The East Gate

From The Bridge of Khazad-Dûm

"There was a guard of orcs crouching in the shadows behind the great door-posts towering on either side but the gates were shattered and cast down. Aragorn smote to the ground the captain that stood in his path, and the rest fled in terror of his wrath."

J. R. R. Tolkien

This is a story of what might have occurred had the orcs not fled, but instead multiplied and just kept on coming…

It has been written by a gestalt creature named Eastgaters. This creature was bred by Baylor, who suggested a role playing game that would eventually be turned into a story for all to read. To make her creature, she took seven other unsuspecting writers and allotted them each a character. This is the cast:

Frodo – Baylor

Samwise – Budgielover

Pippin – Marigold

Merry – Llinos

Legolas – Mainframe

Aragorn – Nilramiel

Boromir – Rachel Stonebreaker

Gimli – Q

There are sometimes other random characters but these will be announced as they become relevant. Also on occasion one of the other writers may have understudied another writer's character in addition to their own.

The beta was by Marigold and Llinos, and Llinos put it into story format.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1 The Frantic Fight

The fires went out, and blank darkness fell. The Company stood rooted with horror staring into the pit. Even as Aragorn and Boromir came flying back, the rest of the bridge cracked and fell. With a cry Aragorn roused them.

"Come! I will lead you now!" he called. "We must obey his last command. Follow me!"

They stumbled wildly up the great stairs beyond the door – Aragorn leading, Boromir at the rear. At the top was a wide echoing passage and along this they fled. Frodo heard Sam at his side weeping, and then he found that he himself was weeping as he ran. "Doom, doom, doom," the drum-beats rolled behind, mournful now and slow; "doom"!

They ran on. The light grew before them; great shafts pierced the roof. They ran swifter. They passed into a hall, bright with daylight from its high windows in the east. They fled across it. Through its huge broken doors they passed, and suddenly before them the Great Gates opened, an arch of blazing light.

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A contingent of orcs barred the way but behind them the Gates were shattered and cast down. In a red fury, Aragorn, never breaking his stride, leapt forward to face the captain. At his heels, the Fellowship drew their weapons and rushed forth.

Even as Legolas pivoted in one fluid motion to face the horde of foul misshapen creatures that filled in behind them, he simultaneously plucked an arrow from his depleted quiver. Though still feeling the shock of Mithrandir's fall and fully aware that they were desperately outnumbered still, Legolas' heart lifted a notch as his body soaked up the warmth and pure light of Anar. The Gates. They were so close and had paid dearly for their passage thus far through Moria.

'Mithrandir …No'! He admonished himself sternly. The time for grief would have to wait. Focus on the task at hand.

He noted the hobbits naturally gravitated towards each other as battle was engaged. Sam beside his master and Merry and Pippin on Frodo's left. Boromir and Gimli fought either side of Aragorn and the three managed to give Legolas enough room to fall back slightly from the front line to cover a wider area.

Sam struggled to stay at Frodo's back as he attempted to clear his eyes from the tears still running down his face. Gandalf had charged him not to leave Frodo and Sam didn't mean to. He couldn't think of the old wizard now, of what his fall meant to the Quest. He lowered his head and fought on, trying to keep himself between his master and the screaming orcs.

The pain in his side momentarily forgotten, Frodo drew Sting and leaped forward. The blade blazed blue and a cold fury fuelled Frodo as he thrust it into a small orc at the front of the line. He was dimly aware that the Fellowship was woefully outnumbered but from the scenes he was glimpsing out of the corners of his eyes, he knew that his companions were caught up in the same fierce frenzy that he was.

The air seared his lungs with each breath and he knew not if it was from his injury or if his throat was raw from his screams when they had lost Gandalf. He pulled Sting from the fallen orc and swung round to meet the next foe. Even as he did so, his eyes sought for a way through the line into the bright, sunlit safety beyond. He waited for Aragorn to signal whether they should keep fighting or try to break through.

The brilliant light of the outside world blinded Sam and he was sure his master was in no better shape. The incandescent blue of Sting was muted by the bright daylight and he saw that it was black to the hilt with orc blood. His own sword, too, dripped dark blood that ran over the hilt and stained his hand. His brow burned and he raised his fingers to it, seeing red blood as he lowered them. When had that happened? The blood was running into his eyes now, burning and blurring. The dark shapes wavered in his vision and impatiently he swiped his hand across his bleeding brow, smearing the wound into a red mask. They couldn't keep up this pace. His breath was rasping in his throat and beside him, Frodo was beginning to stagger as he fought.

The Big Folk were trying to protect the four of them Sam knew, trying to keep them to the centre. But there were too many foes and they were too large. The orcs knew this place and the Company did not.

With no time to act, let alone think, Boromir scrambled to Aragorn's right flank hoping Gimli would take the left and trusting in Legolas' bow and short swords to protect the rear. Without the wizard he worried for the safety of the hobbits.

Boromir had only half a moment to parry with another orc before he was overwhelmed by a press of potshard steel and hideous faces. His shield, still slung over his back, protected him from the rear attacks. He could feel blows raining hard upon it. A familiar coolness came over him as he continued to thrust, chop and parry. But although he hacked and slew more orcs than he could count, still they came on.

Arrow after arrow flew, meeting their mark until all were spent. Slinging his bow over his head and one shoulder, Legolas drew his twin, bone handled knives, turning away from the gate to fend off the relentless orcs, cutting and thrusting, he hacked with centuries of practiced ease, keeping a rearguard action to protect the small beleaguered group.

Pippin had been trying not to weep for Gandalf as they fled towards safety, remembering what Boromir had always taught him and Merry about not grieving for the fallen until the battle was won or others may die because of your distraction. And it had been just as well he was making such an effort to keep himself as calm as he could for it seemed they were not free yet.

There was no time to count them, but it seemed that dozens of orcs blocked their way to the freedom that lay just out of reach. Thanks to the light of the fires that had been set to block their way the bright sunlight ahead did not blind him as it might have had they come upon it suddenly after four days of almost complete darkness. Still his eyes were filled with tears from the brightness even as he turned away from the light to fight the pursuing orcs. He only hoped that the enemy would have the same problem, but it was not so. Apparently these orcs were here in front of the gates because they could tolerate sunlight and Pippin found himself hard pressed.

Gandalf was gone! It hardly seemed possible. Merry felt the shock still rippling through his brain, his senses had gone numb and he was vaguely aware that he was cutting and slashing with his sword. The action had become second nature now. Boromir had taught Pippin and him well. They were killing these benighted creatures without even thinking.

He knew, without looking, that Pippin was beside him – Pip was always beside him in a dangerous situation. It was where Merry wanted him to be. He was responsible for his little cousin, he had promised both their fathers to always take care of him.

Merry too had turned to face the pursuing orcs and Pippin knew he now fought near his side for he could hear his cousin panting with effort, echoing his own laboured breathing.

The eight Fellowship members now formed a circle, their backs to the centre, all of them facing outwards to their enemies. Aragorn, Frodo and Sam looked towards the gates, battling the orcs that stood between them and freedom, with Gimli and Boromir at either side, while Legolas, Merry and Pippin faced back into the mine attempting to fend off their pursuers. But they were beset on all sides and orcs soon broke through their defences as the circle widened under the relentless assault.

Pippin realised that Frodo was behind them now, closer to the freedom promised by the broken gates. He was also engaged in fighting for his life and Pippin started to back up, trying to make his way to him. To protect Frodo was why they had come. He had to protect Frodo…

'One, three, five, three...' by the numbers as Boromir had schooled them. Two had fallen to Pippin's blade already and he felt himself sprayed with a jet of foul black blood as he hewed the sword arm off a third. As he lunged to finish that one, the hobbit, still moving backwards, slipped on the blood that was coating the floor of the chamber and fell.

But it saved Pippin's life. As he hit the ground a large orc that had been coming upon him from behind tripped over him and his jagged blade drove instead into the orc that Pippin had just mutilated. 'Well, that was helpful!' Almost without conscious thought Pippin scrambled to his feet and drove his blade into the back of the second orc. Then he whirled, trying to take a brief moment to find his bearings and his companions in the fearful confusion and carnage. Boromir was near him and there was Gimli. He thought he could see Aragorn near Frodo but the light was too bright to be sure. Where was Sam? He couldn't see Sam or Legolas or…

"Merry!" He had become separated from Merry. He couldn't see him! Oh, where was Merry?

"Yaakakkkk!" Merry slashed down again and then swung his sword in an arc to decapitate the filthy faced goblin that was bearing down on him, the loud cry startling him from his strange reverie. This was no time to be pondering – the moment was upon them and their lives were at stake.

"Pip!" Merry's shout was lost in the cacophony of the battle. He looked frantically around as he realised with sinking heart that while his mind had wandered, he had lost sight of Pippin for a moment. There – there he was! The smaller hobbit was backing up, slashing his sword in every direction as he made his way to Frodo. Then he fell!

Pippin was down! "No!" Merry felt himself begin to panic. He watched in horror as a large orc raced towards his prone cousin, sword raised. But even as Merry lunged forward to try and help, the orc tripped over Pippin's body and fell.

Merry, his heart racing for fear of his Pip's safety, lifted his sword and charged. But before he had reached his goal, a great hand reached from behind, seizing his sword arm by the wrist and almost lifted him off his feet.

Merry managed to get a purchase on the solid ground once more and spun round to kick out with all his might. His foot felt as if it had made contact with solid rock. The creature that had hold of him was smaller than the troll that had attacked Frodo earlier but it was the same breed, Merry had no doubt. Fortunately it was not actually armed with any weapon save its great strength. But that was bad enough. It picked Merry up by the wrist, every muscle and sinew in Merry's arm screaming out in agony, and hurled the hobbit through the air.

Merry had no idea where he had landed but he lost no time to scramble back up on to all fours and look quickly around. The troll creature was advancing on him once more and he could see no sign of Pippin. "Get up Merry!" he muttered to himself. He was disorientated and dizzy, and as he frantically tried to gain his feet he felt a rush of foul air as several orcs came towards him.

Merry lifted his arm to strike as he rose up onto one knee to meet the onslaught and as he did it dawned on him with horrified realisation that he had lost his sword and his hand was empty. The orcs moved relentlessly towards him, only now they seemed to advance ridiculously slowly. Unfortunately Merry appeared to be moving equally slowly. He saw the vicious dagger come towards him and tried to lift his hand to shield himself. He heard a terrible scream of agony and knew with an odd little thought that it was his own voice. His mouth stayed open after the cry had left it and Merry clutched at his bleeding side wondering almost absently how long it would take to die and if he could manage to see Pippin again before he succumbed.

"Pip, Pip, I'm sorry," he sobbed and his surroundings took on a faraway look before his eyes fluttered and closed.

Although Aragorn was laying about with skilful strokes, each one finding its mark with ease, his mind was in turmoil. He had never seriously considered having to lead this Quest, but now that Gandalf was gone he would have to or all would fail and Middle-earth would be lost. Now, in the very midst of battle, he had to make his first and probably most important, decision.

His chief concern was for the hobbits, and of them of course Frodo was foremost in his mind. The Ring-bearer was close and fighting valiantly. Aragorn swiped through the waist of a small orc, cutting it neatly in two. The Ranger cast his eyes about, frantically trying to locate the others.

There was Sam, on the far side of Frodo, protecting his master with all his might. Aragorn ran his sword through a screaming goblin and with his other hand he turned an orc's own sword to its throat, severing half the creature's neck. Now, where were the other two hobbits? He saw Pippin backing up stabbing and slashing and then fall. He started forward, but the hobbit was saved by a clumsy orc, tripping over the youngster. Just Merry left to find.

His question was answered very abruptly at that moment as he saw Merry's body fly through the air, landing further back in the mine. Aragorn could see he was now unarmed and therefore vulnerable but if he tried to protect him it would mean leaving Frodo virtually unshielded.

Aragorn shouted to the elf, "Legolas! Have a care for Merry!"

The next onslaught happened so fast that even the swift Ranger could not prevent it, and Legolas had not yet reached Merry's side. Several orcs turned towards Merry and rushed the fallen hobbit. He frantically lifted his arm and tried to protect himself, but the first orc to reach him stabbed with an ugly jagged dagger right into the hobbit's chest.

Merry screamed and collapsed as Aragorn surged forward and slaughtered three orcs in quick succession. A troll was advancing upon them now, the same one that had thrown Merry, stupidity driving it forward to attack anything in its path although it was probably being drawn to the Ring as well. Aragorn knew now he had no choice but to retreat.

"Get out! Get out!" he screamed to the others.

So completely immersed in his battle trance, it took Legolas a split second to register that Aragorn was calling him to find Merry, but once his keen eyes found the downed halfling Legolas sprang to aid him.

Intent on beheading a yellow-eyed creature blocking his path, Legolas froze as a high-pitched scream from Merry rent the air. The hobbit had his hands clutched desperately at his bleeding side, eyes wide in unbelieving shock. Legolas saw Merry's eyes slowly slide shut as his body slumped bonelessly before their enemies.

Wasting no time, the elf attacked from behind as the orc prepared to deliver a final blow. Aiming for the head and the neck, Legolas brought the elvish blades down and through the creature's neck, partially severing its small head from the thick neck. It bellowed in pain from the unseen assault as it slid to the ground and Legolas wasted no time to kneel by the motionless hobbit's side.

Pippin cast his eyes around frantically in search of Merry, knowing with overpowering dread that his cousin was in terrible danger. He finally caught a glimpse of Legolas and followed the direction the elf was heading. There was Merry, down and stunned, trying to hold off several orcs though Pippin couldn't see any weapon in Merry's hand. He saw one of the orcs stab forward and heard Merry shriek in agony.

"No! Merry! Merry!" Pippin screamed, stumbling forward toward his fallen cousin. Someone caught hold of him, an orc, and he whirled and struck its very head from its neck in his desperation to get free and get to Merry's side, but the creature pulled him down with it as it fell. As Pippin tried to struggle on regardless, his only thought that Merry needed him, his free hand scrabbled on the ground and found another weapon. Catching it up in his fury, to use in his left hand as he wielded his own blade in his right, tears began to fall from his eyes despite Boromir's training. The weapon in his hand was Merry's.

Gimli caught Boromir's glance and charged forward, bashing one small orc aside as he flung himself into the next one while swinging his axe with deadly aim at two others. It felt good to do something, to literally fight through his grief over Gandalf. His axe swung again and he jerked it from the body as the creature fell and spun to meet yet another orc. With each step he drew nearer to Boromir as he tried to manoeuvre to Aragorn's left but the waves of orcs washed over him. How many he hewed down he was never able to recall, but even his sturdy arm grew weary in the fray.

Boromir was oblivious to the sickening smell of orc blood but not to the caution he needed to prevent himself from slipping in the oily mess. Most of his fighting had been against men, not these minions of Saruman. Men fought more skilfully, with tactics and plans. These creatures just swarmed. Like bees or ants. And like insects they were easily slain. But the continuous throng pressing against him was beginning to take its toll. He found it difficult to see as it was and the deafening squeals of the monsters grated on his nerves. Pippin's voice rose above the din. He was frantically shouting for his cousin. Not a good sign. Panic in battle was deadly.

Watching in horror Boromir saw Pippin grabbed from behind by an orc, only to find himself smiling wildly as young Pippin lopped the very head from the orc's shoulders in a single blade stroke. Not an easy feat for someone nearly a quarter shorter and half the weight of his attacker!

Gimli battled his way through just as Pippin staggered back to avoid the head of the toppled orc, its body collapsing in a heap. "Oh, that Took," he moaned, and, using a small hand axe now; waded deeper into battle.

Boromir's pride in his littlest pupil was short lived though. Listening to Aragorn's shouts for them to get out of the cavern, Boromir involuntarily wailed as he watched Pippin fall under the weight of the orc the little one had just slain.

Aragorn and the others were trying to keep Frodo toward their centre, to protect him, and somehow this knowledge gave Frodo a fresh burst of anger and energy. Sam was near - but where were Merry and Pippin? Frantically, Frodo sought out his younger cousins. Even as he searched, he heard Aragorn cry, "Legolas! Have a care for Merry!" Then, he heard Merry scream.

Sam heard Merry's scream behind him and heard Pippin's answering terrified shrieks. He whirled but there were too many bodies between them to see what had occurred. Huge forms surged back and forth and the very air smelled of blood. Bodies and parts of bodies littered the floor and it was difficult to move without slipping in blood or noxious liquids.

His master and Strider had been pushed back, making room for the growing pile of corpses at the Ranger's feet. Sam ducked a windmilling orc and dodged another. Suddenly there was a great hulking beast before him, intent on the man. Its back to Sam, it seemed to have disdained him as beneath its notice. 'That's a mistake', Sam thought grimly and steeling himself, drove his small sword directly into the base of its spine with all of his strength.

Sting grew heavier in Frodo's hand with each swing, each thrust, as injury and exhaustion began to overcome his initial rage and frenzy. Sam had been forced from his master's side and fought with a dogged viciousness that would have rendered him unrecognisable to anyone from The Green Dragon.

"Why don't the Big Folk get us out of this horrible place?" Sam wondered, even as he chastised himself for he knew all were trying as hard as they could. He took a deep breath. The dead lay about them and still the orcs came. Sam edged around the creature he had just felled, loath to touch it, then jumped over it when no other path opened before him. He slipped in blood and went to his knees, catching himself with his hands in the filth before him.

A clawed hand fastened around his foot and he choked back a cry as he looked over his shoulder. The orc he had stabbed had him by the ankle, its red eyes furious and triumphant even as life left it. Strong yet, it jerked and the hobbit slid back, dropping his sword as his fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rough ground.

Sam threw himself down and rolled over on his back, twisting in the creature's grasp. He drew back his other foot and kicked with everything in him, smashing the creature's nose, breaking the bridge and sending a sharp shard of bone up into the orc's brain. It shuddered, then its grip relaxed, clawed fingers opening. Sam struggled to his feet. He groped around, found his sword, and forced himself back into the carnage.

"Merry!" Frodo yelled, but could not see his cousin. Nor did he hear him scream again, though from somewhere near Boromir and Gimli he could hear Pippin shrieking Merry's name. "Merry!" Frodo shouted again and began trying to push through the horde toward the source of the scream. Even as he did so, he heard Aragorn calling for them to get out. Intent on reaching the side of his young cousin, Frodo did not look toward the Gate but continued trying to press back. Sam called for him and their eyes met briefly.

Frodo heard Aragorn screaming again at them to get out but where did he expect them to go? A great, swarthy orc came at Frodo and, without hesitation, he thrust Sting through the orc's throat, coating himself in black blood as he did so. Scrambling backward to avoid being crushed by his falling foe, Frodo turned his head and saw, finally, why Aragorn called to them.

There was a path. There was a break to the door, and Aragorn held it, for the moment. Frodo looked at the blue sky outside, and then he heard Pippin wailing for Merry again. He turned his back on escape and dived forward, dodging oncoming orcs, back into the direction from which he had heard Merry's scream.

Sam too had heard the Ranger's summons and the red mist drifting before his eyes cleared a little upon seeing the unfettered sky beyond the gaping maw of the great doors. Escape! Clean air and sunlight! But no ... no! Frodo was not heeding Strider, he was turning around – NO! He was going after his cousins. Sam knew he was.

To Gimli's dismay he caught a glimpse of Frodo disappearing into the swarm of orcs; Gimli knew that Frodo would never willingly leave his cousin behind. Pippin's shouts for Merry jumped into a new register of panic, and Gimli watched in horror as the littlest of their charges rushed into the pack, after Frodo or Merry or both, he wasn't sure. "Ridiculous hobbits," he groaned, and looked around for Boromir.

Sam heard Strider's furious shout behind him as he turned to follow his master. Frodo had reached Pippin. The tweenager looked ghastly, his sharp face utterly white where black blood did not mar it. Frodo looked up and Sam's heart twisted at the desperation he saw in his master's eyes.

Sam dodged an orc as it staggered past, its claws locked around its throat, bracketing an arrow that quivered there. He raised his sword but the orc fell, its life spent, blood issuing from its fanged mouth. Old Mr Bilbo's stories rose unbidden in his mind of battles and splendour and righteous victory and Sam wondered where all the glory was. Here was only pain and blood and death and knowing people you loved could die between one heartbeat and the next.

Strider roared at them again and Sam looked back just in time to see the Ranger gesturing towards the open doors with his great sword. The man's words were lost in the screams and cries that echoed from the rock walls but his meaning was unmistakable. Frodo had Pippin by the collar and was pulling the youngster upright.

Another few strides and Sam was with them, circling around Pippin to push both of them away from this open place, closer to the walls where they might be sheltered on one side. He was appalled by the filth that covered Frodo; his master looked like he had bathed in black blood. Sam could not tell if any of that blood was Frodo's. It covered him completely, matting down his dark hair, reflecting in the uncertain light like grease.

Sam tried to draw their attention to Strider but Pippin was oblivious, whimpering, "Merry! Merry!" Sam saw that he held his cousin's sword. Mr Merry would never have dropped it willingly. Boromir had drilled that lesson into them. But they had hesitated too long. Four great orcs surrounded them, cutting them off from escape. Snarling mouths leered at them as the hobbits set themselves back to back.

They can feel it, Sam realised. That evil thing he's carrying. They might not know what it is but they're drawn to it. Pippin must have understood that at the same moment, for he and Sam met each other's eyes for a moment over Frodo's shoulder. Then they stepped in front of the Ring-bearer and tried to shield him behind them as the orcs surged forward.

Madly, Boromir attempted to race to the side of the downed Pippin, hoping he was not too late. Try as he might, he could make no headway against the sea of bodies separating him from the littlest hobbit. Boromir saw Frodo, with Sam on his heels, dash back into the fray, away from obvious freedom and against the furious shouts of Aragorn. 'That stupid hobbit! He'll be killed. These foul beasts will get the Ring and all will be lost!'

Someone dragged Pippin off the blood and ooze covered floor, the touch familiar enough that even in his state of fury and despair he did not swing with either blade and he looked up to see Frodo, drenched in black orc's blood. He heard himself whimpering, over and over, "Merry! Merry! Oh, my Merry!" Sam too was at his side and trying to tell him something, but Pippin couldn't focus. Merry was hurt, maybe dead and he had to get to him. He had to help him!

Then suddenly he found himself being herded back towards the wall with Frodo; Sam pushing them away from the main conflict as much as was possible and further away from helping Merry. He had to help his cousin ... had to help his cousin. His cousin? Frodo. Frodo and the Ring. That was why he was here, why Merry had fallen, why Gandalf had fallen. They had to get Frodo out!

He whispered a fervent plea that one of the others who was closer could reach the dear, beloved cousin that had fallen and an even more fervent plea that Merry, alive or dead, would understand why he had to get Frodo away, no matter what the cost, knowing even as he did so that his Merry would more than understand, he would be proud and that knowledge spurred Pippin into thinking quicker than he had ever had to in his life.

Just as he was about to shout at Samwise to help him get Frodo safely to Aragorn and out to freedom, the three hobbits were cut off by four huge orcs. Sam and he reflexively tried to shield Frodo, their eyes meeting and understanding and with a scream the foremost orc stumbled in its attack and suddenly dropped dead with Pippin's blade in its midsection. Pippin sensed more than saw Sam behind him, both of them still trying to shield Frodo and another orc dropped.

The other two orcs backed away slightly, growling. They would lunge again at any second but were keeping just out of reach. Somehow Frodo had to get out alive, that was all that was important. Pippin didn't lower the threatening blade he held in his right hand but gave Sam a push with his left, the hand that still held Merry's blade. He realised that there were tears running down his face at the thought of Merry and he pushed back his grief. There would be time to mourn later, if it were necessary and if he was alive himself. Mourn after the battle or others will die...He focused again on the task at hand.

"Sam, you get Frodo out of here and get him out now!" Pippin gasped, not taking his eyes off the threatening orcs. "Sam, get him out, while Aragorn yet holds the way!

"Both of you, do as I say or they are dead for nothing!" Pippin shuddered that he was already numbering Merry dead along with Gandalf. "Everyone, everything, dead for nothing! Now go!"

Then there was no more time for thought and Pippin threw himself forward, years of tackling two dear, older cousins giving him the knowledge of just where to hit. These creatures outweighed him by far, but Merry had taught him that weight wasn't always a factor when it came to facing an opponent bigger than yourself. Then he was piling into the two bewildered orcs in a form of attack they had no experience with, his arms just long enough to wrap around a thigh each and all three fell into a heap on the stone floor, the slippery blood causing them to slide away from the other two hobbits and giving them an opening to reach the outside.

Frodo stared at his youngest cousin, too shocked for a breath to react. As Pippin tackled the advancing foes about the legs, Frodo had the ridiculous thought that Pip had used this very technique many times in childhood to bring down a larger playmate. But this was not play. Pippin was rushing to his death!

He could feel the weight of the Ring around his neck as never before. If not for It, he would have followed Pippin into the fray, and to certain death.

Instead, he turned his back on his cousin, and fled toward Aragorn, dimly aware of Sam at his side. The Ranger had just decapitated a giant brute of an orc, and beyond the creature's body lay fresh air and freedom.

Merry lay face down, a steadily growing red pool forming under him. As carefully as the circumstances allowed, Legolas gently rolled him onto his back. He instantly located the stab-wound on the hobbit's left side, just under the ribcage and near the heart, the knife buried to the hilt. There was no time to tend the wound but the elf was sure it was mortal, placing a hand on Merry's brow and finding the flesh cooling rapidly. Long fingers hesitantly rested against the young hobbit's neck and he held his breath and waited.

Merry was floating somewhere near the roof of the dim cavern. It was an interesting sensation as he was unaware up until now that he could fly at all. He looked down upon the scene of mayhem below him and his heart seized in clenching pain as he saw Pippin besieged on all sides by terrifying creatures, all intent upon slaying his little cousin and his friends.

That was when Merry first realized that he was dead. Grief struck him like a palpable thing, not for himself but – Pippin! They had not even said goodbye. How could he leave without a last touch of his hand, a farewell word from his Pip?

Was death supposed to be like this, filled with regret and sorrow? Perhaps if you stayed at home in the Shire and lived to a ripe old age it was not this way. Perhaps then your spirit could leave fulfilled and happy that all was done and you would not feel wrenched from your loved ones so cruelly.

Merry watched with frantic anxiety as he saw Pippin race back into the thick of things and tackle two orcs the way he had shown his younger cousin to bring down a heftier opponent, take them low and use all your body weight. "Pippin, no!" he heard himself saying, "Get back! Don't die too." His little cousin was doughty and tenacious in battle though, Merry knew that, but he felt so helpless just floating here, unable to help or even cry out. Why did he have to die so stupidly? Merry berated himself now, he had lost hold of his sword – the one thing Boromir had said he must never do. 'Stupid, clumsy hobbit,' he thought bitterly, 'Pip, I'm so sorry.'

Merry wondered how long he would be allowed to stay here and watch the fate of his companions – perhaps forever. Maybe that was what happened when you failed. Pippin had started towards where he lay, but then turned to push Frodo and Sam back in the direction of the door. Merry felt his heart leap again, with fear and pride. Fear for the safety of all his companions but great pride that Pippin had remembered the importance of the Quest, to keep safe Frodo. He had resisted the urge to chase after Merry's dead body – it would have been pointless anyway.

Merry looked sadly at his own crumpled corpse. He was lying curled up in a foetal position in a large pool of blood. At least he had not been decapitated. Around him lay the ruin of the three orcs that had attacked him and the troll, also slain now. His hand was stretched out and his fingers splayed as though he were reaching for something. Pippin? But he couldn't reach his cousin. He had wanted to touch his hand one last time, something in his soul had refused to leave without saying goodbye – without Pippin.

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TBC