doesn't try anything. He'd follow us anyway, Sam. We'd best make use of him," Frodo tried to explain his more rational reasons for bringing the little cretin along, but the overriding motive was the strange sense of brotherhood he felt with this emaciated, yellow-eyed murderer who smelled of raw, rotten fish and centuries of filth. Gollum had done it all for the Ring, and Frodo was barely beginning to see what the golden band could motivate him to do.