hello friends! welcome to my first LOTR fic!
don't worry I'll still be posting Confessions and Shurikens! I've just decided to add this to my list of projects, and I hope y'all enjoy it!
A few things about this fic: it will be double POVed with Pippin and Aragorn as the primary narrators. I may occasionally throw in Legolas or Sam or Frodo (or any other characters) if I really need to, but it's mostly gonna be those two.
Also expect chapter updates every two weeks or so bc Tolkien-style writing takes a LONG time! plus he has some of the longest chapters in existence!
Pairings in this fic are going to be...interesting. But mostly normal. But...interesting. We've got our standard Aragorn/Arwen, but I'm gonna try out some Legolas/Gimli fluff, and our main pairing is Pippin/Diamond. Dia isn't my OC, not really, as Pippin canonically marries her, but we only get her name in the appendices of LOTR, nothing about her personality. So this is Pippin's canon pairing, but I don't think many people if any have expanded on it. We'll see how it goes!
THIS FIC IS NOT CANON COMPLIANT. Rather, it's an AU of what would have happened if Pippin and Merry hadn't escaped from the orcs in The Two Towers. The fic will cover ALL of TTT and RotK so we're gonna clock in at about 300,000 words! Bear with me!
this will be crossposted on AO3! go check it out there :)
Also, yes, the title is stolen from the song May It Be. Whyever not?
Thank you my friends!
Peace out!
PEREGRIN
The lifting of darkness is always overwhelming.
It is especially so if it comes with pain, cold, or darkness equal to that which one has come out of. For it is then that one realizes just how worrisome one's situation is, because one has not woken unto light. The absence of light, that bringer of warmth and hope, is enough to strike fear into one's heart, particularly if one is a Hobbit.
So it was with Peregrin Took, who was presently reconsidering his life choices.
The memory was hazy at best, but what Pippin could recall was nothing short of tragic. Frodo had gone, taking the Ring and fleeing the Fellowship. He did not know what had become of Sam, although Pippin suspected that the gardener had followed his master.
Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli—the last Pippin had seen of them, they had been engaged in furious combat with the Uruk-hai, fighting valiantly to defend the fallen Boromir. Pippin was not afraid for them, for they were strong warriors and brave, and he felt certain that they would finish what he and Merry could not.
And yet the fate of Boromir himself weighed heavily on Pippin's small shoulders. The soldier had fallen defending the remaining hobbits, pierced with three black-feathered arrows even as he wound the horn of Gondor. Pippin remembered only the bleak sorrow that had filled his heart as the Uruk-hai bore him away, before something impacted against his skull, and he was made captive.
Pippin opened his eyes, allowing barely a sliver of sight to penetrate the blackness that he had willingly imposed upon himself, not wanting to see the awful sight that undoubtedly awaited him.
He had been right to do so. All around Pippin were great black shapes, and a foul stench came from them, filling his nostrils until he could focus on little else. Flickering orange light illuminated the outlines of the Uruk-hai, who conversed in their guttural tongue, their voices low and grating. Worst of all was the figure collapsed beside Pippin—Meriadoc Brandybuck, cousin and best friend to Pippin. Merry's breath was shallow, his eyes closed, and a bleeding wound was drawn across his brow. His hands were bound in front of him, and a second cord was tied about his ankles.
Seeing poor Merry in such a state drew Pippin's attention to his own body, which he now realized was quite sore, especially where he had been bound. A dull pain pulsed in the back of his head, and Pippin suspected that the impact had raised a swelling. He had no means to confirm the fact, with his hands being tied.
He dared to open his eyes entirely, and one Uruk-hai leaned down, his face spreading into a broken-toothed grin as he spoke to Pippin in the Common Speech. "Little Halfling's awake, eh? Better save your strength—the road to Mordor is long, and I don't expect you to be able to manage it."
"You'd be surprised at what I can manage," Pippin said, and sitting up he mustered the bravest look he could. "What did you do to Merry, you brute?"
Pippin's tone was sharper than he intended. The Uruk-hai was angered, and his hand connected with Pippin's cheek in a fierce blow that knocked the young hobbit back onto the ground.
"You'll watch your tongue, Halfling," the orc hissed as Pippin curled in on himself, a streak of fire blooming across his face. "The Dark Lord has been kind enough to let you come to him alive. Pray you don't give us reason to disobey his orders."
The Uruk-hai turned away, taking up a conversation with one of his brethren in the orc-tongue. Pippin pressed his injured cheek into his shoulder, having no other way to assuage the pain, and winced at the tenderness. The skin was swiftly bruising; a deep violet mark was sure to follow.
A low groan came from behind Pippin, and he rolled to his other side, inching closer to the slowly awakening Merry. Bringing his bound hands to his face, Pippin raised a finger to his lips so Merry could see, praying that his cousin would not cry out. Merry nearly did, his mouth opening to speak, but the sound of the Uruk-hai talking in the Common Speech silenced him. He and Pippin listened, fearing the worst, for the orcs were indeed discussing their prisoners.
"…alive and unspoiled, he's made that clear. Any Halflings are meant to be brought to him exactly as they are."
"Killing them would speed our journey," snarled the orc who had dealt Pippin his blow, and the hobbit wondered if the Uruk-hai would disobey their commander for one of their fellows' wishes.
"Our orders are to bring the Halflings alive to Orthanc," hissed the first orc. "Patience, Gornak. If they aren't what Saruman wants, we'll see them dead before the day is out."
"What does he want with Halflings?" came another voice.
"He is looking for something. Something we are not permitted to understand. A Halfling is said to carry it."
It was then that the truth became clear to Pippin: Saruman knew that a hobbit was in possession of the Ring, and so he had ordered the Uruk-hai to capture hobbits—why he wanted them alive, Pippin was uncertain, but the wizard clearly did not want the Ring to fall into the hands of the Uruk-hai, hence why they had not been searched. But the words of the first orc rang true—once Saruman discovered that Merry and Pippin did not have the Ring, he would send them to Mordor. Sauron would have them tortured for information about the Ring, then kill them. This was never the way Pippin had wanted to leave Middle-earth.
"He asks the impossible of us!" Gornak thundered, pounding his fist against the earth. "Saruman reveals nothing, not even to his most loyal servants—we, the Uruk-hai! Have we not served him faithfully? Do we not deserve the reasoning for our orders?"
"You are doubtful, Gornak," said the first orc, and his voice was lower now, darker. "Perhaps you are not fit to remain in Saruman's service."
"I…I meant no disrespect, Captain…I only…"
"We obey the wizard and the Dark Lord, Gornak. We do not question orders. You are not to touch the Halflings, or the river will run red upon the rising of the sun."
And so Pippin and Merry were safe for the night, but all throughout it dread flowed in Pippin's veins, and sleep became elusive, an inconceivable occurrence for the young hobbit. If he only had his blade, he thought, he could remove his bonds, but it had been taken by the Uruk-hai, or lost in the skirmish on Amon Hen. Did Merry still have his sword? Had any of the Fellowship noticed the hobbits' absence?
Pippin could picture them now, striding over wide fields of tall grass and descending great valleys, vowing never to slow their pace until they had claimed their lost companions. Perhaps Strider would be at the front, urging the others on, and Legolas would scan the horizon, provoking a shout of hope that would ring through the sky as had the horn of Gondor…
How long will it be? Pippin wondered, and then a horrible thought came to him: what if no one came? Would the last of the Fellowship simply journey to Minas Tirith, thinking it a worthier cause than two hobbits that had never been anything more than pieces of luggage, hindrances on their journey?
No, surely they would honor Boromir's sacrifice. They would not suffer him to die in vain. Pippin decided he must believe it, or else he must lose all hope, and he sensed that it would not be wise to do so. Wisdom had never been one of Pippin's greater virtues, but he knew that despair would not set him free. He would suffer whatever he must, but he would not lose hope.
So Pippin lay on his back on the cold ground, gaze aimed steadfastly toward the sky, and when Merry gave any sound of pain he clutched his cousin's bound hands in his own, and he wondered if Sam and Frodo too looked up at the flaming white stars.
A savage kick landed on the soft part of Pippin's side, and he jerked awake, pain flashing through his body. The Uruk-hai had no qualms about making their prisoners suffer, which Pippin decided must not have been considered spoiled. His head still ached, and his cheek and now his side felt tender. How many more wounds would he receive before this quest was over?
Something sliced through the bonds on his legs, and then a great hand took Pippin by the hair, pulling him upright and setting him on his feet. Pippin's legs gave out as blood rushed back into them, and he sank back to the ground amidst shouts of laughter from the Uruk-hai, clenching his jaw against the pain.
A flask was shoved to his lips, and Pippin was forced to swallow. Fire seemed to burn through his veins, but the pain in his legs vanished as the orc—Gornak, he realized—dragged him upright again. Pippin felt shaky, weak, but his head was clear, and he could stand. It was not so for Merry, who could not seem to remain upright, even after he had taken the orc-draught. Gornak released Pippin and scowled, planting his grime-covered foot on Merry's side and digging in. "You'll pull your weight, Halfling, or I'll kill you, I don't care what Saruman says."
Merry only shuddered, his eyes squeezed shut against the pressure. The gash on his forehead looked red and angry, a trickle of blood still oozing from the edge of the wound. Pippin's heart clenched at the sight of his friend in pain, and he rasped, "Let me help him."
Gornak laughed, baring his teeth in a grotesque sneer. "Fall an' you'll feel the whip worse than your friend."
"I'll manage," Pippin said defiantly. "Get your filthy foot off him."
The orc growled, and taking his foot off of Merry he thrust Pippin toward his companion. Pippin dropped to his knees beside Merry, and his cousin managed a weak smile. "This isn't the best time to provoke them, Pip."
"It is if you're hurting," Pippin said fiercely, brushing his bound hands over Merry's wound to gauge the pain. Merry's face paled and Pippin drew back, whispering an apology, then turned to the orcs, who watched them with narrowed glinting eyes. "Untie our hands."
"Saruman's orders are to bring Halflings to him bound," growled the largest orc, the Uruk-hai commander, and the white hand on his face shone in the new sunlight.
"I cannot help him like this," Pippin spat, and he proffered his hands, standing to allow the Uruk-hai access. "Cut our bonds, or we will go nowhere with you."
The orc jerked his head, and Gornak stepped forward, unsheathing his dark blade. He sawed at the cords around Pippin's hands, and the edge of the black knife, by no means accidentally, snicked against Pippin's wrist. He drew in a pained breath as a drop of blood rolled down his arm and splashed onto the ground, leaving a red trail down a blade of grass. The cords fell away, and Pippin clenched his teeth as feeling rushed back to his hands, stinging and burning as if they had been set aflame.
Merry's bonds were cut, and Gornak took the hobbit by his hair, forcing him upright again and pushing him toward Pippin. He was unprepared, and Merry's weight crashed against him, nearly sending him to the ground. Staggering, he pulled Merry's arm across his shoulders, pushing his hip against his cousin's to support him. It was a lurching and painful process, but finally Pippin and Merry stood upright, the weak dawn light hitting their faces with the ferocity of a thousand suns.
"Move," said the commander shortly, and Pippin stumbled forward, all but dragging Merry with him. He wondered again if perhaps the Fellowship drew near, roaring through the fields with their weapons out and their hearts burning with courage, for his own heart shrank in fear despite his forced bravery. How could Pippin possibly reach Orthanc like this, pained and terrified, pulling Merry behind him as they stumbled on weary feet?
Though light painted the horizon, it seemed to Pippin as if the shadow of Mordor had already crept over the land, filling his mind with doubt and draining his strength. And yet he struggled on, grateful for the calloused soles of his feet and even the orc-draught, for they made the journey less than unbearable.
He must have hope. He must not lose sight of the Fellowship's goal, for which he had left home and Boromir had given up his life. Pippin vowed then that, wherever he may be, he would help accomplish it, if only by withholding information from Saruman.
And so he plodded on, Merry's weight heavy against his side, and Pippin prayed to whatever power might be listening to let him endure, to walk to the edge of night, step through the overcoming darkness, and emerge victorious on the other side.
ARAGORN
The elvin boat, bearing Boromir's body in its wooden embrace, faded into the mist rising from the waters of Anduin, and Aragorn ended his lament, the song of the wind which had flooded his thoughts and seemed borne upon some inner light that he had not known he possessed. But the light was dimmed now, and turning away from the riverbank he took leave of Legolas and Gimli and went into the trees, wishing to be alone with his grief.
The crushing feeling overcame Aragorn, and he sank to his knees in the dawn vapor. His heart ached for the son of Denethor, and his eyes were misted with salt and sorrow as glittering drops splashed onto the fallen leaves. Legolas and Gimli, though downcast, had shed no tear, and Aragorn knew that they were stronger than he in that regard, not allowing the grief to sway them from their endeavor. As he wept, he felt fragile, mortal, seeing how swiftly a man's life could be taken, how much the loss of Boromir pained him. How could Aragorn take up the mantle of king, rule over so great a land and a people, when the loss of one man threatened to destroy him?
And now the hobbits had gone, with the Ring-bearer embarking on the last stage of the quest, his loyal gardener following. While by no means a comfort, it reassured Aragorn that all was as it should be with Frodo and Sam. The rest of the Fellowship had never been destined for Mordor, and though it seemed unfair if not cruel to send two hobbits there alone, any more of the Fellowship would have drawn the attention of Sauron and the Black Riders. Frodo and Sam were as safe as they could be.
But Merry and Pippin—the Uruk-hai had taken them, and Aragorn suspected that the orcs had been ordered to capture Halflings in general, not knowing which of the four bore the Ring. The White Hand upon the faces of the Uruk-hai told Aragorn that Saruman had sent them, and he feared the wrath of the wizard when he discovered that the young hobbits did not have the Ring.
Why had Gandalf chosen Halflings? They were by no means weak creatures—at times complacent and inefficient, perhaps, but certainly not weak. No, the quest simply seemed too great a task for the hobbits—all four of them were so young, so innocent. Boromir had feared also for them, and his words as he lay dying—"they took the little ones"—had cast a deathly pall over Aragorn's heart. Beings so small should not have been placed in such danger. If Aragorn could have borne the Ring and spared the hobbits this pain, he would have done it, even if it must have ended in death. But it had not been his destiny, no matter how much he had wished it to be so.
The Fellowship was breaking, he realized, though a more reasonable man might have said it was already broken. Gandalf had fallen into shadow, never to emerge from Moria again, and without his counsel Aragorn felt with every step as though he might plunge into a similar darkness. Boromir had been given to Anduin, and it was all Aragorn could do to hope that the great river would eventually bear him home to Minas Tirith. Merry and Pippin were taken by the Uruk-hai, surely bound and suffering, and Frodo and Sam were on a journey that Aragorn feared would end in death.
It had been his duty, his responsibility, to protect the hobbits, to lead the Fellowship in Gandalf's absence, and yet it seemed that everything Aragorn had done since the wizard had fallen had gone amiss. One dead and two missing on his watch—what sort of a leader was he?
He wept for more than Boromir now. He wept for Gandalf, the loss of his guidance, for Frodo and Sam, on an impossible journey, for Merry and Pippin, lost to the Uruk-hai, but most of all Aragorn wept for the future of his people, the Fellowship and all he was destined to rule, for he feared that he would only cause them pain and suffering. Any light that might have inspired him during the lament for Boromir seemed to have been extinguished by the forces of evil.
For the better part of an hour Aragorn knelt in the trees, feeling as though he were drowning in his own tears, until Legolas called for him and he stood, drying his face with the hem of his elvin-cloak. The soft fabric was not darkened with the wetness; rather, it held its pale gray weave, and Aragorn pulled it tighter against the morning chill as he walked back to Legolas and Gimli. The dwarf had his axe drawn, and Legolas' bow was held ready at his side.
"Are we to go after the hobbits?" Gimli asked, and his tone made it clear that affirmation was the only acceptable answer. "For I have not yet slain enough orcs to satisfy my blade."
Aragorn nodded. "I will track them. If Saruman has sent the Uruk-hai, it is likely that they have gone to Isengard. Legolas—" here he inclined his head toward the elf—"you will search the land for their army and for any other dangers. Gimli, should we meet the Uruk-hai, I will stand beside you in your endeavor. Let us depart."
So it was that the last of the Fellowship set their course for Isengard, and Aragorn reminded himself of his Elvish name: estel, hope, that thing he must ever cling to and never forsake.
The day was short, and Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli flew over the plains as if borne on the wind, following the trail of the Uruk-hai. It was not a difficult undertaking, for the orcs trampled much of the young grass and stirred up the dirt so that it lay in heaps upon the earth. The sun wheeled toward its zenith, then sank to the western horizon, and even as it dipped below the distant mountains and the mantle of night fell upon the land, the company did not slow their pace.
"Legolas," said Aragorn as they stood upon a high outcropping, the frigid breeze of night whistling in the air. "What do you see?"
"The land becomes stony five leagues from here," Legolas replied. "The trail will be more difficult to see, the scent harder to follow. But this small wind blows to the west, and it tells me the Uruk-hai are not afar off, though they move quickly. We shall see our companions on a nearer day than you fear, Aragorn."
"And yet the breeze whispers to me of change," Aragorn said, and he caught from the air a pale golden leaf, taking it between his fingers. "A great new thing is come in Middle-earth, and what it is I cannot say. I feel…" He shook his head. "Pay me no mind. We must continue."
"What is it you feel?" asked Legolas, his brows subtly arched as he regarded Aragorn, who sighed. "I felt for a moment that we were near to something great, something radiant. As though it had pierced the shadow of Mordor and illuminated our path. But the way is dark, and I fear that we will not find the light we seek."
"If you are quite done talking in riddles," said Gimli, "we ought to continue our journey. The Uruk-hai still flee, and with them go the hobbits."
Aragorn cast his gaze from the horizon. "You see reason as always, Gimli. I pray that such fantasies will take me no more before we reach the Uruk-hai."
And so they sped their journey, and still the wind called to Aragorn. The thought came to him that it blew from the east, the only wind they had left absent from Boromir's lament, and he wondered what tidings it might bring before it changed again.
They ran all that night, and their breath frosted in the chill air as the moon cast her light over the land. The visible trail was lost over the rocks that now covered the landscape, but Aragorn could still scent the Uruk-hai, moving much more quickly than he'd thought possible.
With the second dawn since Boromir's death came no sunrise. Dark, oppressive clouds hung over the plains, their rains stirring the earth up into a clinging sludge that only Legolas seemed unaffected by. The elf trod lightly over the mud, his faintly luminous figure shining against the pall that had shadowed the earth. Aragorn and Gimli were not so fortunate. The filth came halfway up Aragorn's calves, soaking through his boots, and though it was quite a hindrance it was much more so for Gimli. The dwarf sunk past his knees with every step, and it was only after several leagues and repeated insistence from Aragorn that Gimli allowed himself to be carried.
"Think of the poor hobbits," said Gimli from where he rode on Aragorn's back. "This is difficult enough for us; it is surely unbearable for them."
"It is easy enough for a fleet-footed elf," said Legolas, halting and searching the horizon as he waited for his companions, his white-gold locks streaming behind him in the wind. "Why do you come so slowly?"
The elf was beginning to irritate Aragorn. "The mud is deep, Legolas, and I bear our friend upon my back. Would you move any faster were you in my place?" He brushed his soaked hair from his eyes, leaving a streak of earth upon his brow.
"I would," said Legolas, and though the rain beat upon his face he looked as regal as any king. "For I am an elf, a son of the forest realm, and all of nature grants me passage, even the rain-washed earth."
"And I am a dwarf," Gimli countered, "who is in possession of an axe, and who may use it if you continue to boast of your brilliance."
Legolas fell silent, and the company pressed on. The muck only grew deeper, and by midday Aragorn had sunk to his knees, with Gimli's weight heavy upon his shoulders. The wet strands of his hair clung to his face and consistently obscured his vision, some of it flapping about in the wind, and he was covered in earth—which Aragorn often was, but said earth was not often wet.
Seeing Aragorn's weariness, Gimli insisted on walking himself, but as the sludge would have swallowed the dwarf up to his waist, Aragorn declined. He bore Gimli with him until night fell, fully intending to journey until dawn again, but Legolas said, "We must rest."
"The hobbits—" Aragorn began.
"—can wait one night," Legolas finished. "You are weary, Aragorn, and Gimli too. We must rest, or we will be of no help to the Halflings."
And Legolas seeing a great cliff to the north led Aragorn and Gimli toward it, and Aragorn set Gimli down on the stone under an overhang, wincing at the ache in the muscles of his shoulders and back. He realized that he was indeed exhausted—eyes burning, limbs trembling as he lay upon the stone with his elvin-cloak beneath his head. Gimli slipped into sleep almost instantly, and Aragorn watched Legolas stand silhouetted against the rain, his bow ready at his side.
"We will see the Halflings soon," the elf said, and turning to Aragorn he reassured him, "They still live, and they wait for us. They wait for you."
"Thank you, Legolas." Aragorn closed his eyes. "Wake me if there is danger."
"I will. Sleep well, Estel."
The blissful darkness took him as the ghost of a smile graced Aragorn's lips.
PEREGRIN
Pippin's legs shook with exhaustion, and Merry's weight seemed to drag him down, threatening to pull him into the dark, clinging mud with every step. He blinked against the driving rain, which coursed down his face incessantly, unrelenting. It did not seem to hinder the Uruk-hai, nor did the filth, the depth of which was steadily climbing.
Merry was nearly unconscious, stumbling through the mud with his lashes fluttering and his legs threatening to give out. It was all Pippin could do to hold his cousin up, whispering to Merry that he must struggle on, even if he too felt as though all he could do was collapse into the mud and lay there until it swallowed him up.
The east wind howled, and Pippin shivered against its icy breath as it drove the rain, which seemed to him as a volley of arrows, into his face. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulder, taking the shimmering leaf-shaped brooch in his numb fingers.
Then a stroke of revelation came to him and Pippin let himself fall, splashing into the mud as he hurried to unfasten the brooch. If any of the Fellowship were to follow he and Merry, the scent of the Uruk-hai would be lost in the rain. Pippin must give them some sign that the orcs had passed, and though it pained his heart to leave the brooch of Lothlorien behind, there was nothing else he could use. Once he had worked it off the cloak, Pippin tossed the brooch to the grassy knoll to his left, where the mud was not so deep, and prayed that Strider and the others would find it when they passed. He tied the cloak about his shoulders, knotting it tightly for warmth.
A whip-thong bit into his shoulders, and Pippin choked back a cry of pain. He staggered upright, hauling Merry to his feet, and put his arm around his cousin's shoulders as the whip caught Merry across the back. Pippin clenched his jaw as Merry nearly collapsed, struggling to stay standing.
"Don't go to sleep, Merry," Pippin whispered, brushing Merry's soaked hair from his brow. "You mustn't fall—they'll whip us, you know they will."
"I know."
Merry's voice was so faint—barely a murmur, and when Pippin's hand brushed his face he found that the skin was hot to the touch, despite the freezing rain, and his heart sank. The gash on Merry's brow was still oozing blood, and the edges of the wound were red and hot. Pippin was no healer—blood made him feel faint—but it was clear that Merry was not healing as he should.
As he should, Pippin thought bitterly. It is as he should, isn't it, we can't expect anything more from such a horrid journey.
He wiped his free hand on his cloak as best he could, then let his palm fill with rainwater. This he splashed over Merry's wound, trying to clean some of the contamination out. It wouldn't do for the gash to become infected—so far from any healer or physician, the fever would kill Merry as surely as the Uruk-hai.
Pippin kept at this for the better part of the day. Though he wished he could bandage the wound, the Uruk-hai did not stop for anything, and by the time night cast her shadow down, Pippin felt as though he might faint. His head still ached from the blow the orcs had struck him, and when he put his hand to it he felt that there was indeed a swelling there, painful to even his soft touch.
He wondered if the orcs would feed their captives. The hobbits had not been given any food as of yet, and the lack of sustenance was taking its toll on them both. Merry would need food if he were to overcome his rising fever, and Pippin was uncertain of how much farther he could go without a meal.
Suddenly he remembered the lembas in his pocket and silently cursed himself for forgetting about it until now. There were two wafers left, and Merry must have had some too—so long as it did not spoil, the hobbits could have enough food for at least a week, perhaps longer.
Pippin plunged his hand into his pocket, teasing the edge of the leaf wrapped around the waybread. Miraculously, despite the storm and the mud, the small cake felt dry, if crumbling slightly. Pippin broke off a small piece of lembas and placed it on his tongue; it seemed to dissolve as he chewed, but the sweet taste went swiftly to his empty stomach, and suddenly Pippin was invigorated, strengthened. He broke off a second piece and held it to Merry's lips, whispering, "Lembas, Merry, it'll help."
To Pippin's immense relief, Merry took the waybread, and instantly he seemed more alert. He leaned less on Pippin, taking more of his own weight, but Pippin was still anxious. Though the lembas would indeed help, it was in no way medicine, which Merry must have in order to stave off the infection.
The night wore on, and the ache in Pippin's skull worsened into a stabbing pain. His vision blurred at the edges, so that it was difficult to focus on even the flickering torchlight, and the cut across his shoulders burned. Dimly, he wondered how far it was to Orthanc. Two days? Three? Longer? No matter the distance, Pippin did not think Merry would last long enough to make it there.
Suddenly, Merry's legs gave way and he fell with a soft intake of breath, taking Pippin with him. The hobbits splashed into the mud, and Pippin's cheek hit the earth, jarring his already aching head as orc-feet thundered around them. He pulled Merry close to him, struggling to shield himself and his friend from the great filthy creatures that threatened to trample them with each step.
"Up, Halflings!" thundered the orc with the whip. "You're to walk, not be dragged to Saruman."
He kicked them both, first Merry, then Pippin, and though Pippin kept quiet, from Merry's mouth came a low moan of pain. The sound goaded the orc, and he brought the whip down across Merry's back, provoking a cry of pain from the injured hobbit and a fierce utterance from Pippin. "Don't hurt him! I'll—I'll get him up!"
Pippin took Merry under his arms and pulled him to his feet, then thought better of it and hoisted his cousin over his shoulders. Merry was sturdily built and tall, at least by hobbit standards, but Pippin was nearly his height and quite possibly stronger, especially now, with Merry so weak. Pippin straightened his back and stood, glaring at the orc and his whip in defiance. The vile creature would not touch Merry again; this Pippin vowed. They had suffered enough at the hands of the Uruk-hai.
Merry's weight seemed as an anvil before long, but Pippin struggled on, pouring rainwater over Merry's wound whenever he could, clenching his jaw against the sheer pain filling his body, until he too collapsed, legs shaking so badly they could not hold Pippin up any longer. There he lay in the mud, chest heaving with exhaustion, Merry slumped halfway over him.
"Get up," hissed the whip-orc. "Up, you worthless creatures, we must make haste."
His kick landed once again in Pippin's side, and the hobbit curled inward, gazing through bleary eyes at the faint milky smear on the horizon that heralded the coming dawn. Pippin tried to stand, but darkness crept through his vision and he felt faint again. Merry seemed completely unconscious now, unmoving upon Pippin's shoulders.
A growl from the orc, and then Merry's weight was lifted off Pippin as the Uruk-hai laid the hobbit over his shoulder. A second orc hoisted Pippin up in like manner, and he would have been relieved to be carried but for the ghastly stench of the creature, which Merry in his unconscious state was fortunate not to smell. At the very least the hobbits were out of the mud—less contamination in Merry's wound, Pippin hoped. Once they reached Orthanc, he would have to attempt to clean the injury no matter how much it disgusted him.
The orc's shoulder dug into Pippin's middle, and the rain beat down upon his back, but he found the means to sleep for a little while, and he dreamed of a cavalry of brave warriors with golden swords, with Strider at the head upon a great white horse.
He woke to a pale sky and lighter rain, a roaring sound echoing in the misty air. Pippin kept still but lifted his gaze, trying to glean some sense of his surroundings. The roaring was that of a mighty river, perhaps a branch of the Anduin, and a fierce wind stung Pippin's face as the orc carrying him forged ahead into the water.
The river was white and churning with foam, and cold droplets splashed upward into Pippin's eyes. As the orc waded deeper, Pippin shrank away from the water, wary of how close it was. Ahead of him, Merry was not yet conscious, and the ends of his hair brushed the surface of the water. The orc carrying him was barely a hundred yards into the river, and the foam was up to its chest—how did it plan to keep Merry's head above water? Had it even considered the fact that it would need to?
Clearly not, because the orc simply continued walking forward. As Merry's head went under, he gasped and jerked upward, spluttering, nearly falling off the shoulder of the Uruk-hai. It reassured Pippin that Merry at least had enough strength to struggle; perhaps he was not in such danger as Pippin had thought.
Pippin's own head drew near to the surface; despite the lingering soreness in his body, he scrambled up, crouching on his orc's shoulder before he could inhale water. The creature turned and bared his teeth in a fearsome grin. "Best hold on, Halfling. We wouldn't want you washed away."
Pippin privately thought that the orcs would not, in fact, mind if such a thing happened, but Saruman most likely would. The Uruk-hai would not suffer the hobbits to be killed, even in a river—provided the river itself did not have it out for them. The churning froth only seemed to be getting higher, and Pippin felt a sense of weightlessness as his orc began to swim through the rapids. Despite its filthy, slimy skin, he clung to it tightly, afraid to fall.
The Uruk-hai were sturdily built, enough to fight the river without succumbing to the current. The orc carrying Pippin paddled across the river, and though Pippin's feet and hands became wet, he was never in danger of being submerged. After they emerged, the Uruk-hai took Pippin by the hood of his cloak and cast him down. He landed in a heap at the orc's feet, gasping at the sudden twinges of pain that lit across his small body.
"If you're awake, you'll walk," snarled the orc, and Pippin scrambled up before he could be kicked. His head still ached, and the various cuts and bruises he had received pained him, but Pippin forced his legs to move. He could walk, so he must obey the Uruk-hai—he would not risk being punished and made unable to help Merry.
Miraculously, the ground was less damp on this side of the river, so Pippin did not sink into it with every step. He placed another piece of lembas on his tongue and wished he could get some to Merry, who once again lay limp upon the shoulder of his orc.
It was during this day that Pippin began to wonder what would happen to him at Orthanc. Doubtless he would be questioned for the whereabouts of the Ring, but would Saruman leave Merry out of it? He was much too ill to walk, let alone answer any questions, and he would not hold up under interrogation. Pippin was not sure how well he would fare, either.
Would he be able to answer Saruman's questions? If they didn't incriminate Frodo and Sam, Pippin might be able to give truthful answers, but he worried what Saruman might ask. He didn't know where the Ring was, nor Frodo, but Saruman would surely ask if Pippin knew the Ring-bearer. Could he possibly fool a wizard? Pippin doubted it.
The rain still fell, lightly but steadily, and Pippin was continually brushing his dripping dark locks out of his field of vision. Despite the dampness, however, Pippin felt better than he had thus far—the lembas had invigorated him, and when he touched the back of his head he found that the swelling had diminished significantly. Sleep and sustenance could evidently do wonders—but Pippin knew that, being a hobbit.
As the day wore on, the rain lessened until finally it was a fine mist leaving small droplets upon the folds of Pippin's elvin-cloak. These seemed to simply roll off, leaving the fabric as dry as ever. Upon this realization, he pulled his hood up to block the rain and forged ahead, squinting across the mist-wreathed land. The mountains were a faint smudge on the western horizon, and an ethereal haze of trees blurred the land to the south.
"Half a day," muttered one of the Uruk-hai—Gornak. "Isengard draws near."
By tonight, they would be in Orthanc. Pippin struggled to process the fact, trying not to worry about what might happen there. All would be well as long as he said nothing of Frodo to Saruman. All he must do was keep silent—although silence, much like wisdom, had never been one of Pippin's strengths. Still, Pippin was nothing if not stubborn. He would not tell Saruman anything about Frodo or the Ring, no matter how the wizard hurt him.
Night came more swiftly than Pippin would have liked. Merry awakened shortly before sunset, and the Uruk-hai shoved him back toward Pippin to walk. Pippin wrapped his arm tightly around his cousin, whispering, "How are you feeling? Are you hurting?"
"I'm alright, Pip," Merry said, but his voice was still too weak for Pippin's liking. "Are you…are you well? Have they hurt you?"
Pippin shook his head. "I'm much better, if I'm to be honest with you. Though that may change when we reach Orthanc—which will be soon, I'm sure. Gornak said earlier that it was only half a day's journey away. Saruman will ask us about the Ring, Merry. I fear—"
"Pip," Merry murmured, his eyelids fluttering half-closed. "Don't…don't be afraid."
He did not speak for the rest of the journey, but Pippin knew Merry didn't need to. He had said all he needed to say.
The clouds parted as the moon climbed to its zenith, a shining disk against the velvet blackness of the sky. Starkly illuminated against its light was a black tower, and from its top flew a dark flag emblazoned with a white hand—the seal of Saruman the White, greatest and most terrible of wizards.
The Uruk-hai commander stopped in front of the door, which was wrought of dark wood, and knocked three times upon it with his fist, roaring "Saruman!" A panel in the door slid aside, and a man with dark hair and sallow skin spoke to the orc. "Welcome, Ugluk. Any news of the Ring-bearer?"
"We have brought for Saruman two Halflings, Wormtongue," Ugluk told the man. "What are we to do with them?"
"I will bring them for questioning," Wormtongue said. "Saruman thanks you for your service, Ugluk. You may return to your quarters until he sees fit to call upon you again."
Then Ugluk with his great dark hand thrust Merry and Pippin forward, and the black door opened as they stumbled into the tower's antechamber. Wormtongue closed the door and bent down, his gaze searching Merry and Pippin's faces. Pippin looked at him defiantly, but Merry was still only half-conscious.
"So these are Halflings," Wormtongue drawled, and he took Pippin's chin in his rough, calloused hand, grasping it with a force like cold iron. "One of these pitiful creatures, chosen to bear the One Ring? It seems a great oversight of Gandalf the Gray's."
Pippin glowered at him, not trusting himself not to say something incriminating. Wormtongue studied his face for a moment more, then released Pippin and ordered, "Remove your clothing. I must search you for the Ring."
"Merry must go first," Pippin insisted. "He is ill with a fever, and he cannot go without the warmth of his raiment for long."
He helped Merry sit upon a chair against the wall, and carefully he unclasped the brooch of Merry's elvin-cloak, letting it fall. Pippin pulled off the shirt next, then the trousers, and finally Merry's undergarments, looking away to spare his cousin's dignity. Pippin was sure he had seen Merry like this often enough when they were children, but it seemed so wrong now.
They waited while Wormtongue searched Merry's raiment, then tossed it back to them. "You next, runt."
Pippin was affronted. "You know naught about hobbits, Wormtongue," he said. "Where I come from, I am considered uncommonly large and strong. And I will clothe Merry before I obey any of your orders."
He tugged Merry's clothing back on, being as gentle as possible, for he could see two vicious cuts upon his friend's back and bruising on his side. By the time Pippin fastened Merry's brooch again, the injured hobbit was nearly unconscious again, and Pippin barely had time to wrap the cloak around Merry before Wormtongue's hand clouted the side of his head. "Move, Halfling!"
Pippin grimaced at the sting of the blow but shed his raiment, feeling chilled and exposed as Wormtongue searched the garments. Upon finding nothing, he shoved them back at Pippin, who hastily redressed. The moment he finished, Wormtongue seized both hobbits by their hoods and dragged them toward the staircase at the back of the chamber. Merry nearly collapsed, and Pippin thrust an arm across his cousin's chest, offering what little support he could.
They climbed two flights of stairs, an arduous feat, and passed several small rooms with barred doors. Within them Pippin caught glimpses of prisoners, shivering bodies huddled under coarse gray blankets. They looked out at him with hollow, milky gazes, as if they had become blind with sorrow. Pippin wondered how long they had been here—days? Months? For their sakes, he hoped it had not been longer, though it was unlikely given that it had not been long since the start of the War of the Ring and Pippin could not think of another cause that Saruman would have to take prisoners.
They stopped outside of an empty cell, and Wormtongue released Pippin for a moment to take a ring of keys from the depths of his cloak. For a split second the possibility of running flashed through Pippin's mind, but Wormtongue still held Merry and Pippin would not leave without him.
Wormtongue unlocked the door, and swinging it wide he thrust Merry into the cell. Pippin he kept hold of, and he locked the door again before marching the hobbit down the hall. Pippin struggled, trying to pull out of Wormtongue's grasp. "Where are we going? I mustn't leave Merry!"
"Seeing as you are the only lucid one," hissed Wormtongue, pulling Pippin with him up a spiraling staircase, "it is you that will be questioned. I warn you, Halfling, do not lie to Saruman. This will be easier if you cooperate."
"I'll lie to Saruman all I want," Pippin spat.
Wormtongue bared his teeth in a snarl. "Then you will die tonight, you worthless Halfling."
They reached a great set of doors, silver and black and proclaiming their allegiance with an etching of a white hand, and Wormtongue knocked on one, then stood expectantly upon the threshold as the doors swung open of their own will. He pulled Pippin forward, and the hobbit laid his eyes on the far side of the chamber, on the wizard on the grand throne.
Saruman the White looked at first glance akin to Gandalf the Gray, and yet he was at once purer and more terrible, and his eyes were filled with a dark flame that was not the Secret Fire. The wizard's robes were the white of fallen snow, but when he moved they seemed to shimmer with all the colors Pippin had ever known. He seemed such a pure and wondrous being, but Pippin knew by his eyes that he was a servant of Sauron.
"Ah, young Halfling," Saruman said, rising from his throne. "You are even smaller than I imagined. What do they call you?"
"I am Peregrin Took, son of Paladin of the Shire," Pippin told him, holding his chin high. "I will warn you now that I am quite stubborn."
The wizard's lips tightened, becoming a small white line upon his pale face. "I see you want this questioning to turn in your favor. I'm afraid that stubbornness is not enough to save you, Peregrin Took. What will save you is the information I desire."
"And if I don't have it?"
Saruman leveled his staff, pointing it at Pippin's chest. "Then I shall no longer have a need for you—except perhaps as a hostage."
His mouth curled into a satirical leer. "Now, Peregrin, where shall we begin?"