This was originally CashyHoray1.00's brainchild, I just poked at it for a bit with some sharp objects and wrote the results. See? I don't even sort of own a the plot, so how could I own any of these characters?

Ocean's Extra, for those of you who follow it, will be updated. I'm not abandoning it, just taking a bit of time to play with other recipes.

The Man in Fangorn

When Merry and Pippin entered the forest, it was entirely too dark and entirely too menacing, but when faced with a choice of either a bloody slaughter of Uruk-hai by a legion of brutal horsemen or a pissy forest, a hobbit would tend toward the plants every time.

And so they stumbled into the line of trees, franticly trying to stay ahead of the ravenous orc on their trail. An ugly thing, the creature stood at perhaps five foot flat. While by a man of, say, Gondor's standards that would be a rather laughable height, to the Shire folk those sixty inches marked off a formidable hunk of meat hungry monster.

Even with his crooked back and pounds of clanking plate armor, the pale beast continued gaining ground.

It is a little known fact that hobbits are a rather athletic race. While not always motivated to, a hobbit is capable of dashes quite fast for their leg length, putting all the stored biscuits they ate to work. Moreover, these particular hobbits were especially well-known for their speed. It was a rather useful trait they had been born with which had only been honed further by years of outrunning dogs and the reach of angry hobbit women armed with brooms.

Jumping over roots and rocks slowed them down, though, however quickly they might be able dart over level ground.

Their wrists and ankles were sore, rubbed raw from rough rope. The numerous places where Uruk-hai armor had hit their small bodies with every heavy step, mile after mile, ached with a stiff pain through joints and bone.

Thirsty, sore and hungry (as only a hobbit can be after missing fourteen meals in two days), there was little but blind desperation keeping them from falling to the gnashing jaws following close behind.

They kept running.

Merry willed his little legs to pump faster.

Pippin just ran in a sort of haze of mindless fear. His mind was trapped in the fresh images of the dead orc, headless, being consumed by its brothers. It ran in circles, looped, the same pictures over and over and over until it became streaks of blood and crooked teeth racing through his brain, forcing out all other thoughts.

Pippin tripped suddenly on a large root. Merry stopped, reaching out toward his friend. Pulling him to his feet, they stumbled off again, stubbornly ignoring the feet lost between themselves and the rumbling stomach on their heels.

It was dark.

The only sounds in the forest were feet pounding on dirt.

An occasional odd groan, low, echoing and doing nothing to calm little frantic hobbit hearts.

And, of course, the stream of guttural profanity spewing from the orc's mouth.

"Li'l 'obbit chops, in li'l bites, bloody and drippin'. Tend'rized li'l drumsticks, all red as fresh cut 'orse meat. Roasted finga's, still twitchin' by the fire pit... Duck an' run, duck an' run, soon Ah'll break yer li'l feet, we'll see yew try an' run then, when yer 'eart's sizzlin' over my fire."

He sang it like a nursery rhyme, as if he were a doting mother soothing her beloved babes.

The two halflings pounded their feet against ground, until finally the could no longer hear the rough, guttural mumblings. They stopped, panting as quietly as they were able, and looked around.

The forest watched silently on as they struggled with their breath and the silence.

"Did we loose him?" Pippin asked as he collapsed into the shadow of a tree. "I think we lost him."

Just then, the orc burst out of a line of shrubs. "Ah'm gonna rip out yer filthy li'l innads!"

Merry and Pippin took off. Through a bush, around the rock, over the root.

In the background, "Come 'ere! Filthy 'alflings! Let me put uh maggit 'ole in yer belly."

They found themselves plastered behind another tree, dreading his reappearance.

Merry was struck with inspiration.

"Trees!" He whispered urgently to Pippin, "Climb a tree."

He stood on the ground, eyes watching the shadows for movement until Pippin was up before following suit.

The two troublemakers scaled the tree with all the experience of happier days, suppressing memories of the Shire and ripe apples, instead looking for movement, listening for breath, that rasping inhale of the orc. They scarcely dare to breathe.

"He's gone," Merry released in their new found safety, the comfort of bark holding him away from the ground.

But not quite, he realized as he suddenly moved downward once more, away from hungry orc hands.

He forgot, sometimes, how much shorter Shire folk were compared to the rest of the world. What seemed very high to a hobbit might not be very far at all to, say, an orc who had an extra foot and a half or more to his height. One with a growling stomach and clacking teeth that sounded like beads on dry bone.

He landed with a strangled groan of pain, but still tried to fight back, kicking the orc in the face before all the weight of the berserker creature and its plate slammed him down. Harsh, rank breath played across Merry's face as the orc chuckled over his dinner.

With a rasp of metal on leather, the sword of the orc reemerged.

The oversized knife came up and flashed down towards Merry's neck. He wriggled his weight beneath his captor, shifting himself away from the knife, which sunk three inches into the thick root where a wee hobbit neck had just lain. The orc grabbed the handle tight and yanked it back.

"Ah'm gonna bleed you like uh stuck pig!" Spittle flew into the hobbit's face and eyes, but he dare not blink as he dodged the blade, distraction for even a fraction of a second would lead that knife into his vulnerable body.

Up in the tree, Pippin screamed, wishing for a way to help his friend. A rock, a rock, a sword would be fantastic right now, but the Uruk-hai had taken their weapons as they were captured and a tree was not an ideal place to find a nice, heavy (preferably jagged) throwing rock.

And then it moved. The tree.

To be precise, the tree that Pippin was seeking refuge in opened its eyes and began talking. From its mouth. A crack between the crusted old layers of bark opened into a mouth.

Which then talked to Pippin.

Who screamed rather loudly.

Meanwhile, Merry was writhing madly from beneath the orc. One of his arms managed to loose itself from beneath the metal weight pinning him. He jabbed his thumb into its eye as soon as he realized his arm was freed. The creature above him was left reeling from the blow. Far enough back, in fact, that Merry could pull one of his knees to his chest, freeing his left leg. It shot out quickly, using all the space available, and his little hairy foot struck the still blinded orc square in the neck. It flopped backward gracelessly, rasping and choking and blinking rapidly.

Merry used the opportunity to roll left onto his hands and knees and make his escape.

Planning on following his previous plan, he darted for the nearest tree, so fervently praying that he could run the last stretch that he missed the sloppy crunching sound behind him.

He was halfway through jumping into a tree when he suddenly noticed he wasn't going back down to the ground, but was instead hovering in the air.

That's funny, he thought madly, I never knew hobbits could fly. This would've been a mighty helpful talent back in the Shire.

In truth, the tree which had so frightened Pippin was currently holding Merry in the air while it crushed the orc spitefully into the jumble of soil and roots that made up the forest floor. In its other limb, Pippin was encased tightly within its branches. Slowly as growing grass, Merry was turned until the were both facing the same wooden face.

It resembled a man. There were two eyes, perhaps yellow, perhaps green, bleached of color by the darkness that glared them down. The place of cheekbones was raised as it was on a humanoid's. The mouth and beard were proportional to the rest of the face. A large nose bisected the entirety of it.

All where it should be, yet not as it should be.

Skin was bark, flesh was wood, sap for blood. The large beard swaying beneath the fixed frown was grown of a dark hanging plant, green and stiff. The gnarled nose had a large knot on one side, as a tree's. The limbs that seemed to work as arms had little branches, all with little leaves that tilted in time with the great, mossy beard.

"Little orcs," the tree ground out at the halflings within its grasp. "In my forest."

"It's talking, Merry, the tree is talking." Pippin looked about ready to hyperventilate his way out of danger.

"Tree? I am no tree!" It roared, its low voice vibrating through the still forest, its leafy hands spasming about the hobbits in its anger. "I am an Ent."

"A tree-herder," Merry breathed, awed. "A shepherd of the forest."

"Don't talk to it, Merry. Don't encourage it." Pippin wheezed.

"Treebeard, some call me."

Pippin licked his lips, gathering his courage. "And.. whose side are you on?"

"Side?" Treebeard rumbled, "Because nobody's on my side, little orc. Nobody cares for the woods anymore."

"We're not orcs, we're hobbits," Merry called out hopefully. If they could just get down, or get to the edge of the woods. Or get this Treebeard fellow to loosen up his grip.

"Hobbit... Hmm. Never heard of a hobbit before." Suddenly his colorless eyes hardened. "Sounds like orc mischief to me." The branches entwined around Merry and Pippin tightened further, stealing their air and compressing muscle. "They come with fire, they come with axes. Gnawing, biting, breaking, hacking, burning. Destroyers and usurpers! Curse them!"

"No! You don't understand, we're hobbits! Halflings, Shire folk," Merry choked out.

Pippin struggled beside him, incapable of more than nodding wildly in agreement with his friend. Between pain, lack of air and the resettlement of the haze of fear from before, anything more - speech, breathing, smiling - was completely beyond his capabilities.

"Maybe you are, and maybe you aren't. You don't seem like orcs. But I cannot decide. It is not my place. The Entmoot will decide."

With that, Treebeard changed directions. And the hobbits finally noticed that he'd been walking.

Many hours into the trek, morning had come and Treebeard found that both hobbits had been lulled into sleep by his great, rocking gait. He placed them at the base of a tree in a small clearing filled with sunlight before lurching off to call enough ents to hold council.

The trees, awakened by pain from their kin, rumbled in discontent.

Pippin came to consciousness first.

At first he gloried in being alive, not pulverized or residing in the pit of an orcs stomach, but he quickly bored of that.

He sat up, looked around.

The forest from the terrible night had transformed. It was still eerie and overwhelming, but the sunlight wove through the flora, returning color and the peace to the environment. The surroundings were no longer a construct of nightmares, instead it was a forest, a gathering of plants and hobbits were wonderful with growing things.

Relaxing, Pippin took in the things all about him, searching for entertainment.

Trees, lots of trees.

Green grass and flowers.

Sunshine.

Trees.

A gurgling spring.

He bounced to his feet and trotted over to the little stream of water. Pippin played his fingers over the surface and it chortled happily as if in greeting.

There was a small bowl off to the side that looked a combination of wood and stone. He grabbed it to drink from, dipping it into the water. As he sat, he took his first pull of water from the bowl.

It was clean and cool, easing the soreness in his throat born of the hysteria and fear from the previous night. The liquid hit his stomach perfectly and he could almost fancy he felt it send a tingle of relief through his limbs.

Merry woke shortly after, basking in the peace of his not-dead state much like Pippin. He looked about, realizing he was alone with his short friend.

Standing, he shouted out, "Hello? Treebeard?" Searching through the trees he muttered to himself, "Where's he gone?"

A low groan echoed through the wood.

"Did you hear that?" Merry whispered to Pippin, who had frozen.

"What?"

This time it was more like a deep creaking or something very large being bent.

"That."

The hobbits moved to the edge of the clearing, climbing the roots to get a clearer view.

It sounded, closer, louder.

"What do you think it is, Merry?"

Then they fell. The roots beneath their square feet shifted and they lost their balance.

Merry fell forward and rolled onto his side before another root pinned his bottom leg in place. He became stuck on his right side, his left eye rolling franticly to try and see beyond soil and plant. He could feel roots moving below him to give room and roots above shirting to bury. The light he could see swiftly vanished.

Pippin toppled backwards, the roots pinning him on his back as he sank. "Merry!" He called.

Merry cried back, "Pippin!"

But Pippin did not hear. His ears were already enclosed in earth and he could hear no more than his own blood rushing purposelessly through his doomed body.

Merry heard the rumbling of the forest. He heard the creak of his ribs matching the creak of the trees. Then he heard hoofbeats, rapidly approaching.

Pippin saw a flash of white across his sliver of light.

As quickly as it had begun, the pressure assaulting their small frames let off. The trees pushed them back out of the earth.

They stumbled away as fast as their battered bodies allowed. Together they sat, silent for once. They waited for Treebeard in the very center of the clearing, as far away as a hobbit could sit from trees in the midst of a forest.

It was a long wait until Treebeard returned to them.

Picking them off the ground and setting them in his high, sturdy branches he murmured, "Well, little orcs, it's time to move. There's still a very long ways to go. The Entmoot meets deep in the forest."

Merry and Pippin swallowed hard, but said nothing.

The council place was a large, flat glade with a large rock dividing it through the middle, pointing north. Almost perfectly circular, it reminded Pippin of something he would see in a book out of old man Bilbo's study. Perhaps in an action or a fantasy story.

It certainly had the ominously creepy vibe. In spades.

The moonlight hit the center stone and reflected back onto the trees, where more ents were pouring out. At first it seemed as if a breeze were going through the foliage, blowing the leaves back and forth. Then a trunk-leg appeared here and there, followed by a bodies and twisted, distorted faces.

Slowly, the hobbits realized these emerging figures were all ents.

"Beech, Oak, Chestnut, Ash... Good, good, good. Many have come." Treebeard muttered beneath them. "Now we will decide what is to be done about the little ones inside the forest and the orcs outside the trees."

From their spot to the side, Merry and Pippin sat quiet and watched. The sun went down, their eyelids pulled down, but they spoke not a word, listening attentively to the old Entish of the Entmoot, waiting for the lull that would mark the decision.

Listening.

Waiting.

At last Treebeard broke away to walk towards them. Pippin popped up first, followed quickly by Merry.

"Well?" Pippin queried impatiently.

Treebeard bent lower to look them more directly in the eye, "We have deliberated carefully and we have decided that you are not orcs."

"Well that's good news, right?"

"Nor can we confirm that you are hobbits." The two halfings both seemed to recognize the implications this could have and opened their mouths to object, but Treebeard continued over them. "There has been talk of a new spawn of late. A creature born of Saruman's monstrous mind. Our charge is to protect the trees and we cannot allow a threat to the heart of the forest."

The giant eyes of the ent bore into theirs. He seemed reserved, even regretful.

Another ent moved at the hobbits. Pippin caught the movement from the corner of his eye and hauled his cousin back. On the other side, the one they had moved to, an ent leaned down, his bulbous limb barely missing them.

A moment of panic overcame Merry. The dark riders, the goblins, the avalanche, the orcs, and the Balrog. Had they overcome that all just to be slain by a peaceful tree shepherd? But then, this was the first they had been alone, without the fellowship. They were fighting alone with no one's cloak to hide under.

Are we really that helpless alone?

Then it was over. Merry heard hoofbeats, knew them. Pippin turned and saw a blur of that same ethereal white approaching.

It was a stag of titan proportions. A hobbit could ride upon its head with ease. It stood taller than a man at the shoulders and was covered in a thick, white coat which nearly glowed in the moonlight.

It slowed from the dash of before, circling the hobbits with a easy loping pace.

"Venison, Merry. Wouldn't a good deer stew sound lovely?" Pippin asked, thinking of his empty stomach.

Even if the trees hadn't started swaying madly and vibrating the ground once the words hit the air, the single second he had locked gazes with that single dark eye would have convinced Merry. "That isn't a terrible good idea, Pippin."

Merry watched the great animal ring them and watched the ents back away like small hobbit children caught in the cheese closet after bed time.

It's protecting us...?

Finally the beast stopped his slow trot and turned to look at Treebeard. The ent seemed to shrink before them.

Whirling again to face the Shire folk, the stag lowered its mighty crown and began walking at an unhurried pace.

Pippin spoke first as they both began backing up, "Does this mean it's mad I wanted to eat it?"

"I think if it wanted to kill us, we'd be dead already, Pippin." Merry whispered back, cautiously eyeing one of the sharp points on the rack currently leveled at them.

"Maybe it wants us to sweat first, slow-like."

Pippin stopped his worrying as he backed into one of the large roots bordering the clearing and tumbled backwards in an awkward somersault. He landed on his stomach, cheek pressed to the ground. Pippin started to stand, but his legs were bruised and beaten from the strain of the previous days. They felt rickety, a chair with no screws or a bowl of pudding.

The stag strode forward calmly and leaned down, offering his gigantic set of antlers for the little hobbit to grasp. Once Pippin had his fingers firmly wrapped around the bone, the majestic beast raised his head, pulling the halfling gently to his feet.

"Maybe he's not trying to kill us." Pippin conceded.

He then continued herding the cousins with gentle nudges a little ways off from the clearing to a stream with some of their lost gear laying along side. As the two rummaged through the reclaimed packs, they gleefully set to devouring some of the lambas bread gifted to the Fellowship by the elves of Lothlorien.

Licking crumbs off his face, Merry remembered the stag, "He's gone."

Treebeard emerged. "Well little hobbits, we have a ways to go before you're back in your Shire."

"Hold on a minute, you were about to kill us just then and now we're back to being buddies, is that it?" Merry exclaimed indignantly, his little face screwing up in anger.

"Well," Treebeard muttered, looking as sheepish as a plant man can, "it seems we had a bit of a misunderstanding."