Hey there! Thank you so much to all those lovely people who reviewed the last chapter, it means the world to me! Also, hey look, another Monday update! We're back on the roll, my friends (famous last words, I know.)

As ever, please forgive any typos here.

Chapter Eighty-Four: The Kinships of Lads and Lasses

The clattering of hooves against stone echoed through the empty city, and an icy breeze whistled through the windows, but besides those sounds there was only silence. Silence and death.

So much death.

The bodies of his people were strewn about the ruins of Osgiliath, broken and bloodied – many beyond recognition. Some wore the armour of the City Guard, but others were still clad in the green garb of the rangers.

He was too late.

He kept riding.

If the garrison at Osgiliath had fallen, if Rion and Madril and the other rangers had all been cut down, Faramir would make sure that his father's wish came true. Maybe he would manage to take down an orc or two. More likely he would be shot down before he got close.

You should turn around, a fierce voice in the back of his mind whispered. Live to fight another day! Turn around!

He pressed on. Turned the corner.

Moaned.

Once, a great silver spire had sat atop the library of Osgiliath. Now, it was among the rubble on the ground, and the body of one of Faramir's most honest rangers had been impaled upon it. Tuon, son of Varion. His face hung back, eyes still open, still terrified. Still fourteen years old. Now he would be forever fourteen years old.

In the distance, something squawked, and Faramir slowly raised his head. Orcs. They were still across the river, then.

What were they waiting for? If the entire garrison was slaughtered, why was the western bank still silent, still unoccupied?

Was this a trap?

If this is a trap then please, just let it be sprung.

Faramir's horse snorted and stomped, but he spurred it gently on.

"It will be over soon, my friend," he murmured, stroking the beast's neck. "It will all be over soon."

They rode deeper into the city, weaving their way towards the river, and the closer they got to the old bridge, the more bodies Faramir found. He scanned every face, each stranger adding a drop of grief into the ocean in his heart. Every friend added a tidal wave.

He could see the orc fires now. They were lighting the other side of the river, and their smoke rose thick and dark to cloud the stars. Cackles and jeers from the orcs rose around it, and for a moment, Faramir closed his eyes. Would that the last thing he heard be birdsong, or the gentle babbling of a little stream. He knew that would not be his fate. He knew that this was all he would hear before death took him. And death would take him soon.

The old bridge was now in sight. It was nothing more than a stump now, a fragment of rock bowing over the river, but there was a boathouse nearby, and there ought to still be a boat or two in there that might bear him across the river. Faramir dismounted, pressing his forehead to the face of his horse.

"You might yet live to see the dawn, my friend," he murmured, and then he patted the horse's rump. The beast turned, and began to trot back, but then she paused, looking over her shoulder at Faramir. He closed his eyes, and turned away. She would run when the fighting commenced.

He stepped out onto the riverside, into the view of orc archers, he was sure, and let his feet drag him to the boathouse.

And then a shrill, desperate whistle met his ears, and froze his foot to the ground. The call of a screech owl. It sounded again, twice, each time more frantic, and he turned back towards the city. There was a shadow dancing before the entrance to an alley in the shape of a fist, and as the whistle sounded again it opened, five fingers clear as day against the ground.

He knew that whistle. He knew that signal.

There were still living rangers here.

He stepped towards it, and at that moment his horse gave a shriek, and an arrow shattered the stone behind Faramir's head. He sprang forwards, sprinting towards the shadow even as it vanished around the corner. He heard the hooting of orcs, a smattering of arrows, but none found their mark, and after a moment he was out of sight of the river. There was no sign of the shadow nor of the one who made it, but before he could whistle himself, a doorway opened, and a hand reached out to seize his arm, dragging him through the old guardhouse and into a small hall.

It took him a moment to realise that it was Rion. Her entire face was bruised and bloody, and her right eye was swollen shut, the swelling extending up onto her forehead. Beneath her injured eye was the angry, burn-like mark of an arrow wound, and he thought he caught sight of a missing tooth, but before he could so much as speak, she interrupted.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, her left eye wide with surprise. "We sent word to call for a retreat, not to send one man to take the river! We sent word that to ride here was suicide, Faramir, why are you here?"

Ignoring her question, Faramir swallowed, and glanced at the huddle of men behind her. There were perhaps fifty left, rangers and soldiers alike, and many of them looked as bloodied as Rion. Some looked worse, and two men lay on the floor, grey and pale, and unmoving.

"What happened here?" he asked, looking to Rion.

She shook her head slowly. "We lost, my lord. We fought, may the Valar know we fought, but we were too few. We could not hold the city."

"But you are still alive," said Faramir slowly. "They left you alive?"

A humourless laugh drew his eyes to Iorlas, one of the few men still standing from Osgiliath's original guard. "Not from mercy, my lord. They mean to hunt us. A little sport before the battle, I don't doubt."

Faramir looked around the room at the weary, battered men before him. Iorlas' words rang sickeningly true – in spirit and body, those who had survived were broken, and they posed no threat to a whole battalion of orcs. They were just the sort of group that orc packs liked to hunt – they would put up a fight, but they would lose all the same.

"My lord Faramir," called a young voice, a soldier whose helmet came down too far over his eyes, "Are there orders, my lord? Are we to retreat?"

If you do not reclaim the river, do not come back.

"How many horses do we have?" he asked quietly, avoiding the lad's question.

"None," said Rion, her face refusing to crumble even as her voice cracked. "Most fled – the orcs killed those they could find."

Faramir stared at her for a long moment. Many thought Rion unreadable, especially when they found out that she was a woman, but it was not so for Faramir. She had been his dearest friend for nearly two decades, and among his closest confidants, and he could read her face as well as she read his.

Rion was not afraid – her teeth were not clenched, and her eyes were not narrowed. Her shoulders were back and straight, her chin held strongly, proudly, but her bottom lip was tucked in slightly, and her open eye was dull. Hopeless.

She knew that she was going to die, and she was resigned to it. She was not afraid. But she was sad. Achingly, desperately, sad.

"Very well," said Faramir, bowing his head at her. "Rion, take the men to the verge of the Pelennor Fields – if you can, get there unseen, and whistle for my horse. She will find you – she can bear those who cannot run. When you hear my horn, run. Run for lives, make for Minas Tirith with all the speed you have."

A soft murmur ran over the small crowd, and Rion shook her head slightly.

"What are you going to do, my lord?" she asked slowly.

"I will cause a distraction," he said. "Keep them busy. Keep their eyes away from you."

This time it was a mutter of angry protest that rose up from the gathered men, and Rion gasped.

"Your father ordered you to stay, didn't he?" she said, her careful mask falling away to reveal an anger and heartache so deep that Faramir looked away. "My lord, did Lord Denethor command you not to return to the city?"

He felt the room hold its breath, and Faramir closed his eyes. To seem weak now, to weep about his father's commands – that would not be his legacy. But lying to his closest friends would not be his last act either.

"He told me that the outer defences should not be abandoned," he said quietly.

"And that you should not return if you could not defend them alone?" Rion prompted, apparently for once uncaring of her own insubordination.

Faramir said nothing.

"He – he would not!" stammered the young soldier in the too-big helmet. "The Lord Denethor would not do such a thing! That would be a death sentence!"

Silence fell swift and sharp as a bone breaking beneath a sword, and Faramir hung his head. It seemed only the child had any faith in his father. The child, who had been sent to war without seeing thirteen summers.

"If that is the will of the Steward," growled Iorlas, "then I will stay with you."

Faramir's eyes flew open, and he stared at the soldier. "You will not."

"I will stay, too," said Rion, and so did Berelach, and Arthael, and a dozen others, until the room was filled with the words, "I will stay."

"No! Gondor will earn nothing from you throwing your lives away," Faramir insisted, and Rion drew herself up tall.

"Perhaps not. But if Gondor will sentence our captain to death, then we will die beside him. We love you, Faramir," she said, her voice fierce as flame. "You are our captain, and our lord, and we love you. We will gladly die at your side."

"He's right," piped up the lad in the helmet, though his voice shook, and his arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. "We love you, my lord, and you have always fought for us. Of course we'll fight for you."

If you do not reclaim the river, do not return.

Faramir's eyes filled with tears, and he placed his hand over his heart, bowing deeply. The room bowed back, and when they stood, Faramir stood up tall. Tall as a lord of Gondor.

"Gentleman," he said, smiling grimly, "let's get out of here."

"May I join you?"

Merry looked up in surprise. There was an armoured warrior standing before him and his little fire, with their helmet still on and a somewhat familiar lilt to their voice. None of the riders had really wanted all that much to do with him in the first stretch of the ride to Gondor. They were too busy sharing each other's company, in the case of the soldiers, while Théoden and Éomer were too busy discussing tactics and warfare to pay him much mind.

To their credit, both men had insisted that Merry was welcome to stay around their fire, and Théoden had even said that he should like to hear about hobbit history, if ever they had a moment to spare. As deeply as he appreciated that, Merry had found all the talk of battle far too depressing, so he had excused himself, promised to return should the king have time to hear of the history of the Shire, and set up his own little campfire with Denahi.

And from then he had been all but ignored.

"Of course," he said, remembering his manners and gesturing to the ground beside him. "The tea's almost finished brewing."

The warrior sat down, and their voice was somewhat confused as they asked, "Tea?"

"Bilbo says there's few problems that can't be solved and nerves that can't be soothed with a good cup of tea," said Merry, smiling wryly. "I always carry a pouch of tea-leaves with me, though I have to be careful not to mix them up with my pipe weed!"

The warrior laughed slightly. "Indeed?"

Merry nodded, more certain by the moment that he had met this man before. Of course, it would be rather rude to blurt out a 'do I know you?' so instead, he said, "I haven't got any milk though, I'm afraid."

The warrior smiled. "That is quite alright. It would be an honour to share your tea with you, Master Merry."

Aha! So they had met! He quickly scanned through his memories of all the Rohirrim that he had met, but only one name seemed to match the voice. His eyes widened, and then narrowed a fraction, focusing on the eyes beneath the helmet. He saw the warrior's cheeks burn, and he glanced over to where, fifty feet away, he could see the back of Éomer's head.

"The honour is all mine," he said slowly, raising his water skin to his lips to half mask his, "my lady."

Éowyn winced slightly, glancing over towards the king's campfire. "Please, call me Dernhelm."

"Dernhelm?" Merry raised his eyebrows. "I assume your brother does not know you are here, then."

Éowyn pursed her lips and met Merry's eyes. "You ride to play your part in protecting your family. So do I."

"I never implied that you weren't," he said, stirring the tea in the small pot before him. "Oh, Grandma Menegilda would shriek if she saw me brewing tea like this – no kettle, no pot – not even a lid! And we've no tea-strainer's either, so we'll have to use our teeth for that. If she ever finds out she'll clout me around the ears, I'm sure."

Éowyn's eyebrows appeared in the eye holes of her helmet as they furrowed in confusion. "You – do you intend to tell me brother that I am here, Master Merry?"

"No," he said honestly, reaching into his pack for a couple of mugs. "It'd be awfully hypocritical of me, seeing how I got myself into this mess."

"Do you regret it?"

Merry paused. Did he? He regretted the battle at Moria's Gates – he regretted the loss of Bofin's legs, and he grieved the death of Soren with a passion that still hurt. He regretted losing Nelly and Bróin, losing Frodo and Sam. But did he regret going?

"No." He lowered his head and sighed. "No, I don't regret it. Don't get me wrong, I don't like where I am, and I don't like what we've lost… But I did what I thought I had to do. What I thought would be the right thing. I know I can't save Middle-Earth. I know I'm just one hobbit. But I still want to help my family."

Éowyn stared at him for a long moment, and then her face softened into a sad smile. "You have courage beyond any I have ever met, Meriadoc Brandybuck."

He laughed. "I don't know about that, but I do my best!"

He ladled the steaming tea into the first mug, passing it to Éowyn. She bowed her head in thanks and raised the mug towards him before she took a sip. With a small smile, Merry filled his own mug and blew on it gently, before raising it to his lips.

As he did, Denahi stirred, opening his eyes and giving a great yawn, and Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "He does have rather large teeth, your wolf."

Merry chuckled softly. "That's because he is a wolf, my – Dernhelm. But don't worry. He won't bite."

Denahi stretched out front leg and rolled his neck, yawning again, and then he crawled forward, resting his head in Merry's lap.

"See?" Merry smirked, stroking Denahi's ears. "Vicious, violent creatures."

"Oh, I can see that," said Éowyn sombrely, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "I am shivering in my boots. Though I must say, I am impressed at how well he is keeping up with us."

Denahi looked up at her with a rather unimpressed expression, and Merry chuckled. "We get that a lot, don't we, boy?" he murmured, poking his wolf's nose gently. "It was less than a year after he lost his leg that he was keeping up with the others completely, even with me on his back. We won't be left behind." He took a long sip of tea, feeling it warm him and calm him, and he smiled. "Would you like to stroke him?"

Éowyn looked a little taken aback. "Would he mind?"

With a soft whine, Denahi shuffled a little closer and closed his eyes, a smile-like expression on his face. Merry rolled his eyes. "I think he would mind a lot more if you didn't."

Smiling, Éowyn reached out and gently ran two fingers over Denahi's snout. He gave a soft sigh, and Éowyn grinned, letting her hand open and running it over the wolf's head.

"His ears are so soft," she murmured.

Merry sat back slightly, taking another long drink of his tea, but as he did a loud horn blew. He jumped, sloshing tea down his tunic, and looked at Éowyn.

"If we're moving out already…"

Even as she rose, she nodded. "I fear the scouts found Gondor in worse shape than we'd hoped."

Pippin.

Merry swallowed, and with only a slight mourning the waste he spilt the rest of his tea over his fire, lashing the pot back onto his pack and climbing astride Denahi. Even before the seasoned soldiers of Rohan, they were ready, and within ten minutes they were on the move.

And as they flew on amidst the thundering hooves of the Rohirrim, one thought passed through Merry's mind again and again and again.

Hold on, Pippin. I'm coming…

The first thing Sam became aware of was a blazing pain at the back of his head – a throbbing, piercing ache that felt like his old Bofur's mattock had been swung straight into his skull. For a second, it was all that he knew – but only a second.

Because then he felt strong hands shaking his shoulders, tapping against his cheek, and a wave of nausea curled into his stomach, and then he remembered.

With a gasp, he opened his eyes to see Nelly crouching over him, her brow furrowed with concern, and specks of blood splattered between her freckles.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Sam nodded, but the movement sent a spasm of pain across the back of his head, and he winced, reaching back to tentatively touch the base of his skull. He felt the tack of blood on his hands, but it was not much. Not fatal.

"Frodo – Bróin-"

"Gone," she said, her voice trembling with fear, or with rage. Or with both. "The orcs took them, they got away. They got away, Sam. But I know where they've gone, I saw where they've gone, and we're going to get them back."

"Gone?" Sam whispered, feeling every ounce of strength seep out of his body. When she nodded he groaned, covering his face in his hands.

Gone.

Frodo and Bróin were gone.

He had failed.

He had let Frodo and Bróin fall into the clutches of orcs. How foolish, how stupid could one hobbit be? How many times had he heard the tales of the spiders of Mirkwood on Bofur's knee? He should have known they were unconscious, he should have realised – he should have at least tried –

He was stupid, stupid, and Frodo and Bróin were the ones to pay the price for it.

"Come," Nelly said, her voice raw, and her hands reached Sam's wrists, gently tugging them away from his face and pulling him into a seated position. "Are you concussed?"

Sam considered that for a moment, his hand hovering over the growing lump. "I – I don't think so." There was a buzzing in his ears and a sickness in his stomach that seemed to disagree with him on that matter, but he did not have time for that. There was no time to be concussed while Frodo and Bróin were in the clutches of orcs…

"Are you sure?" Nelly asked, her voice like steel. "Sam – concentrate! Are you sure you're not concussed? Because if you are you might have to wait here."

"I'm not concussed," he said, unknowing and uncaring as too whether or not it was a lie. Nelly nodded, and stood up, and Sam felt a spasm of horror. There was not just blood splattered over her face – it was all over her hands, up her arms, and her tunic was soaked in it.

His stomach lurched, and he scrambled up onto his feet. "Nelly, you're bleeding!"

Nelly shook her head, her face growing greyer and grimmer. "No. It's not my blood. I –" She broke off, and for a long moment her eyes lingered on Sam, but then she pursed her lips and turned away, her arm wrapping around her stomach.

A chill ran down Sam's spine, and he slowly turned his head back towards the tunnels. Another surge of nausea roared in his stomach, his time charging up towards his throat, and he pressed his palm against his mouth.

Gollum was dead.

His corpse was splayed across the entrance to the spider's lair, his limbs lying motionless in his lifeblood, and his bulbous eyes wide open. There was one deep stab would on the left side of his torso, with perfect aim through his ribs to his heart. Just one blow had been enough.

His eyes widening, Sam looked back at Nelly. "You – you killed him?"

Nelly stiffened, her shoulders hunching over slightly as her head bowed. "Yes. I killed him. He had struck you down, and his hands were around my throat, and I did what I had to do."

Sam stared down at Gollum and swallowed. He looked very small now. Vulnerable. Afraid. Sam could almost see why Frodo felt so sorry for him.

"Oh, Nelly," he breathed, and then he turned, and threw himself at her, wrapping his arms around her as tight as he could. "Are you alright?"

She shivered, and he felt her arms lock around him. "I will be," she whispered, squeezing him for a moment and then gently pushing him away. "When we get them back, then I will be."

"Right!" Sam nodded, clearing his throat and tugging his cloak into place. "Right, that makes sense. Very good. Where are they? You said you know?"

She took a deep breath and bit down on her lip, nodding towards a tall, ominous tower in the distance.

"Oh."

"Exactly," she sighed. "And there's just one thing…"

"One thing?" said Sam weakly. He could think of many things to worry about. Many, many things indeed.

"Yes. The quest." Nelly turned and stared deep into Sam's eyes. "We promised we'd let nothing get in the way of it. We promised, and if we take it into that tower, we're risking everything. So, do we split up?"

"Split up?" Sam echoed weakly.

"I could go to the tower, if you carried on. If you kept going for the mountain, straight as you could make it, then we're protecting the quest, and still going after Bróin and Frodo."

"Why me?" asked Sam, even as he felt the heavy weight of the ring around his neck.

A tear broke free from Nelly's eyes, and she shook her head. "Because I can't," she whimpered, staring down at her toes. "I can't do it – I can't leave them. I – I just can't do it. I know I should, but… I can't."

Swallowing his tears as best he could, Sam nodded. "Well, that makes two of us."

She gave a small, weak smile, and then nodded back. "Come on, then. We can both be terrible heroes together. If you're alright to move, we'd better get out of here."

Steadying himself with as deep a breath as he could manage, Sam gave one more nod, and adjusted his bag on his shoulders. It was worryingly light – Toothy had been carrying most of their supplies, but there was no sign of the warg anywhere, and there was no time to look for him. He hurried towards the path where the orcs had come from, but Nelly paused, glancing over her shoulder.

Glancing over at Gollum.

"Just leave him," Sam said. "He's not worth burying."

After a lingering moment, Nelly nodded and jogged over to Sam, smiling weakly at him. She took his hand and wove her fingers between his. "Let's go get our boys back, hey?"

Sam squeezed her hand. "Aye. And kick the living daylights out of Mordor while we're at it!"

And together, hand in hand, Samwise Gamgee and Pimpernel Took ran down the mountain path, swift and silent as shadows, into the land of Mordor.

I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Do let me know what you thought if you have the time, I love feedback!

Until next time, do take care :D