The East Gate
Authors The Eastgaters
Cast list
Frodo – Baylor
Samwise – Budgielover
Pippin – Marigold
Merry – Llinos
Legolas – Mainframe
Aragorn – Nilramiel
Boromir – Rachel Stonebreaker
Gimli – Q

Beta: Marigold
Story Editor: Llinos

Chapter 3 Counting The Cost

Boromir looked back at the hobbit and the breath caught in his throat. Peregrin Took, youngest and most inexperienced of the Fellowship, stood grimly staring at the wall of rocks, still gripping two short swords so fiercely his knuckles strained against the skin. He looked again, hard, trying to recall the image of a carefree youngling, so recently laughing and joking, bolstering the spirits of the Company when he was not frustrating them with his tremendous energy and incessant questions. This bloodied and weary young warrior, standing exhausted before him, jolted Boromir to the core and made him angry beyond words.

For all that he had taken Peregrin and Meriadoc under his guidance, teaching them the ways of battle and swordsmanship, never had he seriously thought either hobbit would be tested as they had been this day. His tutelage was rather an exercise to pass the time and to give the lads something to do more than it was to prepare them for what had actually befallen them. He shook his head wearily. They had indeed taken their lessons to heart and proved themselves in battle. Yes, they'd learned their lessons well.

He'd seen the copious amounts of red blood, not orc blood, at the spot where Merry had fallen. He suspected Peregrin had noticed the blood also but he, Boromir, was not about to question the youngling on the subject of just how much blood a hobbit could lose and still live. But the young one grieved. Peregrin looked up from his position against the back wall with an expression that broke Boromir's heart. The man had seen this fatal expression on many a youth after a first battle. It was a serious time in any warrior's life. A false word, a misstep, could crack the fragile mask of indifference, sending the lad over the edge of sanity.

Yet despite Peregrin's grief for his fallen cousin, despite the hopelessness of their current situation, despite the grim ferocity and carnage of a battle, this...this warrior-child still held himself upright, looking determinedly to Boromir for guidance. Well then, guidance he would have, for Boromir could not bear to think that the exuberant youngling he had once known would be lost completely because of today's gruesome events. Though he knew with deep sadness that the young one was forever changed.

"Peregrin... Pippin. Come away from the wall lad. I'm going to see to our friend here lazing about in the rubble and I want you to look about this place and give me a report."

Pippin nodded once, just a jerk of his head really, and relaxed his stance, looking about him first from where he stood, getting his bearings, and leaving Boromir to the task of helping poor Gimli. He had been uncertain what he should do next, knowing that what he wanted to do most was crawl into a dark corner and cry himself to the point of insensibility and never wake up again, but that would help no one. He was so grateful that Boromir had given him a task, it would keep his mind from the others…from Merry and Gandalf especially, at least a bit longer.

-00000-

Sam continued to fuss over his master, finding comfort in the old, familiar patterns of scolding alternated with entreaties that he had always employed when Frodo was hurt or ill or merely out of sorts from too late a night studying or spending an evening at The Green Dragon with his cousins.

How he wished this were nothing more than an aching head from too many mugs of ale. An ale would go down a treat now, it would. Maybe if he and Frodo each drank about a score, they'd wake up and all this would have been just a nightmare. Sam had no ale to offer, but he reached for his waterskin, determined that his master would at least have some liquid.

"Mr Frodo, you drink this, now." Frodo took the waterskin from him but never looked up, his eyes still wide and glazed. "Master, take a drink. You're dry from all that fighting and running." Nothing. With a sigh, Sam sat himself down and tilted the waterskin to his master's lips, then took a drink himself.

Sam's eyes were drawn to the drama taking place several yards away. He almost couldn't see Mr Merry between the elf and Aragorn. But their bowed heads and hunched shoulders did not bode well as their hands moved quickly over his master's cousin. There was an awful lot of blood – an awful lot!

He should offer to help, he supposed. Build a fire and boil water, or such. And shouldn't somebody be watching the Gates? There were still orcs in there, maybe hundreds of them. But he was so tired. Now that he had space to breathe, the cut above his eye burned fiercely, and his arms and legs felt weighted with stone. He hadn't even sheathed his sword. With a grimace, Sam scrubbed the bloody blade on the ground, then wiped it with his cloak and returned the weapon to its scabbard.

Suddenly uneasy, he stood and looked around. They hadn't come very far from the Gates. What was going on inside there, he didn't want to think. Young Master Pip, just a lad. The others, too, of course, but to Sam's hobbit heart, it was thinking of young Pip that blurred his vision.

And Frodo – what must his master be feeling? This silence was unnerving. He should be weeping or swearing or, or – something. Not just sitting there, covered in filth, like all the light had gone out of the world.

If Frodo lost both his cousins… well, that just didn't bear thinking about. Gandalf, then Master Pip and Mr Merry. He'd never get over it. Sam knew his master well enough that he knew Frodo would go on, continue the Quest, because he had promised and because he had to. But if they ever did reach that fire mountain, he'd likely throw himself in after that evil thing he carried.

Sam couldn't do anything about that, but he could about the black blood that covered them both. Aragorn would call him if they needed a fire, or if there was anything Sam could do. Keeping a wary eye on the Gates, he clasped Frodo's shoulder and crouched down directly in his line of sight. "Sir, there's a little stream over there. I'm going to fill up our waterskins and see about getting us cleaned up." Frodo nodded but did not reply.

Sam filled the skins with the freezing cold water, flowing clean and swift over the shallow bed. Snow still lay in patches on the ground, feeding the stream with droplets of melting ice. After a moment's hesitation and a quick check on Frodo, Sam waded out into the stream and washed his feet and hands, tried to wipe the mask of blood off his face. The water beneath him turned pink and he watched as the rose-coloured rivulets were swiftly carried away.

Shivering, Sam sloshed out and filled his largest cooking pot with water. Returning to his master, he knelt and gathered up the cold hands he had been stroking. "I'm just going to clean you up a little, sir. The water's a mite cold, but you've got to get that filth off you." Frodo did not protest, allowing Sam to first wash his face and hands, and then carefully sponge away the blood that had saturated his clothes, turning the brown cloth black. The smell was sickening.

Feeling like he was washing one of his sister Marigold's dolls from all the response he received from Frodo, Sam tried to keep watch and also see what was happening with Mr Merry. The Big Folk were talking softly but he was too far away to hear. Looking at how gently Legolas cradled Mr Merry's head, Sam felt another stab of guilt. He had had to stay by Mr Frodo, but he regretted not having been able to save Merry. And Pippin.

Sam sighed deeply and spared a moment to rub at his eyes. Mr Merry though, he wasn't dead yet, and his master's family were stubborn if they were anything. Still, there was so much blood it was likely that the wound was a fatal one. Watching Aragorn bend over Merry's form, Sam feared that it might be so.

-00000-

Pippin began to walk about the chamber methodically, unconsciously rubbing the soles of his feet upon the stone floor as he walked to rid them of drying orc blood, his sharp eyes taking in every detail so that Boromir would know that he could be depended upon.

Merry had always been the wise and responsible one and had tried to teach Pippin to be responsible too, the way he had taught him so many other important things.

Wisdom, Merry had always said, was something that Pip possessed as much as he did himself, but that Pippin had just not grown into yet. Responsibility was another matter. That was something that was under Pip's own control and, although everyone had lapses in acting responsibly, there were times that a hobbit just could not afford to let that happen. This was one of those times, Pippin knew. What was he going to do without Merry to teach him about things?

For now he would just have to rely on Boromir and Gimli, since he had lost his Merry…No! Don't think about that. Be responsible. What would Boromir need to know…think about that, not Merry, not yet…Boromir hasn't said that we could stand down yet…

The source of the dim light was a single arrow slit high above them; that was important for fresh air, and to gauge the time, at least during the day, but much too small and high for any of them to squeeze through or use to send a signal.

He could see no other apparent exit. There was a large cupboard against the North wall and a broken pile of splintered wood, some of it still bound together showing that once it had been a ladder that one could climb to reach the narrow ledge directly beneath the arrow slit, a few recesses in the walls that had been shelves - or no, wait…perhaps they were meant as places to sit – too high for a hobbit but the right height for a dwarf to sit upon comfortably.

Pippin revised his way of thinking and, pretending he was Gimli's height, looked around again at the places he had already investigated to make sure he had missed nothing of importance by seeing things from a hobbit's perspective in this realm of dwarves.

Sure enough, in the South wall he found a niche above his head, too high for him to see into or reach comfortably, not that he wanted to feel around with one of his hands in any sort of dark space in this frightening place. Laying both swords down by the wall, he went to the ruined bits of the ladder, found one section with three rungs intact and dragged it over to the niche.

Climbing up carefully, uncertain if it would bear even his weight and not wanting to fall and possibly injure himself, which would be very inconvenient right now, he was rewarded with the discovery of several candles at the very back. They would need these candles when it got dark, especially if Gimli was injured, and Pippin was worried that the dwarf had not got to his feet immediately on his own, rocks weighing him down or no. It would be too risky to make a fire with any of the bits of the ladder as the smoke might creep through some crack or seam in the rock, the smell alerting the orcs to the fact that they still lived.

He stuck two of the candles down the front of his shirt should he need them and left the rest so that they would be easy to find after it became dark. Pippin was notorious as a lad for losing his box of vestas so Merry had always insisted he carry two, one in his pack, and one in the inner pocket of his cloak, so that he was never caught without, and he had kept the habit. He put the small box from his cloak pocket in the niche next to the candles where it would be handy. Merry was so very smart…had been so very smart…No! Don't even think such things… Pippin picked up the two swords and continued his search.

The large cabinet against the North wall had heavy doors that Pippin thought it best he let one of his bigger companions open, but above it he thought he could see a dark opening. He backed up, switched his own sword to his left hand along with Merry's for a moment, wiped his filthy finger on his cloak, gave it a lick, grimacing at the foul taste, and held it up. Yes! There was the faintest breath of air coming from above – a vent or air hole of some kind. So there were two sources of air into their prison.

One more corner to explore, partially hidden by a little heap of rubble that Pippin could see had been broken out of the wall long ago and never cleared away. He wondered with a shudder if it had happened when the orcs were slaughtering the dwarves that had tried to reclaim the Mines. Edging carefully around the pile, uncertain if, for all that it seemed so old a fall, that his movements might not bring down more rock, he found what might be the greatest discovery of all. Lid intact, there was an outline on the floor identical to the well that Pip had dropped his foolish stone into, years ago it seemed.

He knew he could not budge the lid, and did not bother trying, but the fact that the orcs seemed to actually use this room on occasion seemed to him to bode well. And next to it was a bucket with a rope attached for drawing up water! Pippin touched the bucket and it was dry but that meant nothing, as any moisture would have evaporated in the amount of time they had been fighting, and this room seemed little used anyway, but that the rope had not rotted away was surely a good sign the well was a true source of water. Finding the well reminded him how angry Gandalf had been when he had dropped his stone, and the horror Pippin had felt in the chamber where the orcs had first fallen upon them.

It was his fault, all his fault! That had been his thought, but as he moved the hobbits into position behind him Gandalf had run a hand through his curls and reassured him that it was not so, almost as if he could read Pippin's mind. That it had just been a matter of time before they were set upon. Gandalf never lied, not even to spare someone's feelings, so Pippin felt no guilt that he may have been the cause of the attack. Thinking of Gandalf was nearly as bad as thinking of Merry, so Pippin pushed the thought away.

He stood for a moment in the centre of the room and gave a look around to make sure he had not missed anything of importance, then went over to where Gimli was trapped, Boromir still moving stones carefully, not wanting to cause another slide. Finally Pippin let himself sit down, heaving a sigh of relief. How long had it been since he had sat down…when they had broken their fast, many hours ago he realised.

Taking a corner of his shredded cloak and beginning to carefully clean his blade as Boromir had taught him a good soldier does as soon as possible after a battle, trying hard not to look at the gruesome gunk that covered every inch of its once gleaming surface, he began to tell his companions his finds, not leaving out even the tiniest detail. He hoped that he had done a good enough job, but trusted Boromir would tell him if he had not.

-00000-

Frodo was numb. He sat, unmoving, unable to move, seeing nothing, knowing only that his Sam was beside him, that Sam still lived and was talking gently to him, stroking his hand, but he could make no response. There was a welcome, cool taste of water trickling down his throat but where it came from Frodo had no real idea. Sam, his mind finally decided, hours later, or maybe seconds. He did not know and did not care.

All he did know was that people he loved had died for him and that knowledge was unbearable. How could he live with that? Gandalf. Merry. Pippin. He could not make himself look yet to see how many others. He heard a soft voice speaking to Sam and Sam responding, but still he could not look to see who this other voice was that had survived or look about him to face the truth of who else had fallen besides the ones he already knew that he had lost. The ones dearest to his heart, as if the evil that drove these monsters had known exactly who to take from his side, the dear ones that were the most beloved to him. He thanked the Valar that Sam had been spared, but he had a vague recollection of blood that was not orc blood pouring from a wound on Sam's head. He could lose him yet too. The thought brought him a bit nearer to reality – Sam might need his help.

But reality hurt too much and he could not seem to reach it. And Sam seemed to be gone now too, so perhaps he had just imagined that he had been there beside him and Sam was dead as well. No… he was back now, and Frodo felt a soothing cloth glide over his skin, washing away some of the evidence of the morning's nightmarish events, though it took away none of his pain. Frodo made no protest, and let Sam do what he would. It made no difference and caring for Frodo always brought his Sam comfort. Let Sam find what comfort he could.

He saw over and over the fall of Gandalf to the nightmare creature made of flames. He would never forget Merry's single, agonised scream, Frodo not even able to see where the lad had met his end, Pippin's cries of despair for the loss of the other half of his soul, and then making the choice to give up his desperate struggle to reach Merry in order to protect his eldest cousin, ultimately sacrificing himself to the hordes of orcs so that Frodo might escape and keep the Ring from falling into the hands of evil.

Merry was gone. His baby cousin was gone. Little Pippin could not have survived what Frodo had glimpsed happening as he ran like a coward leaving a child, one of his own kin, to die for him as Merry, just come into his young adulthood, had also died for him. Another unbearable image, this one imagined as he had not seen Merry fall, yet still replaying itself over and over in his mind. And the sound of Pip screaming as he himself ran from the chamber. So many horrific images and sounds, the despair and unbearable empty finality of death. All because of the Ring.

From the moment Frodo had taken the burden upon himself at the Council a part of him had felt a certainty that he would not return from this Quest or even come near to achieving his goal, though he refused to acknowledge the feeling was there. The positive outlook and cheerful spirit of his kind would simply not permit it. There was always hope. And his companions had done nothing and said nothing to dim this hope, for which Frodo was grateful, knowing if doubt gained too deep a stranglehold that there was no possibility of success.

He suspected that the Ring Itself was responsible for these dark thoughts he held at bay, hoping to cause him to succumb to despair, but his friends and companions had done their best to distract him, especially Pippin with his constant happy chatter and songs and boundless inquisitiveness, Merry his willing accomplice in all things, just as in the Shire. How could Frodo go on now, without them? Without Gandalf, friend, guide, advisor… A small part of his mind whispered he may as well concede defeat now, but that would mean that the valour that had allowed him to escape from the Mines was wasted and the rest of his mind refused to let that be so, and he struggled with all of his will to throw off his despair and return to the present to face what he must.

And as he struggled he became aware of voices, of cries of agony and distress …a familiar voice greatly altered by pain and confusion and a desperation…" Pip?… please… Frodo…?"

The voice was Merry's! Merry was here, by some miracle, and calling for him! The shock brought Frodo to complete reality and he suddenly registered the scene before him. Merry was on the ground, clearly in agony, and Legolas and Aragorn were kneeling beside him. Merry was alive! And Merry wanted Frodo. He had not lost them both, though Aragorn looked grim and Legolas was distressed, trying to be calm and attempting to quiet Merry's confused flailing. Merry needed him, was calling for him! In an instant Frodo was at his cousin's side, all thoughts of his own anguish forgotten, his concern turned completely to this beloved young cousin… horrified by what he saw, the blood, a dagger, Merry's face contorted in great pain. Frodo took one of his cousin's hands in his own and whispered soothingly, "Hush, lad, hush, my Merry, Frodo is here."

-00000-

Boromir was worried beyond what he would admit out loud, even if it were merely in an attempt to bait the normally humourless dwarf. Gimli, skilled fighter, reliable soldier, taciturn dwarf, had not pulled himself from the wreckage of the once seemingly indestructible arch. Something was seriously amiss. He followed Gimli's silent nod and looked more closely. There did not appear to be a tremendous amount of damage to the leg, though it was still trapped under some rubble. No blood, no obvious break. It was still there... The grim thought of a legless Gimli flitted across the man's mind.

Yes, they'd all three managed to escape irreparable physical harm – unlike Meriadoc. It seemed doubtful to Boromir the plucky and calculating youngster would have survived so much blood loss. Though no expert in the matter of hobbits, especially in blood loss, they were small creatures; Boromir feared the effect of losing shrewd Meriadoc would have on the rest of the journey. Many a time he'd been impressed by the hobbit's common sense and voracious need for facts and details. Meriadoc had learned blade craft fast. Faster than anyone Boromir had ever taught. He proved a master at maps and had a natural understanding of the nuances of travelling in a large group while attempting to remain stealthy. He instinctively knew how to quiet down an overloud and rambunctious "tweenager". Yes, he would be sorely missed.

Boromir shook his head unconsciously as his focus came back to the present. He watched as Peregrin sat down and began cleaning the first of two swords. Mild surprise registered on Boromir's weary face. He'd not needed to instruct the young hobbit to take care of the weapons. He remembered his father's weapon master drilling it into his head that one's weapons were one's life. To neglect them was to invite disaster. He'd not spent the same inordinate amount of time on this lesson with the hobbits because he seriously never expected them to have the need. But obviously they'd listened and absorbed it.

Peregrin's methodical detailing of their prison amazed Boromir. The lad was normally so careless of many things, this recitation was a new side of the hobbit. He obviously had a sharp eye and a keen mind. Boromir relaxed a little as he listened to the intelligence and turned his attention to the taciturn dwarf.

Pippin paused in his report, looking with concern at the dwarf. "Are you all right Gimli? Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable until Boromir can free you?"

"Ah, lad, t'is enough to see you doing such fine work." As Boromir moved, another shower of small stones pattered down on them. Realising they may not have much time before the rest came down upon Gimli, he grasped the largest stone covering Gimli's leg and began to strain, thigh and shoulder muscles bunching visibly even under all the armour he wore, small beads of sweat popping out on his face, smearing the dust and dirt there.

"Pull Master Dwarf! Pull your leg from the cursed pile of rocks!" Boromir whispered fiercely with the strain and then grunted mightily as he heaved up again on the large boulder trapping the dwarf's leg. As much as he hated to admit it, he'd not be able to hold up the stone much longer.

The dwarf was obviously trying to move from beneath the rocks but hadn't managed even a smidgen. Then as Boromir shifted the weight of his load he saw Gimli grab the injured leg and give it a mighty tug. What must have been swearing erupted from the dwarf just as he fainted dead away. This would not do!

"Peregrin, quick now, lad! Lend a hand! Do what you can, I cannot hold this rock and our friend is in grave danger, still!"

-00000-

Merry felt a hand take his – a small hand – a hobbit's hand. Not Pippin though, even through the cacophony of pain he would know Pip's touch. Frodo's voice filtered through the whirlpool of agony that filled his every horizon, telling him to hush and urging him to be still.

Where were they now? Merry's dulled sensibilities told him they were no longer in the Mines, there was too much light. How had he got here? He couldn't remember. Another fierce jab of pain speared through him, threatening to black his mind and memory once more. He squeezed tightly on the hand in his – Frodo's hand.

But what had happened to Pip? Why was Frodo come to him? Had Pippin been left behind in the Mines? Why would they leave him behind? They must have thought him dead!

"Noooooooo! Frodo, no! Pippin! Not dead – he's not! Frodo, we have to get him!" The reality hit Merry foursquare and adrenaline raced through his veins, stirring his depleted blood and finding a sudden strength. "We have to get him, Frodo! Please, come on! I know Pip isn't dead – I'd have felt it if he'd died. P-please Strider, Frodo… Now!"

Merry began to writhe around in the gripping hands, desperate to get away, frantic to go back and search for Pippin. The agony of the wound increased, fighting for attention with the adrenaline rush caused by Merry's panicked grief.

Frodo thought his heart would break at Merry's anguish, his emotional distress clearly as agonising as the physical wound, and aggravating the pain of the stab wound. Frodo knew from the sad, grim look on Aragorn's face that there was little hope that this cousin would survive today's horror. He was going to lose them both after all. He felt that he would himself die of grief.

-00000-

TBC

Author's Notes

Hullo, Friends! Budgielover here. "The East Gate" has had almost 1900 hits on the first two chapters and the action is just getting rolling. Well … rolling, ducking, weaving, bobbing, bleeding, screaming- Um… I think you get the idea.

Questions and Answers and Plain "Hullo's" from Sam Gamgee, with comments and greetings from Mr Meriadoc Brandybuck and Mr Legolas

Melilothill: Well, that was rather stupid; leaving a review in Dutch… I was biting my nails during this chapter
Sam: Not at all. Dutch sounds a lot like elvish. We are all glad you're enjoying the story. If'n you like, I've got some salve for those bitten-down nails. Mr Frodo says it tastes right good.

Hobbitsandkilts: You people are mean, leaving off when so many thing left an answered.
Sam: We don't mean to be mean, truly. Well, most of us don't. Maybe one does. Or two. Three at the most. All right, you caught us.

Aralinde: More please
Sam: Just as soon as we can. Marigold and Llinos did the initial edit, and Llinos (bless the lass's heart) is still beating the final chapters into obedience. Picture her wielding a whip and a chair, and that'd be fairly close.

Freya: bites fingernails Oh, the angst! Oh, I love it! I hope you feel better, Merry, and that your spirit meets with Pippin's again!
Merry: Yes I did have to make a large sacrifice in terms of suffering and angst for this story – I hope everyone appreciates that! And I'll be keeping an eye for Pip – don't you worry!

Lindahoyland: I hope Aragorn can cure Merry.

Sam: We hope so, lass. The world just wouldn't be the same without that lad. Quieter, aye, and those of us with vegetable gardens might sleep easier, but Mr Frodo would be devastated. I think the rest of us would be, too.

Periantari: please let Merry not die =( =( )
Merry: Yes I'd second that plea!

Celebrean: Really good. Poor Merry. Poor Pippin! And I don't know if it's because I've been reading too many mystery books layely, but I'm guessing that scratch Legolas has will turn into something more (never let anything go un noticed. Yes too many mystery books. I was bored though!)
Legolas: Fear not sweet lady – 'tis but a scratch. Nice to know you noticed though – I thought everyone was worried about the hobbits and that Boromir! Hmph!

Finmall: The battle was fantastic! For some reason, most of all I liked Boromir in these first two chapters
Sam: That battle was a lot more fun to read about than be in, let me tell you. Taught me a lot about Big Folk, though, and especially Mr Boromir. He's a hero right out of the old tales like Mr Bilbo used to tell, and no mistake.

Sabercrazy: Even if you can't see me I'll be somewhere in the shadows.
Sam: Thanks for the encouragement, and for the warning. Might be a good idea if you let us know when you're lurking, though – Mr Frodo's a bit leery of shadows and he's mighty quick with Sting. Wouldn't want there to be an unfortunate accident.

Kelsey: (Ok, I'm worried about Legolas!) What of Pippin, Boromir, and Gimli? Will they get out?
Sam: Sorry, I can't give you any spoilers, but (just between you and me and the wall) you won't be disappointed!
Kelsey: Is this fic REALLY being written by a bunch of different people? It's impossible to tell if it is.
Sam: We East Gate survivors assure you that the story is written by all o' us. That seamlessness is due to Marigold and Llinos' compilation and to Llinos' final edit.

Birch tree: Sometimes I find a bit too much action details… I liked the way you described the same event from all different points of view in the first chapter. Maybe this is normal for fiction adapted from roleplaying games
Sam: You might like 'ta know that there were over 500 pages of the story when Marigold and Llinos tackled it, with many repetitions from multiple viewpoints. I don't see how they did it, myself. And without having to be locked up in a tower.

Boromir: Very good story please keep going!
Sam: You sound just like our Mr Boromir! He's a Man of few words but he gets his meaning across!

Mangst: I can't wait to read more. You guys do great work together.
Sam: We hobbits do, of course. It was a bit harder working with the Big People. They're a tad odd, if you take my meaning. I think it's all the distance the blood has to travel between their feet and their brains. The distance cools it down and turns them wonky.

Barb:): Aw, my poor Pippin! This is great, must have more!
Merry: Poor Pippin indeed! What about me with a dagger in my heart – well close anyway!

Althea: This is marvellous. The action never stops. The characters are all well portrayed
Sam: Looking back on all that happened, I don't see how we made it. It was a bad time, that, and worse to come. That first day seemed to last years. All that blood and smoke and darkness, and losing Mr Gandalf. I think it was almost the worst day of my life.

Lindelea: He dodged and parried, slashed and decapitated his way...
Sam: You have 'ta understand, of course, that everything was happening so fast. It was us hobbits' first battle, and we were just trying to stay alive. Me and Mr Frodo, that is. After watching Mr Merry and Master Pippin make use of the training Mr Boromir gave them, I'm going to have to be more respectful towards those lads.

Neige: Have you any mercy? Injuring an innocent Hobbit?
Sam: Now, Neige, don't you go getting upset. After knowing Mr Merry his whole life, almost, I can assure you that he has never been completely innocent. I'm thinking of publishing a little book on him and Master Pip to help finance my retirement, someday. It should bring in a fair amount of Shire coin.
Merry: Over my dead body!

Elwyna: Wonderful as always, but very angsty, and I'm worried for Merry!
Sam: We're all glad you are enjoying our tale, lass. I must ask you, though, not to express too much concern for Mr Merry. He's quite hard enough to live with as it is. If he thinks the lasses are all upset over him, he'll be impossible.

A Elbereth: I'm loving the suspense... and the grief and the gore. It all seems so real. I'm guessing because just one event was taken into such detail.
Sam: I think you hit it right on the head there – 'hard to explain.' We do owe the consistency of writing style and readability to the amazing efforts of Marigold and Llinos, and to Llinos' final edit. As for the 'grief and gore' – well, I'm afraid all of us quite got into that. Heat o' the moment, you understand.

Shirebound: such courage, and such strength.
Merry: Yes even without me being majorly magnificent they did quite well.

Auntiemeesh: I can see that Sam's gonna be in for a lot of work, with Frodo wonky and Merry badly wounded.
Merry: Yes, if he ever gets through answering his fan mail and pays attention to poor dying me!

Chapter 4 will be arriving by Shire post shortly!