Hey there! Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed the last chapter, and my apologies again for the delay with this one. I was hoping to make up for it by uploading two chapters tonight, but unfortunately I don't think that's likely given a couple of rather frustrating hiccups in my schedule. In any case, I will do my best to have the next chapter up ere too long, and I hope that you enjoy this one, and forgive any mistakes.
Chapter One Hundred and Two: At Hope's End
When Pippin was five years old, beneath the moonlit midnight of the winter solstice, the dwarves of Erebor had bestowed upon him a gift – a gift so pure and special and precious that the memory had been seared into his mind ever since.
He could remember all of it – the deep, calming scent of incense, and the cool stone of the floor beneath his bare feet. The candlelight dancing on the mithril tree, the gentle quiet that surrounded him, and the strange, sacred peace of the room – the royal Matasibrîn of Erebor. No such place existed in the Shire, and Pippin had not really understood, but the peace had settled through to his bones, and as young as he was, he had known that he must not say a word.
He remembered the soft smiles of Fíli, Dís, Thorin, Bofur, and Balin as they gazed down at the hobbits, and he remembered his family lining up to kneel before the dwarves in order of their age. Kíli was at the far end, and then Bilbo beside him. Paladin was next, and then Saradoc, then Ellie and then Esme, and then came Frodo and Pearl, Sam and Merry, and then Nelly, and Vinca, and then lastly Pippin himself.
He remembered Balin leading a Khuzdul prayer that he could not understand at the time, and he remembered the white-haired dwarf asking if any wished for their personal ceremony to be more private. He remembered wondering how much more private a ceremony could get.
And then Pippin had waited, excitement and impatience trembling in every beat of his heart, but he had waited all the same, too awed to interrupt as Balin made his way down the line, and finally, finally, his turn had come.
He remembered Balin crouching before him, and placing his large hand over Pippin's heart.
"Last, but never least," he had said, smiling warmly, "I hereby give you your Heart Name – though you will be Peregrin Took to those you love, to Mahal now you are known as Razanur Tûk."
"Razanur Tûk," Pippin had echoed, marvelling the strange sounds that the letters made.
"Aye," Balin had replied, stroking his thumb over Pippin's nose with a grin. "Remember, lad, that's a secret."
To everyone's surprise, it was a secret he actually kept. Those within the room knew, of course, but they were the only ones – not even Grandma Daisy or Grandpa Adalgrim knew his heart name. Until Frodo's conspiracy, it had been the biggest secret he had ever managed to keep to himself, and now as he sat before Gandalf on Shadowfax and rode closer and closer to Mordor, he clung to it with all the strength he had.
Because Peregrin Took was thinking an awful lot about death – and more importantly, what would happen afterwards. The dwarves believed that Mahal had made provision for them to wait in the Halls of Mandos until the end of time came to pass, at which point they would be reborn to live with in Mahal's own halls as the world as built anew. Hobbits, however, like men, were known to have a different fate – one that was quite famously a mystery to all.
If Pippin's family were all hobbits, the mystery of what was beyond would not bother him so much, but the idea that death would tear him apart from his dwarven family made his heart ache so badly he wanted to rip it out. The thought of never reuniting with his hobbit kin was just as unbearable – if he did reach the dwarven halls, would he ever see his sisters again, or his parents, or grandparents, or Merry?
If death meant that Pippin would be sundered from either half of his family, he did not know that he could bear it. Of course, he had no idea what he would do about it, but some small, naïve little part of him still hoped that his heart name was the key.
"And just what, exactly, are you up to, Master Took?"
Pippin jumped, blinking stupidly as he turned to look at Gandalf. He had been riding before the wizard for several days now, but it had been some time since they had spoken. "I – what?"
Gandalf smiled down at him, his eyes twinkling – albeit a little more sadly than usual. "You're never so quiet as this, Master Peregrin, unless you are planning some mischief."
Pippin tried to smile back, and then he glanced down at his hands. For a moment, he thought of simply saying he did not want to talk about it, but his mind and heart had become so heavy...
Well, he supposed, if anyone's to have the answer, it'd be old Gandalf…
"I was just thinking," he said softly. "I have a dwarven Heart Name, and they say that your Heart Name is sacred, that it binds you to the Valar and to your kin, and… Well, I was wondering, could I – could I use it to visit the dwarven Halls of Mandos, when I die? If I have the name, then I, I might be able to see them sometimes, my dwarves – mightn't I?"
"Oh, Pippin," Gandalf breathed, tears springing into his eyes. "Oh, my dear young hobbit…"
A lump grew in Pippin's throat, and he hung his head. "That… that sounds like a no, then?" he said, struggling to keep his voice light and airy, but knowing that he was failing miserably.
"My dear Pippin," said Gandalf once more, wrapping his arm tightly around the hobbit. "I'm afraid I do not know."
"But… but you died," Pippin protested, but his voice sounded weak and pitiful to his own ears, and he winced.
"Yes, I did, for a time. But I was not gone long enough to explore all the secrets of the Halls of Mandos. I do know, however, that Lord Námo governs his realm with fairness and care – he is unyielding, yes, and strict as stone, but despite common belief he is neither cold, nor cruel. I do not think he would seek to keep families apart in death – but I do not know. I don't have all the answers you seek, Pippin. I am sorry."
Pippin nodded dumbly, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. It took him a long moment, but then he took a deep breath and asked, "Who is Lord Námo?"
"Námo is another of the names of Lord Mandos – I believe the name he prefers, though he would ever say as much aloud."
"Oh… I suppose he's too important to deal with one small hobbit, then," he murmured to himself, but Gandalf's arm grew tighter around his chest.
"No one is too important to deal with hobbits," he said firmly. "They are among the most remarkable peoples of this earth, and you are one of their best, my boy. If you weren't, you would not be here now. Hold your head high, Pippin. Whatever comes to pass, you will not be alone, or forgotten."
Pippin swallowed, tears pricking the back of his eyes as he tried to smile up at the wizard and mumble his thanks. No words came out, but Gandalf smiled down as though he understood, and patted Pippin gently on the head.
Pippin sighed, and glanced to his right. Gimli was riding nearby, sitting as ever behind Legolas, and on their other side rode Elladan and Elrohir. To his left rode Aragorn, with Boromir and Éomer beyond him.
Behind them, there marched an army. Six thousand men followed them, and though the Rohirrim rode, most of the soldiers of Gondor travelled on foot, and now that he knew how fast Shadowfax could fly at a push, Pippin felt their progress was achingly slow. In the time that they had been travelling, Frodo, Nelly, Bróin and Sam could have died a thousand times.
They were doing all they could to draw attention to themselves, sending out heralds to blow trumpets and call out that the King of Gondor was returned unto the land, and they laid waste to a band of orcs that attempted to ambush them, but still Pippin felt it was not enough. He could not be certain that they were drawing Sauron's attention, not until they reached the Black Gates, and knew that his eye was upon them.
Yet Pippin did not want to reach their destination, either. Hour by hour, they rode deeper into the gathering darkness, towards the looming black haze of Mordor, and the cracks of fire upon its horizon, and doom poured into Pippin's heart like quicksilver, thick, and heavy, and slow. Thoughts of Námo and Mandos and death spilled through his mind, but he did not speak of them again. They seemed so close now, so real, and he did not want to know more. Not anymore.
Finally, after eight days of endless riding and nights of starless gloom, they reached a large, dusty grey field, one that stretched out for miles ahead – one that stared down the gates of Mordor.
"Dagorlad," growled Gandalf, before raising his voice so strongly that it boomed over the watching army. "If any were to turn back, now would be the last chance to do it."
Unease rippled through the soldiers, through the men of Gondor with their shining helmets, and the riders of Rohan upon their great steeds. They were staring down into desolation and ruin, and staring down into death, and unlike Pippin, they could not know exactly why. They did not know about Frodo – they were not trying to draw Sauron's forces away from their cousins and sisters. It was a wonder that they did not all flee.
But no one – not even a single soldier – made to leave. Grim resolution wrought into each and every face, and one by one they straightened, and gritted their teeth, and raised their chins.
Aragorn bowed put his hand over his heart and bowed his head, and then he turned, and urged his horse on, and the army marched behind him.
Pippin shuddered, but he gritted his teeth and clenched his toes, and forced himself to keep his head. It grew harder as they drew closer, and gates loomed larger and larger until Pippin was sure that they could not be real, that no gate could be so colossal, so huge, but they were. The spikes that lined the top of the gate clawed at the dark clouds above, and by the time the army halted four hundred yards away, Pippin was utterly certain that he had never felt smaller in his life.
"Alright, Pippin?" asked Gandalf in a low voice, and Pippin nodded, too quickly. The wizard sighed, putting a hand on the hobbit's shoulder. "I know, my lad, I know. Your coming here was bravery beyond any that I could ever ask of you. I am sorry that you were ever put in the position to choose such a path, but I am proud of you, Pippin. Very proud indeed. Whatever happens now, you are a credit to the Shire, and to Erebor, and all the lands in between."
Pippin pursed his trembling lips and nodded again, reaching up to clutch Gandalf's hand. "We're… we're all going to die here, aren't we?"
"It is likely, though not inevitable," said Gandalf gently. "There is always hope, Pippin. Even if it's just a fool's hope."
A small, ghost of a laugh bubbled up from Pippin's chest, and he nodded, taking a deep breath. As he did, Aragorn rode forward, turning to face his army.
"Hold ranks," he called, his voice strong and true. "Captains, with me."
Turning with all the majesty of a king, Aragorn made for the gates, with Gandalf at his side. Boromir, Legolas, Éomer and Elrond's sons all followed, and as he sat before the wizard, Pippin watched the Black Gates grow even larger, until they were all that he could see.
There, scarce metres away from the Gates of Mordor, they halted, and drew out horns and trumpets.
"It's all about overconfidence," Gandalf had said before they departed Gondor. "If we look like we are overreaching, Sauron may suspect that Aragorn has the Ring, and that is what we want him to think."
"Where is Sauron?" yelled Aragorn, his voice rising above even that of their trumpets. "We demand that he come forth – that he show himself and atone for what he has done, for he has wilfully and wrongfully attacked Gondor and Rohan, and all the free peoples of the world. We demand that the lord of Mordor come forth, that justice might be done upon him! Come forth!"
His heart in his throat, Pippin blew on the trumpet that he had been given with all his might, but as he did, he heard the sound of drums, and saw the gates begin to open, and his breath gave out entirely.
"Here now, Pippin," said Gandalf, lowering his voice again. "The parley is to begin. Keep quiet now, lad, whatever you hear. The enemy may wish to taunt us or trick us, so you must not say a word. Not a word – do you understand?"
Pippin nodded, shrinking back towards the wizard, but as he did, his fingers glanced the hilt of his sword, and he glanced down at it. Tintallë, that was the name that the Lady Galadriel had called it. Pippin had never learnt what that meant, but as his thumb ran over the pommel, he remembered the words of the Lady of Lórien.
Do not fear, young Peregrin Took. You will find your courage.
He took a long, deep breath, and sat up, drawing his shoulders back and down like Fíli had taught him, turning his face into stone. He was Peregrin Took of the Hobbits of Erebor, and Razanur Tûk was his heart name, and he was small and young, but he could fight, and he would not show Mordor how frightened he was. Not now.
To his surprise, only a single rider emerged from the gate, and for an awful moment he thought it was Sauron himself. He discarded this theory when no one else ran away screaming, but still his heart tumbled over itself as the figure grew closer.
He was cloaked in black and grey, and wore a heavy, horned helmet that covered the most of his face, revealing only a glint of eyes through thin slits in the metal, and a smirking, dark mouth below. "I am the Mouth of Sauron," he said. "My Master bids thee welcome – or he would, if there were any here worthy of treating with, or even speaking to. I see only mutinous scum, and a filthy vagabond who deserves not to call himself a ranger, let alone a king. It takes more to make a king than a broken elvish blade."
Fury burnt red on Pippin's cheeks as he realised that the man was speaking about Aragorn, but the ranger did not say a word. He held the Mouth of Sauron in his gaze with such cold that Pippin was certain he caught sight of the evil man flinching.
"We have come to seek Sauron," said Gandalf, his booming voice so strong that Pippin's courage grew stronger. "Not to treat with him. He must face justice, for that which he has done!"
The Mouth sneered, its cracked, blackened lips pulling back over bared, brown teeth, and Pippin fought back a shudder. "Gandalf the Grey…" he said, scorn dripping from his tone. "I have a story I was bidden to tell thee, if thou hadst the courage to show thy face here."
"I did not come to exchange tales with Sauron's errand boy," replied Gandalf sharply, and the Mouth let out a hiss of fury, which Gandalf promptly ignored. "I came to order his surrender, and demand that he leaves these lands in peace for evermore. I have no time for 'tales.'"
But the Mouth gave a cruel grin. "Oh, I think you do, Greyhame. It concerns thee greatly, and one whom I think you would count as a 'friend.'"
Gandalf said nothing, and the Mouth's smile grew wider.
"Once," he said, "there lived a king of rats. He and his people dwelt in a great burrow that King had stolen from a great lizard using trickery and black magic, and soon the burrow was filled with plundered gold and jewels, for the King was greedy beyond thought or care. He did not care for his people, nor for the world beyond. He cared only for two things – for his treasure, and for his little pet mice." The Mouth of Sauron paused, his cruel gaze resting on Pippin. "No one knew why he kept such useless, pathetic little pets, but he professed to love them, and he kept them close. Until, that was, his greed and arrogance led him to wage war upon a much greater kingdom. A kingdom of wolves. He sent into this kingdom one of his precious little mice, with two rat guards and orders of murder and spy-craft. The good little mouse did as he was told, but he was no match for the wolves. They slew the rats, and when they saw from whence the little mouse came, they flayed the skin from his limbs and hung him up in their great tower. The little mouse begged for death, and he screamed for the Rat King – oh, did he scream... But death did not come, and the little mouse was left waiting, writhing in agonies beyond the understanding of his little mind as he waited for the story to end." The Mouth of Sauron paused, his gaze fixing each of them for a moment, until his grin was so wide it seemed to slash open his face. "How does the story end? Well, that, Gandalf, is up to you."
With a flick of his wrist, the Mouth threw something up into the air, and Gandalf's arm shot past Pippin's face to snatch it from the sky. Pippin glanced up, but whatever it was was small enough to fit in Gandalf's palm, and he could not see. What he could see, however, was Gandalf's face, and his stomach twisted in knots as the wizard's face crumpled in horror and anguish.
A cold terror passed through Pippin, and he thought he knew what the story meant, but if he did they were doomed, they were doomed and he was going to die in utter vain because if he was right then Frodo –
"We caught your little mouse, Gandalf. I can see in your eyes that you knew who it was – I know what worm first brought the mice to the rat. We know he is of the clan of Baggins," said the Mouth, spitting out the name like a curse, and Pippin swallowed, looking back up over his shoulder and silently begging to see what it was that the Mouth had thrown the wizard. Slowly, the wizard lowered his hand and unclenched his fist, Pippin could not help but let out a cry of dismay. Lying across Gandalf's palm was a small, single braid, bound at one end with black wire, but at the other end were three very familiar beads.
It was, unmistakeably, Frodo's.
"Quiet!" Gandalf warned, closing his fist around the braid, and Pippin choked back a sob, dread and utter despair filling his heart.
"So, the imp is dear to you," said the Mouth of Sauron, an ice-cold glee in his voice. "Well, know that he has suffered greatly at the hands of his hosts, and that he will continue to endure agony after agony, beyond the count of days – beyond the years his natural life would allow him. Years, after years, after centuries we will torture him, until he is broken beyond healing or recognition. Then, and only then, we will release him, and you will see what it is that you have done. There is but one way to prevent this, one way to stop the little Baggins from enduring agony beyond belief – and that is in your hands, Gandalf. This halfling will suffer torment beyond even that we bestowed upon you, unless you agree to our terms."
Pippin whimpered, unable to stop himself, but Gandalf did not shush him again. He simply stared at the messenger with the face of a broken man, and after a long moment he asked quietly, "And what would those terms be?"
"That justice should at last be served – all lands East of the Anduin are to belong to Mordor, and in all the land between here and the Misty Mountains, the men shall bear no arms, and pay tribute to their Lord Sauron. They shall be permitted to govern their own lands – as long as they obey, and swear an oath to never seek to assail the great Lord Sauron in secret or in the open. All weapons East of the Misty Mountains will be delivered unto Mordor. This rabble of Gondor will disarm and disband, and its captains shall remain to face punishment for their insolence and arrogance, and their overstepping of the mark."
For a moment, from the look on Gandalf's face Pippin was certain that the wizard would agree to anything, but then a darkness swam in his eyes, and a scowl descended upon his face. "That is a steep price for one hobbit – that we should give that which Sauron would otherwise have to fight many battles to claim. Is he so afraid after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields that he is reduced to haggling like a gambler who has lost every hand? Besides – what proof do we have that this prisoner is still alive? Bring him forth to us, alive, and then we shall discuss terms."
The Mouth of Sauron gave a cruel bark of a laugh. "Proof? Thou hast come to the door of Sauron and have the gall to demand proof of anything? You do not understand, wizard. This war has already been won, and not by you. Mercy beyond any you deserve has been offered, and scorned, and so Sauron will take that which he deserves, that which is owed, and your world will bow beneath him, and your kingdoms will crumble. We will scour your filth from every inch of our world, and then, when the darkness has utterly overcome everything that you love, you will beg for death – and we will deny it. You will linger in endless agony, just like the little mouse we have now. I will enjoy personally seeing to him."
"Buzrâkamth!" roared Gimli suddenly, lurching around Legolas and brandishing his axe towards the Mouth of Sauron. "I'll rip you limb from limb, I will tear your skin from your bones-"
"Gimli," said Gandalf sharply, but it was not until Legolas reached back and grabbed Gimli's forearm that the dwarf stopped yelling.
The Mouth of Sauron laughed. "Well? Have thee any other foolish requests thou wish to make before your end?"
"Just one," said Aragorn, his voice sharp and stern as steel. "When your army rides out to crush us, sit yourself at their head – if you have the courage. I will enjoy personally cutting your head from your neck."
Drawing back, the Mouth scoffed and sneered, but Pippin could see that he was rattled. The man spat at the ground, and without a word he turned and rode back towards the gates.
Pippin tried to speak, but his words came out as a whimper. "Gandalf… if Frodo…"
"I am sorry, Pippin," said Gandalf, his voice heavy with grief as he turned Shadowfax back towards their army. "I am so sorry."
As they rode swiftly back, Gandalf reached down and placed Frodo's braid into Pippin's hands. Pippin bit back another sob, clenching his fist around it tightly. It was over. Frodo was caught, and that meant that Nelly and Bróin and Sam were probably caught too, or dead. Frodo was going to be tormented and tortured for the rest of his life, and the world would fall to ruin, but Pippin would see none of that, because Pippin was going to die by the night's end.
Gandalf lifted him down from Shadowfax, and a young soldier of Rohan came to lead the horses away, and Pippin stood on the front line, staring as the gates of Mordor opened fully. A swarm of innumerable soldiers were beginning to spill out from behind them, and his heart pounded fiercely against his ribcage, and for a moment, Pippin closed his eyes.
But it was just for a moment.
Because then Pippin opened his eyes and took a deep breath, and he tied Frodo's braid to the sheath of his sword, refusing to let the tears that stung his eyes fall down his cheeks.
I'm sorry, Frodo, he thought. I'm so sorry we were too late.
He drew his sword, and Tintallë glittered silver and blue in the dim light. A hand closed around his arm, and he looked up to see Gimli staring tearfully at him. He swallowed, and smiled weakly, and Gimli smiled back, nodding slowly.
And then Aragorn began to ride up and down the ranks of his soldiers, even as the enemy began to surround them, and he called out in a voice so loud and strong and proud that Pippin almost felt their deaths might not be in vain.
"Sons of Gondor! Of Rohan! My brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of Men comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good Earth, I bid you stand! Men of the West!"
A tremendous roar rose from the crowd, but fear or tears stoppered Pippin's throat, and he watched as the enemy began to charge. As they did, Aragorn leapt down from his horse and stood on his feet before them, and he gave a final small, sad smile.
"For Frodo," he murmured, and then he turned, and raised his sword, and ran forward.
Grief and desperation and rage rose within Pippin, and he charged himself with a great roar, unaware that he was the first to do so, after Aragorn, beating even Gandalf and Gimli off the mark.
But he was not the first to reach their foes, for others had longer legs than he did, and soon he found himself in the middle of a swelling throng, a charge of men at the end of their last desperate hope. A few moments later, he was thrown into the midst of the fighting. Horror surrounded him on every side, orcs and death and trolls – huge trolls bigger even than Bilbo's – and for a moment, it threatened to overwhelm Pippin.
But just for a moment. The training of the dwarves ran deep within him, and soon he was holding his own. Though he was not exactly tearing a path through the hoard of armoured orcs and Easterlings, he held his own and suffered no foe to pass him. The stench of blood and gore sickened him, and fear kept his heart in a constant race, but he kept his head, striking down enemy after enemy until his arms felt heavier than lead. His lungs were bursting and his head span, and he was desperate beyond words for rest, but Pippin fought on.
If it was hopeless, if they were all utterly doomed, Pippin wanted to be able to tell whoever was on the other side that he had put up a good fight. And in the back of his mind, urging him to fight with everything in him, was a little trembling voice repeating five words over, and over, and over.
I don't want to die.
An earth-shaking roar drew his attention to his right, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a great armoured troll slashing his way through the ranks of men. Even as Pippin turned, the troll brought a barbed club down upon the head of Halbarad, and Pippin heard Aragorn scream as his friend crumpled to the ground.
A single glance, and Pippin knew that the younger ranger was dead.
Rage rose hot as fire in Pippin's heart and he let out a roar of his own, diving at the troll and stabbing his sword down into the beast's foot. It bellowed in pain, swinging its club down towards him, but Pippin was already moving, and he scrambled up the troll's arm and wrapped his legs around its neck to anchor himself in place. He raised his arms above his head and stabbed down with all his might, driving his sword through the troll's face, and down into its throat. Its startled squawk of pain lasted only a moment before death silenced it, and then they crashed to the ground, sending Pippin tumbling back into the fray. He heard Gimli cry out his name, but a red haze descended before his eyes, and he finally understood what people meant when they spoke of battle frenzies and blood lust.
He hacked his way through a line of orcs, aiming for the next troll he could see, and when he reached it he slashed his sword across the back of its knee. It bellowed in agony, crashing down onto its back and crushing several orcs beneath it, and Pippin brought his sword down into its neck with all the force his could muster. Another gargled scream left the troll, but the blade did not pierce the thick hide of the creature's throat, and Pippin growled, readjusting his aim and stabbing through the creature's mouth like he had the last troll, a dark satisfaction running through him as his blade sliced down the inside of the troll's throat, and the beast stopped moving.
Breathing heavily, Pippin staggered back, ducking the blow of an orc with instincts won from years of training, but as he found his feet, he heard a yell of pain, and his heart seized in his chest.
Boromir.
He span around, looking desperately for where the sound had come from, but he was at least a foot and a half shorter than every other fighter, and the throng was all around him. With a snarl, he leapt at the nearest orc, clambering up onto its back until he could see above the top of the crowd. He had only a second, but it was enough, and as he slew the orc beneath him and crashed back to the ground, Pippin turned left, and dove between the legs of several men. He won a kick to the face for his troubles, but even as his nose began to bleed, Pippin pushed through to where Boromir lay, crumpled on the ground. An orc was kneeling on top of him, his teeth closing around Boromir's neck, and Pippin lurched forward with a howl of rage, striking his sword deep into the orc's spine. The creature shrieked, and collapsed to the ground, but Boromir's eyes were closed and his face was pale, and his neck was bleeding.
"Boromir!" Pippin cried, shaking the man's shoulders. "Wake up! Wake up!" Boromir's eyes seemed to move beneath his eyelids, but they remained closed. Pippin whimpered. "Boromir, wake up! Please wake up!"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the great, looming figure of another troll, and he swallowed, turning to face it. He did not have the element of surprise this time, but he knew he had to stand his ground all the same. He raised Tintallë, and the troll lurched forward, swinging down its club towards him.
Pippin ducked, leaping to the side and rolling back up onto his feet, but he was barely upright for a moment before he had to move again, throwing himself forward this time, between the troll's legs.
But this troll was faster than the others, and Pippin felt a hand close around his ribcage. He cried out, hacking at the hand with Tintallë, but he may as well have been using a toothpick, and the troll's hand crushed tighter around him, lifting him from the ground and up, and up, and up towards his bared teeth.
So, this is it, then. This is how I go
I don't want to die.
The troll roared, and then dragged Pippin towards his gaping jaw, and with a last desperate cry, Pippin thrust his sword into the creature's face. It sank into the troll's eye, and the beast howled in pain. It stumbled, and swayed, and then it fell straight to the earth, Pippin still clutched in its fist.
Darkness enveloped him, and to Pippin's utter terror, he quickly found that he could not move – the troll's hand was still around him, and the weight of the rest of its vile body was holding its fingers closed. He gasped for breath, but it seemed little, too little, and his vision began to blur, and the scrambling of his fingers and toes grew weaker.
And somewhere, in a great, faraway distance, he heard someone calling.
"The eagles! The eagles are coming, the eagles are coming!"
But no, he could not have heard that. That was from the Battle of the Five Armies, a fight that could be won, and it was not part of Pippin's story.
I don't want to die.
Somewhere, someone was calling his name, but he could not tell who, or where. Perhaps that, too, was a dream.
Perhaps it was the dead, coming to collect him.
I don't want to go.
I don't want to go.
Please.
And that's where I'll leave you for today! Very similar to Tolkien's account in some regards, I know, and I couldn't help but use Aragorn's movie speech in there because it gives me goosebumps every time, but I hope you didn't find it too derivative. Please do let me know what you thought, I'd love to hear from you.
Until next time, take care!