Hey there! Sorry for the delay in this one – as I have said, I am super, crazy busy right now. I hope that you enjoy this very long chapter to make up for it, and I will update again as soon as I possibly can, though I make no promises as to when that will be.

As ever, please do forgive any mistakes in this chapter.

Chapter Seventy-Five: Of Old Friends and Great Foes

Frodo, Sam and Bróin were on their feet in a heartbeat, but in that time more men had burst from the trees, hooded and masked, and the one before Nelly had his arm wrapped around her chest.

"Let me go!" she yelled, her voice taut with fear and anger. "Let me go, get off me! Get off me!"

Bróin charged forward, his fists his only weapons, but another two men tackled him to the ground even as Frodo and Sam drew their swords. A swell of six men surrounded them, but when Frodo growled and raised his blade, they halted, aiming spears and swords towards the two hobbits.

With a vicious growl of her own, Nelly threw her head back, smashing it into the man's chest, and she kicked at his shins with such force that he cried out. Behind her, Bróin fought furiously against the men that pinned him to the dirt.

"Get off them!" yelled Sam, brandishing his sword towards the men, whose own blades moved closer to Frodo and Sam. "Leave them alone, we've done nothing wrong!"

His heart beating faster than a hummingbird's wings, Frodo glanced over the enemy. There were at least two dozen of them, and they were all armed to the teeth. Though the dwarven side of him was urging to fight, he knew that he and Sam stood no chance if the men had even an inkling of how to use their weapons. His mind raced, and the ring began to whisper to him.

Put me on… escape… kill them all…

The man holding Nelly swore loudly and doubled over, and her feet scrambled against the ground, but another figure swept forward and seized her legs. The first man tightened his grip around her chest as the second hoisted her legs into the air, pulling back to stop her from kicking.

And then Nelly screamed.

It was like nothing that Frodo had heard before, nothing like any noise that he could have imagined Nelly would make. It was not a growl of rage, nor a battle cry, nor even a shriek of shock or exclamation of pain. It was pure terror, raw and wrenching, and it rang out for an endless moment, and then dissolved into desperate sobs. She thrashed frantically in the men's arms, suspended in mid-air with the ragged tunic riding further up her chest, but they held her firm.

"Let her go!" howled Bróin from the ground. "Let her go, let her go, let her go!"

The screams stabbed Frodo in the heart, and as he realised what Nelly and Bróin were reliving, anger burnt like bile in his stomach and throat. He sprang towards the nearest man and disarmed him in a second, hooking his foe's legs out from beneath him before the man could so much as blink. Dropping his knee onto the man's chest, Frodo pressed his sword tightly against the man's throat.

"Let them go," he growled, and a hush fell. "Now."

Only Nelly's breathless crying broke the silence, and it frightened him. There was a wild, animal fear in her eyes, and it was so wrong. So wrong for Nelly to look so afraid.

"Lower your weapon, and we might talk," said one of the men, stepping forward from the others. He also wore a mask of cloth across his nose and mouth, but there was something unnervingly familiar about his grey eyes. Frodo pressed his sword closer towards the throat of the stranger on the ground.

"Tell your brute to take his hands off my cousin, and I will consider lowering my blade," he snarled, his eyes flashing to the one who held Nelly. Her entire stomach was now bare, the fabric of her tunic bunched up beneath the man's arms, which were still rising upwards. And there was a knife pressed against her neck. "Put her feet on the ground, and take your knife from her neck and your arms away from her chest."

The man who had spoken followed Frodo's gaze, and his eyes widened. "Rion!"

"She kicked me," muttered Rion. "Right where it hurts. Couldn't hold her on my own."

"Well she's not kicking now," said the first speaker, clearly the group's leader. "Let her adjust herself."

Rion nodded, and Nelly's legs were released. As soon as they hit the floor, Frodo saw her toes curl up, and Rion took his arm off of her chest, though he kept one hand on the back of her neck, and the knife to her throat. In a flash, she had pulled her tunic back down, and her hands flew up, wrapping around Rion's arm as if that might stop the knife from biting her throat.

"Now," said the leader, turning back to Frodo. "Lower your sword."

Frodo gave a wild laugh. "You think I will lower my sword while you have knives at the throats of my friends? You lower your blades first!"

"And how do I know that you will not slay Húlon the moment that your friends are released?" said the man. "This is no longer a place of peace, nor is it a place were good folk tend to roam."

Frodo ground his teeth together, and he looked at Nelly. All the colour that the food had leant her was gone. She was white as marble, and her eyes were unfocused, and she was breathing quickly. Too quickly, too shallowly – Frodo had seen this before. Bilbo called them panic attacks.

"Then why are you roaming here?" he said at last, glaring at the man. "Attacking innocent people on the road?"

"Ithilien is our land, and we defend it," said the leader, calmly, almost gently. "Now, lower your blade. There is nowhere to run, and you cannot fight us all."

"Lower your blades first."

The men in the clearing began to hiss and grumble, but the eyes of the man who spoke were thoughtful, and almost kind. "On the count of three?" Frodo nodded stiffly. "One, two, three."

On three, at a nod from the speaking man, Rion lowered his knife, though he kept a grip on the back of Nelly's neck. Frodo sheathed his sword, but put his foot on Húlon's chest for good measure. When the leader raised his eyebrows, Frodo just raised his own back.

The leader stared at him for a long moment, and then he spoke again. "Who are you, and what is your business here? No one travels here these days, save spies, or warriors."

Sam muttered something under his breath, and Frodo thought about how to answer. Fíli said that a name and title could act as a threat, but could also be used as a weapon against you. He studied the man before him, and then his eyes fell on a horn attached to one of their belts.

"Are you men of Gondor?" he asked.

"Of Minas Tirith," said the man.

"Then I will give you my name. I am Frodo Baggins, heir of Bilbo, nephew of King Thorin of Erebor. This is Samwise Gamgee, Pimpernel Took and Bróin, son of Lord Bombur. We are on a mission sanctioned by Gandalf the Grey. You would be wise to let us go," he said, and the man's eyes widened.

"Frodo…" he murmured. "I thought so."

Frodo blinked, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bróin and Sam exchange glances. "And why is that?" he said.

"We have met before," murmured the man. "A long time ago. A lifetime, it feels." And he pulled off his mask to reveal a face that stirred a memory, and a resemblance to Boromir that made his next words irrefutable. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor."

"Bless me, you are!" cried Sam, his eyes widening. "You've grown up, haven't you? Now, you know us, Mister Faramir, sir, so you tell that Rion to put his knife down, and get those big lumps off of Bróin."

"I knew you," said Faramir softly. "But that was many years ago, and much can change." But he nodded at Rion. "Let them go, and step off the dwarf. I take it you will not flee?"

They shook their heads, and Nelly was released. Like a shot, Bróin darted forward, dragging her away from Rion and wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. They scrambled towards Frodo and stood behind him, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"What 'mission' brings you here?" asked Faramir.

"One that your brother was part of," replied Frodo, and to his surprise, Faramir stiffened. "He joined us from Rivendell, though we were parted at Rauros."

"Parted?" said Faramir. His voice was soft, and his men bristled around him. A sense of dread began to creep up Frodo's spine, and he studied Faramir's face warily as he nodded.

"We were set upon by uruk-hai," he explained. "And our party split to save itself."

Faramir turned away, and rubbed his jaw. "Then you do not know?"

"Do not know what?" asked Frodo, the rising within him.

And even as Faramir said it, he remembered.

And then he was in a forest, and watching arrow after arrow shoot into Boromir's chest.

His nightmare had not haunted him for days, being overtaken by more present horrors, but that had been the forest where he saw Boromir get shot –

And he had not seen Boromir since –

And Faramir said, "That my brother is dead."

Frodo's grief punched him in the gut as the others gasped and flinched behind him. "What? When – how?"

"Three days ago, the news came from Rohan. He was cut down by beasts of Saruman. Yesterday, I found this in the Anduin." He reached to his belt, and pulled out a familiar horn, cloven in two.

"No," said Bróin, shaking his head, and staggering backwards. Grief and fear were etched into his face, and as Nelly's arms wove around his, Bróin began to shake his head all the faster. "No, that's – he can't be! It isn't – he was – no, no…"

"I am very sorry to hear that, if it is true," said Frodo, allowing his grief to spill into his voice, and his gaze to drop to the ground. "He was… he was a dear friend."

A howl screeched through the air and Frodo's heart dropped through to his toes as the colour drained from Bróin's face.

"Uh oh," Sam muttered, and then there came the shouts of men, and a shrieking yelp of pain, and Bróin cried out.

"Toothy!"

The ground seemed to shake beneath them as a great roar rendered the air, and the men of Gondor turned, pointing their weapons towards the stream.

Nelly gave a strangled cry of her own. "No, wait-"

With a growl as deep as Khazad-dûm, the warg burst through the bushes towards them, and to Frodo's horror, he held one of Faramir's men in his mouth.

"Kakhuf inbarathrag," he whispered, as chaos exploded around him. The men of Gondor roared in rage, and aimed their weapons at the warg and the hobbits, and Toothy reared up onto his hind legs for a moment, before tightening his grip on the man in his mouth.

"Stop, stop!" Bróin cried, running forward. "Don't hurt him, don't hurt him?"

"Don't hurt him?" cried Rion incredulously, and then he barked out another order. Hands grabbed Frodo from behind, and a knife was pressed to his throat, but before he could even glare, Nelly and Sam and Bróin received the same treatment. "Take it down!"

"No!" howled Bróin. "No, don't, he's not dangerous – Toothy, drop him!"

Toothy growled, his hackles rising higher, and the men advanced, swords and spears at the ready. Faramir hesitated between them, his gaze darting from Bróin to the warg, and Frodo fought against closing his own eyes. He knew that he had to watch, had to be alert, but if he had to watch Bróin witness his warg killed… He was not sure he could stand seeing any further grief on his young cousin's face.

"Drop him," Bróin ordered, his voice wavering. "Toothy, drop the man, now, please-"

Toothy growled stood his ground, staring at the man holding Bróin. Then, the warg ducked his head.

"Please," begged Bróin, tears pouring down his cheeks. "Just put him down, don't make them hurt you, Toothy, put him down, please."

Toothy drew back his lips to show his teeth against the man's neck, and Frodo realised for the first time that there was no blood. The warg thrust his head towards the man holding Bróin, and then ducked his muzzle once more.

"Let the dwarf go," ordered Faramir, and when the protests began, he held out his hand. "I want to see something. Hold your aim, but put Master Bróin down."

His hand around the arm that held a knife to his own throat, Frodo watched as Bróin was released. The moment that the knife left Bróin's neck, Toothy spat the man in his mouth down onto the ground.

"The beast was… bargaining?" breathed Rion. "Impossible…"

"Tell the beast to back down," said Faramir, staring pointedly at Bróin. "Or we will end its life."

"Down, Toothy!" pleaded Bróin, almost before Faramir had finished talking. "It's alright, down now, good boy. Down."

Toothy growled, and stared at Nelly, but almost at once the man holding her removed his knife from her neck, and his hand from her shoulder, and then Toothy collapsed to the ground with a whine.

And silence struck them like an avalanche.

Finally, Sam cleared his throat. "Now, I know this looks bad," he said. "Being all tied up with a warg, and all. But there's more to it than that, and it's a story we'll tell you, if you'd kindly stop trying to slit our throats."

Faramir stared at Sam for a long moment, and then he stared at Frodo. Then, he nodded. "Release them."

"My lord?"

"Release them," repeated Faramir, and one of the other men growled.

"Release them? They could not more clearly be working for the enemy? They travel in secret in these lands, with a slinking companion who vanishes like shadow in the night, and a warg under their command – what proof have we that it was not they who slew Boromir?"

At once, Nelly and Bróin yelled furious protestations, and Toothy began to growl, but Frodo cut over them all.

"Stop!" he roared, his voice ripping free from his chest with a strength that he had not realised he possessed. "Stop, and listen, or you are no better than orcs yourselves! If you imprison or torture or slaughter us without first hearing us, you are worse than the orcs you say you loathe! Boromir told me Gondor was a noble place, and if you hold us now without letting us speak, you spit on his legacy."

The men stopped, and stared at him. Many glared, and opened their mouths, but none of them spoke. Nelly and Bróin stayed quiet too, as did Sam, and Frodo fiercely met the eyes of all who looked at him. Finally, Faramir met his eyes.

"We of Gondor are not in the habit of executions without trials, though sometimes it cannot be helped, in war. Tell me, Frodo Baggins – where did the warg come from?"

"Isengard," Frodo answered bluntly. "Nelly and Bróin stole him when they escaped from Saruman's prison."

"Impossible," growled Rion.

"Why?" Frodo countered, fury clenching his fists. "Because she is a girl and he is a dwarf? If Boromir told you that he had escaped from Isengard, still clad in prison rags, with lash marks still red on his neck, would you doubt him? Look at them! Do you think a woman would chose to travel in that? Do you think a dwarf would not rather have a pair of real trousers? Do you not see the wounds on their wrists from their shackles?"

Rion did not look convinced. "I would eat my foot if that dwarf was even close to being of age, and the girl-"

"Could best any of you in combat," argued Bróin hotly. "And she could scale a cliff with only the strength in her fingertips. And I may be young, but I am not useless."

"Does the warg have a muzzle?" asked Faramir quietly, and Frodo frowned.

"What?"

"The warg? Can it be controlled?"

Frodo glanced at Bróin, who nodded.

"I can ride him," he said defiantly. "He won't hurt anyone if I tell him not to."

Faramir nodded slowly. "I ask you to come with us for the night. You will surrender your weapons, but will be under our protection, and we shall provide food and drink. We will camp together, and you will tell me your tale. I would like to believe that you are not spies, but until I am convinced, I cannot simply let you go."

"And if you don't believe us?" asked Nelly, her voice tight as a bowstring. "What then?"

Faramir bowed his head. "Then you will become prisoners of war, and will be held in Minas Tirith until an official trial can be held."

"You're not giving us much of a choice," she said, and Faramir inclined his head.

"No," he said. "But I give you the opportunity to come willingly, as guests."

"Very well," said Frodo heavily. He understood the politics. There was no choice, no alternative other than to start a fight that would kill them all, but the fact that Faramir was inviting them was a good sign. Especially after Toothy's appearance. Gripping his sword by the blade, Frodo offered the hilt to the nearest guard.

"Be careful with it, please," he said softly. "My brother forged it for me."

The man frowned slightly, though it was a look of innocent curiosity as opposed to a scowl of scorn. "I did not know halflings were such good swordsman."

"They aren't, as a rule," agreed Frodo, smiling wryly. "But there are exceptions to every rule, and in any case, the exception is a dwarf named Kíli Baggins. He may not be my blood, but he is a brother to me all the same." The thought of Kíli made Frodo's heart ache for home. If Kíli was here now, he would have charmed each and every one of the men by now. Unless Fíli talked them all out of trouble first.

When all the weapons had been surrendered, Bróin scrambled onto Toothy's back, and Faramir began to lead them away from the stream. Nelly walked beside Frodo, so close that her icy hand grazed his.

"Are you alright?" he asked in a low voice.

Nelly stiffened, and her arm wrapped tightly around her stomach. "Fine. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Frodo pressed gently. "Wasn't it you who told me it's best to talk about these things?"

She sent a fierce look his way, but fear flickered beneath it, and her bravado quickly crumpled. "I – when he – my feet weren't on the ground and – it was like I was, like I was back there, Frodo, with – and they were going to – I – I – I thought – his hand… I thought…"

It felt like someone had tightened a noose around Frodo's neck and he shook his head, stopping in his tracks. "No," he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tightly. "That won't happen. I won't let that happen. We won't let that happen. You're alright, Nell."

Nelly pursed her lips and turned her face away. She said nothing for the rest of the walk, but she did entwine her fingers around Frodo's. It did not take long for Faramir to lead them to the camp, and when he did, it became clear that these men knew Ithilien as well as hobbits knew the Shire. The small maze of caves that they had arrived at were all but completely hidden by moss and bushes and bracken, and Frodo was not sure that he would have been able to find it himself, even if he looked.

"This is not our main station in Ithilien," said Faramir, a slight smile on his face. "Just in case you're planning an incursion. Follow me." He led them through a tunnel that made the man duck, and forced Bróin to lie flat against Toothy's back. They emerged into a smaller cave lined with crates and a few urns. A small fire was already burning in the middle of the space, and in the corner there was a large sheepskin rug, covered with a few meagre blankets.

"Rion, Madril, you may stay if you wish," said Faramir. "As for everyone else, get some food, some rest. We shall call for you, if there is need."

By the grumbling, Frodo guessed that not everyone was happy with this, but Faramir ignored the noise, and turned to the two men who remained. Rion was clearly the younger of the two, with dark hair and darker eyes, and a fierce glint in his gaze. Unlike most of the others, he was clean-shaven, and Frodo wondered if he had managed to scowl away all of his facial hair with suspicious glares. The other man, Madril, was grey and weathered, but he still appeared strong and fit, and Frodo had no doubt that he knew exactly how to use the sword on his belt.

"If you are to stay," Faramir said to the men, "you are to listen, in silence. At the end, I will hear your questions and concerns, but first I will hear what our friends from Erebor have to say. Is that understood?"

Rion nodded sharply, and Madril gave a bow. "Of course, my lord. Shall I fetch the wine?"

Faramir nodded, and then turned back to Frodo. "I seem to remember that hobbits are often a hungry people. Can I offer you some supper?"

"I'm afraid we ate not five minutes before we ran into you," said Frodo, with a small smile. "I will only speak for myself, but I am alright for the time being – though I appreciate the offer, and by all means eat yourself."

Faramir nodded, and took some bread and cheese from a nearby crate. Frodo noticed that he gave wine to the hobbits and Broin, and food to his men before he touched his own plate.

"So," said Faramir. "Come, Frodo Baggins. Tell me your story, and leave nothing out."

Frodo stared at Faramir for a long moment, and then he began to speak. He started at his birthday party, and the fateful trip to the inn afterwards. He told Faramir of the Nazgul, and the men flinched, and though he told them who the wraiths had been chasing, Frodo carefully left out what. He spoke of the flight to Rivendell, and of meeting Boromir there, and the meeting of the Council of Elrond. Then, he paused.

He could here say that Elrond had sanctioned this mission. That they were the ones chosen for the task, and the Council had happily waved them off. But there was something in Faramir's eyes that stopped him. They were discerning, but trustful. Questioning, but faithful. It seemed wrong to lie, even for the sake of care, and as paused, Frodo remembered something that Boromir had told him, the night after he shared memory of his nightmare with the others.

"I know how it is to be burdened with a prophetic dream," he murmured, so quietly that Frodo would be the only one to hear, even if the others were not asleep. "It was a dream that chased me from my home. Not the words I spoke in the Council – they were the reason that someone had to set forth. But it was me who rode North, because Faramir had had these dreams. And I had had dreams of his death. Endlessly." A wry, weary smile had pulled at Boromir's lips. "It seems we are both racing to stop our dreams from coming true, Frodo Baggins."

And so Frodo told the truth. "The mission they spoke of – this mission… It was to be my uncle's. Bilbo was to be the leader of this expedition. But we felt differently. Bilbo would take Kíli with him, and Nori, and they are needed in Erebor. We are just as strong and just as skilled as they are, and far less important… I knew by then that Dís was pregnant – that she would need Bilbo more than ever, that he would need to be with her – and I…" He paused. "I had a dream. While we were in the house of Tom Bombadil. I saw my family, saw awful things happen to my kin… I could not let that happen. So I gathered Sam, and Nelly and Bróin, besides Merry and Pippin and our wolves, and we took the quest on our shoulders and ran. Boromir was the first to catch up with us. He rode with Gimli, Aragorn, and Legolas, and when he heard us, he agreed to join the quest. He saved our lives when we attempted to cross Caradhras – the snow forced us to retreat, but it was thanks to Boromir that we lived to flee."

Grief struck a harsh blow to Frodo's chest and he paused, glancing away from Faramir. If the intel of the men was right, if Boromir was dead –

He swallowed, and carried on with the tale, fighting through grief to tell of the events at the gates, and of the journey the Moria. And of Gandalf's fall. At that, Faramir's face lost all colour and his plate tumbled from his trembling hands, and Rion and Madril uttered soft sounds of despair, but all three men held their tongues. Frodo was grateful. If he stopped talking, he was not sure that he would be able to start again. His throat began to ache, and though he told himself that it was from the talking, he knew that it was the weight of unshed tears as he recalled Lórien, and the trip down the river –

And his walk with Boromir. There he paused again. He had not spoken to Nelly and Bróin about the argument that he had had with Boromir. He had barely mentioned it to Sam. The last thing he wanted was to suggest to Faramir that he held any ill will towards Boromir – and indeed, he did not want anyone else to get angry at Boromir, when it was truly the ring at fault. But he had promised himself that he would tell the truth.

So, feeling rather like he was digging his own grave, Frodo began to speak once more.

"We walked a long way. He disagreed with our route, and I understood why – but I'd made up my mind. We argued… well… We fought. The burden of our quest – it can twist your mind and Boromir – well… there was a moment when it was like he was not himself. There was… greed, in his eyes, greed and hate, and I was afraid of him." Swallowing, Frodo met Faramir's eyes. "I had never been afraid of your brother before. It was not my friend's eyes in that face, not his words when he spoke of doom and wrath and ruin… I was very afraid… we fought with fists and with words… and then he fell, and something cleared in his eyes. He saw sense. And we walked in two separate directions, to clear our heads. The next thing I knew, I stood upon Amon Hen, and the uruk-hai of Saruman were upon us. We chose to protect the quest, to scatter, and Sam and I were parted from Nelly and Bróin for a while. We made it to the Emyn Muil, but as no one joined us our fear grew and we became lost. That was where we met Sméagol – the slinking one. He is a wretched creature, but bound to me by oath, and for now, at least, he is our guide."

For the first time, Faramir spoke. "Will he pose any threat to our guard?"

Frodo glanced at Sam, and slowly shook his head. "I doubt it. I fear he does not love us – not enough to risk his own life, in any case. He will be nearby. Waiting."

Faramir nodded, and Frodo took it as invitation to continue. He spoke of their arrival at the gates of Mordor, and Sméagol's declaration of another way.

"A week ago, Nelly and Bróin caught us up, and then you found us," he finished. Faramir nodded again, more slowly, and then he turned his eyes to Nelly and Bróin.

"If you will, I would hear of what befell you, after the falls of Rauros," he said, in a voice so gentle that Frodo did not protest.

Bróin glanced at Nelly, and she pursed her lips. Then, she spoke. "We were cornered. Uruk-hai, dozens of them. We fought, but there were too many. They only wanted hobbits. They left Bróin for dead, but they captured me. But it'll take more than a couple of orcs to take down Bróin, son of Bombur." She smiled weakly, and Bróin grinned back. "He got up stole some of their grog and followed. What was it, a day, two before you caught us? But then he was captured, too, and we were taken to Isengard. To Saruman."

Rion hissed, and Madril's fist clenched. Frodo quashed the desire to run over and hug Nelly and Bróin for ten solid minutes, fearing that he might embarrass them a little, if he did.

And for now, Nelly was doing well on her own. "He tortured us," she said, her voice shaking only a little, though her eyes were glued to the ground. "He wanted information on Bilbo and Dís, he wanted to know about our families, about Erebor… We lied where we could, but… you do not want to know what he did." Bróin gave a cough to poorly hide a whimper, and shuffled closer to Nelly. Toothy crawled forward, and put his head in Nelly's lap. She smiled a little, and swallowed. "He wanted to use Bróin as ransom. His Adad's rich. Very rich. And then Isengard was attacked. Don't ask me when – I lost track of days a lifetime ago. But we got lucky. A guard dropped his keys when the attack began, and we got out of our cell. The trees broke apart the walls of Orthanc, and Bróin and I managed to get out. Get to a stable, and when it wasn't a horse, we improvised, and took Toothy as far and fast as we could. Bróin figured out that he might not be too bad, given a little affection, and he seems to be doing alright so far," she paused, scratching Toothy's ears. "Didn't realise he'd bargain for us, though."

Toothy gave a soft whine, and Faramir smiled sadly. "I do not doubt you showed that creature the first show of affection that he has ever seen. But tell me, what do you mean by the trees breaking the walls of Orthanc?"

Nelly glanced at Frodo, and he nodded. She shrugged a little. "That was what it looked like. Frodo said he thought they might be ents, but I haven't heard much about ents before. I thought they were fairy-tales, from Merry's books. But they looked like trees, and they were throwing great boulders into the tower. We didn't stop to chat."

Faramir nodded slowly, staring at Nelly and Bróin. After an endlessly long moment, he sighed, and looked back to Frodo.

"I know it all sounds unbelievable," said Frodo, "but don't you think we would come up with a simpler story, if it was not true?"

"Perhaps," murmured Faramir, gazing at Madril and Rion. "But can it be believed?"

"And what," added Rion, fixing sharp eyes on Frodo, "do you carry?"

Pippin felt numb. That was the only word for it, the only word that he knew, but it was not an accurate word. When you were numb, you felt nothing, but there was a great, aching hole in Pippin's chest, a grief and a fear that he had never felt before. It was worse even than Gandalf falling, worse than that being his fault.

Because it was not Gandalf that had fallen.

It was Nelly.

They all thought she was dead. Gandalf spoke of Saruman lying, and Aragorn murmured about hope, but they did not believe what they were saying. Pippin was not stupid. He could see their sorrow in their eyes, and read the lies on their lips. They all believed that Nelly was dead. Merry did too, and Gimli, but they did not hide behind pretty lies. They told him – Merry with his words and Gimli with bone-crunching hugs, and pointed silence. They had both cried, too. Almost as much as Pippin.

Pippin did not think that he had any tears left. He had nothing left at all. Nothing but the clothes on his back, and the thoughts in his head. According to Gandalf, none of that was worth giving. The wizard seemed to be trying to keep Pippin out of any conversation that might be in the least bit important. He had not told Pippin what the plan was for Saruman's detainment, or what the great glass ball that Gríma had thrown from the tower was, or why they were going to Edoras when Bróin was still out there, and Frodo still needed them, and Erebor was still so far away.

It had been Boromir and Legolas who told him that the ents were to keep watch on Isengard, and it was by eavesdropping on Aragorn and Gandalf that Pippin discovered that the Palantir, as it was called, was a device used in days gone by to communicate over long distances, and see things that were far away. And it was Gimli – who, to his credit, needed no prompting – explained that there was nothing they could regroup in Edoras, and plan their next move. It was Gimli who promised that they would never abandon Bróin, that they would do whatever it took to get him back.

If they did not save Bróin, if he died too –

The thought of it made Pippin's chest hurt so hard that he sat up, and wrapped his arms around his stomach. His blanket slipped into his lap, and he shifted on the uncomfortable wooden floor. They had reached Edoras near nightfall, and shared a meal to honour the dead. Pippin had drunk at the toast, but he had eaten nothing. Not even when Merry begged him to. Instead, he had slipped away into another hall, one where bedding had been laid out for the remnants of the fellowship, and other soldiers with them who were not local to Edoras. He had listened to the sombre speeches turn into partying and song, and when they did Merry joined him. Hours later, Boromir and Aragorn had carried Gimli into the room, and laid him beside Pippin. Legolas stood behind them, his eyes heavy.

"He drank as though his life depended on it," he had murmured.

And Pippin believed it.

Now, there was a lonely quiet around him. The once revelling soldiers were snoring around him, and though Legolas had gone outside with Aragorn, the rest of their fractured fellowship were sleeping. It was just Pippin awake. He glanced down at Merry, but despite the burning lump in his throat, he knew that he could not wake up his cousin simply because he was lonely. For now, Merry was at peace, maybe even in dream world where Nelly was alive, and everything was alright. Pippin could not drag him from that.

You're such a cry-baby, Pippin. Get up and do something about it!

Tears spilled from his eyes as Nelly's words filled his mind. She had called him a cry-baby a lot when they were kids, though always in a tone that said she did not mean it. Teasing was Nelly's way of showing love, and Pippin had known that forever. He could see her now, her lips pursed in a wry smile and her arms folded cockily across her chest. She would smirk and shake her head, and tell him that he was being a baby. That everything would be fine.

Everything would not be fine.

He would never see her again. Ever. Not even in a coffin, or at a wake. She was dead, and she was gone, and there was nothing that he could do to change it. Nothing he could even do to see her.

He pressed his face into his borrowed pillow, trying to stop himself from crying, trying to smother the noise.

And then he paused.

Perhaps he could see her again. Maybe…

Aragorn said that the Palantir showed things that were far away – it could, then, show him his sister. A rush of cold sent a shudder through him. No one said that it showed the past – would he be able to cope if he saw her body? If he saw her head?

If it shows me where Bróin is, I can cope, he thought fiercely, rising to his feet. He was shivering, shaking from head to toe, but rising up through his grief was a yearning, a desperate desire to know. He had to know what happened.

He had to know.

His heart beat fast in his throat and he swallowed, tip toeing over to where Gandalf was sleeping. His feet made no sound, but he was afraid that the frantic beating of his heart would wake the wizard. For a moment, he thought that it had – Gandalf's eyes were wide open, and fixed upon Pippin, but when the hobbit froze, the wizard gave a great snore. Slowly, Pippin waved his hand before Gandalf's eyes, and when he did not even blink, the hobbit drew back, and took a deep breath.

Nelly, he thought, his eyes stinging again. He had to do this for Nelly.

The Palantir was in Gandalf's arms, wrapped in a grey cloth, but beside the wizard was a jug of a similar size, and Pippin took it silently. He took a slow, deep breath.

When you're nicking something from someone who's asleep, you've got to be smooth, Pippin, and quick. Don't move them, that's the key.

That's what Nelly had said, when she caught him trying to pinch her pillow one night on the road.

Swift as Nelly had ever been, Pippin swiped the ball from Gandalf's arms and slipped the jug into its place. The wizard did not stir.

Pippin breathed out, and scampered across to where his bedroll lay. The Palantir was heavier than he had expected, like a block of solid crystal, and he laid it carefully on the ground without so much as a sound. Then, he pulled the grey cloth away.

It was a strangely normal looking thing. A great ball of smooth crystal or glass, solid and shiny, with a darkness inside that did not look unlike the clever dye work of the dwarves of Erebor.

Pippin took a deep breath. He did not know how it worked, and he did not know if he wanted to see what it would show him but he had come so far. And he had to know.

He had to.

With all the concentration he could muster, Pippin thought of his sister.

I want to know where she is. I want to know where Nelly is. I want to know where Nelly is.

And his fingers touched the smooth stone.

At once, a shock ran through them, electric but painless, and it was like his hands were stuck to the sides of the ball. He took a deep breath, and pictured his sister in his mind.

Show me Nelly, he thought. Please.

His hands began to tingle, as though a hundred sparks danced beneath his palms and licked at his fingers, and then blackness spilled over everything he could see. He gasped, but through the darkness came an image, one that began to form before him, as though he could see it himself. It was a land he did not know, and there were men – tall men, clad in green and grey, and armed to the teeth, and –

Nelly.

She was there, she was alive! Alive and kicking, and one of the men had a knife to her throat but she was alive, and Pippin could see Bróin with her, and another pair of familiar faces -

And the world seemed to twist beneath him, and it felt like he was falling, falling far away through a darkness that reached in every direction, an endless space to tumble through, and a voice spoke out, sending a spasm of fear through Pippin's heart.

You are late. I have been waiting.

Another scene appeared before him, a blazing picture of pure white at first, shading into another land he did not know – courtyard of stone that circled a white tree, a tree that was burning, a tree whose trunk was splattered in blood.

Have you no excuse? Answer me!

Pain tore into Pippin's head as though it had been caught in a vice, and he screamed, but though he could feel his voice ripping from his throat he could hardly hear it. It was so far away, and the cold, cruel voice was so much nearer.

You are not Saruman. Who are you?

Terror coursing through him, Pippin tried to run, but his legs did not work. His whole body was frozen, and his hands held out in front of him, still holding the ball. Another screech of pain ripped into him, and Pippin cried out again, trying desperately to let go of the Palantir, but his hands were stuck. Far, far away, he could hear a faint voice crying back – he could hear Merry, calling out in fear, and he clamped his mouth shut. He could not scream back, not if the Voice would think he was saying that he was Merry, not if it would put Merry in danger –

The pain shot down Pippin's spine, burning his throat and his chest and his stomach, and he screamed, a white haze of pain clouding his vision of the burning tree. It was everywhere now, a sharp burn that would not let him go, that seared every inch of him, and with a thrill of horror, Pippin realised that he must be burning alive.

I am a hobbit! he thought desperately. He wanted to scream it, but his jaw seemed to be welded shut.

The Voice gave a cold, cruel laugh. Are you indeed? Well, tell Saruman I shall send someone to fetch you soon. This prize is not for him. I shall see you very soon.

Everything was on fire, they had tied him down and burnt him, that was the only way it could hurt so much, be so hot, and he screamed –

And fell –

And the darkness returned –

And then there was nothing.

I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Please do let me know what you think, I really appreciate the feedback! In any case, thank you for reading.