The Night Is Overcome

by Tadashinfj

[PippinxDiamond][LegolasxGimli][BoromirxOFC] In which the Fellowship has a much bigger quest to worry about. The group has broken up after the events of FotR, but one prison break, one magic ritual, and one prophecy later, our crew is off to destroy the Ring of Melkor and break the siege of Minas Tirith. The problem is, they're not exactly what the city was hoping for.

3. The Song of the Stars

hello friends! sorry this chapter took so long to get up! I hope to update more quickly in the future!

hopefully there's not too much info dumping in this chapter! and don't worry I know it seems like I'm leaving the whole "three hunters break into orthanc" plan out but I'm gonna backtrack at the beginning of the next chapter!

pls you guys let me know how I'm doing! I'd love to hear from you :)

thanks y'all for reading!

peace out!

PEREGRIN

Diamond fell into sleep when the moon reached its zenith, and Pippin was lonely as he sat in the silver light. Standing up he went to the window, gripping the sill and peering out into the darkness. He could see mountains on every side, and above them the stars gleamed and were reflected in the tarns below. The night wind whispered against Pippin's face and the chill stung his skin, but he preferred it to the dank musty cell. He had never loved small enclosed places where the air was stale and he could not run freely; this was perhaps the worst of all.

"Strider," Pippin whispered, the great round globe of the moon shining in his searching eyes. "Where are you? Do you come for us?"

This quest was not progressing as Pippin had hoped it would. He had longed for a bit of adventure, a journey outside the beloved but sheltered world of the Shire. Now he was here in a barred room with Merry unconscious and injured and no way of knowing whether anyone would come for them.

He wished Boromir were here; he had always sympathized with the hobbits, always listened when they were worried or hungry or grieving. Of all the Fellowship, excepting Merry of course, he had been the greatest friend to Pippin, and had not deserved such a horrible end. Pippin wondered if, when they were liberated from Orthanc, he and Merry might pay a tribute to Boromir.

Standing in the cell, the cold stone of the sill digging into his chest, Pippin thought it might have been the lowest point of his life. He had never enjoyed structure, had always wanted to keep himself open to new paths and sensations, but now it was all so uncertain that Pippin felt as though he had stepped blindly off a great cliff and plummeted into darkness.

"Pippin?"

He turned, tearing his gaze from the cobalt darkness. Merry was stirring; trying to sit up. Pippin rushed to him, wincing at the flash of pain in his side but shoving aside the hurt as he knelt beside his cousin. "How are you, Merry? Are you hurting?"

"I'm alright," Merry said as Pippin carefully pulled him into his lap. "What happened, Pip?"

"What do you remember?"

"We were in a room…Saruman…" Merry closed his eyes again, his face contorted in pain. "He…did he hurt you, Pip? You look terrible."

"Surely I don't look so bad," Pippin laughed, ignoring the twinges of pain. "I don't look like you do, Merry; I would consider that an accomplishment. Now, I cleaned your wound as best I could, but we have no medicine of any sort, so you ought to be careful about touching it."

"Look at you playing Strider," Merry said, and his voice was stronger now, though he shivered. "Speaking of, do you think he'll arrive soon? It seems he has already taken considerable time getting here, or else he doesn't know where we are. At any rate I hope he gets here quickly."

"He will," Pippin promised, lifting Merry's bandage and laying a hand on his cousin's forehead. It still felt as though flames burned beneath the skin, and Merry gasped as Pippin's fingertip brushed the jagged edge of his wound. Pippin murmured an apology and smoothed the cloth back down, careful not to provoke any more hurt. Privately he worried for Merry's condition; he was at least awake, but his fever felt higher than ever, and every few moments a shiver would run through Merry's body.

"Pip?" asked Merry, his voice slurred now, as if he were on the verge of sleep. "Pip, will you…will you promise me something?"

"Anything, Merry," Pippin replied, looking down on his cousin's battered face as Merry mustered a weak smile, whispering, "If…if ever I should not wake from sleep, Pip…and you go on to fight this war without me…don't let go of your purpose. Whatever may come…Middle-earth will still have need of you."

"Merry, no," Pippin said desperately. "Strider will come, and he can heal you, I know he can. And I'm quite certain no one has need of me—when has Middle-earth ever wanted a Took to save it? It needs Frodo, the Ring-bearer, and Strider, the king, but it has never needed me. Gandalf made that quite clear, and if not for my foolish actions he would still be here to guide us. This whole mess is my fault, Merry. If I weren't such a hindrance we wouldn't be here."

Hot tears had started in his eyes; he struggled to blink them back, but one fell and landed on Merry's cheek. Even so, Merry smiled, and he took Pippin's hand in both of his, his voice weak, "You may not think…all of Middle-earth needs you, Pip…but even if it doesn't…someone in it will. Do you…can you promise?"

"I can," said Pippin fiercely through his tears. "I swear to you, Merry, if I must fight without you by my side, I will never forget your words, and I will struggle to the bitter end for you if it costs me my life. This I promise, and may my oath stand until the end of days."

"'Yes' would have…been sufficient." Merry's eyes had closed, but he still smiled. "Thank you, Pip. I think I will try to sleep."

But he continued to shiver, and so Pippin took off his own elvin-cloak and laid it over him and Merry both, and he lay down beside his cousin, hoping to share with Merry his warmth. The night was cold, but Pippin took comfort in sleeping beside Merry as they had so often done as children. Hobbits often slept together in a heap, especially if they were related, sharing their body heat and giving comfort. The four of them in the Fellowship had done it as often as possible, and near the end of the journey Boromir had sometimes even joined them.

Those had been good times, Pippin thought sleepily. It was a strange thing, this War of the Ring; for while it brought hardship and sorrow it had also given Pippin new friends and led him on a wondrous journey. What more would it bring him before it was over?

He sank into dreams, and these were for once peaceful; Pippin dreamed of the life they would all have when the war was over, where the sun shone on the greening hills of the Shire, and he and Merry and Sam and Frodo were together again, and Strider ruled the land in peace and all was right in the world.

---

Sunlight came through the slit in the stone and fell over Pippin's face, and he shrank from it, curling under the cloak. He felt sore and stiff from sleeping on the stone floor, and Merry's temperature was so high that it seemed to be warming Pippin more than the cloak. He edged out from under the soft gray fabric and carefully tucked the corners under Merry's sleeping form, a pang of anxiety striking through his heart.

Pippin drank from the bowl of water, slaking his thirst, then brought it to Merry's side. Dipping a corner of the blanket into the water he pulled the bandage off Merry's forehead—and Pippin retched, his stomach lurching at the sight of the wound. The gash was swollen, grotesquely so; it was a horrible shade of scarlet and oozing a thick yellowish substance. Pippin would have vomited, but nothing came up; he had not eaten anything save the lembas in the last four days.

Though he felt as though he might be violently ill every time he looked at the wound, Pippin started to clean it, washing away the blood and the rank-smelling substance. He wondered bleakly if even Strider's athelas could heal such a wound; he had never seen one like this. What if Merry simply never regained consciousness? Despite his oath, Pippin was unsure if he would be able to go on without his cousin.

Merry's breathing was swift, too much for comfort, and when Pippin placed a hand on his cousin's chest he found that Merry's heart too pulsed far too quickly. Though he seemed buried under the mound of fabric he still shook violently, and his face was dry, with no sign of the fever breaking.

By the time the wound was as clean as Pippin could manage, he felt lightheaded, dazed; he stood and staggered to the window, falling against the stone and clenching his jaw as his ribs twinged. He closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could, filling his lungs with the chill dawn air. It helped somewhat, enough for Pippin to place a small piece of lembas in his mouth and swallow it. He would need to get Merry to eat some of the waybread and drink a little water; he would never recover without sustenance, but Pippin worried that Merry would not be able to keep anything down.

When he had gathered his thoughts Pippin turned back to Merry, taking the bowl and lifting it to his cousin's mouth, saying, "Come, Merry, you must have some water." But Merry was unconscious, his jaw slack and his eyes closed. When Pippin tipped water into his mouth, he would not swallow, only gasp for air, and so Pippin hastily tilted Merry's head to the side so the water trickled out.

Now Pippin began to panic. When had Merry last had anything to drink? He would not live long without water, that was certain; food was less of a concern. But how to get Merry to drink when he was unconscious and unlikely to wake unless he received better treatment?

Strider would know. But what use was Strider, when he was not here and had no way of getting help to Pippin? Perhaps Diamond knew something of medicine; Pippin could ask her.

Merry gasped in a horrible rattling breath and Pippin tried desperately to tip a little water into his protesting mouth, for it sounded as though thorns scraped against his throat. Merry still did not swallow, coughing out the water and splashing it onto Pippin's hands.

Pippin tried to think of what to do, his head spinning with blind panic. Perhaps he could shake the bars of the cell, shouting for Wormtongue or Saruman? No; even if they came, they would certainly do nothing for Merry—they only needed him as a hostage for Gandalf, who they did not know had passed, and Pippin would be sufficient for that purpose even if Merry died. An injured hobbit was of no concern to them.

Saruman would not be sympathetic, Diamond was still asleep, and Strider was absent. Was there no one who could help him?

Suddenly, Pippin remembered a night on their journey, the first one after Gandalf's passing, when they had stopped upon a cliff where the wind blew fiercely and he could not sleep—an extremely rare occurrence for a hobbit. He had lain awake, curled up with his head resting on Boromir's shoulder, and watched Strider walk to a clear spot of ground and kneel upon it in the moonlight…

Strider whispered words in what Pippin now knew as Elvish, looking as if he pled with the heavens. His shoulders trembled, and Pippin realized with a start that he was weeping, pouring out his soul to the sky—he had not known that Strider, such a wise and brave-hearted man, could weep. Yet here he was, his voice breaking over the unfamiliar tongue, splintering the inflections. He went on like this for a long time, crying softly to the stars.

When Strider had come to a lull in his speech, Pippin crept across the stone, his footsteps soft and padding, and sat beside him. "What are you doing, Strider?"

Strider looked down on him with kindness and sorrow, saying, "I am asking for help, Peregrin."

"But who can you be asking it of? For I have never been told of beings in the sky, and if they are there I do not see them."

"Do hobbits not know of the Valar?" Strider asked, a note of surprise in his voice. "Of the Ainulindalë, the Enemy, the One?"

Pippin shook his head, and Strider put an arm around the hobbit, drawing him closer. "Then I must teach you, Pippin." He looked up at the stars, and one streaked across the sky, leaving a trail of fire, as he began to speak.

"Long ago, at the dawn of time, the great beginning of all we know, there was the One. He was called Eru, and in the Elvish tongue they named him Ilúvatar. From him came the Ainur, the order of the Valar, and they are the great beings that shaped the world with their song, which is the Ainulindalë. From the void by the song came Arda, the world, and Middle-earth is but a great island in the seas of it. Manwë king of the Valar rules Arda, but even he takes counsel from Ilúvatar. All the Valar do, save one.

"Once a Valar, Melkor Lord of Fire fell from grace. He is the greatest Enemy of Middle-earth, and it is he that the Dark Lord Sauron serves. While we strive to end Sauron's reign, our quest is at its heart an attempt to drive back the influence of Melkor."

Strider with a long sigh said softly, "And I fear that, without Gandalf, we will not succeed. For he is a Maia, and also of the order of the Ainur. He was our guide and our protector from Melkor, and without him I fear that our quest shall fail. That is why I seek help, Pippin—I do not trust myself to lead the Fellowship to Mordor. I seek the blessing of Ilúvatar."

"How will you know if he has given it to you?" Pippin asked.

"I may not," said Strider. "And I find it a great effort to place my trust in anyone blindly, even the One. But I must do so now, for it is only by his blessing that we will reach Mordor. Darkness shrouds our path, and I cannot see the way through it. Gandalf always could, but he has gone, and I can only hope that the grace of Ilúvatar will go with us."

"Then I will hope with you," Pippin said, and as he and Strider sat upon the great cliff under the silver rain of stars, he wondered if Ilúvatar looked down on them and all the peoples of Middle-earth, and whether the One wept for the shadow that had fallen.

Pippin looked now to the roof of stone, wishing it were open to the sky, and whispered, "Ilúvatar?"

His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed, trying again. "I…I know I have never asked anything of you. I don't know if you listen to hobbits, or if you even know of me. But I am in need of your blessing, as is my cousin Merry, for he lies ill with a fever that I fear he will never escape. Strider has not come, and I do not know the ways of healing; all I ask of you is some way to save poor Merry from this awful fate. He does not deserve such an end, and I could not bear it if I lost him."

He bowed his head, the tip of his nose nearly brushing Merry's brow, and choked out, "Please."

"Is he worse today?" asked a voice, a hint of worry buried under the guarded tone, and Pippin glanced up. Diamond's eye peered through the fissure in the stone, blinking as Pippin looked upon it and said, "He is. He won't take any water, and his heart beats too swiftly. I—I fear he is about to leave this world, before Strider can arrive to save him."

"I do not know much of healing," said Diamond, "but I can help you. Give him some water, but not so much that he will choke on it. Rub his throat, and he will swallow."

Pippin did so, tipping a small measure of water into Merry's mouth and putting a gentle pressure on his throat until, miraculously, he swallowed. Emboldened by his success, Pippin continued the process until the bowl had nearly run out.

He looked on the crack in the stone with gratitude welling up inside him. "I can never thank you enough, Diamond."

It was the first time he had said her name, and even as it left his mouth it felt too long, too formal, for the maiden hobbit, even if she did bear the title of princess. She evidently thought the same, for her eye blinked and she said, "Dia. I…my name is too long. Diamond Firebringer Dellshore; far too majestic of a name for a hobbit of my character. The only piece that truly fits me is my alkaressa, as it was given to me after I had been given an opportunity to display my character, unlike my given name, which is far too delicate."

"Do your people call you Firebringer?" Pippin asked, and he lay Merry's head carefully on the folded scarf, then went to sit beside the fissure.

"They do. When we come of age or prove ourselves in battle, each of us is given a name, an alkaressa, that reflects our prowess and character. I was given mine at twenty-five, when I set fire to an enemy camp. The queen was pleased."

"You have seen battle?" Pippin asked. "Is the War of the Ring so near?"

"Long Cleeve has always been a land of warfare, since the beginning of the Dellshore line," she said. "Is the Shire not the same? Are you not ruled by a queen, and go into battle at the slightest wave of her hand?"

"I have never seen battle," Pippin admitted. "The Shire is a peaceful land, one where we eat six meals a day, have large parties for no apparent reason, and give each other presents at every opportunity. It seems that it could not be further from your home. I suppose I thought all other hobbit-lands were the same; evidently I was wrong."

Diamond gave a short laugh, one of derision. "You ought not to guess at the lives of hobbits you have never seen, Shire-child. Are you not a Took? Perhaps not, for I know the North-Tooks of Long Cleeve, and they are the most vicious of all the hobbits I have encountered. You seem very much unlike them, for they would die before they shed a single tear."

"I am a Took," Pippin insisted, miffed. "Descended from Bullroarer, in fact, and allow me to say that you have guessed at my life just as much as I have at yours. We have no one to fight in the Shire, and we are not so much ruled as watched over by the Thain, who is my father, and the Mayor. Ours is a quiet life, a safe life, and all of us quite like it that way, thank you very much."

"You don't," Diamond said bluntly. "Why else would you be here in Isengard? You left the Shire for this quest, and though you long for simple comforts you have a fire in your eyes that I have not seen save in my own people. Can you possibly be both, and yet neither at the same time? A Shire-child, a prince even, and still a Took?"

"I suppose so," Pippin sighed. "I've never been quite one or the other, and I have wondered for some time which I am supposed to be. One foot in the Shire, and the other out the door, and my spirit on the horizon in some strange new land, that is how it has been all my life. But now that I am here I don't know what to do."

Merry gave a weak, rasping cough, nearly a death rattle, and Pippin rushed to him, moving too quickly and sending a twinge through his side. Pushing it aside he knelt by his cousin, laying the back of his hand on Merry's brow. The flames of fever burned hotter than ever, and Merry's lashes fluttered rapidly, his breathing matching them in pace. His heartbeat was weak, erratic, and Pippin's own heart seemed as if it had plunged into icy water.

"He's getting worse," he said desperately, tears pricking at his eyes again. "And there is nothing I can do; I have tried and I have nothing. What will I do if Merry is to die? How can I ever laugh or be cheerful again?"

"You mustn't lose hope," Diamond said fiercely, all trace of derision gone from her voice. "You won't give up on him if I have to shout it in your face. Strider will come for you, you'll see, and we'll leave Orthanc and go back to Long Cleeve. Merry can get well there, and we all will be safe. Don't you leave your promise behind, nor your cheer, for it is the only mildly entertaining thing in this prison and I shouldn't like it if you collapsed into a heap of sorrow like every other sorry captive here. Do you hear me, Peregrin Took? You will not give up on him!"

She was shouting now, and Pippin was taken aback by her ferocity. Trembling, he lifted his gaze to the fissure and saw Diamond's narrowed gaze, heard her swift and angry breath.

"Thank you, Dia," he said, and a flicker of hope burst to life in his chest as he let the hint of a smile curve his lips. "I see why they call you the Firebringer."

ARAGORN

The light was blinding, and he was cold. So very cold, in fact, that he feared that he was dead. But no, Valinor would not be cold, or, at least, he hoped it wouldn't. Also, pain would not exist in Valinor. Not pain like this—this bleeding hot burning feeling in his side and his cheek. Surely the Undying Lands would not have that. So he must be alive, which he was not sure was an improvement.

Aragorn opened his eyes.

The sun had risen some time ago; having cleared the mountains she now hung directly overhead, casting white light over the barren landscape. Leaves rustled against a cloudless robin's-egg sky, and the Entwash trickled, wide and flat, over a bed of pebbles. Aragorn lay just at the edge of this, sprawled on the brittle grass of the riverbank. The elvin-rope was still bound about his waist, the frayed end trailing in the water, and it chafed against the laceration on his side.

He meant to untie the knot, but as he sat up to do so he doubled over, coughing water out of his lungs. Aragorn clutched at his chest, which felt as though a knife had sunk into it, sitting hunched over the water until the coughing subsided. He swiped a hand over his mouth, then tugged at the knot with chilled fingers; it took several minutes, but the rope slipped loose. Aragorn wound it into a coil, and finding his pack still on his shoulders he placed it inside, then turned his attention to his wounds.

The cut on his side burned; it was a deeper wound than he had thought, and blood dampened his raiment. Aragorn cupped icy water in his hand and bathed the gash, grimacing at the sting. Taking the pouch at his belt he reached inside and pulled out a handful of athelas leaves. These he chewed into a paste and smeared on the wound; the pain began to subside as Aragorn gave the same treatment to the cut on his cheek, which thankfully was not so deep as the one on his side. The athelas leached the pain from it quickly, and Aragorn stood, trembling with dizziness and cold, then looked around.

Great trees loomed against the sky, and though winter was just beginning to loosen its hold on the earth their branches were thick with leaves. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the earth in shades of tawny gold. A soft breeze rustled through the clearing, stirring up the fallen leaves upon the earth, and Aragorn shivered, deciding that he must soon make a fire or he might well freeze to death.

He gathered the driest sticks he could find—many were still damp from the recent rains—and brittle leaves from the forest floor. These he arranged into a small pyramid, with the leaves at the center and a cage of branches surrounding them. Bark shavings would have made better tinder, but there were no birch trees to be found, nor any other with the correct type of bark. Leaves would have to do.

Aragorn took from his pack his firesteel, and he struck the flint against the metal. A burst of light leapt from it, and he struck it again and again until the leaves caught and smoked, small warm embers glowing against the pale veins. Aragorn blew gently on the tiny flame, and it grew, blackening the edges of the wood. He knelt with his back to the wind, shielding the fire from that which would blow it out, and stretched his hands out to the warmth.

As tendrils of feeling crept back into his fingers Aragorn wondered who it was that had grasped the end of the rope and pulled him to safety; for without them he would have surely perished in the torrent of darkness. He felt certain that it had been a living soul, rather than a rock or a fallen branch, for no rock or branch could have pulled him from the water. Whoever had done so must surely be nearby, but Aragorn could see or hear no one. Perhaps they had fled, not wishing to be known.

When his hands were no longer numb but tingling with warmth, Aragorn took his knife from his belt and cut a swathe of fabric from his tunic, binding it about the cut on his side. It and the athelas would speed the healing process; he could not let anything slow his journey to Isengard.

Aragorn then warmed his feet by the fire, and when all his raiment was dry he brushed dirt over the flames, smothering them. He stood, placing another leaf of athelas in his mouth to stave off the hunger clawing at his insides. Aragorn knew he could have hunted—though many of his arrows were lost in the river he still had his knife and twine for snares—but he had already spent precious time tending to his wounds. Merry and Pippin were quite likely in danger, and had been for the last four days.

He set off through the woods, breathing more deeply as the athelas began to soothe the pain of the gash in his side. Aragorn had been quite fortunate not to have drowned or been worse hurt in the river; he silently thanked Ilúvatar for his safety and continued on his way, deciding to put the matter of who had saved him out of his mind. They were gone anyway, and surely could not be called back.

The wind sang in the trees, leaves caught in its grasp twirling about Aragorn's shoulders. He pulled his cloak tighter against the chill as he walked deeper into the woods, wary of running for fear of causing his wound to bleed more. He would be no help to the hobbits if he could barely move; better to come slowly to Isengard than not at all.

After an hour Aragorn halted suddenly; he stood still and listened, his keen ears picking up the sound of faint, hurried footsteps. He turned, drawing his sword, though he thought he knew by the uneven tread of the footfalls who they belonged to.

A tall slender figure burst out of the trees, pale hair whipping about his face, and skidded, crying, "Estel!"

Legolas leapt forward and clasped his arms around Aragorn's shoulders, his hold almost desperate. Startled, Aragorn froze for a moment, then sheathed his sword and returned the embrace as Gimli stepped out of the brush with a stoic nod of greeting. "Good to see you're alive. The elf was going on about grim tidings, death's door, that sort of cheerful thing. I knew you'd be alright, and I told him so. It seems I was right as usual."

"You mustn't do that again!" Legolas snapped, stepping back and regarding Aragorn with annoyance. "I thought you had more sense, Estel! Mithrandir was furious, and Gimli and I have run for much of the morning to find you. The wind spoke to me of danger and turmoil, and it is nothing short of a miracle that we arrived before you were killed trying to storm Isengard alone!"

"I truly am sorry, my friend," Aragorn said. "I did not want to force you to come to Isengard when you were needed in Edoras. I thought that perhaps, if only I strayed from Gandalf's vision, all might be well. Alas! Now the White Rider shall have to go on alone. I pray that he will provide what help I could not—or would not, at least not with a clear conscience. But how did you come? Surely Gandalf did not simply allow you to take your leave of him."

"He retreated for some time to consult the future, as he calls it," replied Legolas. "While he did Gimli and I slipped away, for we could not leave you to face Saruman alone. Look at the wound on your face; clearly you cannot even be trusted to roam unknown lands without us."

It struck Aragorn how much younger he was than Legolas. The elf spoke like a parent or perhaps an elder brother; surely he must have been exceedingly anxious at Aragorn's leaving. Aragorn decided not to bring up the fact that he had been a Ranger for many years; it only seemed likely to provoke an argument.

"I am glad to have you, Legolas," Aragorn told the elf. "And you, Gimli. Shall we be off, then?"

"The blade of my axe has thirsted many days for the blood of the Uruk-hai," said Gimli gruffly. "It should not have got it in Edoras. Lead on, Aragorn, and may we cleave the heads of many an orc!"

"I suppose you have a plan for the siege?" Legolas asked as they set off through the woods.

Aragorn smiled. "Nay, I do not. But I daresay I shall think of something."

And so the three hunters set off across the plains of Rohan, and what awaited them in Isengard they knew not, but a worthy cause and a few sharp implements seemed enough to face it.

Surely nothing could possibly go wrong.

PEREGRIN

Night had fallen, and Pippin sat forlornly beside the fissure in the stone, Merry's head in his lap as his cousin shook with fever. All Pippin could do was to stroke Merry's sweat-dampened hair and clutch his hand, waiting for the end.

Perhaps Strider was not coming—or if he was, he would not arrive in time. Merry had little time left, and though Pippin had cleaned the gash and even forced Merry to swallow a bit of lembas, his cousin's condition had only worsened. Merry would be dead by morning; this Pippin knew with an awful piercing certainty.

"Isn't there anything you can do to lift your spirits?" Diamond asked, and her voice was firm but touched with kindness. Pippin shook his head, whispering, "I can think of nothing that would give me hope—nothing except the coming of Strider. I refuse to believe that he has abandoned us, but at any rate he will not arrive before…before Merry…"

He lifted a hand and pushed his hair back from his forehead, then dragged his palm down his face, wiping away the ever-present tears. "If I could go back, Dia, and do this all over again, I don't think I would have gone with Frodo. Our journey seems doomed to end in tragedy—Merry and I captured, Boromir dead, and poor Merry so close to joining him…" Pippin squeezed his eyes shut. "I…Dia, I'm afraid."

She was silent for a moment, and then her voice drifted from the fissure. "Who was Boromir?"

Pippin blinked; a single dewy tear quivered on his lashes and fell onto Merry's dirt-stained cheek. He wondered how to describe Boromir, the man that had at first seemed so stern and imposing but had been unflinchingly kind to Pippin. Boromir had carried Merry and Pippin through the snow on Caradhras, taught them to sword-fight, defended them when the Uruk-hai attacked. He had let Pippin curl up with him when the nights were cold, comforted him after Gandalf had fallen into Moria. He had been the strong and steady tower in the turbulent storm of the quest, the one that Pippin had never known he needed.

"Boromir was a great man," Pippin said quietly. "The son of the Steward of Gondor and the heir to that office. He was killed protecting Merry and I from the Uruk-hai, and he died one of the greatest friends I have ever known."

He lifted his eyes to the stars, wondering if perhaps Boromir watched him now, and whispered, "He was my brother."

"That feels strange to me," said Diamond. "A man, the brother of a hobbit? In Long Cleeve, we fight the men who would take our homeland for themselves. We burn their camps, steal their weapons, do all we can to ensure that men do not destroy us. It seems unthinkable that there could ever be peace between hobbits and men, let alone brotherhood. Much less so, love."

"Perhaps it is strange," Pippin replied. "But love is a strange thing, is it not? And yet it is beautiful, and it carries us through the dark, and we emerge stronger for it. That is how I know Strider will come for us, Dia, and it is why I fear so much for Merry, and why I remember Boromir as my brother—because there are some things that cannot be broken."

"You are a strange thing yourself, Peregrin Took," Diamond remarked. "The North-Tooks would not speak in that manner. They would come straight to the point and not skirt around what they meant. Yours are the words of an innocent child, and yet those of one who has seen the darkness you speak of. Is there no end to your mystery?"

"I hardly think I am mysterious," Pippin laughed. "I don't even know what came over me. Usually I speak in a perfectly ordinary tongue, and I leave the riddles to Strider, or someone else older and wiser. But I somehow felt that it needed to be said, if you understand me."

"I don't believe I'll ever understand you," said Diamond. "I have never met anyone more different from myself, or more baffling. You are not a warrior, yet you wish to fight, and you are young and new to this cruel earth, yet you have seen much that you should not have. You understand the evil of the world, and yet you esteem the good above it all, and believe there is hope even when you say you have none. These are things I cannot understand."

"I suppose that is what you get when you raise a Took in the Shire and then allow him on a quest with men and wizards who talk in riddles!" Pippin laughed, and then he grew serious again. "Why do you not understand hope, Dia? Surely you wish for a better day than this."

"Long have I desired it," Diamond affirmed. "But I cannot look far enough ahead to see the light at the end of this great tunnel of darkness. My people have fought the forces of shadow for months, even years now, and though we have managed to hold them back we cannot drive them away. Evil is a plague upon the lands of Middle-earth, and it has kept its hold on them since Melkor came into being at the beginning of time. It shall never be gone, Shire-child, no matter how much you hope for it. Light is a weak and frail thing, and one that was never meant to prevail."

"It may be so," said Pippin, "but I am a stubborn thing, and one that was never meant to stop fighting. And I want the forces of good to win this war, and they will, Dia, you'll see—Strider will come, and he will save us all from Sauron, or from Melkor, or from whatever foes we must face, and I know it must be so, for what is there left if he fails? What is there left for the people of Middle-earth, and all of Arda, if Sauron wins? This is why we mustn't forfeit, Dia, because if we do we condemn all to shadow, and from that nothing will deliver us."

"So obstinately optimistic," Diamond grumbled, but there was a note of lightness in her tone. "You may as well have put it to music; that is the kind of thing that bards sing over a mournful fiddle, and the kind of thing that I do not like to listen to."

"Would you like me to sing?" Pippin asked, rather shyly. "I can do it if you'd like, though I have no fiddle."

"I don't suppose you have a song for destitute hobbits in prison? Surely they do not have pieces of that nature in the Shire."

"As a matter of fact we do," Pippin said, "though I did not think much of it until now."

"Well, go on then, if you must."

Pippin clasped Merry's hand more tightly in his own—he felt a pang of guilt for thinking so little about him in the last half hour or so—and began to sing, running his fingers through his cousin's hair and wishing Diamond could be in the cell with them so that she might have a greater measure of comfort.

"To you I sing an evening song,

Of those to whom we once belonged.

Though night's refrain is dark and deep,

A shining vigil still they keep."

He remembered hearing the song from his mother; she had sung it to him when he was small and sorrowing over one trivial thing or another. Pippin thought now of Boromir and wondered if he kept his own vigil in the sky.

"Though tears unbound fall from your eyes,

Fear not, behold, the dawn draws nigh.

The silver rain shall guide our way,

And lead us home to greet the day."

Home was far away now, so distant it might as well have been on the waning moon, and Pippin wanted nothing more than to go back to it, to be safe and warm once more—and yet he knew he must see his quest through to the end, for that was what he had chosen back in Rivendell, and now he was a part of the salvation of Middle-earth.

"Speak not of fear, of light I sing,

For hope shall take his place as king.

In realm of night, though darkness reigns,

The starlight gleams on broken chains."

Pippin's small voice fell silent, the final echoes of the song hanging in the still air. Clouds had now covered the stars of which he sang, and rain had begun to fall heavily upon the stones of Orthanc, but a small warm ember of hope pulsed in Pippin's chest, rekindled by the music.

Suddenly, he heard from far away in the prison a soft weeping, and a faint whisper of "Le fael, Ilúvatar." Even Merry, who lay fevered and distant in Pippin's lap, smiled—the faintest Pippin had ever seen from him, to be sure, but it was a smile, and it brought tears back to Pippin's eyes.

"Did you write that yourself?" Diamond asked, and to Pippin's great surprise, her voice trembled slightly. She steeled her tone, however, and continued, "It is perhaps the only good thing that has come to pass in this prison. You have a gift, Shire-child."

"Only the last verse," Pippin admitted. "I thought of it just now; it seemed fitting for our predicament, and for Strider, who will be High King of Gondor. The rest I heard from my mother many years ago. I am glad that it has brought you joy, Dia, and that it has done the same for at least a few souls."

"It has done more than that," said Diamond. "It was as if dawn had come without a night. Your voice is yet another strange and beautiful thing, Peregrin Took, and I pray that it will never be silenced."

"So do I," Pippin said softly, and he and Diamond sat for a long while in the dark, listening to Merry's faint rasping breath, until a great clamor sounded from outside.

Pippin, who had drifted off into a state of lucid dreams, sat upright. Merry was limp and still in his lap and he panicked, but when he listened to his cousin's breath it was still there, if fainter and even more labored. Pippin looked around; nothing seemed disturbed, and he whispered, "Dia? Do you hear the sound on the air? It is that of a great army; perhaps someone has come to free us!"

"The Uruk-hai are leaving," Diamond said, and Pippin heard her move to stand by the window. "I see firelight in the trees, but nothing else; I know not what has drawn them out."

"Pippin," whispered a voice as a dark silhouette knelt down in front of the cell door, gray eyes glinting from under a hood. "Pippin! Are you alright?"

Pippin looked up, and the face of Aragorn seemed as that of Ilúvatar as he gasped, "Strider!"

"Stay quiet," said Aragorn, and he pulled an arrow from his quiver, carefully pushing the head into the lock on the cell door. "The Uruk-hai have gone, but Saruman may be watching. We must be swift."

The lock clicked, and Aragorn took it and placed it on the floor. He pulled the door of the cell open, and Pippin leaping up wrapped his arms around the Ranger, burying his face in Aragorn's cloak as tears pricked at his eyes. Aragorn returned the embrace, holding Pippin gently to his chest.

"You're going to be alright," Aragorn said softly. "I am taking you both to safety, which I hope we shall find in the woods. I promise, Pippin, I will never let you out of my sight again." He set Pippin down and cupped the hobbit's face in his hands, tracing his thumb over the bruise on Pippin's cheek. "Are you much hurt?"

"I am not," said Pippin, "save for quite a lot of bruising and a pained heart, but Merry is badly hurt, Strider, and will die if we do not get him some sort of medicine. I think his wound has gone bad; it is oozing something rank and his fever is higher than I have ever seen one."

Aragorn went to Merry and laid a hand on his brow, and the shadow that crossed the man's face confirmed the severity of Merry's condition. As Pippin watched, his heart speeding like the hooves of a galloping horse, Aragorn took Merry gently into his arms and lifted him up onto his shoulders.

"You are right," said Aragorn. "He is far away from us. But do not despair, Pippin, for I am sure I can heal him. We will free the other captives and escape through the back entrance; from there we will flee into the woods and meet Legolas and Gimli. Come, Pippin, if you are able I would like you to help me open the locks. It will make the job twice as fast."

He showed Pippin how to place the arrow into the lock and twist the catch, and Pippin moved to Diamond's door, fiddling with the arrow until the lock opened. Pippin eased it off its perch and set it down, and when he opened the door Diamond stood before him.

He was enraptured.

She was tall for a maiden hobbit, only an inch or so shorter than Pippin, and her lithe figure was beautifully curved and muscled. The fetlocks on her feet were the same shade as her wild, half-curled hair, a dark, earthy brown, and her skin, while grimy and streaked with dust, glowed a tawny cream. A silver circlet sat upon her brow, glimmering even in the darkness. Most striking, though, were Diamond's eyes—a dark shining green that seemed to gleam with all the fierce light of a forest on fire.

"Dia," said Pippin, his voice little more than a breath. "I told you Strider would come."

"And I believed you," she said, and she drew herself up so that she stood, strong and bold, in the midst of the dimly lit stone. "Stop staring, Shire-child, we haven't got all day. We must free the prisoners."

She took the arrow from Pippin's grasp and moved down the line of cells, opening the locks much faster than Pippin could. With Aragorn working on the left side of the corridor, the doors were all swiftly opened, and the captives of Orthanc began to emerge. Pippin watched them in awe—he, Merry, and Diamond seemed to be the only hobbits, but he saw many men, several dwarves, and even a few elves. Aragorn helped one of the latter out of her cell, murmuring something in Elvish.

"We must go down the staircase at the end of this hall," said Aragorn once all the prisoners stood in the corridor. "At the bottom is a door; there should be little to no orcs outside. I will lead, and hew down any of the Uruk-hai who attempt to stop us; we will then flee into the woods. From there I shall point you down the road to the Gap of Rohan; once you pass through it you must follow the road to the city of Asgolen. You will find help and shelter there, and when the War of the Ring is over, I shall grant you all citizenship in Gondor if you wish it. Come, my friends, let us flee this place."

Aragorn descended the staircase swiftly and burst out into the night, and Pippin followed him, pulling his hood up against the driving rain. He squinted through the downpour, making out a blurred, towering white shape in front of them, and his heart clenched as Aragorn drew his sword, directing its point at the white-robed man.

Saruman.