Hi everyone! I hope that you're all well – thank you for my lovely reviews for the last chapters, I really appreciate them. I hope you enjoy this chapter too – parts of it have proven tricky to write!
Chapter One Hundred and Nine: The Dark and the Dawn
The food was running low. So scarily, scarily low.
Already, Bróin could see the hunger gnawing at the people around could see the men and women deteriorating the quickest, see their hollowed cheeks become hollower as the portions became smaller. The hobbits were a close second – he was afraid that he could feel Nelly's ribs more and more with every hug. While the changes in the elves and the dwarves were subtler, they were also unmissable. Dull eyes, and bowed heads. Arms woven around stomachs. Skin without colour.
Hopeless.
It had been five days since the mountain exploded. Four since that first night when the prisoners left. Three since Nelly broke down in the darkness.
She had not really been the same since. She was quiet – so quiet that it scared him. She spoke only to brokenly beg Frodo and Sam for another story, or to promise him that yes, she was still breathing. Though the swelling on her face had gone down a fair bit, her skin was still raw and red from when Toothy had thrown her, and her other wounds were severe. Very severe. They had nothing to give her to ease the pain, and every night he heard her whimpering in her sleep. Every day he felt the pained hitch of her breathing. With the growing lack of food, she was quickly losing weight, and she shivered a lot, now. She always seemed so cold.
In his heart, Bróin was terrified that Frodo was right – that his Nelly had finally reached the end of her rope. That she had no hope left to hold onto. If she surrendered to the pain and the despair, if she let go entirely –
The very thought of it bored excruciatingly into Bróin's heart like a searing hot corkscrew, stealing his breath away, and he was beginning to fear that there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He was not really in much of a position to stop anything.
Though the fever had left him, his illness had not. His head still ached, and throbbed, and his stomach still twisted with nausea after he ate. His nose still ran, he could not shake the wrenching, hacking coughs, and worst of all, his whole body was still painfully weak. His legs began to shake if he tried to walk for more than a few minutes, and talking for much longer than one conversation made his lungs feel like he had spent an hour underwater.
He felt useless. They had not seen another living soul since leaving Barad-dur, but if there was a fight, he knew he would be about as much use as baby Olin. Every time that thought passed his mind, so did the painful realisation that his littlest sister would probably have no memory of him at all by the time he returned.
If he returned.
"Look," murmured one of the elves, pointing up ahead with a shaking hand and dragging Bróin out of his thoughts. Bróin looked up and ahead, and his stomach curled.
"The Black Gates," he murmured. Even having never seen him before, there was no denying the gaping maw of the gate on the horizon, the only violent gap in the landscape of cruel mountains around them.
"They… they are not there," Red, said in surprise. "The towers, the Towers of the Teeth – they are gone. They have fallen. And the gate has been cast down."
"Good riddance," sniffed Sam. "That ought to make it a little easier for us to get out. Look now – we're almost there."
Bróin was not sure about that. Yes, they could see the gates, but he would be very surprised if they were less than a day's walk away. Two days was more likely, at the pace they were going. He glanced at Sam. As the only hobbit with uninjured legs, he had insisted on walking all this time, and though his cheeks were ever flushed with the effort, his skin was pale, and dark circles hung beneath his eyes. He leant heavier and heavier on the staff by the day, and though he did not say anything about it, Bróin knew that the pain of the wound in his shoulder was gnawing away at Sam. It had to be.
"Can you see any movement by the gates?" Frodo asked. "Any sign of orcs, or soldiers, perhaps?"
Red shook his head. "No, sir. There are – there are bodies. I can see bodies among the rubble. But no movement. Nothing alive – not that I can see."
Frodo sighed in relief. "Good. Thank you, Red."
Red smiled ever so slightly, bowing his head. Now that Bróin thought about it, there had been another slight shift over the last three days, since the night that Nelly had broken. Some of the elves seemed almost at ease with the group now, particularly Red and Rín. Several times, Red had spoken without asking permission first, and Rín had actually talked aloud in order to offer to take a watch the other night. And they smiled. Not great smiles, but they smiled all the same, and once, Bróin thought he had caught the sound of Red laughing.
It raised Bróin's heart a little, but not for long. Nothing raised his heart for long. Not here.
Two more days passed, days of endless walking and riding – days of dwindling stories from the tiring Frodo and Sam.
Then, on the seventh morning – just hours before they reached the ruins of the Black Gates – the food ran out. No one acknowledged it, but as the last of the lembas was eaten, they all knew what it meant. Frodo and Sam stopped telling stories. The men and women walked slower. They had to conserve their energy, even more so than the others.
They would be the first to starve.
The menfolk, and Bróin's hobbits.
They could not even catch a break at the gates themselves. The rubble had fallen in a way to create a small wall between them and the outside – a wall of loose stone, packed with the rotting corpses of orcs and men. Clambering up it was far from easy, even for Toothy, and Bróin's gut lurched with every slip of the warg's paws.
But after an achingly long half-hour, they cleared it – even Mari, who had cried almost hysterically after slipping and falling into the body of a particularly pungent orc. Not that Bróin blamed her.
He had discovered yesterday that she was the youngest of them all. That she was only fifteen years old.
Together, they stood outside the razed remains of the Black Gates, and the world stretched out before them.
Ever since they entered Mordor, Bróin had longed for this moment – the moment they finally escaped the dark land, the moment that he got to breathe the free air – and all he could feel was despair.
Before them was the site of a battle. That much was obvious. The pale earth was stained with blood, both black and red, and the corpses of hundreds, if not thousands of orcs and men in the armour of Mordor, were melting into the earth as they rotted. There was no sign of their enemy – no sign at all, save a single post driven into the ground, bearing the flag of Gondor. A great crevice had wrenched apart the very ground before the gates, an abyss that went down far deeper than Bróin cared to fathom, a crack that spanned the entire length of the gates. At its edges, it was scarcely an inch wide, but at its widest, it was over six feet. What had caused it, he did not know. He did not care.
The obvious aftermath of the battle was not what filled him with such a sense of doom.
It was the huge expanse of land before him that sent Bróin's heart straight to his boots. The land around them was empty, barren and bare, and he knew it was miles in any direction before they would be able to find a stream. Miles before they could even hope to find any food.
Miles they had next to no hope of making.
"Which way do we go now?" Sam breathed. "North-west'd be the quickest way home."
"We'd starve," croaked Nelly. She cleared her throat, but there was still a rasping pain in her voice. "No food or water for miles upon miles – and you said the bog was almost unpassable."
"It would've been completely impassable, if it wasn't for Gollum," Frodo agreed. "I think we should make for Ithilien. If Faramir still has rangers there we could get some help, and if not we should at least be able to forage some food."
"Ithilien it is," Nelly murmured, but then she lowered her head again, and she was quiet.
They moved on. No one wanted to linger in among the bodies of the orcs, and they made a good pace across the battlefield. When they reached the road, they found the markings of hundreds of feet and hooves, days old but unmistakeable, and Bróin saw Sam smile.
"This'll be the way the army went," he said. "Gondor's army. If they're heading back t'wards Ithilien too, then we can't go wrong following them."
Assuming that it was Gondor's army, Bróin thought bitterly. With the luck they had been having it could just as easily end up being the tracks of allies of Mordor that fled whatever ruin befell the gates. Some of the ex-prisoners looked as uneasy as he felt.
"What… what if it's not the army of Gondor?" asked Red hesitantly. "Or what if they take us for servants of the Dark Lord?"
Frodo and Sam shared a glance, and Bróin adjusted his grip on Nelly to be a little tighter.
"Well…" said Sam slowly, "if it isn't Gondor, it shouldn't be too hard to keep quiet, and out of sight. And if it is, we'll just tell them that we know their captain. The rangers of Ithilien are good folk, they wouldn't go about killing people without cause."
A dark unease twisted in Bróin's gut as he cast his mind back to their first meeting with the Rangers.
As the masked man seized Nelly, Bróin charged with his fists raised, but another two men tackled him to the ground. He hit the dirt 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. A swell of pride rising within him, 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!"
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 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.
At once, Bróin saw the men around her as orcs, saw Snaga pulling down her trousers, yanking at his own belt, and his heart split in two.
"Let her go!" howled Bróin from the ground. "Let her go, let her go, let her go!"
He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, trying to focus on the afterwards, but it was hard. Without Frodo's quick thinking, and Faramir's patience and lack of prejudice, would they Rangers have been so merciful? Would they have spared all their lives, listened to their story?
Besides, it was all very good and well their knowing Faramir, when Faramir had left Ithilien for Osgiliath.
"We don't have a choice," said Frodo quietly. "It's the best hope we have of finding food before we starve."
Nelly shuddered, and Bróin hugged her close. Her hands closed around his arms, tight, but she said nothing.
She said nothing all day.
By nightfall, they had long left the battle-field behind, but still the land around them was barren, and cold. They sheltered by the side of the mountain, and Bróin poured a portion of Faramir's dog food onto the ground for Toothy. Greedily, the warg dug in, and Bróin paused, staring down at the foul smelling biscuits.
Not unless you were desperate – that was what Faramir had said. Tears pricked at the back of Bróin's eyes, and he took a deep breath, glancing into the bag. If he gave everyone a couple of biscuits, it might stave off starvation for a little while, but he doubted Toothy would like it much.
The warg paused, as if sensing Bróin's thoughts, and looked up. Bróin tried to smile.
"Go on," he coaxed. "Eat up. You've done so well, boy."
Toothy tilted his head, and then lowered his nose, rolling several of the small biscuits towards Bróin, and backing away.
A real smile broke onto Bróin's face, cracking his dried lips in the process, but he did not mind.
"Thank you, Toothy," he said, and he distributed a couple of biscuits to each of their group.
With many a wrinkled nose, but not a word of complaint, those who had once been prisoners ate hungrily, but Nelly pushed away the offered portion with a shudder.
"No – no – I'll throw up. And that's just a waste. I can't."
Hesitantly, Bróin raised a biscuit up to his own lips, but his stomach lurched violently, threatening to vomit what little was left inside it. He shuddered, and tossed the food to Toothy.
It was cold, that night, so cold, and they had no more wood to light a fire. All they could do was huddle together, and pray that the cold would not snatch a life in the night. Bróin slept with his arms around Nelly, and Frodo's back pressed tightly against his own, and he knew that Sam was curled up on Frodo's other side.
And that night, Bróin dreamt.
He was drowning again. The water was all around him, deep, black water stretching as far as he could see, reaching out in every direction, and again and again it surged into his mouth, and poured down his throat, and the world grew impossibly dark around him.
And again and again, he coughed the water up, and kicked and thrashed, and fought to keep his head above the water.
Always to keep his head above the water.
He could feel himself sinking, deeper and deeper into a darkness beyond understanding, but somehow his head seemed to break the water just enough to let him gasp for breath – just enough to keep him alive. And as he sank, Bróin saw that he was not alone. Sam was floating in the water a few feet away, pale as death with only his nose and mouth above the surface of the black waves. Frodo floated too, a few feet away, and Bróin yelled for them, but they showed no sign of hearing. He tried to swim, tried desperately to pull himself towards them, but they remained remote, far away – unreachable. He could feel his throat, raw from screaming or from swallowing the black water, and he threw out his arms –
And saw Nelly.
She was floating in the water too.
But she was face down.
And Bróin knew what that meant.
"No – no!" he howled, throwing himself towards her, but he could not bring her closer – the faster he swam, the further away she was swept.
"No! Nelly, please, please, Nelly – Nelly! Nelly, please!"
And then he saw her sink. He wailed as the black water closed above her head, as the surface of the water became whole and uninterrupted, as though she had never been there at all.
And he was alone.
Totally, utterly, completely, alone.
He woke gasping as though he really had been drowning, and as the cold night air hit the back of his throat he coughed, trying his best to smother the sound in his elbow. It took him a few moments to steady his breathing, to look around him and notice that he was on land, and not alone, and not drowning.
From the way that he was propped up against Toothy, Bróin guessed that Sam was supposed to be on watch, but he had dozed off, and was snoring gently. Toothy was a lot more alert, watching the world around him with wide, careful eyes, and Bróin let out a slow breath.
They were safe. There was no black water. They were alive.
He closed his eyes.
Nelly was floating, face down in the black water.
His eyes flew open again, and he looked at her, and his heart seized. She was pale, perhaps even paler than she had been in his dream, and she was still as stone – he could not even see her breathing.
He could not see her breathing.
A cold fear crashed down upon him, fiercer and more furious than even the greatest of waves, and he grabbed her elbow, shaking it quickly.
"Nelly!" Fear blocked his throat, and no matter how loud he tried to be, his words came out as whimpers. "Nelly, Nelly-"
She drew in a sharp hiss of a breath, wincing as her eyes flew open in the darkness.
"Bro," she breathed, fear and pain both tightening her voice. "What's wrong?"
Relief seemed to explode within his chest, escaping his mouth as a desperate sob, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to remember how to breathe.
"Bróin!"
"I-I'm sorry," he gasped, opening his eyes, but at once his view of her face was clouded by tears. "I'm sorry, Nelly, I – I had a nightmare and I woke up and, I – I couldn't see – didn't think – I thought you were – I thought you left me-" He choked, and pursed his lips together, wiping desperately at his eyes.
Nelly swallowed, her own eyes welling with tears. "I'm here," she murmured, taking his hand and pressing it to her chest. He froze, achingly aware that his fingers were less than an inch from the awful gash across her chest, but she smiled softly, and as his own panicked breathing slowed, he felt her heartbeat beneath his fingertips. "I'm still here. Still here."
"I'm so sorry I woke you," he said, but she shushed him.
"It's alright." A tear wove down the side of her face. "I'm scared, too."
Bróin bit down on his lip, instantly regretting it as the iron taste of blood seeped into his mouth. "I... I'm so afraid that you... that... and Frodo and Sam - if we can't find food, I - if you - if I was… alone, I – that would kill me."
Alarm flickered in Nelly's eyes, and she shook her head, slightly. "No, Bro. You have to promise me, if the worst - if it happens and you're the only one left, you have to keep going. Keep moving. You have to tell everyone what happened, you have to try. For your Amad and Adad, and for Bofin, after all he did... you have to give our family closure. Please, Bróin, promise me you'll try."
He shook his head, choking on his tears but she persisted.
"For me, Bróin. Promise me, please. Please."
"I... I promise," he choked, and the words felt like poison on his tongue.
Nelly relaxed slightly, and pressed a kiss to his hand. "Thank you. Thank you. But it... it might not come to that. Papa and Fíli managed a good few days in Mirkwood without food or water. We might make it."
"You better," he whispered. "You... you better not leave me, Nell."
"Never," she swore, another tear spilling from her eyes. "Never by choice."
Another sob broke free from Bróin's chest, and he closed his eyes, trying to just concentrate on her heartbeat. It was just there, somehow still steady and strong, and after a while his own heart slowed to match it, and he opened his eyes. Nelly sighed sadly.
"You should get some more sleep," she said, but Bróin shook his head, pulling himself up into a sitting position.
He had no intention of returning to dreams like that.
"Sam's shattered, but someone should take the watch."
She studied his face carefully. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." He ran his thumb gently over the top of her cheek, tracing the edge of the dark circles beneath her eyes. "You should go back to sleep, though."
"Hypocrite," she muttered. "I'm too tired to argue." She closed her eyes, and lay back, but then she flinched. "By the Valar…"
"Are you alright?"
"It just…" Nelly shivered. "It hurts, Bróin, it all hurts. Sometimes it's, it's all I can think of, and..."
Guilt coiled around Bróin's gut, and he swallowed. "I'm sorry I woke you, Nelly, I didn't mean-"
"I know." With a slight hiss of pain, she shifted, pushing herself up and around so that she could rest her head in his lap, and cuddle up to his legs. "Better…"
A lump in his throat, Bróin ran his hand over her hair until she fell asleep. Then, he watched until morning.
And in the morning, everyone woke, and no one ate, and they walked on.
With empty stomachs and so little water between them, their progress was agonisingly slow, but by the time evening came, the landscape had at least changed a little. There were trees now, twisted and old, and the ground at the edges of the path became greener.
They even came across a small stream, cold and fresh, if not quite clear.
But no food.
There was nothing edible around them, no fruit or roots or berries. No animals.
They walked on.
Night fell, and they slept beneath the trees, restless and hungry and exhausted beyond all thought.
The sun rose, and somewhere above them birds sang, mockingly, far away and unseen. The elves stared upwards in wonder, but for the others, hunger was too pressing an issue to give any thought to birdsong when the birds could not be caught, and cooked.
The day wore on, and breathing became laboured, and steps even slower. People began to stumble.
And then, with the midday sun above them and the sound of running water in their ears, Mari collapsed.
The entire group froze, and she gave a small sob, scrambling up onto her knees. Before she could rise, her eyes glazed over and she swayed, and Bróin slid down from Toothy's back.
"Here," he said, patting the saddle behind Nelly. "You can ride for a while."
Sam's face twisted in concern. "Bróin-"
"I'll be fine," Bróin promised, though already his head was spinning. "Just pass me those great branches on the ground there, Sam. I'll be fine."
Mari hesitated, looking warily at the warg, but one of the other women squeezed her arm and nodded, and the girl reluctantly let Sam and Red help her onto Toothy's back. As soon as she was up, Sam offered Bróin his walking sticks, but Bróin shook his head, and grabbed up the branches he had pointed out to his cousin.
"These'll do me," he said, leaning against them to check that they took his weight. "You need those, Sam. And let's face it – one's a pipe and the other an old spear. Neither of us have proper sticks."
"If you're sure," Sam muttered, a small smile on his face even as he studied Bróin's.
"Right." Bróin cleared his throat. "Is anyone else feeling faint?"
At once, others avoided his gaze - apart from Red and Rin. They just shook their heads.
"Let's keep moving, then," said Sam determinedly. "As best we can. And if anyone else thinks they might be about to hit the deck, let us know. That means you, Taurion. You haven't made a peep about that wound in your side, but it can't be doing you any good."
"My legs are untouched," said Taurion softly. "There are others struggling worse than I."
"If you say so," said Sam, sounding unconvinced. "Let's just go. The longer we put it off, the harder it'll be to start." His eyes were on Bróin as he spoke.
Bróin took the first step.
Within a matter of minutes, his legs felt weak as wool beneath him, and after the first few hours they trembled violently. His arms ached, and his chest was tight as a vice, and there was barely any room in his mind for thoughts beyond 'next step, next step, next step.'
But he walked on. On and on, as the land around the grew richer, and still refused them any real food. They found several olive branches, but they were bare, fruitless, and all they could see in the realm of mushrooms were quickly identified by the hobbits as poisonous. Red was able to spy a small bush of berries, but there was not nearly enough for all of them.
Bróin made sure the hobbits and the menfolk ate first. They managed to get them two or three berries each. The elves and the dwarves had nothing, Bróin included, and he begged broken apologies to the them until his throat could not take it anymore.
"Their bodies can't take it, not, not like ours can and I promise it's not special treatment and, and I'm not punishing you, I just – those who'll starve the soonest need to eat first. It's all we can do. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
Another day passed, and another night fell, and Bróin collapsed to the ground with the rest of them, drawing in deep, wrenching breaths in a desperate attempt to stop his lungs from screaming. Exhaustion sucked him straight into sleep, and he did not dream a single dream.
Another day dawned.
And it dawned red, and misty, and cold, and Bróin felt his heart twist painfully. Some of the faces of those around him were stained green from attempts to eat the grass, and several of the women and men drew breaths that rattled in their chests. When they rose, Bróin hardly had the strength to stand. He was not sure that he had ever been so hungry or so tired, even after escaping Isengard.
Then, at least it had just been he and Nelly. Any food they found was shared equally between two, not between twenty. Now, anything they could chance to find would be unlikely to give a decent feed even to the group's most vulnerable.
And then it had just been he and Nelly. Any food they found would be split between two, not twenty. The berries were a prime example. They had not even been enough to give a decent feed to the group's most vulnerable. By now, the men, women, and hobbits shared a grim, pale pallor, and eyes that were glazed with hunger and fatigue, and Bróin's fear rose higher.
How much longer could they keep walking without food? How much longer could they hope to last? But even as their pace grew slower, and slower, they continued to share a look of grim determination, and they continued to move forward.
Another afternoon, another evening, another day. A desperate drink in the stream, a frantic feast on nettles that stung their hands, but would not poison their stomachs. Another day. It became impossible sometime around then, for Bróin to track the hours or the days or the minutes. He was too tired to grapple with a concept like time.
His legs shook violently, and often one or both of his knees would buckle, and he would stumble - And stand. And take another step. Because when Mari was able to walk another few hours, Petyr asked for Taurion to be allowed to ride. It was only at his friend's insistence that Taurion relented, but Bróin had not forgotten that the man still had a shard of stone in his side.
He still felt guilty that Taurion had walked for so long in the first place. When the woman named Maeve hit the ground, Frodo tried walking too, but even with two sticks he could barely make it a few steps before the pain in his leg grew too much.
"I'm sorry," he gasped, tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I wanted..."
"It's alright," said Maeve heavily, staggering to her feet as Sam tugged Frodo back to Toothy. Without a word, one of the elves approached her, and lifted her up onto his back in the style of a piggy-back.
Bróin bowed his head, and pretended that his eyes were not full of tears.
They walked on.
Others stumbled, those of the race of Men, mostly, but at once the others were there. Two other elves bore their companions on their backs, and others in the group slung the arms of wearying comrades over their shoulders.
Their heads bowed lower, and their shoulders curved down, but they walked on.
They walked on.
And then, in the gathering gloom of evening, Toothy stopped dead in his tracks. The rest of them stopped with him, and at once Bróin's heart lurched into a frantic race. The warg was raising his hackles, leaning back as though readying to attack, and Bróin hobbled right to his side, shifting his grip on his branches. He sent out a desperate prayer that if it did come down to a fight, he might at least be able to get a good swipe or two in, before he fell. Sam scurried to Bróin's side, and the others fell in behind them, huddling together like a flock of frightened sheep.
There was the sound of armour clinking, and a rustling, and then two huge men burst out from between the trees, pointing sword and bow at the travellers. They were dressed in full armour, ready for war, but Bróin knew the symbol of the White Tree on their breast plate well.
"Halt, in the name of the-" The soldier stopped talking, his mouth dropping open at the sight of their group. Then, he looked at Nelly, and his eyes widened, shining with sudden hope. "Miss Took?" he asked, his voice suddenly as gentle as a new father's, and she gave a hesitant nod. The soldier beamed, looking at the other hobbits, and at Bróin. "Masters Gamgee and Baggins, and Bróin, son of Bombur?"
"Those are our names," said Frodo carefully. "How did you hear them? Did… did Captain Faramir speak of us?"
The soldier bowed his head, pursing his lips as though trying to hide his smile. "He, and other Lords. But none made any mention of your companions?"
"These are the folk that survived the prisons and mines of Mordor," said Frodo, drawing himself up a little straighter on Toothy. "We found them by the ruins of Barad-dur. I will tell you the whole story, sir, if it pleases you – but first we could use a little help. Many of our number are injured, and it has been days since our food ran out. Please, if you would not hinder us, might we trade our tale for something to eat, and a place to sit down and rest a while?"
"They are no threat to you?" said the soldier, his eyes still on the once-prisoners, and Frodo shook his head.
"Nor to you."
The soldier's smile became even stronger, and he sheathed his sword at once. The others followed suit, wonder in their eyes.
"Then of course!" cried the smiling soldier. "Of course, you must come! Our camp is not far, it is this way, this way – come! But wait – I must run ahead – Iorlas will lead you, Iorlas, lead this great folk to camp – I must fetch the king!" Practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, the soldier turned back to Frodo. "Follow Iorlas! Soon you will be resting and feasting and drinking, but sooner I must fly!" And with that he turned, and sped back into the trees.
"I am Iorlas," said the other soldier, smiling gently and giving a low bow. "Please forgive Beregond's enthusiasm – we were instructed to keep a watch for you, but few of us believed… Come, this way."
Unease curled around Bróin's gut, and he tightened his grip on Toothy's rein, glancing up at Frodo. If this was a trap, if Beregond had gone to fetch back-up…
But Frodo gave a small nod, and Iorlas turned down the path through the trees, setting a slow, steady pace before them. Frodo urged Toothy to follow, and though Sam shot a worried look at Bróin, they both followed on.
Bróin tried to keep his eyes on the woodland around them, to listen for anything that sounded suspicious or off, but his whole body ached as though he had tumbled down a ravine, and he could barely draw the breath he needed to keep him on his feet. His eyes could only look down, trained on the twisting path beneath him, and it took all his effort to raise the walking sticks up, and then down, and up, and then down, and to take step after wobbling step. The pace Iorlas set was slow, but still Bróin feared being left behind, and he tried to quicken his stride, but his stick caught beneath a tree root, and the next thing he knew he was plummeting towards the ground, face first.
He hit the dirt with a great thud and a bloom of fresh pain, and Toothy howled, whirling around from the front of the group and nuzzling at his neck frantically.
"'m alright," he mumbled, rolling over and trying to bat the warg away to gain space to breathe. "m a'right, Toothy."
At once, both Sam and Iorlas hurried to his side, and Sam helped Bróin sit up with worry bright in his eyes.
"Are you alright?"
Bróin grimaced, blinking away the stars that danced before his eyes. "Fine. I tripped, is all."
"Please, forgive us," said Iorlas intently, a look of genuine sorrow on his face. "We did not think – we were hasty, in our joy, and we did not think how weary you must be. What you have endured… Come, let us sit. We will wait for Beregond here – he will not be long. He will bring others, and they will help us get you to camp. Please, forgive my carelessness."
There was something so sincere about the man's tone and expression that Bróin could not help but feel a little calmer, and he nodded slowly. "Sitting down for a bit would be nice."
Iorlas offered his hand, and helped Bróin up onto his feet, steadying his arm and guiding him towards the side of the road. A large, smooth barked tree that his hobbits could surely name curved upwards above them, and Iorlas guided Bróin to sit at its base. The others collapsed to the ground around him, and even Toothy lay down, watching the soldiers with wary eyes.
Frodo slid down from the warg's back, straight onto the earth beside Sam, and after a moment of hesitation, Mari followed, hurrying around to nestle herself between Red and Maeve. Only Nelly was left astride Toothy, and she winced down at the ground. Before she could so much as open her mouth, however, Iorlas stepped forward, offering his arm.
"My lady, may I-"
Toothy growled, raising his head as the man neared him, but Nelly hushed the warg gently and smiled.
"Please," she said wearily, and Iorlas bowed, carefully walking around Toothy's side and lifting Nelly down with more care and attention than Bróin would ever have guessed a stranger to give. He settled her on the ground between Bróin and Sam, and then stepped back, looking over the group with a furrowing brow.
"I am sorry that I have no food or drink to offer you," he said, "but I am sure that ere the next half hour is spent we will be able to provide you with something."
"Thank you," said Frodo wearily. "We'd appreciate that."
Iorlas bowed his head and stood back, and a quiet fell upon them, a quiet that Bróin felt too tired to break. After a while, however, he heard the running of footsteps, and Beregond's voice call out, this way. The man flew into sight from around a small hill, and pointed at the group with a cry of delight.
And Bróin's stomach seemed to drop right out of his body, and the air vanished from his lungs.
Because beside Beregond, with wild, desperate eyes, was Aragorn, and behind Aragorn was Legolas, and Boromir – Boromir who Bróin thought was dead – and before them –
Before them –
Pippin.
With a wild, wail of a cry, Pippin sprang forward, sprinting the short distance between them, unheeding of the warg that raised his head and snarled at the sudden movement. He flung his arms around his sister so desperately that Bróin was afraid he would hurt her, but even as she cried out in pain, Nelly pulled her brother close. Though her injured arm hung limp at her side, the other clutched Pippin so tightly it trembled, and Pippin buried his face in her hair.
"You're alive," she sobbed, and Bróin felt the sting of tears on his cheeks. "Pippin, you're alive, you're alive, you're alive!"
Pippin gave a small wail and held her tighter, and Nelly gave a hiss of pain.
"Careful, Pip," said Frodo, his voice breaking around his cousin's name, and Pippin drew away, his face as pale as death. He threw himself at Frodo next, clinging to the older hobbit like a vine trying to strangle a great tree, and Bróin saw Frodo trembling as he returned the embrace, and then Pippin tumbled into a one-armed hug from Sam. And then he fell into Bróin, and Bróin used all the strength he had left to return the embrace.
A strangled cry drew Bróin's attention over the young hobbit's shoulder, and he felt relief sap a little more of his strength away as someone else barged to the front of the group.
"Gimli!" he choked, reaching out over Pippin's shoulder at the pale dwarf before him.
Without so much as a sound, Gimli charged forward, crashing onto his knees before Bróin and Sam and dragging them into a fierce embrace. Bróin's head span with the sudden movement, and the older dwarf's grip was so tight that it hurt, but Bróin did not care. A sob tore from his throat, and Gimli gave a sob of his own, pressing his forehead first to Sam's then to Bróin's.
"Thank Mahal," he breathed, pulling them both close again. "Thank Mahal, thank Mahal…"
Bróin peaked over Gimli's shoulder to see the others moving closer, hanging back a few feet to give the hobbits and dwarves some space, but they all looked largely unharmed –
And Bróin's blood ran cold.
Standing among the others, tall and tearful and clad in white robes that looked so much like Saruman's, was Gandalf.
Gandalf, who was dead.
If Gandalf was here, and Boromir, and Pippin – all these friends he had been told were gone forever – if they were all here, then –
"Are, are we dead?" he choked, his heart dropping down to his stomach as he pulled back to look Gimli in the eye. He could not bring himself to completely let go, though, and clung to the older dwarf's arm as though that could, somehow, reverse the inevitable. "Gimli, are we dead?"
"No, no," Gimli swore, putting a hand on Bróin's cheek and wiping aware his tears with a watery smile of his own. "No, lad, you – we thought you were, we thought we'd lost you – but no. We're not dead. We're all here. We're all here."
"B-but Gandalf," Bróin whispered, glancing fearfully at the wizard. "And they… they said that Pippin and Boromir…"
"Well, Gandalf has come back, that's true, but Pippin and Boromir were never dead to begin with, lad, never. Whoever they were, they were wrong. We're all here, we're alive, Bróin. You're alive. You've done it."
"What – what about Merry?" asked Nelly, her voice trembling.
"He's in Minas Tirith," promised Pippin, his eyes roving over her many wounds, and growing wider with each one. "He's safe."
Bróin nodded, but still the fear swirled in his gut, and the tears stung in his eyes, and he looked Gimli in the eye. "Are… are you sure? You're sure we're not dead?"
"Sure as anything, lad," Gimli swore, pain flickering in his eyes. "But you all look like you've done a good job of trying to make it that way…"
Once upon a time, Bróin would have had a smart reply to that, but he was too tired. So tired…
Gimli shook his head slowly, reaching over Bróin to squeeze Frodo's hand, and then Nelly's. He seemed to understand that Bróin did not want to let go.
"Let's get you back up to camp, get some food into you," said Gimli softly.
"There're… there're a lot of us," said Frodo hesitantly, but Aragorn spoke, his voice thick with emotion, and his eyes full of tears.
"We will make sure you are all fed. You… you have saved the entire world, my friends. Now, let us help you."
Frodo smiled, but his lip wobbled and tears spilt from his eyes.
"We might need that help," said Sam, "out of the four of us I'm the only one in any real state for walking – and some of our friends here are struggling too."
"It's not far," Aragorn promised. "But we will help you. May we carry you?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Nelly mumbled, a small little smile on her face, and as Boromir rushed forward to lift her gently from the ground, and Aragorn raised Frodo into his arms, Gimli squeezed Bróin.
"Come on, lad."
"I can walk," Bróin mumbled, and Gimli nodded.
"Alright, then." He took Bróin's arm and looped it over his shoulder, wrapping his own arm tightly around Bróin's waist. "Ready?"
Bróin nodded, and together they stood. Gimli took most of Bróin's weight, and Pippin did the same for Sam, and they began to walk up the winding path towards the camp of the Men.
As they walked, and Gimli murmured quiet words of encouragement in his ear, a strange thought came to Bróin - a thought so alien it stunned him, a thought the likes of which he believed that Cirith Ungol had destroyed.
Am I not going to die?
And for the first time since Cirith Ungol, Bróin believed that there was a chance that the answer just might be;
No. You are going to live.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I've written the reunion scene about five times, and agonised over it for far too long, so I hope it turned out okay in the end. Do let me know what you think! Until next time, take care!