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
Gollum - Llinos
Story Editor Llinos
Beta Marigold
Chapter 6 – Tears and Fears
"Mr Frodo – It's that Gollum. I'm sure of it."
Frodo had been glad for the brief respite and so despite being fully aware that Sam was taking his time getting his gear straight, said nothing. Now he squinted at Sam, and tipped his head to hear better. Samwise wasn't wrong. He could hear something, as well, and it might very well have been the patter of flat, unshod feet. Then it stopped, as if aware of them straining their ears to catch hint of it.
Frodo slid Sting out slightly from its sheath. The faintest hint of blue shone out at them – whatever followed was not orc. "Aragorn," Frodo called, careful to keep his voice calm, yet hoping their protector understood their immediate need of his presence.
"What is it?" Aragorn asked, approaching the two with mildly concealed exhaustion in his tone.
Sam did not know quite how to voice his suspicions. He had seen nothing, after all. Perhaps his ever-active imagination had supplied those flat, flapping footsteps? No, Frodo had heard, too. He'd checked Sting, and the blade had not glowed. Just because what came after them wasn't an orc, didn't mean it wasn't a something – something nasty. "I think I heard something," Sam said hesitantly, hating to give Aragorn more cause for alarm. The Man looked so weary, though he sought to hide it.
Sam was well aware that the Big Folk had carried most of the battle before they won free of the Gate. The hobbits had defended themselves and done that well, Sam thought with a small flash of pride as he remembered he'd killed his orc, but all told, it was because of Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli and Boromir that they walked now underneath the westering sun instead of lying dead in that horrible place like Master Pippin and the others. A sudden surge of grief caught him unawares and his throat closed on the words he was trying to form.
Remembering that the Ranger was waiting for him to speak, Sam gestured lamely behind them. "It sounded like…" he trailed off, caught between uncertainty and the possibility that what he feared, might be made true if voiced. "…like flapping feet – following us – following Mr Frodo, anyway."
Frodo looked uneasily back toward the direction the noise had come from. "I heard something, too," he told Aragorn. "But I do not know if Gollum will dare attack us with you present, and in daylight. Fingers around our throats while we sleep is more his style, I think."
He paused and rubbed a hand across his bleary eyes. When he opened them again, spots swam before him for a moment, then faded. Now that he had stopped running, fatigue was setting in hard. There was perhaps one more burst in him, but Frodo could not keep this pace, or perhaps any pace, for long.
The bottom of the sun now touched the top of the mountains.
The Ranger looked, not at Frodo, but scanned the terrain around and behind them; he saw nothing untoward. A pied wagtail skittered across the rocks, bobbing its head as it ran quickly about its business. Overhead a red kite cried its eerie call, indicating its mate was nearby, but being coy.
Suddenly the kite swooped down, it must have sighted some prey in the rocks beneath where the three fugitives stood, unsure what kind of predator might be hunting them at the moment. There was a scuffle of panicked sound, a screech and a sharp cry and the bird flew up, its talons clutching a scrap of grey fur that looked like a young rabbit. Aragorn followed the line of where the bird had been and his sharp eyes detected a grotesque, gangling shape that scurried quickly into the undergrowth.
He looked back to the two hobbits, taking in their dishevelled and battered appearance, they looked exhausted and Aragorn knew they were both hurt. "I think the creature was hunting as he followed, but the hawk bested him for the rabbit. Frodo is right, he will not dare attack while we are three and awake."
Aragorn looked back towards the Misty Mountains and then ahead to gauge how close they were to safety. "We must pass Mirrormere and try to reach the River Silverlode ere we take much rest. I know that you are each hurt and tired and we are all in grief, but to stop now would be folly. We have suffered losses enough for one day."
The Ranger wiped his hand across his brow and closed his eyes for a brief moment. He knew he was asking too much of these halflings. "Come, I will carry you turn about, that way each of you may take some rest until we can stop." He adjusted his pack, slinging it from his shoulder to his back and reached down to lift Sam, knowing full well that would get an argument for carrying him first. "Do not protest, Samwise, I shall bear Frodo soon, but you are worse off at the moment, that is why you fell. Frodo I think you can manage a little longer?"
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Merry felt his breath draw quickly into his body, bringing a shock of pain in its wake. He wanted desperately to fly back to the calm of his Grandmother's arms, but something insistent in his brain was nagging at him that that was not his path.
The arms that encircled him tightly and bore him swiftly along belonged to the elf, and Merry clutched at the green clothing, afraid all at once that he would be dropped, his hands gripping tightly as more agony coursed through his chest. He knew his lips were moving as he desperately tried to tell Legolas to stop, to put him down; that he needed to see where Pippin was. But dimly he could hear his own voice and knew that the sounds he was making made no sense, he could not form the words properly, his brain and his body seemed fractured by the searing pain in his chest.
The jolting seemed endless, as though several ages of man had passed, but in only a few seconds, and suddenly they were stopped. His body was lowered down to the ground bringing fresh waves of shock together with a rush of nausea. Merry felt his teeth clamp hard on his lip to hold in the hurt and his stomach contents, he knew he was causing damage but could not focus enough to stop himself from biting down. He tasted the rusty taint of blood and knew that, without feeling it, he had bitten through his bottom lip.
He tried to focus and dimly his eyes made out Legolas's face above him and beyond that the tendrils of a willow tree. With sudden clarity, he remembered the Old Forest and Old Man Willow on the Withywindle and how he had nearly been crushed in two. The sight panicked him and he struggled weakly, although he had not enough strength now to even raise his arm.
Legolas did not seem worried by the willow, nor did he seem to understand the hobbit's anxiety at being placed under the tree. Merry saw instead a waterskin being offered and he was momentarily distracted as his mouth was dry and tasted unpleasantly of blood, a drink of water would be welcome indeed.
As the liquid ran into his mouth Merry gagged and turned his head to one side to avoid any more of the disgusting taste. Legolas was saying something but all Merry knew was he had to stop him pouring any more of that foul concoction past his lips. That and, if he managed to form words, he needed to know where Pippin was. It seemed strange that he was not by him – he must be hurt too.
The thought spurred a little adrenaline through the hobbit and at last he managed to form coherent words. "Tastes bad!" Merry moved his head away from the drink again. "Where's Pip?"
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There was no door in that cupboard, at least none that Boromir could see. But then Gimli had been adamant and Peregrin seemed intent as well. These dwarves and hobbits were strange indeed but Boromir was beginning to trust both more and more. If Peregrin thought there was an opening somewhere in there, then, by the Stars, he'd not gainsay the youngling.
"Can you open it, lad? Is it large enough for someone bigger than a dwarf to enter? I'm not so sure I can fit in there, let alone if I am carrying our friend…"
Pippin felt the outline of what he was certain was the exit.
"I believe you will fit Boromir. It was made for dwarves after all, and Gimli is just as broad as you are despite not being as tall. It will be rather close though... it seems to be just big enough, with no room to spare."
Which made sense if it was designed to keep enemies from following those that had been hidden here. Pippin wondered what had happened to any lady dwarves or children that had been secreted. Surely there must have been some in the Mines, even if just a very few, since Balin and the others had come here with the intention of reclaiming what had once been a great home for his people. Perhaps they had got out at the other end, or perhaps there had been none that were able to make it to this place of safety. Somehow Pippin doubted that; there had been too much care taken to seal the cabinet, and though he pushed as hard as he could, he could not dislodge the concealed entry in the slightest. Nor could he feel any indentation or other sign of how to open the door. He sighed and backed out into the chamber and turned to Boromir.
"I cannot open it, but perhaps there is some magic password that Gimli knows that will do it?" He thought for a moment. "But no, I don't think so. The elves helped with the Doors that we came in, and put the magic in it, but I don't think the dwarves would have trusted anyone with a secret like this."
He suddenly felt very honoured, that Gimli had entrusted them with knowledge held so secret by his kind. These bolt holes were common among the dwarves Gimli had said. If Gimli did not trust them implicitly he would not have revealed this, regardless of their fate, of that Pippin was certain. He knew enough from stories and from the few dwarves he had met to know what a guarded and secretive race they were. Well, Gimli need not fear that Pippin Took would ever reveal what he had learned today, nor would Boromir speak of it, he was sure.
"Since it was sealed up so tightly on this side it must have been used and the door locked on the other side I would suppose." His heart sank as he realised what that meant, and he stared up at the ominous looking little air vent a few feet above the tall cabinet.
He took a deep breath and turned to Boromir again, and tried not to sound terrified of climbing up and crawling into that little black hole that led who knows where. "I'll just go and have a look around I suppose then, shall I?"
Boromir followed the hobbit's upward glance, "Up there?" he pointed to the tiny fresh air vent. Surely Pippin did not mean to try to squeeze through that? He looked again at the little one, standing now, hands on hips, smile on face. Smile on face.
That smile! Boromir was beginning to read this youngling all too well. It was the same smile he noticed months ago when Peregrin had been challenged by his cousin Meriadoc to climb to the top of an incredibly tall but spindly tree when the elf had gone off to scout and the hobbits had grown bored of not knowing the lay of the land.
Frodo had not heard or Boromir suspected Meriadoc would have received a cuff around the head for even suggesting such a challenge, Boromir knew enough to know that hobbits had a tremendous fear of heights. But Peregrin, after his initial fear had planted his hands on his hips, tossed his head, smiled in just that way and had announced, 'Ah, Merry, that's such an easy climb, I'll be up and back before you can sneeze'. He was, at that. And sweat sheened his face and his voice shook. But the youngling was incredibly proud. And Boromir had nearly boxed Meriadoc's ears himself once he'd worked out just what it had meant. What if Peregrin had fallen? Those two cousins ... he was glad he was parent to neither.
Still; there Peregrin stood, challenged by himself, which made Boromir's paternal instincts flare high. "I think not, it is too dangerous."
Pippin almost reacted with the familiar childish response, 'I can do it – so there!' but he curbed it immediately and found instead a much more adult thought. He had to do it because, quite simply, he was the only one who could. They needed him. He was scared, but he would do it because he must, not because he needed to prove anything to anyone. He felt that he had suddenly understood something very important about being brave and being grown-up.
He grinned at Boromir again, this time with a bit more confidence, and began to unbutton his cloak. "Well, you aren't going to fit, are you?" He took off his sword belt and put it beside his pack along with his cloak, and facing away from Boromir so the man couldn't see his hands shaking, began to dig for his little box of matches. "And hobbits don't mind holes you know so it's lucky for you I am here."
There, he had it, and slipped it inside his shirt. Another deep breath while he fought to dispel the terrors of a very active imagination, then he turned toward Boromir and tried to keep his voice from shaking and look competent enough for the task at hand.
"I have some candles...I will just go as far as I must to see what the other side of the door looks like. Gimli will need to know when he wakes up, so best do it now and be able to tell him straightaway. And if I don't go right now I might lose my nerve." He hoped Boromir knew what it had cost him to admit that and wouldn't argue. "Please give me a boost up to the top of the cabinet Boromir. We both know I am going, so let me just do it and get it over."
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Legolas laid Merry down as carefully as he could under the cover of a concerned willow, which had whispered of a soft bed of moss at its roots. Merry gave a grunt of pain as his bodyweight shifted to his back, biting his bottom lip and screwing his eyes tightly shut against the dimming light.
A spasm passed through him and he bit harder into his lip until he broke the delicate flesh and blood began to pool around his white teeth, when at last his eyes opened the elf could see the dizziness that spun in them and thought for a moment that Merry would be sick, only that iron will preventing the hobbit from emptying his stomach all over the wood elf.
Once Merry's laboured breathing grew steadier and his eyes cleared a little, Legolas uncorked the waterskin that Aragorn had hastily fastened to his empty quiver and pressed it to Merry's abused lips. The water was richly laced with glaslichen and would help relieve much of the pain, but Merry pressed his lips together and tried to turn from the flask.
"No Merry, you must drink this little one it will ease your suffering" He gently but insistently pressed the rim to his mouth again and watched as reluctantly the hobbit parted his lips and allowed a little of the precious liquid to trickle in. He swallowed a few sips before he started to choke causing his wound to flare back to life.
"Tastes bad," Merry whispered in a childlike voice that set Legolas' heart breaking, "Where's Pip?"
The question he had dreaded had arrived, and still he had no satisfactory answer. He feared that if he answered truthfully, as he must, that his friend's heart would break and his will to survive diminish. An evasion was his only hope of maintaining the fine balance and he reached back into his mind, desperately searching for the correct tone, the correct wording and stumbled across a memory of a disastrous hunting trip he and Estel had taken when the human had been but thirty years old.
The summer season had been uncommonly wet and whilst they had not strayed far from Imladris they had been caught in a near continuous downpour, which lasted two days and had forced them to abandon their hunt and seek shelter in one of the many caves a day's travel from the valley.
Estel had looked a little pale on that day as they sought shelter and Legolas had noticed how the human's body leaned into his horse seeking more of the animal's warmth, grey eyes dulled with fatigue had met his own concerned ones. The Ranger had simply smiled and shook his head and brushed off the elf's attempts to 'cosset' him as he saw it…but that night the human took a turn for the worst.
It was so sudden and so violent that it shocked Legolas more than he cared to admit as Estel began to cough in his sleep until he lay limp and exhausted and insensible in his arms. Within a day the human was speaking nonsense and burning with fever.
Legolas had rushed him back to his father, Lord Elrond, as soon as the weather allowed the horses to negotiate the narrow valley paths, upon arrival Estel had been rushed into the healing chambers by his father. It was his first experience of mortal frailty and not even Estel's foster brothers Elladan and Elrohir could convince the shocked prince that their brother would be well.
Only Lord Elrond's words had reached him and brought comfort. He called them back to him now and tried to mimic their tone.
"Pippin was last seen with Boromir and Gimli young one," but as Merry's eyes darkened with despair and his chin trembled he continued, "Pippin is strong Merry and Boromir and Gimli will protect him, you know this." He smiled down at the big blue eyes that stared hopefully up at him "Do you think that stiff-necked dwarf will allow a few orcs to overcome him? And Boromir is a fine fighter and has trained you and your cousin well"
Merry's eyes were taking on a dazed expression again and Legolas hoped that this meant the glaslichen was working, he knew that, apart from being a powerful painkiller, it also tended to make the mind wander a little, but realising where Merry's thoughts were right now he welcomed it. He did not want Merry to suffer more than he was already and set about his task of stripping and cleaning the hobbit.
Removing his cloak and putting it to one side for later he stripped off his travel tunic and the soft silver-grey one he wore beneath. Putting the damaged, thick suede outer one back on, ignoring the itch it caused as it rubbed up against healing flesh, he set about tearing the fine light material into strips to reinforce the improvised bandages about Merry's torso.
He kept the two sleeves whole and dunked them into the clean water of the river before setting about wiping the dirt from Merry's face and neck, all the while keeping up an endless stream of low, soothing lullabies that his own dear mother used to sing to him as an elfling.
After divesting the hobbit of his ruined clothing and washing his body as clean as he was able, given that he could not exert much pressure in Merry's fragile state, some particularly stubborn dried on marks still remained. He left the fair curls as they were for fear of Merry loosing too much body heat and causing sickness as Estel had suffered on that hunting trip; that would almost certainly kill Merry. He examined the soiled bandages and saw that there was still a little blood seeping through. The wound was too fresh to be redressed and fresh blood lay atop the old, brought about no doubt by the jostling the elf could not prevent in his haste.
He gently added his new bandages to the old and Merry seemed to ease a little as he laid him back, wrapped in the soft, thick elven cloak with a bed of moss softer than a feather bed to cradle his battered body.
The elf quickly sluiced himself down and washed his hair, all the while his eyes remained fixed on the hobbit bundle, alert for any sign of distress or movement, at the same time he threw his senses open again for signs of danger, but though the trees whispered of yrch in the forest, they were far away and not moving in their direction.
He took the opportunity to wash his clothes enough to make them a little more comfortable to travel in and put them back on wet. They were fit to burn but they would have to serve him a little longer, Merry's clothes fell apart as he used sand from the bottom of the riverbed to try and scrub the filth from them. The blood of yrch seemed to have an acidic quality to it he had not observed before, but then again he did not keep clothes this badly worn under normal circumstances.
Another problem to solve, he guessed that perhaps it was for the best, his cloak was warm, dry, and relatively clean and would meet Merry's needs.
As he seated himself next to the hobbit he ran his fingers through his hair and began to separate the fine strands and weave the braids customary with warriors of Mirkwood, all the while watching the hobbit.
His skin was pale, cold and clammy to the touch, all the telltale signs of internal as well as external bleeding glared out at him, and as he pressed his fingers to the side of his neck the pulse was weak but very fast as his body fought to keep blood circulating. This would not do, he had enough field training to know that he had to ease the pressure on the heart and elevating his legs would do it. So moving from Merry's side he moved down and lifted the hobbit's short legs and slid his own underneath then settled Merry's back across his.
"Mortal Estel it was that first found a home in my heart. And now – now little one you have made it yours too, when did that happen?"
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Being carried while his master walked? The sheer impropriety of it rendered Sam speechless. And the idea that he wasn't up to walking when it was Frodo that was being chased and hunted and hurt and speared? Indignation and affront and humiliation warred within Sam and fought their way past his locked throat, battled for possession of his tongue, and broke free of his mouth in a single inarticulate sound, "Agggnoooah!"
Aragorn paid no attention to the protest and swung the hobbit up as if he were a child, as Sam himself used to swing up Master Pippin when he was a little mite! What would his Gaffer say? Aragorn placed him against his chest and Sam's arms locked automatically around the Ranger's neck to steady himself. He resisted the urge to give the Man a good swift kick, and instead gritted his teeth. If his master allowed this, then it wasn't Sam's place to protest. But oh, the unseemliness of it all!
It wasn't like he was that hurt, after all. The cut on his forehead burned something fierce and Sam was willing to admit that the significant amount of blood he had lost might be affecting him, a bit. He hadn't taken that tumble because he was hurt – just because he was tired and trying to see every direction at once, and worried about Mr Frodo.
Serve Aragorn right if Sam was sick on his shoulder, it would. He could always claim he was taken sick so suddenly, he couldn't warn the Man in time. At least that might get him put down and Mr Frodo carried, like he should be. But Mr Frodo would probably see right through him, and Sam didn't want to think about the words he'd be in for, then…
Just as an experiment, Sam looked down at the top of Frodo's dark head, hoping the smooth yet dipping stride of the Man would make him nauseous. What an odd angle. His master certainly needed a good wash. He did, too, truth be told. The black blood that Sam had been unable to wash off was drying and crusting on them both, itching unmercifully. And it stank. He stank and Frodo stank and Aragorn stank, too.
With a sigh, Sam gave up on the being-sick idea. Rather than torture himself with the sight of Frodo struggling along, obviously in pain, he concentrated on staring back over Aragorn's shoulder, trying to see if that nasty creature still flapped after them.
Frodo kept pace with Aragorn as well as he could, but his discomfort was growing with each step. He could feel Sam's eyes on him, and knew he must be smarting with the impropriety of being carried while his master walked. Still, Frodo was relieved that he did not have to worry about Sam falling flat on his stubborn head when he keeled over from exhaustion.
Frodo falling flat on his own stubborn head was a different matter, and might yet happen if they did not reach this spot Aragorn spoke of soon. Almost as much as he looked forward to resting, Frodo was eager to wash in the clean waters. He was coated in vile, black blood, save where the sweat of his exertion cut tiny paths through the grime. He could not wash away this darkest of days, but perhaps the water would refresh him, and ease his heart as well as his body.
Before them, the first line of the forest was within sight. Behind them, the sun stretched out rose-coloured fingers of farewell as she prepared to slip out of sight.
Nightfall was nearly upon them, and the Golden Wood beckoned.
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Merry started as he came awake. He felt his heart beating rapidly in his throat and as his eyes sprang open he saw above him again the flowing branches of a willow tree. Where was he? What had happened? He struggled frantically to move away from the tree trunk before it could cut him in two. He knew that was about to happen from the dreadful pain in the upper half of his body. Where was Pippin? He had been lying up against the tree as well, and Sam and Frodo, they had all suddenly become very sleepy and… and…
But surely that was long ago? Tom Bombadil had smacked the tree and made it spit him and Pippin out and the four of them had eaten a wonderful supper at Tom's house and stayed the night.
Merry closed his eyes once more as the dream took him. Water was falling all around him, the large drops splashing and making little pools which were rising higher and spreading out to join up into a large lake leaving him marooned on an island that was his bed. Slowly but persistently the water was seeping into the cot on which he lay, surrounding him and gradually engulfing him so that he would drown. He felt his heart clench with fear and kicked his feet with the hope he could escape the encroaching flood.
But his feet did not splash in the water as he expected but met with warm resistance – another person! Pippin? No it did not feel like Pippin. Where was he?
Then Merry remembered. First the dream; it was the same as that night in the house of Tom Bombadil and he recalled the voice that had calmed him… Goldberry's voice, "Nothing passes doors or windows save moonlight and starlight and the wind off the hill-top." He was not drowning then, he was dreaming still.
But something bad had happened. Pippin? He had lost Pippin. A bolt of panic and pain shot through Merry's heart and lodged in his throat. He came awake now with a rush of fear and adrenaline. He tried to sit up but his body was too weak and would not obey his mind. His mouth opened and he found his voice. "Noooo! Pippin!"
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Boromir was of two minds, one to hoist Pippin to the top of the cabinet and, if he could get himself to the same level, to shove the lad through the hole, so badly did he want to get out of this prison; and the other to grab the lad and hold him close and not let him near the danger he knew existed just outside the tiny vent. The hair on the back of Boromir's neck fairly prickled. He stood there for a fraction of a moment longer, staring at the youngling, his hands clenching and unclenching subconsciously.
"Right! Up you go then. Give me a full report when you've got something." And he reached down easily picking up the hobbit who weighed less than Faramir had at age seven. He placed Peregrin atop the cabinet and silently stood waiting for the next move. The hole to the vent looked too high above the hobbit's head for him to easily reach but then these creatures, he'd discovered were full of surprises. He was beginning to think that if Peregrin suddenly grew frog toes, it would not shock him.
Pippin took a few steps across the top of the solidly built cabinet and over to the wall, pressing his forehead for just a few moments against the cold, solid stone to keep from getting dizzy. Then, gathering his wits about him, he moved carefully to the edge of the cabinet. He did not look down, but instead at the vent, which was just above him and two feet to the side of the cabinet. Getting in there, over naught but open air was going to be a trick. He debated asking Boromir for the bit of ladder he had left over by the niche with the candles, then thought better of it. He would have to balance rather precariously on it and the ladder had been a questionable thing at best.
Giving the task his complete concentration he pressed his front flush against the wall, reached out to grab the edge of the vent with both hands and kicked off with his feet, scrabbling frantically as he writhed and wriggled into the opening, then managed to pull himself in the rest of the way. He actually seemed to feel the darkness close about him as his body blocked out the dim light from the chamber behind.
For a moment he just lay there panting, collecting himself after this latest effort, but he was too tired to stay still for long. He needed to get moving while the adrenaline lasted or he would fall asleep where he lay. The air that his body now blocked from escaping into the chamber blew in his face and refreshed him, but it made lighting a candle at this point hopeless, and there was no real room to move his arms to do so anyway, so squirming forward on elbows, belly and knees, Pippin crawled deeper into the dark to explore.
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Aragorn felt Sam's heartbeat against his chest gradually slowing as the hobbit became less anxious and a little more rested. Aragorn took the opportunity as he was carrying him to glance at the cut on Sam's head and the Ranger knew they must stop soon and tend to him. Frodo's injury was less visible and therefore was even more worrying as it was hard to ascertain how much difficulty he might be in from the damage.
As they moved on past the mere they came to a well of sparkling clear water, like ice to the touch as it bubbled up and over the edge, to trickle and foam into a channel of rock and chatter down the valley.
"This is the spring that is the source of the Silverlode," Aragorn paused and placed Sam carefully on the ground. "We shall come soon to the woodlands where the streamlet will have swollen to feed the Great River." He pointed to the lower lands. "There it runs through the valley and there too lies our path to Lothlórien."
Sam dug his toes into the cool earth gratefully; it was good to be on the ground again. He was surprised to find he was somewhat light headed. That being carried, as if he were a babe, was disorienting. Nothing a good dunking of his head in that streamlet wouldn't take care of right quick, but it didn't look like Aragorn was going to allow them the time.
Aragorn stepped forward and offered his outstretched arms to Frodo, "Come now Master Baggins, it is your turn to take some respite." He turned briefly back to the other hobbit, "Can you manage on your feet a little, Sam? We need to reach the cover of woodland before we may stop for rest."
"I can manage well enough, Sir," Sam replied, refusing to let the Ranger see him sway on his feet. He turned and looked down into the valley. The darkening twilight made estimating distances deceiving, and already a light mist lay over the land. He glanced back at the singing waters with a longing look. Would but five minutes make such a difference? He was filthy and he itched. But before he could say the words, he noticed Frodo backing away from Aragorn's offered arms.
Anticipating trouble from Frodo, Sam mentally prepared his arguments. Turnabout's fair play,' he readied himself to say. Not to suggest that Mr Frodo sometimes didn't know what was good for him – of course not. But now and then Mr Frodo needed the obvious pointed out to him. If he had his nose in a book, you never knew what might happen. Walk off a cliff, he would, and never notice until he hit bottom. Looking at his pale, exhausted master, Sam hoped that Frodo would be reasonable for once.
But before Frodo could protest Aragorn swept him off his feet and held him against his strong chest as though he were but a child. "No arguments." He declared firmly.
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When Merry woke it was from a dreamless sleep, as if he were waking from the grave itself. He had no recollection of time having passed and no sense of where he was or why. His body was crushed tightly to someone, as if he were tied to them and he could feel an arm holding him, rubbing his back. Had he been stolen away?
No – slowly the nightmare memory drifted back. He was hurt and being carried by Legolas, the pain in his chest confirmed what he recalled. Pippin was lost, Frodo and Sam were left behind and he was hanging on to his life by a thread. This was not what he had expected to happen when he and Pip had promised Frodo that they would stick by him through thick and thin, nor was it what he envisioned when they defied Lord Elrond and claimed their place at their cousin's side.
Merry felt the bitter taste of defeat in his heart. It was sickening, like bile and his gut turned over at the thought of how wrong everything had gone. That he, of all the hobbits had failed, had dropped his sword, had lost Pip and been no help to Frodo, possibly even endangering the Ring-bearer by his ineptitude.
Merry struggled against the bindings that held him firmly to the elf's chest. He tried to push away with his fists, but there was no strength in his arms and Legolas seemed not to even notice. Merry wanted him to stop. There was no point in wasting time in trying to save him, better for the elf to go back and try to find Pippin or to help Frodo and Sam.
His arms would not work but his voice might. Merry felt tears welling up in his throat as he cried out, the pain building with each sound he uttered. "No! Put me down! Please find Pippin! No! No! Stop! Pippin! Pippin!" The litany of words jumbled over and over as Merry sobbed loudly for the elf and the pain to leave him.
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Boromir was thankful that Gimli was sound asleep so as not to bear witness to the sweat pouring down his face as he watched the halfling nearly lose his balance. He did not wish to appear untrusting but he also wanted to ensure the success of this latest adventure. Having the hobbit crash to the ground would do none of them any good. He quietly moved under the vent as Peregrin scrabbled for purchase on the stone. Boromir's breath caught as Peregrin's feet left the cabinet and there was a moment of panic, for both him and the hobbit, he was sure. Unconsciously, Boromir's hands reached up, ready to catch the hobbit should he not be able to pull himself in. What he received as a reward was a face full of dirt and tiny pebbles and Peregrin managed to scramble and pull himself inside the hole.
Too late to do any good, Boromir thought that he should have tied a rope about Peregrin so the lad would have a way to find his way back if he should lose himself in a warren of tunnels. The man had no idea how extensive the venting was in these Mines. He was not at all familiar with delving. He thought about waking Gimli, but as he looked over at the dwarf softly snoring, he did not have the heart. Perhaps he should tie up a makeshift rope from the remains of his under tunic and toss it up to the lad. No, there was not enough of it left to make a rope of any length and it was too late now.
"Have a care lad, I've not …" but he stopped himself abruptly before he blurted out the last of his jest, another hobbit to spare'. "I've no means of retrieving you should you get lost up there". He reflexively wiped the fronts and the backs of his hands down the length of his thighs trying to remove some of the grime and then he wiped the sweat from his brow. Looking at the mess he wiped his hand again on his tunic and went to fetch a waterskin. He might as well do something useful while he sat there anxiously waiting for Pippin to return.
Pippin scrabbled forward into the dark as quickly as he could. He knew he was tearing his skin on the rough surface but didn't think on it particularly – what were a few more cuts and scrapes at this point after all. He hadn't gone very far when the vent began to slope sharply downward and Pip slowed not wanting to slide anywhere even tighter from which he might not be able to extricate himself and where he would be out of reach of any aid. He was utterly alone, and terrified.
He had told Boromir that hobbits did not mind holes but that had been a small piece of misdirection as this was certainly not the kind of hole that would have made any hobbit feel at home and in fact Pippin was finding it hard not to panic. The dark and the weight of the mountain bearing down upon him and pressing all around him with only an inch or so to spare was terrifying. For once Pippin was grateful that he was so small; even Frodo, who was slight for a hobbit, would not have been able to crawl through this tiny space. Pippin didn't even want to think how he was going to get back out if he couldn't find a place to turn around. Going forward was difficult enough, trying to push himself backward and uphill would be nigh on impossible.
Scarcely had he had the thought when his fingers and then his forehead bumped smartly into a solid surface in front of him. The tunnel stopped! He couldn't go forward, he couldn't go back, he could barely move, no one could reach him, he would die here, slowly and all alone! The waves of fear at being trapped rolled over him and he had to fight not to start clawing hysterically at the unyielding rock and injuring himself.
He squeezed his eyes shut and a few tears of pure terror escaped them, and he became aware that he was shaking and hyperventilating.
He forced himself to calm down, and take slow, deep breaths of the cool, fresh air...fresh air...silly hobbit! The air had to be coming from somewhere...there, from his left. He managed to grope out with his left hand and found an opening! He sobbed in relief. And on the left. That was good, the door in the chamber was to the left of the vent. Unable to turn and investigate properly he felt around the opening. The roof seemed to be even lower than the bit of tunnel he was in, the width was about the same, but he couldn't feel a floor. It felt as though there was a drop. This was going to be fun. Well, nowhere else to go... he managed to squirm so that he was tilted head first into the hole, ignoring the sounds of ripping cloth and feeling one of his braces come undone, and the burn of losing more skin, and was feeling around for a floor when he lost his balance and fell in.
He landed on his head...fortunately, as Merry would have teased, and muttering some choice words that he had learned from Merry but would nevertheless have had his cousin scolding him for using, he picked himself up, rubbing his forehead. Only then did he realise that he was standing upright. Oh!
Back beside the cabinet Boromir was standing now and pacing, the time seemed to be moving so slowly, until at last his anxiety and patience exploded, "Peregrin? Lad? You're awfully quiet up there! You haven't fallen asleep now have you? PIPPIN?"
"I'm sorry!" The hobbit responded, automatically apologising for his improper language, then realised that it was Boromir, and he couldn't possibly have heard him sounding off like a surly stable hand. His friend sounded worried and probably just wanted to know if all was well. Turning toward the faint sound Pippin was both surprised and delighted to see a small square that was just a bit less dark than the surrounding space, and only a couple of feet off the ground. Still rubbing the rising lump on his forehead from his two mishaps Pippin stuck his head in a little way and called back, "I'm fine Boromir!"
Then he dug out one of the candles and his matches. Luckily in this more open space the draft was not as bad and Pippin soon had the candle lit and was rewarded for his pains when he found himself standing before what must be the other side of the door. It seemed to be a fairly straightforward affair, hinged on one side, with a big iron ring as a handle and sealed only with a simple iron latch, as anyone coming from this direction was undoubtedly a friend, and possibly even a dwarf child.
Pippin however was no dwarf child and for all his attempts to push the latch upward he could lift it no more than the slightest fraction. Now that he had come this far though Pippin refused to be discouraged. If he brought one end of the rope back here and tied it around the latch Boromir or Gimli would be able to pull it up and then he could turn the handle and open the door the rest of the way. The rope would be long enough certainly; he had been so frightened on his way in, not knowing where he was going, that he had felt the distance was much greater than it surely was or he would not have heard Boromir and been able to see the dim outline of the vent.
Feeling real hope now he found a good spot to stick his candle for his next trip, blew it out, and pulled himself back into the little vent, managing to pull himself in and then upwards without too much difficulty as he was facing forward. And desire to reach the light before him certainly sped his progress, as well as knowing that Boromir and Gimli were waiting for him and any news he could bring them of the possibility of escape.
Less than half an hour after starting out on his expedition Pippin stuck his head back through the opening and announced cheerfully, "Well, I'm back."
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Frodo began to object as Aragorn lifted him like a child, but then he looked down into Sam's stubborn face. The younger hobbit was swaying a bit on his feet, but every line of his body screamed that he was not going to stand for Frodo walking another step. And it did feel so nice to rest his head on Aragorn's shoulder, to let his sore feet dangle, to concentrate on breathing as carefully as possible, and therefore minimize the growing pain. Frodo was beginning to suspect that the mithril coat had cut through the leather jerkin and into his skin, but in addition to the deeper ache from the blow itself, he was feeling numerous, smaller twinges across his chest.
Frodo sighed and closed his eyes. He thought with longing about his feather beds at Bag End, no doubt inhabited at that very moment by Lobelia and Lotho. He remembered long-ago mornings when his cousins would visit Hobbiton. Merry had his own room, across the hall from Frodo's, but Pippin always insisted on sleeping in Frodo's bed, considering it a great treat. Come morning, Merry was usually found in Frodo's bed with the other two lads, and they would play peek-a-boo with the counterpane until little Pippin squealed with happiness. Then Bilbo would pop open the door and say, "Frodo! My dear lad, are you under attack from goblins? No? No goblins here? Then you lads had best get to the kitchen – the smell of bacon may have drawn them there and there will be none left for you."
There was never, of course, a shortage of bacon at Bag End. As he drifted in a daze on Aragorn's shoulder, Frodo was only dimly aware that tears were slipping from his eyes, remembering happy mornings with the two little cousins he most likely would never speak to again.
Carrying first Sam, and then Frodo, made Aragorn aware of how very weary he was. He had carried the hobbits before, two at a time on Caradhras, and had felt their weight but little. Now, however, even the Ring-bearer's slight frame was an added burden. He himself was not hurt, but he desperately needed rest, and how these small ones, thus injured, could continue moving forward was a wonder.
As he ran, he listened, and sniffed, and felt the world around him with all of the skills he had as a Ranger. He felt nothing; heard nothing other than his own ragged breathing and the stumbling footfalls of Samwise just behind him. It seemed they were safe from the Moria filth. But still he wished that Legolas were with them. As keen as his own senses were, the elf possessed the keener, and if orcs were to come upon the three travellers unaware...
Suddenly Aragorn did hear something, not from behind, but ahead and a little to the right. A crack, as if a heavy stone had fallen upon stone. He halted, standing still, and listened.
"Uughh!" Sam grunted involuntarily when the tall Ranger pulled to a stop. Couldn't he warn a body? Only hobbit-agility allowed Sam to skid to a halt and avoid crashing into the Man. Most likely knocking him to the ground and crushing his master, Sam thought darkly. His annoyance further aggravated by the awareness that he was puffing indecently, Sam glared up at the Man, waiting for an explanation.
He didn't get one. Aragorn stood silent, listening from the abstract look on his face. A sudden fear shot through Sam and he swallowed his indignation. He glanced about them, pointed ears straining. He didn't know which he feared to hear the most; the snarling battle-cries of the orcs they had left behind, or the soft hiss and the flapping feet that he thought he had heard earlier.
His head rotated sharply to the right. Something heavy over there, and no mistake. A snap, or a crack, then another sound that he couldn't identify. Sam's hand eased itself to his scabbard and he loosened the blade in its sheath. Fatigue and pain were washed away in a sudden surge of terror. And surprisingly, rage. Hadn't they been through enough this day? They were hurt and exhausted and had lost their guide and friends dearer than kin. Wasn't it enough for one day?
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Legolas was making good progress and had stealthily been on the move for some time when the little one began to stir, but before he could find a sheltered safe place to stop, Merry let forth a shout that echoed through the forest's silence and caused the elf to wince as his sensitive ears protested the assault.
"Easy little one, shuuuu, shuuu, you must be silent it is not safe!"
But Merry could not be silenced. The fine downy hair on the back of his neck stood up and he realised with a start that since they had stopped the woods had gone quiet. No birds called to their mates, no rabbits grazed, nothing. Even the trees had grown silent.
Merry moaned again and the sound was only half smothered by the fabric of his tunic, but Legolas clearly made out the name Pippin, the hobbit's love and devotion to his cousin's well-being was heart-warming, but left him with no peace and the elf could not give him the false promises he needed to hear, instead he offered the only thing he could, hope.
He began to stroke through Merry's curls and caress his pale face as he crouched under a bush, using it to hide them from unwelcome eyes, all the while watching and waiting for the unknown danger to pass. Whatever disturbed the forest was neither orc nor Uruk but as the moonlight broke through the shadow, illuminating the undergrowth in front of them, something began to stir, something large hid within those depths, but had obviously decided it was not staying there.
Although Merry was still wracked with pain and sorrow, his sobs subsided a little under Legolas's calming hands. The hobbit had gained some sense back and realised that his distress was probably endangering them both. He tried to breathe deeply and stifle his cries, burying his face in the elf's tunic and chewing the side of his mouth, his lip was too sore to even lick at and Merry was vaguely aware that he had accidentally bitten it earlier.
Legolas froze, unconsciously clutching Merry closer to him and silently drawing one of his bone-handled scimitars, all the while his mind whirled with possible escape routes, noting the dense undergrowth and how he would be able to negotiate it at speed, the trees would normally have been his first and preferred option, but they were out of the question while Merry remained so fragile. All these thoughts flitted through his mind in less than a second as he narrowed his eyes and watched a dark furred shape emerge from the undergrowth.
It was a warg! He was surprised for he did not think that they hunted this far north, it seemed to be alone and injured from the way it favoured its right hind leg.
'It will surely smell the little one's blood if it has not already!' His mind whirled, not even an elf could outrun a warg, especially so in dense undergrowth. Just as this thought finished, the great beast's head swung round and focused in their direction, it felt to the elf as if the beast's gaze could physically strip away their cover. It let loose a low throaty growl and started forward, head low and shoulders bunched, limp now forgotten as it stalked toward the bush.
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"Shall we get It now?"
"Nooo! Not now my Precious, there's still the croo-el big man with hissh sharp, ssharp blade. He kills uss and we never gets It, never! Poor Sméagol.
"Take It! Get It now! There's only the fat, stupid hobbit and the thin little hobbit. He keeps It from uss! We tears his skinny throats out – waits till the big man sleeps, everybodies sleeps sometimes. Then we bite the hobbitsess necks out. Grrrr! Like a wriggling fishies he'll struggle!
"But big man not sleepsing now. Running and running, stupid man. But we needs It. We got to gets It if we can. It's only a little hobbitsess! Not the fat one, the other one – thin like a twig. Did he steals It Precious? Did he?
"Sméagol iss hungry now. No food for poor Sméagol. Too much running for hunting and Sméagol gets no fish and gets no rabbits. And when the stupid hobbitsess stops they make the nassty red tongues, they makes the fire! It's dangerous, yes it is! It burns, it kills and it hurts poor Sméagol.
"We got to jump at them now, while the man is running with his hobbitsess.
"Nooo! Not uss Precious. We will be hurt! Sméagol iss more clever than that. Sméagol can run lighter than the clumsy, big Man. We makes him come after uss. Come after uss into the fools' sand. He thinks it solid but he sink and sink. Then the little hobbitsess be all alone! Then Sméagol can bite their throats. Then we can gets It!"
Gollum paused. He sniffed the air. The three fugitives were running towards him now from where he had circled round. He stepped out into their sight and started towards them with a threatening growl. Deftly he moved back, dancing across the quicksand and waiting for the stupid man to follow.
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Though it had in reality been but a few moments, Boromir had begun to sweat in earnest. He worried mightily about Peregrin. The lad might THINK he was an adult. Yet disregarding his small stature, the lad had proved himself over and over this day; still Boromir worried. Is this what it felt like to see your child strike out on his own? Is this what his own father felt when he sent his eldest on a mission from which he might not return while he sent his youngest to patrol the edges of the Kingdom their family had guarded for generations? He was not so sure he wanted children now, not that he'd thought much on it. At least not more than the passing thought of what he'd do if one of the doxies with whom he'd played with so naively in his VERY younger days suddenly presented him with parenthood.
Some of the lads he'd led into previous battles had been young, barely with beard. Though he wept silently at their deaths and grieved even more for the loss of innocence, he'd yet to feel this panic. Why did he feel so overwhelmingly ill at ease just now? He'd heard the old Wizard talk to the elf about how hobbits had a way of getting under your skin. How they "grew" on you until you yearned to make a trip, travel a great distance, put aside important studies, just to sit and chat and smoke a pipe.
Boromir sat on his heels musing, hands and face clean, at least as far as plain water could manage, his sword and shield wiped down and stored. He'd begun to pick at some dried blood on his hem and thought briefly about cleaning Gimli's axes when a cheerful greeting caused him to fall back flat on his arse.
"Well, I'm back." Peregrin's voice seemed loud and out of place especially because he was so damned cheerful.
Boromir fairly leapt up, knocking over the waterskin and his pack. "It's about time, Peregrin! What ever were you doing? I believe I've aged 5 years waiting for you!" The relief in his voice was evident and even a small child would not mistake the chiding for anything earnest. In fact, a small child would probably be able to see through the gruff retort and know it for what it was – gratitude that the wanderer had returned.
"What news from the front, oh almost Elven scout?" Boromir realised he sounded a bit harsh and changed his tone to better reflect his appreciation for the effort his lad had just accomplished. "I've more fresh water and I've found something for you to eat. So come down and give me your report while you clean up and have a bite".
Pippin was a bit taken aback at the depth of Boromir's obvious concern. He hadn't been gone that long, he didn't think, but Boromir sounded at first just like Cousin Bilbo and Frodo, the time he had braved the cellars of Bag End when he was a lad of about six. He had dared to venture into the darkness in search of hidden treasure and fallen asleep behind the wine barrels, scaring them out of their wits...and then Boromir had sounded like Merry had, after he'd been found several hours later, asking with appropriate seriousness if his quest had been a success. He felt his heart swell that Boromir obviously cared so much for him and was glad that he had good news to report. But how was he to get down? Boromir was standing under the vent, a good long way down to Pippin's mind, looking as though he meant to catch him, but just the same....
Taking a deep breath Pippin manoeuvred himself rather awkwardly so that he could slither out of the hole and a short but scary drop later found himself in Boromir's strong arms, the man catching him easily enough as the lad slid and slipped from the vent. Boromir set Peregrin down quickly, mindful of the fact the lad hated to be thought of as a child to be toted about.
Pippin sat down abruptly before he could fall down, scraped legs and arms trembling with exhaustion, and began to tell Boromir about the tunnel as he washed himself off.
His voice was a little tremulous when he got to the point in his report about coming upon what he had thought was the dead end, then he explained about how he had found the door, and what they would have to do to open it. He took a long drink of water to steady his voice which for some reason was starting to crack when he spoke then continued. "...so you or Gimli can raise the latch by pulling on the rope and I will turn the handle and open the door."
He didn't really mind going back in the tunnel now that he knew what was what, so why was he suddenly shaking all over? They were going to get out now, the worst was behind them... but what about Merry? Merry was still gone, still dead, and who knew what... and Pippin would have to leave him behind for good in all but memory. And Gandalf, but Gandalf hadn't been... out there – out there with the orcs. And for all Pippin loved Gandalf, he was not Merry.
Pippin's breath started to hitch. He tried to look away so that Boromir did not notice that he suddenly wasn't feeling so well, and his eyes fell upon the chunk of bread and dried apple rings that his friend had set out on a spread cloth for him. He couldn't eat, though he knew he should. Boromir was probably hungry too. Pippin pulled on the corner of the cloth just a bit and said in a voice that didn't even sound like his, "Thank you for this Boromir but I can't eat. Why don't you have this?" He tried to smile but that was just as shaky as the rest of him and he looked at Boromir in utter misery, not knowing what to do.
'But oh', Boromir thought, 'his lad looked terrible!' Much worse than when he'd gone in, though he was in sad shape before. Fresh blood, a huge knot rising on his forehead, and one of his braces torn, attested to a rough passage.
Boromir dared to kneel in front of the shaking hobbit. He was beginning think this one would go to hysteria, and who could blame him - it had been a grim day. He reached out tentatively after Peregrin had sipped more water and then pulled back as the youngling began to ramble.
Peregrin's breath caught and broke several times as the expected collapse started. When he refused the food in a quavering voice that cut to the quick Boromir knew the time had come.
He reached out and patted the lad on the shoulder in as much a companionable manner as he could muster and announced in his best imitation of hobbit cheerfulness, "Well done, lad. You've done a grand job. Now, here, what's this about no food? Let's get you washed with a bit more to drink, eh? You'll be feeling better in no time." He was surprised but not upset at what Peregrin, his bravehearted lad, did next.
Pippin didn't know what he had been saying but he knew that he had not been himself for the past few moments – he had felt so odd, and suddenly he could bear his grief no longer. He was still shaking and he wanted Merry so badly. Merry was gone though and most likely dead, but Boromir was here. He looked calmly at the Gondorian soldier, then, grief stricken and exhausted, Pippin climbed carefully into his friend's lap and finally allowed himself to cry for those he had lost. Curled up and sobbing quietly but bitterly he leaned against Boromir's comforting chest and let his tears fall for what seemed forever, but he could never shed enough tears for his Merry. When he could finally compose himself a little he looked up into the man's kind face.
"I am sorry for crying like a child Boromir, and I didn't mean to let you down but I was just so tired that I couldn't stand it any more and I am sad for Gandalf and I want Merry, but they are dead and I hurt so much inside I don't know what to do to make it stop." He said quietly, still sniffling. He leaned back into Boromir a bit more and looked down at his hands.
"And what makes Merry being dead even worse is that I couldn't help him, I helped Frodo instead...I heard him scream but I had to help Frodo first because he had the Ring so I had to help him get away and then I couldn't get to Merry. I had to choose. I know Merry would understand but it hurts so… so… very… "
He took a shuddering breath. "I love Frodo too, but maybe if I hadn't helped him I could have saved my Merry somehow and he wouldn't be dead now, and the orcs wouldn't have taken his body away. I know the stories as well as anyone." He fought not to start to cry again at the thought.
"I know what orcs do with bodies Boromir, and so do you so don't say it isn't true. Merry is dead and that is awful enough... but... but... I couldn't even see that he was buried properly, I had to just leave him lying for the orcs to take."
He looked up again at his friend. "How can I bear that? He took care of me my whole life and was my best friend in all the world and now he is gone forever and I let the orcs take his body away like he wasn't anything to me but he was everything. I couldn't help it I don't think, but maybe if I had done something differently... " He choked again on a sob and fought back more recriminations.
"At least Frodo got out. At least it wasn't for nothing."
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To Be Continued
Character Notes (must remember not to call them Author's Notes – Ll.)
Sam here, friends.
What with Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry and Master Pip being so involved in sending off them legal letters to each other ("Behind the Scenes at the East Gate, Scandals, Secrets and Sex Laid Bare"), I thought I'd leave them to it and reply to a few comments you had about our story.
Pip4: Now they can eventually catch up with the others and everyone can be a little happier given the circumstances.
Sam: It would be nice to think so. It really would.
Elanor1013: Is anyone going to get reunited any time soon?
Sam: I wish I could answer that, miss. Will you settle for a "yes," followed by "but not how you think?"
Hyperactive Forever: Frodo? FRODO MUST DIE! no offence, frodo-loving people, but i do not like him and HE MUST BE TERMINATED chases frodo into the distance well, things seem to be getting better (i hope ) and thats good! oh, i can't wait for the next chapter!
Sam: Gracious, you sound like Master Pippin after a sugar binge. Meanin' no disrespect, of course. Can't agree with your comment about my master, meself, but we're glad you like the story.
Neige: What I want to know is this: How many nights can Aragorn go without sleep before he keels over?
Sam: Mr. Frodo and I have a side bet going on about that. Personally, I think he takes that macho-Ranger thing a bit too far, sometimes.
Rosie Cotton: This is very good! When are they going to tend to Frodo's stomach? I hope very soon!
Sam: (Beautiful name there, lass!) I can tell you that after being with Mr. Frodo for so many years, he only goes so far before he starts digging his heels in. Then it's not a pretty sight.
Lindahoyland: I'm a bit puzzled how Pippin could have worn the shirt on Aragorn's birthday as it's not March 1st yet and he didn't know Aragorn the year before.
Sam: Lass, we were too busy running and fighting off orcs and trying to keep ourselves alive to keep the calendar in mind, much. Especially young Master Pippin, who has trouble counting to twenty without his toes. (And I never said that.)
Pippin: Well you see, I had my birthday the day before Weathertop and we were talking about birthday parties. Strider couldn't remember the last time he had actually celebrated his birthday! Well, obviously we hobbits had to do something about that, and March was so far away, that we threw him a surprise party before we left Rivendell. He says that even though his birthday is March 1st from now on he'll celebrate it on December 20th too, and think of us. I wonder if he will give presents both days…?
Merry: Actually Llinos just told me that The Queen of Great Britain has two birthdays! One for personal use and one for special occasions. I suppose that, as Aragorn is a King, he gets two birthdays as well!
Hobbitsandkilts: hugs and kisses to all the hobbits – poor Hobbits they need some extra love.
Sam: Never did know a hobbit in his right mind who'd turn down a good hug and kisses, lass. If Mr. Merry's unavailable, I'll take his share. (Um … you are a lass, aren't you?)
MarySuesREvil: what are you doing to my poor Boromir? Yes, I openly admit I'm a huge, huge Boromir fan. Come on, let him out of there, let him see the sun again. And by the way, this is one aspect I didn't see much in other stories, the relationship between Boromir and Gimli (another favourite of mine). You did a great job of exploring that.
Sam: Glad you're enjoying the story! I agree that Mr. Boromir and Mr. Gimli don't get their fair share of attention in most stories – just guess that's because we hobbits are so much cuter. And handsomer. And a lot smarter.
Melilot Hill: Pippin is so brave. Well, they all are, but I think Pippin is the bravest!
Sam: It would probably do the lad good to hear that, with him having such a hard time of it all. Of course, he'd probably move himself in and you'd never get him off if you show him a little admiration and sympathy (and food).
Pippin: You've made me blush! Thank you! I've never particularly thought that I was very brave. Do you think that because my Merry is dead and can't be the bravest anymore, or did you always think I was the bravest?
Elwyna: wonderful as always!
Sam: Thank you, on behalf of all of us. We'd all take a bow, but we're a little busy right now, with the running and hiding and bleeding, an' all.
GirlofRing: I know Merry will survive. He has his grandmamma to help him along oh his quest. But Frodo needs a respite too. As well as Sam. Aragorn notices this but, Gollum is right behind them.
Sam: There's nothing like slogging through mud and muck and blood and orcs to make me agree with you that we – all of us – need a respite, lass. Tell that to the fates and fortune and the eight purely evil writers who are putting us through this. I'm going to check my contract with Mr. Frodo – I don't think none o' this is covered.
Periantari: omg what a wonderful story you all have written about. omg omg the angst, the lovely wonderfully descriptive flashbacks..i love those Merry and Pippin stories. Frodo! omg i love love love LOVE… There was no going back for the three companions still in the mines – to do so would be suicide. " wow... wonderful just wonderful! and Budgielover writes a very good Sam.. oh poor poor Merry... Wow..this story is great... so much of everything i cannot wait for more =) :D (and i love love the character responses...they're so funny :D) precious story ... :thumbsup: (review edited to stop writers getting bigheaded. Ll)
Sam: You quite overwhelm us poor EastGaters! I think Mr. Frodo and me and everyone else owes you quite a thanks for those kind words. Being a part of the East Gate was something special and I'll never forget it.
Periantari - poor Pippin..i am amazed that he is still doing so much for Boromir and Gimli during this time when he sure is grieving for Merry, believing him to be dead...
Pippin: I am trying my hardest, because I want to be the brave hobbit Merry would want me to be. At least I finally got to unburden myself a bit. I don't know how I can go on without my Merry…sob!
Domstygerr: OMG! Merry is hurt, Gimli is down. I can't stand it!! Legolas I love you. Boromir and Aragorn are trying to stay strong as well and Frodo and Sam are doing their best to keep up. Glad to know out fellowship is not breaking!
Sam: I think you pretty well summed things up, there. This is a bad spot for all o' us, and no mistake. Makes you wonder about people who'd write all this sorrow and grief, if you ask my opinion. Especially that part about Mr. Merry – had me in tears, it did.
Domstygerr: At least Pip is trying to stay in the best of spirits under these trying circumstances. Love and hugs for Pip!! I do hope everyone gets on the mend soon and we see some light at the end of this tunnel soon!!
Pippin: Thank you, I am trying my hardest though I admit I was in a bad way in this latest chapter and your love and hugs are greatly appreciated. How did you know about that scary tunnel? Have you been reading ahead? What is going to happen?
Dreamflower: So this is what happens when a lot of people write a story together! Amazing! So much action and angst. Poor Merry! And Boromir, Gimli and Pippin are stuck in Moria. Dare I ask are they going to encounter the other member currently stuck in the depths fighting away at a Balrog?
Sam: I can't speak for the others, Miss, but these eight writers seem a bloody-minded lot to me. Like they were just waiting for the opportunity to unleash all that gore and guts. Can't speak for poor Mr. Gandalf either. Last I saw of him, he was falling down a crevasse.
Shirebound: I'm getting exhausted right along with Boromir and Pippin! Those two are going to sleep for a week once they get out of there. Run faster, Legolas!
Sam: We hope they do make it out, lass, though of course we don't know. I can't say as a week of Master Pippin sleeping would be unwelcome, though (on my part, anyway). Mr. Merry keeps giving him all these teas to encourage that, but the lad just drinks them down then toddles off to get into something else.
For all of us EastGaters (them that survived, that is), thanks to everyone reading and enjoying this story so much. A huge part of that thanks is due to Marigold and Llinos for editing the story into shape, and to Llinos for whipping it into its final format. And believe me, after travelling with all these folk, trying to make sense out of all that is no easy job.
Yours faithfully,
Samwise Gamgee