Good evening! Three weeks in a row! Thank you for all the lovely reviews for the last chapter - I promise I will reply but right now I am falling asleep at the keyboard, so please bear with me, and forgive any mistakes :)

Chapter Eighty–Six: The Siege Begins

When the darkness of the night seeped into the Healing Halls, and the torches began to burn low, Gandalf collected Pippin from Faramir's bedside, and escorted him back to their room. It felt almost like being a child again, as though he was being picked up from school, too small to safely bring himself home. He was so tired, however, that he was not altogether upset about this. He was not sure what time it was, or how long he had sat there holding the injured man's hand, but it felt like an age, and the longer that Faramir lay there still and lifeless, the heavier Pippin's heart had become. He kept imagining what it would be like to have to tell Boromir that Faramir had died, that Pippin had sat there, helpless as an infant, and watched Boromir's brother die.

Though he did not like the thought of his being as small and useless as a child again, Pippin appreciated the sense of comfort that came from Gandalf's presence. There was even comfort in the comparison to a school run – some of Pippin's fondest memories of childhood were of various members of the company collecting him and his siblings when his parents were busy. Dwalin was his favourite – he would usually make them march two at a time, and more often than not he carried Pippin, to make sure that the littlest hobbit did not get lost. Again.

That night, Pippin dreamt of Dwalin carrying him across an endless field, a barren stretch of no-man's land, while their family lay sprawled across the dirt around them, as lifeless as Faramir.

Everyone was there, every person that Pippin loved, and their chests rose end fell in an eerie unison, but their eyes were closed, and they did not move. They did not move at all. Though the grass of the field was brown and withered, there were flowers springing up around the bodies of his family, small, sickly flowers that swayed in a breeze Pippin could not feel.

Sprawled on the ground as though she had been thrown down was Pearl, a crown of wilting anemones peeking through her hair. Vinca lay beside her on a bed of daisies, and then there was Nelly in a sea of silver snowdrops. Dwalin kept on walking, passing through them without so much as a pause, and no matter how much Pippin yelled and screamed and begged, his sisters did not stir.

Fíli was the next they passed – forget-me-nots were pushing out between his fingers, and Kíli was beside him, thistles framing his deathly pale face. One of his hands was reaching out towards Bilbo, but there was a line of withered white roses between them, a line that extended towards Frodo, where the roses grew black, and crowned his head.

Pippin begged Dwalin to stop, to let him get down and help, but when he looked up it was to see Dwalin's eyes an alien, milky blue, clouded and sightless, and a line of blood trailed down his forehead to fall on Pippin's face.

And Pippin could not move – his whole body was paralysed, and his limbs would not listen to him, and there was nothing he could do to stop Dwalin from walking on, from walking past Merry, who was being strangled by a line of ivy wound tight around his neck. Behind Merry was Pippin's papa, lying beneath a cage of thorns, and behind him was his mama, and his uncles and his aunts and cousins, and Dwalin carried him slowly past each and every one. Past every member of the company, past all their dearest friends. Past his nearest hobbit relatives, past each of the company's children, down to Bombur's baby Olin. No matter how Pippin wailed, none of them moved. Their chests kept rising and falling together, all at the exact same time as though they were doing it on purpose –

All except Soren, who was not moving at all. And his eyes were open. Unseeing. Gone.

This is what will become of you, a cruel voice whispered. This is the fate your family will find ere this war is ended.

And the breathing stopped – every chest stopped rising and falling, and Pippin looked back to see his family begin to fall away, one by one disappearing into a pile of ash, even as he screamed –

He woke up sweating and shivering, and cold as death. A wave of relief surged through him, but so did the urge to cry, and he sniffed, wondering where his blankets had got to. It was cold, very cold, and he sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to dispel sleep and tears at the same time. He was so tired, but he did not want to go back to sleep. He did not want to see that again.

He shuddered, and felt a sob rising in his chest, but across the room Gandalf gave a great snore, and Pippin's sob escaped as more of a breathless whimper. It was alright. He was not alone, not really. Gandalf was there. Gandalf would look after him.

Taking a deep breath, Pippin reached for the blankets on the ground. He could hear murmured voices on the breeze that swept in through the open window, soft, morning voices. Guards, most probably, making their rounds. Or maybe they were people like Nelly – folk who liked to rise before the sun, and take a little solitude in the cool morning air.

She claimed it calmed her, cleared her head, and Pippin always said she was mad for it.

Well, it seemed he would be the mad one this morning. He slipped out of bed and wrapped the blankets tightly around his shoulders. They were far too big to claim to be a cape, but he waddled towards the balcony door anyway, letting them drag across the cold stone behind him. He slipped outside onto the balcony and turned around a few times to form a little nest out of the enormous blankets, before sitting down amongst them.

He peered out into the gloom of the world from the gap in the balcony, wondering if Nelly was still waking ahead of everyone else now that she was in so small a group. He imagined that she might, if the boys wound her up – but then Pippin was usually the only one that did that, and she may well be too tired for such things. He supposed the whole group was probably rising early, in any case.

Because they were alive, and they were on the road, and now he knew it. No vision in the Palantir or hopeful words of Boromir had instilled such relief in Pippin as Rion's words had, because Rion had seen Nelly, really seen her, and spoken to her. He knew Pippin's name, and his relation to Nelly, and he seemed to know of their quest, as well, which meant that Nelly and Frodo trusted him very much.

And Rion had left Nelly alive, and well – and clothed, which was an unexpected relief for Pippin. The thought of his sister traipsing into Mordor, of all places, in naught but what was essentially underwear was terrifying. Nelly was one of the strongest people he knew, and to picture her so vulnerable made him feel a little ill. But it did not matter, because now she had clothes, and light armour, and a sword of her own.

And she was not dead. Bróin was not dead. They were alive, and well, and not killed by Rangers, and Pippin could finally breathe without feeling like one of his ribs was poking into his lungs.

Also, they had a tame warg. A warg! The more he thought about it, Pippin was less afraid and more jealous. Wolves were all well and good, but Pippin did not technically have a wolf of his own. Much to his disappointment, none of the first pack of Beorn's wolves had 'adopted' him, and neither had any of Lani's pups. But Nelly had Kya and Bróin had Nyla, so it was utterly unfair that they now had a warg too.

Assuming that the warg did not turn on them. Rion had not seemed completely convinced that it would not, and neither was Pippin. He hoped that they were being careful – but then that was probably a little hypocritical of him. Nelly was meticulous. Of course she would be careful. Nori had taught her well.

Pippin wondered where Nori was, and whether their dwarves had made it to Erebor yet (as a matter of fact, they had not, having not left Mirkwood yet, but Pippin had no way of knowing this.) He wondered if they were alright. He wondered how large Dís was by now – she had not been showing when he last saw her outside the gates of Moria –

But that brought up memories that he did not want to dwell on, and he took a deep breath, turning his mind back to the Shire. The safe, stable little Shire, where they would still be cooking up sausage and bacon for breakfast, and dancing all day, and smoking until they were sick.

Except the Shire was not safe anymore, was it? The Shire was open to attack, Pippin had known that since he was five. There was nowhere safe. Not anymore. For the first time in a while, he thought about what Frodo had said when he told them of the strange, prophetic dream he had had at Tom Bombadil's house.

"Pearl, she was bound to a tree and watching Paladin – there were orcs, kicking him into a ditch, he was-"

Frodo had never said 'dead.' He never had to.

Pippin tucked his knees up beneath his chin and hugged them tightly, breathing as slowly as he could in an effort not to cry. If his papa was dead, if his body had been tossed into a ditch –

If Pearl was tied to a tree, having to watch –

And if orcs had Pearl tied to a tree, and alone, what would they do to her next?

And what had happened to his mother?

He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that it hurt, and flashes of light appeared before them. This was not helping. Gandalf said that visions only showed one possible facet of the future, that they were not definite. Paladin could be fine, sleeping off a good old night at the Green Dragon or the Ivy Bush. Pearl was probably just snoozing, and dreaming about hobbit dances and dwarven balls. He had no proof that they were in danger at all.

Slowly, he stood up, letting the blankets fall to the floor. The breeze blew straight through him, and he shivered, raising his hands slowly towards the sky. He shuffled until his feet were flat against the stone floor, and then pushed his arms up as far as they could go, breathing deeply.

This was what Nelly did.

He knew that, because when he was little, and banned from waking his parents before half past seven in the morning, there was little else to do other than watch Nelly stretching, and bending her body into weird positions that Pippin could not hope to copy. It had been years since he had copied her, or even watched, but he remembered that she touched her toes next, and he slowly leant down, his fingertips grazing the tips of his toes.

It felt rather nice, actually, and Pippin tried to think of the stretches that Dwalin would drill them on after training, to stop their muscles from hurting so badly the next day. As he ran through the ones he had not forgotten, he found that finally, finally, his mind began to slow down. To clear.

And he could just breathe.

There was light creeping over the eastern mountains – sunlight or firelight, Pippin could not tell, but for the moment, it was not important. For the moment, he could just be.

Eventually, though, the moment ended. His tummy was rumbling fiercely, and he was rather cold again, so he decided to go and get properly dressed. When that was done, and his rummaging for food in his pockets had turned up no more than a crumb, he glanced at Gandalf. The wizard was still sleeping, soundly, but Pippin was hungry.

Would it really do much damage if I went out in search of some food? he thought, but then he thought of Denethor, and he winced.

The Steward of Gondor had not been happy about Gandalf and Imrahil keeping him from Faramir. Pippin had heard him yelling the day before, heard him roar about Gandalf 'stealing both' of his sons, and accusing Imrahil of arriving too late to 'save Faramir from the wizard's poison!'

Pippin had not heard the words of Imrahil's reply, but Denethor had left soon after that, apparently surrendering to the healers' pleas for peace.

The hobbit highly doubted that the man's temper had lessened overnight, and he had absolutely no desire to run into Denethor. With his luck, that was exactly what would happen, so he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

His stomach roared and he groaned. He must have been waiting for hours (or, more accurately, forty-six minutes) when finally, finally there came a knock at the door.

Gandalf sat up at once, waking with a speed that Pippin found frankly alarming, and stepping out of bed to answer the door almost before the knocking stopped.

"Imrahil. Good morning."

"Good morning, Mithrandir. May I come in?"

"Of course," said Gandalf, and Pippin noticed that the wizard was already dressed. He must have slept in his robes as he did on the road – though upon reflection, Pippin did not think that particularly strange. The thought of the wizard in pyjamas, on the other hand, was an odd one indeed.

Imrahil swept into the room with a majesty that Pippin recognised from Boromir, and his eyes swiftly fell on the hobbit. When they did, he bowed his head.

"Master Peregrin. Forgive me, for the manner in which I spoke to you yesterday. I was brusque and uncourteous – in my defence I have only concern for my nephew."

Remembering that Gandalf had called this man a 'prince', Pippin bowed low in dwarven fashion before he spoke. "I don't think that much of an apology is needed, my lord, if I'm perfectly honest," he said. "I understand."

Imrahil smiled, and his resemblance to Boromir heightened. "You are a kind fellow. I can see much likelihood of truth in Gandalf's account of your friendship with Boromir. Nevertheless, I am sorry for my tone. It was unwarranted."

"If you say so," said Pippin. "Though I still think it understandable."

"I would drop the matter, if I were you, Imrahil," said Gandalf, smiling wryly down at Pippin. "Master Peregrin is rather more accustomed to giving apologies than receiving them, and trading niceties with a hobbit can last all day."

"Very well," said Imrahil, turning to Gandalf. "I have come to find you – there is movement in Osgiliath. We think the orcs there are preparing to move out, and advance towards the city. The time for gathering reinforcements is running thin, and the Steward is… not in his right state of mind."

Gandalf's face darkened. "That has been true for some time – but what do you mean?"

"He was up by the fourth hour, speaking of the end of Gondor, and sneering about your attempts to usurp him, and steal his sons away. He spits words of doom at the guards – I fear he will spread fear through the city before long."

The wizard sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Well, this war won't wait for him to find his senses – send out a last call for any more men that can be spared, and begin readying the troops. The women and children should be taken deep into the city – as far away from the walls as we can get them. I fear there is no time to evacuate them now."

"And indeed, nowhere for them to go," said Imrahil gravely. "These are orders I can give, without suspicion of mutiny, but it would be best if Denethor is kept out of the way. Perhaps Master Pippin here might form a distraction?"

Alarmed, Pippin looked up at Gandalf sharply, but the wizard gave a laugh and shook his head.

"He might, but I doubt it would serve us well," said the wizard. "Pippin here is rather good at causing distractions, but they are often very large, very messy, and very obvious. I fear he may well end up putting one or both feet in his mouth if he was left alone with the steward."

Imrahil raised his eyebrows, but his face was not unkind. "Very well. If you will accompany me, Gandalf, in readying the city, I will have someone come and give Master Peregrin a grand tour."

"Are you sure?" asked Pippin, feeling his face go a little pink. "I'm sure I could probably make myself useful, somehow."

"I'm sure you could," Imrahil said seriouslu. "Please, do not feel that I am casting you aside, or judging your uses to be few. It was you that lit the beacons and summoned our allies to our aid, was it not? I have heard some of your adventures from Gandalf, and my thought was only in allowing you a chance of a little rest from such heavy matters – a moment to take a deep breath before we must plunge into battle."

"Oh," said Pippin, glancing at Gandalf.

The wizard smiled, and nodded. "It would suit me best to know that you were having a little fun, even if only for a while."

"Alright," said Pippin. "I suppose I'd probably only get in the way, in any case."

Imrahil began to protest, but Gandalf laughed again, and ruffled Pippin's hair.

"I do not doubt it at all. Now, I expect you are hungry by now, Pippin? Perhaps we can drop this hobbit off at a dining room on our way out?"

"Of course," said Imrahil, bowing Gandalf out of the door.

"Out? Where are you going?" asked Pippin, a sudden sense of anxiety rising within him. If he was left alone in this big city, with all these big folk…

"Not far, my lad. In fact, I doubt I will be leaving Minas Tirith. But there are councils to be had and captains to call to arms."

"Oh," said Pippin, falling quiet again. The two men murmured to each other as they walked, and Pippin fell behind, though not far. They were leading him to food, after all. It would not do to get lost.

The came to a room with a decent sized dining table, but there were not many people inside it. When Gandalf said dining room, Pippin had expected something lie the great dining halls of Erebor – huge, cavernous rooms filled with lines upon lines of tables, where there was never any less than a dozen people, and more often than not more than a hundred. Instead, it was a small room, nondescript and quiet, and there were only six men there. They all wore the uniform of the guard, and they all looked exhausted. A couple looked up curiously at Pippin, but the others barely glanced his way. Pippin looked up at Gandalf, and the wizard squeezed his shoulder.

"Imrahil will send someone to collect you soon, I am sure. In the meantime, keep out of trouble."

Pippin nodded, and Gandalf walked away, leaving Pippin alone to try and climb up onto the bench without looking like a fumbling child. After a mercifully short few minutes, a young serving boy bustled in with a plate of toast and cheese, and a mug of ale for him, and Pippin tucked in eagerly. It was a meagre breakfast, by hobbit standards, but it did the job, and though he almost snickered to think what his mother would say if she saw him drinking ale before midday, he drained the whole tankard. He had just finished when a familiar man walked in.

"Hello, Master Pippin. How are you, this morning?"

"Master Rion, good morning!" said Pippin, standing up to greet him. "Much better off now that I've eaten! How are you?"

A small twitch of a smile tugged at the corner of Rion's lip. "Faramir said that your people are a hungry folk. I am well, as can be expected." In truth, Rion did not look well at all. His face was still bruised and swollen, and he was leaning on a small staff. "I have come to give you the tour of Minas Tirith."

"Oh! Well, thank you," he said, but then he paused. "Wouldn't, wouldn't you rather rest, though, Master Rion? If I'd just been in so great a fight-"

"I would rather stroll," said Rion, smiling wearily. "Spend a little time loosening the limbs, so to speak. I am not fit for duty, perhaps, but I am well enough to take a turn about the city."

Pippin was not altogether sure that he agreed, but he had no desire to upset or anger anyone, so he nodded, and followed Rion to the door. As they walked, the soldier pointed out odd statues and bits of architecture, and occasionally nodded at some passing captain to name them.

"That's old Lord Forlong the fat," he said of one particularly rotund man. "He arrived with two hundred men in the morning – less than half of what we'd hoped, but all that could be spared, I suppose. There are folk yet in Lossarnach that need protecting, and many who once dwelt in Osgiliath shelter there nowadays. But Lord Forlong is a great man, and he fights with a battle axe, much like your people. Those of Erebor, I mean to say."

Pippin nodded, his gaze following the large man as he disappeared around a corner. Something in the man's face and grey hair reminded him of Óin, and a pang of homesickness shot across Pippin's chest.

Eventually, they made their way through the levels of the city to the outmost layer. Rion took him out onto the first great wall of the city, above the intricate gates, and they watched as a steady stream of troops marched into the city. There were hundreds, if not thousands, but Rion's face was tight as he stared out at them.

"We will be outnumbered," he said quietly. "Perhaps that is best. Perhaps it's best that we fall, and those outside the city have the chance to flee – though they have nowhere to go. We will win this battle, Master Pippin, or we will all die."

"A lovely thought," sighed Pippin, resting his chin on the balcony. "But Rohan will come. They will help us."

"Perhaps."

Pippin raised his eyebrows. "Boromir is with them, and Merry, Gimli and Aragorn. If they can't get Théoden to fight, they'll march here themselves in enough of a rage to send the enemy running."

Rion gave a soft smile. "That would be nice. I am sorry – this task was to entertain you, not to weigh your heart further."

"It's alright," said Pippin, though he was unable to keep from sighing. "Though to tell the truth, I'm still surprised that you're not up in the Healing Halls. With Faramir."

Rion sighed heavily himself. "As am I. Faramir has been as a brother to me for most of my life. We grew up together, he – he is much more than merely a lord. But unfortunately, now his father sits with him, and I do not think it would be a good idea for me to be left alone with Lord Denethor. I have more than a few choice words for him – though I know it is hardly my place to say them."

"Didn't stop me," said Pippin, and for the first time Rion grinned.

"I heard. But alas, I am a soldier of Gondor, and therefore I am in the Steward's service, and do not have the freedom to speak my mind."

"That seems a stupid system," said Pippin, thinking of the Shire, and of Erebor. "If you can't voice your concerns to the king – or the steward – how can they be fit to rule?"

"Ah, I think it would be more than concerns I would fling his way..." Rion paused, glancing down at Pippin. "If I may be so bold, Master Pippin, was wondering if I might ask you about your sister?"

"Nelly?" Pippin guessed, frowning slightly. "What about her?"

Rion paused, peering out over the Pelennor fields. "She travels with men – so to speak – and is the only woman among them, yet she seems free to both dress as a woman and fight like a man. Is that common, among your people?"

"Well, yes and no," said Pippin, his frown deepening. "In the mountain everyone is taught to fight, boys and girls besides each other, just in case. Womenfolk are protected, fiercely, but some of them want to be warriors or hunters or guards, and there's no law to stop them. No real shame or scandal either – if they want to be a soldier they can be. Dwarven men don't think they have any right to tell women what they can or cannot do. Nelly wants to be a Watcher when she grows up. Our mother's not too happy about it – she thinks it's too dangerous. She worries. But Nelly's the best swordsman ever seen among hobbits, I should think. She can beat dwarves in a sparring match, more often than not."

"And her choice is respected? She is allowed to pursue such pursuits as a woman? She does not have to try and pass for a man?"

"Of course!" said Pippin, by now utterly baffled. "She is not a man, and she does not want to be. She just wants to pursue her own path, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I think she would hate to have to dress like a man against her will. She prefers trousers to dresses its true, but she usually puts her own spin on them. She won't admit it, but she likes to look nice. Feel pretty. If she had to dress like a man… well, we'd never hear the end of it!"

"She is lucky," said Rion softly.

Pippin considered this for a moment, and nodded slowly. "I suppose, she is. It'd be different if we'd grown up in the Shire – I expect she would've had to act an awful lot more like a lady. Fighting's not at all respectable in the Shire, not for men and especially not for women. Anything other than archery seems a little crude and distasteful."

Rion frowned. "That's not what I – then who defends the Shire if none of its folk can fight?"

Pippin shrugged. "There's been a little more practise with arms since Kíli shook everything up, but mastering such a skill still isn't a respectable career. Why do you want to know, anyway?"

Rion raised an eyebrow. "You do not know?"

Pippin shook his head, and Rion smirked.

"You are not nearly as observant as your sister."

Pippin frowned, though he had to admit, "That's… not entirely untrue."

"I ask, Master Pippin, because I know someone who has not had the privilege of presenting as both a soldier and a woman. Someone who must live as a man in order to fulfil her duty and fight beside her brothers."

"Really? Who?"

Rion laughed, shaking his head slightly. "Me."

Pippin's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth. Then he closed it again, feeling rather like an idiot. "Oh. Well, in my defence, unlike my sister I don't go around staring at strangers in an effort to steal their secrets when we first meet."

Again, Rion laughed. "You need no defence. You are not the first to assume that I am who I pretend to be, and you will not be the last. For as long as a woman cannot serve in the army in Gondor, I will stand here with the title Master, and I will wear men's clothes that do not fit, and armour that often burdens me. Faramir feared it would be the death of me. He had the smiths adjust my armour, but there was only so much they could do. Women cannot serve in the army of Gondor. The captains must know, many of them, but they do not ask, and I do not tell. It is all that they can offer us."

"Us?"

"There are others, like me. More, now that the days are so dark. Maidens, mainly – young women and older girls who are yet to marry, who have little to their name. Such women can get away with it, though we risk banishment from Minas Tirith if we reveal ourselves."

Pippin's eyes bulged. "Banishment?"

Rion nodded sombrely. "No woman has been banished in the last hundred years, but it is still written in our law. It is seen as a failure on behalf of our men."

"I – I am flummoxed," admitted Pippin, repeating a word he had heard Bilbo use rather often after witnessing dwarven shenanigans. Up to now, he had never felt quite baffled enough to use it, but this seemed to be the occasion. Though, as he thought about it, he did remember Boromir saying something along those lines around a campfire one night…

"It is not in the culture of my people to send women on dangerous missions, or see them fight with the men. We see that as careless and cruel, and a failure on the part of our men-folk. Yet I yield to both your logic and your custom. I assure you, I meant no offense by my words. I am sorry." He bowed his head with his hand on his chest, and Nelly stared at him for a long moment.

Then she smiled wryly. "Your apology is accepted, and appreciated. I suppose culture clashes will be inevitable, now."

Aragorn gave a sigh like a laugh, and shook his head. "I don't doubt it. In Gondor it would be highly offensive to fail to mention the needs and allowances of a woman, particularly on so dangerous a quest."

"Among dwarves it is manners to ask if anything is needed," said Gimli, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Yet rude to imply that you think it necessary. And, of course, when it comes to Nelly, it's better just to pretend she was born a boy."

"Your reaction is refreshing, I must admit," said Rion. "Perhaps one day I will be as free as Miss Nelly."

Pippin opened his mouth to reply, but his words died on his lips and disappeared from his mind in an instant as the horizon was split in two.

A great beam of green light was blazing in the distance, like a great column from the root of the mountains of Mordor to the height of the sky above it, and a feeling of terror coursed through Pippin. He felt his hair stand on end, and he stumbled back away from the balcony.

"Gandalf," he whispered, and Rion backed away beside him, nodding her head.

"He must see this!"

Together they tore back through the city, fleeing through its many levels and up its many stairs. Rion began to lag behind quickly, but when Pippin hesitated she waved him on.

"I will be fine. Run, now! I know my maps - that light is coming from Minas Morgul – tell Mithrandir, go!"

Minas Morgul.

"…and if the path of Cirith Ungol were not treacherous enough in itself, it also takes them close to Minas Morgul – dangerously close…"

Those had been Gandalf's words, when he told Pippin what path Frodo had taken, and they spurred the hobbit on through the city. He had no idea how he was going to find the wizard, but before he had to stop and ask for directions, he found him, standing on another balcony and staring out at the green light.

He did not turn to look at Pippin, but he held out his hand and the hobbit hurried over. Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder, drawing him close.

"It is beginning now, Pippin. The armies of Mordor are advancing, now."

"Could, could something have happened to Frodo?" asked Pippin breathlessly. "If, if they were near Minas Morgul…"

"I do not know," said Gandalf. His hand tightened on Pippin's shoulder. "I do not know, but I think this signal is for our benefit. To let us know that doom is at hand. The armies of Mordor will be here, ere midnight tomorrow. I'm afraid, my dear Pippin, that the siege of Gondor has begun."

Still shivering like a pup in their first beating, the warg let out another soft whine, but there was still no answer. He pressed himself further into the corner of the cold, putrid cave, and howled sadly. Again, there was no reply.

Sorrow was closing in around him, a sadness unlike any that he had ever felt before. The warg knew pain, and fear, and anger, and hunger, but this was none of those. There was fear there, it was true – it was what had made him flee from his dwarf, and what had his paws frozen to the stone beneath them.

But it was not the same as the sadness crushing his chest. That was different, a concept that the warg had never even dreamed of, a feeling that he could not hope to name.

He wanted his dwarf, and his lady, and their two little friends. He wanted to know that they were breathing and whole, that they were not hurt. He wanted them to come and find him, and stroke his ears, and tell him that it was alright.

He had tried to find them – even with the terror coursing through him, as soon as he heard his little lady scream, he had turned back, but he got lost. The tunnels were dark and grim, and the scent of his pack was muddled and masked by the piercing, acidic stench of the great spider.

Nothing had ever scared the warg as much as the spider – because it was not really a spider at all. He had sensed it when they first entered the tunnels, a heavy, smoke-like aura on the air, but it was only when he heard the soft, almost inaudible hissing that the horror truly seized him. It was no beast in that cave – it was a demon.

And he had fled from the demon. Fled, and got lost, and become confused. And now he was alone in the stifling darkness, and he could no longer hear his little lady screaming or crying. He could no longer hear his dwarf, or their two little men.

He was alone, cowering in the dark.

He sighed softly, and flopped down onto the dusty, tacky floor. The demon could take him now. If his dwarf and his little lady were gone, there was nothing but anger and hate left to live for. There was only the life he had known before, and he would rather die than go back to that.

But as his nose hit the ground, a soft breeze swept through the cave, and on it he caught a familiar scent.

His dwarf.

He rose, keeping his nose low, and then slowly peeled himself away from the wall, following the smell through the caves. He could smell blood, too, and the acrid stench of the spider-demon, and he began to move faster, coming at last to a chamber that opened up to the sky above. There was a splatter of blood on the ground – his dwarf's blood – and it trailed into another tunnel.

A trail.

With a soft whimper, the warg hurried onwards, the scent growing stronger and stronger as he did. But as his dwarf's scent grew, so did the smell of the spider, and the warg's limbs began to shake. The tunnel around him shrunk a little, and he began to hear the soft hissing of the spider once more. His hackles rose, and the urge to run rose up within him, but he could smell his dwarf, and he could smell his little lady, and he could also smell the slinking little 'Gollum' that they had made company with.

And he could smell blood.

His dwarf and his little lady were in trouble, and the spider was in his way.

Lowering himself into a crawl, he crept along the tunnel, until he came upon the hulking, heaving bulk of the spider blocking the tunnel. He froze, but it did not seem to have heard him. It was curled in on itself, and its hisses were breathless, almost pained. Its blood was seeping towards the warg's paws – a lot of its blood.

It was hurt. The spider was very hurt.

And it was in his way.

He was Toothy, steed of the kind dwarf and the little lady, and this spider, demon or not, was in his way.

He leant back on his haunches for just a moment, and then he pounced, embedding his claws in the spider's back. It let out a mighty shriek that sent pain screeching through Toothy's ears, but the rush of the hunt was within him, and his urge to get back to his master was growing stronger than any pain or fear. He dragged his claws down through the spider's flesh, dragging it down towards the ground, and making a small gap between the beast and the ceiling.

A gap big enough for Toothy to squeeze through. He ran up the spider's back, making sure to pierce its skin as deeply as his claws were able to as he vaulted over its head. It shrieked and gurgled again, but his paws hit the stone before her and Toothy ran, as fast as he could without losing the scent. She would not catch him – not today.

In fact, though Toothy did not know this, Shelob would not catch anyone again today, or indeed ever again. Sam's blow to her stinger had almost taken the strength from her, and the warg's frantic attempt to get back to his pack had bled the last of her life away.

Of course, without knowing this, the warg's heart still raced at the thought of being caught, and it was with a whimper of delight that he caught his first glimpse of daylight. He pelted towards it and burst out into a rocky, dusty land, so quickly that he tripped over something sprawled over the ground. Skidding into a turn, he saw the corpse of the Gollum on the ground beneath him.

Carefully, the warg leant forward, sniffing at the body. It was dead, alright, and though Toothy did not think this much of a loss, worry rose within him. Was his dwarf dead too? His little lady?

He threw back his head and let out a low howl, but nothing replied.

With a huff, he put his nose back to the ground, and caught a scent that made his hackles rise once more.

Orcs.

Orcs, and his dwarf, and his little lady, and their little men. He shook himself down from nose to tail, and cleared his throat with a growl.

He was Toothy, and his masters were in trouble, and would do anything, and everything, to find them.

And there we leave it for tonight! Have a lovely evening, leave a review if you feel like it, and most importantly take care!