Hello there! Thank you to my lovely reviewers for the last chapter, I do appreciate it. I hope that you enjoy this chapter, as ever please forgive any typos.

Chapter Fifty-One: The Rohirrim

Never in his life had Boromir been so tired. They seemed to have spent endless days running, and at night they paused only for fear of losing their trail. Aragorn had found hobbit footprints leading away from the heavy tread of the orcs, and a single elven broach lying on the floor, and they had not wanted to miss other such signs.

Gimli had seen the fallen broach as a sign of hope, as evidence that his young cousins had not only been alive, but well enough to run. Though he said little nothing before Gimli to quench the dwarf's hope, Legolas had confided to Boromir that he deeply feared the repercussions for whichever hobbit had made the dash.

For Boromir, it was nothing more than a reminder of his failure.

His shame weighed heavily on his chest, and every time his broken arm made itself known his mind turned to the two little hobbits, and his heart seared with a pain that overshadowed his physical wounds.

He could never have imagined that he would fall so far as to feel such guilt, but he deserved every ounce of the suffering that was wracking his soul.

First, he had betrayed Frodo – threatening their quest, cursing the halflings who had become so dear to him, and attacking the very hobbit he had sworn to serve and protect. The fact that Frodo had offered understanding and forgiveness made it no easier – indeed, it simply made Boromir's betrayal all the more appalling.

And then, after he had promised to do all he could to redeem himself, he had stolen the rest of Frodo's companions from him. He had let a band of orcs steal away their company's youngest and most vulnerable members, and he had forced the others to make the decision to abandon their quest to rectify Boromir's failings.

Or attempt to.

They had no proof that they were not chasing corpses, that Boromir had not cost Merry and Pippin their lives. All that they suffered now was on his shoulders, and their deaths should be on his head.

Now, he was failing again. The others ran ahead, and Boromir was falling further and further behind, his wounds and his mortal blood slowing him. He was no elf or dwarf, nor even one of the Dúnedain, and for two days he had been fuelled purely by his fear for Merry and Pippin, and his guilt, and his determination to stand by his loyalty.

But now, two leagues into Rohan, it was not enough. His legs gave out beneath him, and he hit the ground with a thud that sent screaming pain up his arm. No shout escaped his lips, but he groaned, and the elf heard, turning and calling to the others to stop. Boromir scowled, gritting his teeth and pulling himself back to his feet as the trio ran back towards him.

"Go on," he spat, staggering until he could stand, "go on! Do not wait for me, I will follow."

"You are wounded," said Aragorn breathlessly. His face was wrought with concern, a concern that Boromir did not deserve. "We have been careless. You have been pushing too hard, my friend, you should have spoken."

"Do not worry about me!" protested Boromir, though his lungs wheezed at the effort of speech. "We are falling behind."

"It is true," said Legolas grimly. "but in your state, Boromir, you will not catch us up. Nor will we catch the orcs."

"Then," said Gimli, managing to keep his voice hot despite his panting breaths. "What do you propose we do? By Durin… I hate cross country…"

Legolas glanced at Aragorn, his eyes narrowing a little as though he was analysing. Then, he nodded at Boromir. "You must swallow your pride, my friend."

A sense of dread crept up Boromir's spine. "Why?" he asked slowly.

"I will carry you."

"No," said Boromir, shaking his head at once. His denial had nothing to do with pride. "No, you should leave me behind – you must catch the uruk-hai."

"We are not leaving you behind!" protested Aragorn, putting a hand on Boromir's good arm. The concern was so undeserved, so misplaced that it hurt. "Come, my friend, Legolas-"

"No. No, leave me," insisted Boromir, his eyes searing with tears that he would not shed – he had no right to cry, or wallow in pity. No right. "Please – I am not a burden worthy of being carried."

"What are you talking about?" said Aragorn, frowning deeply. Gimli and Legolas exchanged looks of confusion, and before he could stop them, the words began to tumble from Boromir's mouth.

"I tried to take the ring. That is why Frodo and I were separate." Unable to stand the shock on their faces, and dreading the moment it turned to disgust and fury, Boromir hung his head. "Something overtook me, I knew not what I was doing, but I tried to take it from Frodo. I could not, thank the Valar, he got away, and he – When I came to my senses I found I had done him no harm, but it was too late, I knew it. I resolved to go to Gondor, to go where I could not hurt him, and where I might redeem myself, and he left me to my thoughts and headed back to camp. At least, that is where I thought he went… But I did not redeem myself. Instead I was overpowered, and I let the orcs carry his kin away. It is my fault. Leave me here. I do not deserve the aid. Leave me, and find Merry and Pippin. Please."

There was silence, but he could not bring himself to look at the faces of his companions. He could feel his legs shaking, begging him to fall again.

"Frodo left you alive? Well?" asked Aragorn harshly, and Boromir nodded, looking up and meeting Aragorn's eyes. They were unreadable, clouded and cold as the sea.

"I swear, I did not hurt him. I asked to be alone, he walked away… I am sorry. I am so sorry."

"Legolas," said Gimli, who would surely – and rightfully – be the most furious of all. "Pick him up before he says anything else. I'd do it myself, but I'm dwarf enough to admit that he's too big – I'd trip over his arms, or drag his legs on the ground. You've got the height, laddie, if not quite the stamina of sturdier folk."

Stunned, Boromir stared at the dwarf. There was a storm in Gimli's eyes, and his face was solemn as a mourner, but there was no hatred, no loathing that he could find. "Did you not hear what I said?"

When Gimli spoke again it was with the same tone as before, an iron calm that seemed to thrum with threat and anger, yet maintain control. "Aye, and it's a problem, but we are wasting time. We'll discuss it later. Let's go."

With that, Gimli turned, and began to jog onwards. With a pensive expression Boromir could not truly read, Aragorn nodded – first at the elf, then at Boromir. And then, he ran after Gimli.

"Come," said Legolas softly, turning his back to Boromir. "Get on my back. That way I can run more easily. Time is wasting."

Time. He had cost them so much of it already. Boromir clambered onto the back of the elf, clinging to him like a weary child. His shame grew stronger, something that he had not thought possible.

Hours passed, and bled into another night, a darkness that brought naught but nightmares, and more restless waiting. The day crawled into being beneath a blood red sky, and Legolas picked up Boromir once more. They were well on their way into Rohan now, and Boromir's hope was bleeding away. Without the pain of running, there was nothing to drag his mind away from the hell that Merry and Pippin must be going through. Nothing, that was, except the dread of not knowing what had happened to Nelly and Bróin, and the fear that Frodo and Sam had not got away at all.

Then, before noon, Legolas stopped in his tracks.

"There are horses coming," he said, and Aragorn and Gimli halted. "Over the hill. Can you hear them?"

Boromir strained his ears, and indeed he heard a distant rumble, the thunder of approaching hooves.

"I can hear them," said Aragorn, and Gimli reached for his axe.

Unheeding of the man clinging to his back, Legolas sprang up to the top of the hill, and peered into the horizon. Boromir squinted over his shoulder, and saw nothing but a blur moving towards them.

"They are sixty," said Legolas, "with bright spears and great helms. Many have hair of gold, including the leader."

For the first time in days, Boromir's heart lifted. "Rohirrim," he murmured.

"Do we hide? Get out of the way?" suggested Gimli.

"No," said Aragorn, jogging up to join Legolas. "We will wait. We may receive news."

They headed to a nearby boulder, and Boromir jumped back onto his own aching feet. When the thunder of the hooves was loud as battle, and the riders were all but upon them, Boromir stepped out from behind the rock and held out his hand in greeting.

The leader of the men pulled his horse to a halt with a cry in the tongue of the Mark, and the others spilt around the hill, surrounding the four hunters in a matter of moments. Their spears were lowered, pointing towards the strangers, but Boromir felt safer than he had in weeks. Gimli and Legolas stood with their backs pressed against each other, but Aragorn seemed unperturbed, and Boromir's face cracked into a smile when he saw the face beneath the helm of the leader.

"Eómer," he said. "I am glad to see you. How goes life in the Mark?"

A ripple of whispers rove around the riders, and the nephew of Théoden removed his helmet. Surprise was written into his face, but Boromir could not help but notice that the young lord looked considerably more careworn than he had when they had met, last Summer. Though they had spent but an evening together, along with the good-hearted prince Theodred, and the reserved Lady Eówyn, Boromir had got on very well with all three of the heirs of Rohan, and it grieved him to see such darkness in Eómer's eyes.

"Boromir!" the lord said, and the men began to whisper all the more. "It is good indeed to see you. Your horse returned rider-less nigh on a week ago. We knew not what to think."

Despite the turmoil around him, Boromir was rather pleased to learn that his trusty old horse had indeed found his way home, and he gave a small smile to Legolas. "I believe his safe return is largely owed to my companion, Legolas, son of the Elvenking in Mirkwood. When we were forced to part, he put a blessing over the horse that he might find his way home."

"Indeed?" Eómer raised his eyebrows and stared at the other three. "If that be true we are grateful, though I have heard little of such things outside of children's stories. Who are your other companions?"

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn," said the man with a bow. "I have ridden with your people in the past, though under a different name."

"Is that so?" Eómer said, staring carefully at the Dúnadan.

"Aye, he has a habit of doing that," said Boromir, diffusing a little of the tension with a smile. "I met him under the name Estel, when we were but children. I knew not his true name until this past year. As for our dwarven companion, this is Gimli, son of Glóin, High Lord of Erebor. All three are dear to me as brothers, and most trustworthy, I can assure you. Tell me, how fares Rohan?"

A cloud fell over Eómer's face, and the men shuffled restlessly on their horses. "Ill," he said. "Our lands are under siege, though some of the king's advisors are shielding his eyes to them. Théoden is failing to recognise friends from foe, and it has grown worse since winter. Open battle broke out at the Fords of Isen, five days ago. There many were slain, and the son of the king among them."

Boromir's heart sank further, and he understood at once why darkness had descended upon Eómer. He and Theodred had behaved as brothers. "I am deeply sorry to hear of it. That is a great loss to Rohan, and indeed to us all."

Eómer nodded once, and lost no hint of composure. "Tell me. What are you doing in these lands, on foot and so armed?"

"Hunting a pack of uruk-hai," said Gimli, in a tone that clearly said he thought this conversation had gone on long enough.

Eómer barked a laugh, looking at Boromir as though expecting a joke to follow. Boromir did not blame him. He knew that, despite their weapons, they were rather poorly equipped to face Saruman's uruk-hai. But Boromir shook his head a little, and Eómer's eyes narrowed.

"They took two of our friends captive," said Aragorn softly. "We have no choice but to follow as we are, as you yet see us. For four days we have run, from Tol Brandir."

"Tol Brandir?" cried Eómer, looking to Boromir for confirmation. "In four days, on foot?"

Boromir nodded, and for the sake of brevity neglected to say that, in his case, it had not always been on his own feet. "We had no choice. Please, my friend, is their aught you can tell us?"

"I can tell you that your journey is ended," said Eómer slowly. "The uruk-hai are no more. We slaughtered them in the night, but we saw no prisoners."

"None?" choked Gimli, going very pale. "There were hobbits, two hobbits with them, did you not see them?"

Eómer began to shake his head, and Boromir's heart spasmed painfully. If Merry and Pippin were not with the orcs…

"They would be small," said Aragorn, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Only children, to your eyes."

"I saw no halflings, nor children, but the night was dark. Of those we did see, we left none alive," said Eómer, regret colouring his tone.

Boromir closed his eyes. Had Merry and Pippin, those two loyal, playful, innocent little hobbits been cut down moments from rescue, cut down and killed with their captors?

"I am sorry," Eómer said. "These are dark times."

"Don't," growled Gimli, and Boromir glanced at him. The dwarf was trembling, and he was shaking his head. Despite the shameless tears in his eyes, he managed to make sound threatening. "Save your pity – they may yet be alive, there is still hope. But if, if you killed them, I swear by all that grows on this earth I will-"

Biting back tears of his own, Boromir put a hand on Gimli's shoulder. The Rohirrim were growing restless, and their muttering suspicious. "Peace, Gimli. You know they meant no harm to Merry and Pippin."

"That's all well and good, unless you want me to tell that to their corpses," spat Gimli, tears spilling shamelessly from his own eyes.

Eómer dismounted, and his men were stunned into silence. He walked towards them, and looked Gimli straight in the eye. "If we have slain your friends without knowing it, then my heart aches to hear it, and I am deeply sorry. It was not knowingly done, I can assure you. But I doubt that it happened in such a way, we have better night eyes than most around these parts, and none escape our nets, once we set them. Perhaps your friends were carried off ere we caught their captors, or perhaps they escaped. You are right – they may yet be alive. We will lend you horses – provided you return them to Meduseld in Edoras when your task is done."

"My Lord," protested one of the riders, in a voice that was both deferent and indignant. "These are the steeds of our fallen kin – it is well, perhaps, that these lords of men may ride them, but whoever has heard of a horse of the Mark being gifted to a dwarf?"

"No one," said Gimli stoutly, even as Boromir glared at the man who had spoken. "And no one ever will. I would sooner walk than sit on so big a beast, be it free or begrudged." And with that, he folded his arms and gave a glare that put Boromir to shame.

"Come, Gimli, if you do not ride, you will hinder us," said Aragorn. "And every hour lessens our hope."

Gimli looked up at Aragorn as though the man had struck him square in the face, but Legolas patted his shoulder.

"Come, Gimli," he said. "You shall ride with me. Then you will not need to borrow a horse, nor be troubled by one. Nor need you worry about falling off."

"Falling-" spluttered Gimli, turning from white to red in a mere moment. "I do not worry about falling – insolent little – bah! Get me on the damn horse, go on!"

Despite their grief, Aragorn and Boromir shared a grin. Eómer whistled, and three horses were brought over. A large, dark grey horse by the name of Hasufel was leant to Aragorn, and a beautiful beast with a coat as gold as the hair of the Rohirrim was brought to Boromir.

"His name is Baelfot," said Eómer, as he passed Boromir the reins. "Firefoot, in our tongue. I was never sure the name suited him – though indeed he runs as well as any, he is a rather docile thing."

The third horse brought to them was named Arod, a smaller, white horse, who was quite clearly rather feisty. Boromir could not help but be pleased he had received the calm Baelfot – he did was sure his wounds would not take too kindly to Arod's bucking. But Legolas asked the men to remove the horse's take, and mounted him without a saddle, nor reins, and at once, the horse was still.

With a smile, Legolas patted the horse's neck, and Arod let out a satisfied whinny, standing very calmly as he waited to Aragorn to lift Gimli onto his back.

"Well," Eómer murmured to Boromir, staring at the scene. "Now I believe more in what you said to me of elven blessings."

"I believed little of it either, but I cannot deny what I have seen." He put his good hand on Eómer's arm and squeezed it. "Thank you, my friend. If we had more time I would tell you of our travels in full, but we are both pressed as it is. Perhaps we will see you in Edoras, whence we bring your horses home."

Eómer gave a smile, though it was but a shadow of the grin Boromir had seen the previous year. "Aye, I would like that. Your companions are most intriguing, and I doubt not that your adventures will be both interesting and useful to hear. Go now. Make haste, and search for your friends. But do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands."

It was getting harder to keep composed. Grief and dread were surpassing his guilt, and his throat ached with unshed tears, but Boromir nodded, and bowed low. "Thank you, my lord."

He mounted the borrowed horse with a little difficulty and glanced at the others, who all seemed ready to depart. Gimli was shifting, and muttering quietly under his breath, holding onto Legolas' cloak with white fingers.

"You sound much like Samwise Gamgee on a boat," said Legolas lightly, and a fractured smile twitched over Boromir's lips.

When they were ready, Eómer mounted his own horse. "We piled the orc carcasses and burnt them," he said, gesturing to a pillar of smoke rising on the horizon. "I wish you luck."

And with that, they departed.

Boromir was relieved to be riding, to be borne by a horse rather than on the back of his friends, but it was still rather uncomfortable. And as his eyes watched the smoke on the horizon, all but the last drops of his hope drained away.

What hope did Merry and Pippin have? The eyes of the Rohirrim were sharper than most men, and if they had neither seen nor slaughtered the hobbits, where were they? Already dead, tossed aside or devoured? The thought sent a shiver down Boromir's spine, and he dug his heels into the horse.

"They say your name is Firefoot," he muttered, his voice thick as he urged the beast to go faster. "Then live up to your name, and make haste now."

Baelfot tossed his head and lunged forward, speeding towards the plume of smoke as though it was a beacon calling him home. He overtook Arod and Hasufel, and Boromir's heart beat faster with every fall of his hooves.

At last, he drew the horse to a halt before a smouldering pile of ash and bone, his nose curling at the stench. He dismounted, patting the horse's flank for a moment, and then staggered towards the remains of the fire as fast as he could, staring around at the carnage. He could see no hobbits. Not even a sign of them.

But what had he been expecting? Merry and Pippin laughing, and toasting sausages over the remains of the fire? They were dead, most likely, and if they were not dead they were gone.

The others arrived, and began to scour the ground too, with Gimli prodding at the fire with his axe.

"Merry?" yelled Boromir hopelessly, his voice echoing uselessly. "Pippin?"

A strange sound caught Boromir's attention, and he turned to look at Gimli. He was holding something in his hands, and then he had fallen to his knees, and let out a wail that sent Boromir to his own knees.

No…

Legolas sprang over, and his face crumpled. "One of their belts," he murmured, and he put a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "I am sorry, my friend."

"They shouldn't have been here!" Gimli cried, "I should have listened to you, Legolas, we should have sent them home."

Legolas said nothing.

And Boromir let his tears fall. A sob wracked his body, and it hurt, and he sobbed again, and again, digging his nails into his arm so that it might hurt nearly as much as his heart did, praying for it to distract him, a distraction he did not deserve.

If ever he saw Frodo again, he would simply hand him a sword, and kneel before him, and beg him to do whatever he saw fit.

"Wait," said Aragorn, at first so quietly no one heard, but then he spoke louder, more sharply, "wait! There are tracks here, hobbit tracks that lead away from the battle!"

Boromir froze, and Gimli looked up.

"What did you say?" croaked the dwarf. "Aragorn-"

"There was a hobbit here, and another here, and they crawled," said Aragorn quickly, walking towards the trees. "They were bound, but their bonds were cut – and they ran. They ran into the forest."

"Fangorn," breathed Legolas.

"They ran?" Gimli choked. "Aragorn, they ran?"

"They ran!" Aragorn nodded, a wild grin on his face. "They left this battle alive!"

Boromir could not believe it. His heart was lifting, but he could not let it – if this was another false hope –

"Right!" cried Gimli, sounding almost hysterical with joy. "Right! Now, that gives us half a minute!"

Then, he stalked over to Boromir, who remained on his knees and let his chin fall to his chest. Without hesitating, Gimli smacked the man hard on the back of the head, and Aragorn and Legolas both froze. Boromir made no move to get away, or dodge another blow. He deserved far worse, he knew, and if Gimli could get some of his anger out then at least –

"There's a saying among dwarves," said Gimli severely, sounding rather like a father scolding his son, "that a smack to the face is an insult. A smack to the back of the head is a wake-up call. Now, from the sounds of it that would have been a lot more use a week ago, but better late than never."

Utterly bewildered, Boromir could make no response but blink.

Then, Gimli struck him once more, this time across the face. "That was for attacking Frodo. You deserve to be insulted for that, you know." Then, he seized Boromir's chin and twisted his face side to side. Boromir wondered if this was some sort of strange dwarven precursor to more severe punishment. "Aye, like I thought," Gimli growled. "No sign of the sickness now. And I reckon that's what took you, lad. Gold Sickness is a curse, and Gandalf himself said the ring could cause it easily. It was wrong to attack Frodo, and you know it, but you've suffered enough for your troubles, if indeed you did no real harm. And I don't believe you did – you're many things, Boromir, but you're no liar. If you slip up again, there'll be more trouble, but I reckon with that damned thing gone you're out of the woods. But let me make one thing very, very clear to you," Gimli lowered his voice dangerously, "whatever happened… to Merry, and to Pippin, that is not your fault."

Stunned did not seem a strong enough word to cover it. Boromir shook his head slightly, but Gimli was not having it.

"You fought for them, you nearly died for them, and no one can say you did not do enough. You were incapacitated, Boromir. It was not your fault. And that is why I haven't taken a knife to you already. If I believed you were at fault, or that you had truly hurt Frodo, you wouldn't be at all worried about that arm of yours. I would tell you what I'd do, if I did think you'd hurt any of them, but it would traumatise the elf." With that, Gimli looked up at Aragorn and Legolas. "Right, now that's done, let's go find my cousins. Fangorn is full of dark tales. We'd best find them before they trip over a tree root and end up in the Anduin like Kíli did."

Legolas and Aragorn exchanged glances, and grins grew on their faces.

"Come on, Boromir," called Gimli, already halfway to the trees. "No time to waste now."

Perhaps Gimli had hit him a little too hard on the head, and he was now hallucinating. Yes, that must have been it, because Boromir could not have been pardoned by the most notoriously grudge-keeping race in the world. The forgiveness was strange enough when it came from Frodo's mouth, but Gimli was protective to a fault, and as dwarvish as they came. And surely, he would blame Boromir for whatever had happened to Merry and Pippin? Who else could be at fault?

And, to top off the bizarre scene, there was a dwarf waltzing almost cheerfully towards Fangorn forest. Fangorn of fables, and old wives' tales that had kept the children of Gondor entertained – and terrified – for generations.

"Come, Boromir," said Aragorn, more strongly, and he strode over, offering Boromir his hand. "He is right you know," he said quietly. "On all counts. Leave your shame here, my friend. It will serve you no longer. How are your injuries?"

"Fine," said Boromir, too quickly for Aragorn's liking. "Save from the fact I am convinced I hit my head far too hard – is Gimli grinning at trees?"

Aragorn smiled. "Gimli has found his hope. It was lost to him for some time. Come. Let us find our friends."

Merry was certain that he had never been in a more serious predicament in his life. He was also certain that to think so was the understatement of the century, but describing it more accurately would just be more of a cause to panic.

It had been a whole day since Pippin passed out, and Merry had not seen him since. He had watched Pippin crumple, watched him fall to the floor, unresponsive when the whips came crashing down against his back. When a goblin jabbed Pippin with a spear, and Pippin did not move, Merry had begun to yell, but there was not even a twitch to tell him that Pippin was alive.

Uglúk himself had scooped Pippin into his arms, and carried him out of Merry's view. Merry had screamed for Pippin until the whip was breaking his skin beneath his clothes, but he had seen no sign of him since. Not a single curly hair.

"Best hope you're the one the master wants," one of the uruk-hai had whispered to him, the last time they had stopped to force orc liquor down his throat. "He'll not be in much luck if it isn't."

But he had told Merry no more than that, regardless of how viciously the hobbit growled.

Now, the orcs were in a panic. There were men behind them, it seemed, mounted men, and the night was falling fast. Those who fell behind had fallen to arrows, and had not got up. It felt quite sudden when the orcs stopped, and it took Merry only a second to realise that they had been fully encircled.

"Form ranks!" Uglúk snarled, from somewhere in the pack. Despite the number that had fallen, there were still two hundred orcs or so, by Merry's best guess. "The filthy whiteskins are cowards. They'll wait for the sun before they attack. Put the prisoners in the middle, and bind their legs. They're not to shout, or be rescued. As long as I'm alive, I want them, you hear?"

At once, Merry was heaved from the ground by a pair of wiry arms, and another goblin grabbed his legs, lashing them together with a rope so tight that Merry grimaced. Then, he was tossed down like a sack of flour, and he let his head fall back against the ground. He could see no stars above him. All the light in the world was coming from a fire, one that the orcs were building to his right somewhere. Soon it was hot and violent, with large, red flames that licked at the night.

Then there was a thud, as another body was thrown down beside him, and his heart leapt, and then plummeted at twice the speed.

Pippin had been thrown down beside him, but he was very pale, and very, very still. There was a thin trail of dried blood tracing its way down his cheek, and more beneath his nose. His eyes were closed, and his cheeks were hollow, and a thrill of horror ran through Merry, worse than any he had ever felt.

Was Pippin, his Pippin – was he dead?

"Pippin," he whimpered, unable to put any more strength into his voice. "Pip?"

Pippin opened his eyes, and Merry gasped, closing his own for a moment in relief. Then, they flew open again, and Merry reached out, grabbing Pippin's bound hands with his own. They were so cold.

"Hello, Merry," whispered Pippin, his voice croaky and weak.

"You had me worried, there, Pip," Merry said, trying to bring a smile to his face. "I lost you, for a while."

Pippin made an attempt to smile back, but it was so weak that Merry's heart quaked. "I think we're very lost, Merry."

"Aye, just a little bit." There was a lump growing in Merry's throat. "What did they do to you, Pip?"

Pippin just blinked his glassy eyes, and Merry bit his lip, squeezing his cousin's hands. He had seen Pippin sick before, seen him tired and even wounded, but never had he seen him look so empty. Anger was rising within him, but it was nothing next to the fear.

What had they done? What had they done to his Pippin?

"I don't even like cheesy scones."

Merry looked up at Pippin in alarm. Had they – had they broken his mind?

"What?" Merry asked, slowly.

"Scones, Merry," said Pippin, another little smile tugging at his lips. "We only went to Bilbo's for some scones. If we hadn't, the Rider wouldn't've seen us, and they'd've kept us home. All of this, for some cheesy scones. And I don't even like them."

Merry let out a weak laugh, relief seeping through him. Pippin was well enough to joke, and that could not be a bad thing. "That feels like a lifetime ago."

He thought back to that night, to the alcohol, to the dancing in the Green Dragon. They were all fractured now – Bofin was injured and Nelly and Bróin and Frodo and Sam were all a world away. He thought of his parents.

"You be safe, Merry, you hear me? Do what the dwarves say, stay close to Kíli. He'll look after you."

The lump in Merry's throat grew. If he ever saw his father again, he would not even be able to say that he had tried. He had purposefully left Kíli behind, fled from Kíli to try and keep his dwarves and his Uncle Bilbo safe. If he ever saw his father again. Uncle Paladin and Aunt Ellie, they had Pearl and Vinca and Nelly, if the worst was to – but Merry's parents…

They had only Merry.

"That said," Pippin murmured, "I'd love a couple of scones now. Cheese and all."

"Aye," Merry nodded, smiling. "Me too."

A mighty clamour broke out on the other side of the camp, and the two hobbits jumped. The riders, it seemed, were not content with waiting till dawn, as the orcs assumed they would be. Instead, they had crept up and attacked, slaying several orcs before slipping back into the darkness. Panic was rising through the ranks of the orcs, and Merry watched carefully as the Isengarders ran off to stop the goblins from scattering.

And their guards ran off with them.

"Pippin!" he hissed, nodding towards the forest and beginning to crawl. "Quickly!"

Pippin shook his head. "No, Merry, wait!" before Merry could so much as open his mouth to ask what for, Pippin glanced over his shoulders and then slipped the rope off of his hands. Merry's mouth dropped open, but before he could ask Pippin was untying his legs.

"I did it when they were arguing," he whispered, finishing with Merry's legs and moving onto his hands.

"Do your own legs first," said Merry, watching carefully. "You'll need them more than I need my hands."

Pippin nodded and untied his legs. It took a little longer, agonisingly so, but finally Pippin kicked the ropes away, and moved for Merry's hands.

And three things happened at once.

A goblin spied them, and shrieked, "Hey!", and a dozen horses burst into the ring of uruk-hai, and a long armed orc slunk from the shadows behind the two hobbits.

Without a second thought, Merry leapt to his feet, dragging Pippin with him, and tore towards the forest. For a moment he wondered if he would have to carry Pippin, but his cousin seemed to have strength enough to run.

Around them, chaos fought with danger in a firelit battle, but Merry kept his eyes on the forest. He did not look at the horses and horsemen, nor at the orcs as they fought, and fled, and fell. He just kept running.

An enormous horse reared above them and Merry dove forwards, and Pippin's hand was wrenched from his. Stumbling, Merry turned, but to his horror he could not see his cousin anywhere. There were only orcs and horse legs and shadows.

"Pip-" His yell was cut short by a large, bloodied hand clamping down over his mouth, and Merry found himself wrenched from the ground. It was Grishnákh, the orc from Mordor who had challenged Uglúk, and there was an evil glint in his eye as he dragged Merry further towards the forest. Pippin was held tightly in the orc's other arm, and as much as Merry struggled, without his hands he could not get free.

Just as panic began to rise up in his chest, Merry heard Kíli's voice in his mind, gentle and kind, and patient as ever when he explained to a ten-year-old Merry why he should not tug hair in wrestling classes.

"When you spar, or wrestle for sport or fun, there are rules, and you have to follow them to make sure no one gets badly hurt. Not only is it the proper thing to do, but it is the honourable thing. Good hobbits and dwobbits and dwarves don't break rules like that. But, you are a hobbit, which means you will almost always be smaller than the folk you fight. That means, in real life, you fight dirty. If – and only if – you're fighting for your life, you bite and pull hair and poke eyes – anything and everything you can do to win. You got it?"

Twisting his neck to get a better angle, Merry sank his teeth into Grishnákh's arm, and the orc grunted, shaking him. Merry bit down harder, forcing his jaw to close tighter and tighter until Grishnákh screeched, dropping Pippin to grab Merry by the throat. His long fingers pressed into Merry's eyes, and Merry realised in a heartbeat what was about to happen.

"Run, Pippin!" he cried, but before the orc could take out his eyes, Pippin smashed a stone into Grishnákh's head, again and again until he let Merry go.

The two hobbits sprang forward, but Merry was tugged back once more.

"Your belt!" cried Pippin, and Merry released it as quickly as his trembling fingers allowed.

With one final kick to Grishnákh's bloodied skull, Merry broke free, leaving his belt behind him as he sprinted towards the forest. Pippin ran by his side, stumbling but still standing, still running.

They were almost there.

Five feet.

Three feet.

Two feet –

Merry expected to be dragged back again, or to have his escape cut short with an arrow to the back, but neither happened. He dove under the cover of the trees, with Pippin safe beside him, and they kept running.

Behind them, the sounds of battle grew quieter and quieter, but they kept running.

And running.

And running.

And then Pippin fell again.

"Pippin!" Merry gasped, his own legs slipping out from beneath him. He scrambled to his cousin's side as quickly as he could. Pippin's feet were moving weakly, pedalling at the air as though he was still trying to run, and he was drawing deep, rasping breaths that sent shudders through his whole body. Merry grabbed his hand, and gently tilted Pippin's head back so that he could get in more air. "It's alright," he said, his own voice shaking. "It's alright Pippin, just breathe-"

"Go!" wheezed Pippin, his bloodshot eyes piercing Merry. "Run, Merry – they'll – catch – you, go!"

"I'm not going anywhere." Merry glanced around. The forest around them was whispering. Wind hissed through the bushes and the trees crowded down towards them, but there was no sight or sound of orcs. "I don't think we were followed, there's been no one behind us for a while now. Breathe, Pippin, that's it. I'm sorry. I forgot that you – I'm sorry. Rest now, Pip, rest for a minute."

Pippin groaned, and tried to sit up. Merry put a hand on his chest, but Pippin knocked it off, and forced himself into a sitting position. He swayed, and Merry caught him, lowering him gently back to the ground. "We've got… to keep moving…" he breathed. "Grishnákh – Grishnákh-"

"No one followed us, Pippin."

But Pippin threw himself up again, and his eyes glazed over as his blood pressure dropped down to his toes "We've got to go Merry."

"Why do you have to be so stubborn, Pippin?" Merry snapped, too sharply, and he softened both his voice and his grip on his cousin. "You are spent, Pippin, you know you are."

"But if they catch us, if they catch us Merry," Pippin gasped, gripping Merry's arm so tight it hurt. "We're dead, Merry, dead. And after, after I – you – they'll hurt you Merry!"

Merry swallowed, and dragged a smile onto his face. "Ah, don't worry about me, Pippin. I'm alright. It's going to be fine now, you'll see."

Doubt flickered in Pippin's eyes, and he glanced back the way that they had come.

"I know," Merry said, pushing his smile wider. "Get on my back, come on."

"Merry-"

"I mean it. You want to get out of here, don't you? Then get on." He crouched beside Pippin, who slowly wound his arms around Merry's neck. Merry stood, and Pippin's legs wrapped around his waist. Shifting until he was comfortable as could be, Merry began to walk. He ignored the weakness in his own knees, and the trembling in his thighs. It was just for a little bit longer. Just a tiny, little bit longer.

He could hear a stream nearby, and he followed the sound of the water until he could see it. He smiled. It was a small brook, and the water would go no higher than his knees. Merry stepped down into it carefully, and though the water was ice cold, it felt wonderful against his skin. Slowly and carefully, he walked downstream, taking great care not to trip or slip. The last thing Pippin needed was to fall face first into freezing water. After a few minutes, he saw a suitable tree, and waded to the edge of the river. A large bough hung down over them, and Merry took a deep breath, getting a strong hold of the branch.

He was a hobbit, just a small, exhausted, frightened little hobbit, and such folk were not renowned for their strength, but renown could be misleading, and Merry was raised by dwarves. Grinding his teeth, he gathered all of his might and heaved, dragging himself and Pippin up out of the brook and into the tree. Pippin made to get down, but Merry held his cousin's hands in place for a moment with a shake of his head, releasing them only to free his own hands. With all the strength he had, Merry climbed and climbed, higher and higher until they were perched safely ten feet from the ground.

A squirrel scurried around the tree trunk and gave an indignant squeak, chattering angrily at the two hobbits. Merry batted at it, and though he missed, it fled.

Then, Merry tapped Pippin's hands, and his cousin slowly let go. There was not much in the way of space, so Merry sat with his back against the tree trunk, and let his legs dangle over either side. Then, Pippin sat before him, leaning back and resting his head on Merry's shoulder. Merry's arms wove around him, and for a long time they did not speak. They simply sat there, exhausted and aching and afraid, and Merry focused on the feeling of Pippin's chest rising and falling beneath his hands. He held on a little tighter.

"Don't scare me like that again, Pippin," he said.

"Like what?"

"When you fell. I couldn't see you, I thought you – don't do it again."

"I won't," mumbled Pippin.

Merry paused, pursing his lips. He did not want to scare Pippin, or upset him, but he had to know. "What happened, Pip? When we got down the cliff, and the yelling began? Why were the orcs so angry? What happened?"

"I ran," Pippin said dully. "I ran away, through their legs. I thought, maybe, if the people chasing the orcs knew we were there, they might not kill us when they caught up. So I ran, to leave some prints, and I dropped my badge – the one Galadriel gave to me. I don't know why. It was stupid. No one was chasing the orcs looking for us. The others have gone with Frodo, and other Men would only care about the orcs. It was stupid, and now my broach is gone."

There was a lump growing in Merry's throat. "I don't think it was stupid, Pippin. I think it was very smart."

Pippin gave an unconvinced grunt. "I was hoping they might be like the last men of Rohan we met."

Merry paused, the memory rising like the lash of a whip. "What do you mean?"

"Well, they were lovely, weren't they? The younger prince, he played with us."

"And that's all you remember of it?"

Pippin nodded, and Merry closed his eyes. He counted to three before he spoke again. "Pippin, the men of Rohan nearly killed my wolf. It was their trap that took Denahi's leg!"

Pippin twisted around, his eyes wide as they focused on Merry. "What?"

"His leg got stuck in a trap they'd set to protect their horses while they camped. They'd left it behind, by accident."

"Oh… I thought he'd always had three legs," said Pippin, looking genuinely baffled. Despite himself, Merry grinned, tousling Pippin's hair gently.

"You're going to have to start paying more attention, Pippin." Merry's thoughts turned to Denahi, and he sighed. "They're nice, really. The people of Rohan. At least the ones we've met are. It was an accident. They gave us twice what we needed to pay for Denahi to heal, and Prince Théoden bought me a half a bakery to apologise, at least that's what it seemed like. Cinnamon buns, honey-cakes, biscuits – enough to last me a week. You must remember sharing those? He's king now, Théoden. His father died years ago…"

For a long moment, Pippin did not speak. Around them, light was beginning to seep through the trees, filtering down upon them only in slips and shadows, and Merry raised his face upwards. His stomach growled. Loudly.

"We're going to starve, aren't we?"

Merry rolled his eyes and dug into his pocket. "No. We're not." With a smile, he passed Pippin a chunk of lembas, and then took a bite himself, before re-wrapping it in its leaf and tucking it safely back into his pocket. He tightened his grip around Pippin. "You know I always keep my pockets stocked. We're going to be fine, Pippin. I promise."

A loud, angry chirrup drew Merry's attention, and he saw that the squirrel had returned, and was chattering angrily at them.

"It almost sounds like a quack," mumbled Pippin. Merry listened, and supposed that Pippin was right. But another sound caught his ear, a sound of dull thuds and shifting plants, and he suddenly had the most horrible feeling that something big was coming up behind them. There was another thud, like a footfall, and Merry's arms locked around Pippin.

"Barum," boomed a voice, as old and deep as the earth. "What have we here?"

And so we end on a cliffhanger, perhaps more so for our two hobbits than for our audience, who I hope can guess who that particular voice belongs to ;) I hope that you enjoyed that mammoth chapter. I tried to put in some lighter moments for you after the awfulness of the last chapter, so I hope you liked it!

Please do leave a review if you can, I really, truly appreciate it. In any case, thanks for reading, I'll see you next Monday if all goes well :D