"Together's Scars"
by s1ncer1ty
Warnings: No slash intended, but if you wish to interpret it as such, go for it. Also plenty of hobbit angst.
Super Rambling Author's Notes from Hell: I know, I know, this tale is a distinct break from canon LotR storyline. But that's what fanfic is all about, isn't it? This is just a little 'what if' situation perhaps a little too movie-inspired (Billy Boyd is so sexy with that accent!). The story takes place after Merry and Pippin are carried off by the orcs at the beginning of Two Towers, or the end of the movie, whichever you're following. At the end of this tale, I could easily imagine a potential recapture, picking up again with Merry and Pippin's encounter with the orcs in Two Towers, with only a minor break from Tolkien's timeline. I absolutely adore Pippin's actions in Two Towers and would hate to see them left out of the Tolkien world (even my own) completely! Then again, it's been some time since I've read the entire trilogy, so please forgive any glaring continuity errors aside from this little blip on the radar. I tried my best. o.o
itawari-au you ni dakishimeru
futari ga nozoita omoide ga
utsukushii kodoku wo egaku darou
kasaneru you ni shite kuchizukeru
futari ga itameta kizuato ga
utsukushii wakare wo tsugeru darou
He's hurting. I haven't a clue where he might be -- hell, I don't even know where I am -- but the pain that sings from his heart is undeniable, even across what may well be an insurmountable distance.
Muttered rumours about the Shire tell of the blood of the Fair Folk running, albeit thinly, through the Took clan's veins. One of the ancient Tooks must have taken a faery wife, they say; otherwise, how else could you explain the clan's behaviour most unbecoming of hobbits? And all too often, I cannot help but believe these rumours when I look deep into my companion Pippin's eyes -- fae-touched cerulean that betray the distant longing for lands afar, a shimmer of unquenchable innocence that all too often leads to childlike foolishness. Yet the passion that runs so close beneath the surface also belies a feature even more unhobbitlike -- something within my dear cousin projects, as if emotion becomes tangible. I've felt him since we were small, known his very feelings at times before even he could put them into words -- while at the same time he's grown to understand the inner workings of a curious, methodical Brandybuck mind. Perhaps that was why we grew so close despite the eight years' difference in age, and later why he insisted upon joining the Fellowship regardless of the inherent danger. To be separated would be like losing a part of his own person; and indeed, without Pippin, I could never myself be whole.
Right now, even were he deep within the cruel heart of Mount Doom or travailing the outer reaches of Middle-earth, I would still feel his anguish exact through me like a blade.
We were separated after the first night. Orcs are not, by nature, intelligent creatures by any means; yet instinctively, they knew that to pull us apart, physically, would only serve to break us down quicker -- confess which of us, if at all, possessed the One Ring, or to admit the identity of the true Ringbearer. Near the break of dawn the first night, I was jerked roughly by my arm from the warm comfort of my companion's embrace and taken west with one battalion of orcs. Pippin's shrieks followed me as we were separated -- cries that haunt my dreams even now -- and he was pushed northwest with the second battalion.
My back still smarts from a liberally applied whip, and my feet ache from being forced to march, first through the thickly crawling underbrush of the forest, then across sharply rocky ground, for what seemed like days on end. The nights had passed as if in the midst of one long, desolate, swirling nightmare. They had taken me to the mountains across great kilometres of distance each day before throwing me into a makeshift cell within a mountainside outpost where the orcs had recently secured a temporary stronghold.
And so, I have been sitting and thinking while I am conscious. Placing my reserves into a coming escape and trying to escape piercing dreams of torment and screams, both of myself and of Pippin. But what more can a single hobbit do? I am not inherently brave like my Baggins cousins, nor am I so dutiful as Samwise Gamgee as to follow any master into the inferno and back. I am but one insignificant hobbit -- a shattered piece from a once unbreakable duo -- against an army of greatest evil.
I do not know where Pippin may be; I merely know as if through a second sense that he's hurting, painfully so. Weeping a little, I listen to his heart slowly breaking across whatever barrier lies between us.
Pippin, do not despair. I will come for you. So long as I live and breathe, we will escape.
But try as I might, I cannot make my thoughts his own. I do not seem to have that power he, perhaps unwillingly, possesses. His sorrow merely deepens, trebles, until I feel I cannot take any more without being overwhelmed. I place my head between my hands and pray for a swift end to this waiting game.
The orc's whip descends upon my back, as it has done countless times already, and I close my eyes against the tormenting sting. The orcs have not had the foresight to strip me of my clothes; otherwise, the ordeal would be all the more agonizing. As it is, the thin, nine-tailed leather leaves aching bruises and bites through sturdy Shire-clothing, although it cannot seem to breach the fabric of the Elven cloak that has not left my shoulders.
"I will not ask you again, Halfling," my captor snarls through gritted, yellowed teeth. "Where is the Ring?"
I bite my tongue, as I have for my entire time in captivity, against crying out. The beast that towers over me spits a curse in a chilling, guttural language other than the common tongue and throws me hard against the wall.
"'Leave them unspoiled,' ordered Ugluk," the creature hisses. "Well, we have ways to make you talk that will leave you as unspoiled as the day you were conceived, Halfling. But these ways will also shatter your tiny minds and your pathetic hearts. You will wish when we are through that you were never born."
"Try your worst," I bite back, perhaps foolishly, spinning around to face my captor with a glittering fire within my eyes.
"We have already broken your friend," he whispers, leaning towards me with a wicked smirk. It is as if he can smell my fear, steadily rising.
His words catch me completely off guard, and I startle before I can manage to suppress the terror that lights within. The sharp-toothed grin grows all the more deliberately cruel. "We are so close to learning everything there is to know about the Ring. Last night his screams were a lullaby to the troops stationed here. Yet perhaps," he adds, red eyes flashing through the darkness, "we might hurt him more if you will not yourself talk."
At first, my teeth sink painfully deeper into my tongue as I fight to keep from screaming, to keep an escalating panic well in check. It is the closest I have come to shouting aloud during these agonizing sessions of torture. Opening my eyes to the coldly smirking face of evil that hovers over me, I cannot contain the anger that overwhelms me, and I spit the blood I've drawn from biting my tongue into his eye.
Enraged, the orc snaps me by the collar of my cloak and thrusts me against the wall, his face in mine, his rotten breath choking me. "So help me, Halfling, you will pay! I will slit not only you, but also your friend from navel to nose! I will --"
A sharp shout from deep within the twisting mountain catacombs echoes through to cell, cutting my captor off mid-curse. "Whiteskins!" The words, though guttural, are shouted in the common language. "Whiteskins attacking from the south. All to arms! We advance southward at once!"
I am thrust painfully to the ground as my orcish captor tosses me aside in his haste to join his battallion. I am all but forgotten in the overwhelming lust for blood and battle. Indeed, the very mention of fighting seems to have stirred the entire fortress into a churning chaos.
Could it be the Fellowship? Would an entire stronghold of orcs rouse themselves into a frenzy over a meagre three warriors? Perhaps five, if Frodo and Sam have not yet moved on?
The door slams immediately shut as my captor bolts to join his battalion, though he pauses long enough to peer in through the barred grate at the top of the cell, a wicked smirk promising aeons of torment in future days. I glare defiantly and only collapse, my forehead to the ground, when the gleaming red of his eyes winks out into darkness.
When I again will the courage to move, I creep upon hands and knees towards the cell door, as my legs shake so violently from fright. I pull myself to my feet with a tremendous force of effort and stand upon my toes to gaze out through the bars. In the midst of the fury of potential battle, no orc bothers to turn a head towards my prison. Perhaps, when all have gone, I might pick the lock with my cloak-pin, provided my arms can even reach the bolt.
Retreating once again into the recesses of damp, enclosed darkness, I lean my back against the door and feel its sturdiness slip a couple centimetres. For a moment I am unduly puzzled until I realize that the lock, in fact, has not completely caught.
The lock has not caught! The door is open!
My heart and breath trapped deep within my throat, I pull the open door back into place and then lean my head against it as I wait for the chaos outside and my own paralyzing fear to subside.
It is a hive that seems to descend for miles within deep earth, I discover once I've willed the fortitude to emerge from my prison. Although the catacombs have grown deathly silent, I press my back to the wall and creep steadily through the passageways on silent feet. Very vaguely I recall the coercion into the mountainside, spurred painfully down the twisted path into the very bowels of the fortress, never knowing whether I was traveling to dizzying heights or deep into underground recesses. It is precious little, but it is all I can rely upon for direction.
Last night his screams were a lullaby to the troops stationed here. Pippin is here, so much I believe for certain. I must find him, and quell the immobilizing sorrow that will not relent. But how? A single hobbit, an unarmed hobbit at that, against a towering army of darkness... It is a struggle to keep from giving up before the fight has even begun.
An echo of voices drifts from the deep recesses of a twisted corridor, and I barely find an alcove to dart into before several armour-clad orcs march past. Their speech is nearly drowned out by the clank of metal upon metal, but it is clearly the common tongue, heavily accented. I duck to my knees and close my eyes, praying I will not be spotted -- yet also keeping enough wits about me to listen to their guttural speech.
"You, Krumrot, Gromhurk, find the Halflings! Their friends they are to watch fall! Such are the orders of Ugluk!"
I suppress a gasp as they clatter past, huddling closer to the ground. However, I know full well that I must overcome my terror and follow them immediately. Peering out from my hiding hole, I watch Krumrot and Gromhurk split from their entourage down separate paths. Was it the left tunnel that had been led to my own cell? The gamble is one of complete faith -- but, always a hobbit to bet upon unfavorable odds, I tiptoe through shadow and scamper down the right fork, following fast on the heels of the orc.
Keeping several metres behind at all times, the creature ultimately pauses at a great door similar in size to my own cell. I duck behind a twist in the cavern and shut my eyes tightly, breath harsh in my throat, as it is thrown open in a clatter of sound. I hear a sharp cry, unmistakably Pippin's voice, and the tangle of an ensuing struggle. This gamble has again been in my favor.
Think, Meriadoc, think! Whatever would your dearest Da' Saradoc do? Why, all the good you've done in the past is act as a distraction!
Sudden inspiration hits, and I poke my head around the corner just enough to echo a forced grunt down the passageway. "You there! Forget the Halfling! To the front immediately, worm! Such are the orders of Ugluk!" And instantly, I dash against the wall again, eyes closed, thoughts focused upon what may well be an inevitably painful end to Merry Brandybuck. If nothing else, I've provided, perhaps, a means for Pippin's own flight from this hive.
But I have not overestimated the limited capacity of an orc's intelligence. Triumphant, the 'worm' skids past me, breaking into full run at the ruse of joining his foul brethren in battle. Huddled deep within the camouflaging greyness of an Elven cloak, I listen for the echo of his footsteps to die down completely before finding the strength to stand.
As I'd so desperately hoped, the door to Pippin's cell remains ajar, and I dart towards it, wishing I could call out to him in reassurance but too afraid to raise my voice. At the sight of my figure barging through the darkened opening, he falls swiftly back into a corner and pulls his knees to his chest.
Pippin! As I live and breathe, I am here! I am here...
"What do you want?" exclaims Pippin's high-pitched voice. "I was not trying to escape! Not truly! Leave me, already!"
"Ssh!" I hush him immediately, fearing that his cries will arouse any orcs that might still be within the catacombs. "For the love of all that's good, be quiet, Pippin!"
A choked noise escapes his throat, fingers raising to his lips. "Merry?" he whispers incredulously. "Come forward, so I may see that you are indeed real, and not a figment of my imagination."
He takes several staggering steps towards me, and I race to catch him in my arms. A soft sob bursts from his chest as he presses his face to my shoulder. I shake him briskly. "No, you fool! There's no time for that now! Save the tears for later, when it's safe! We've got precious little time!"
His blue eyes glittering even through the darkness, Pippin raises his head and nods, firming his jaw and swallowing any impending tears. "Do you have a plan?"
"Of course I have a plan, Pip," I state, forcing an outwardly cocky smirk to my lips. It's only a half-truth, and Pippin senses it as such.
"I trust you, cousin," he replies, resolve brightening as he joins my side in the doorway of his cell. Despite the debility of his condition -- hunger evident in the hollows of his cheeks, despair evident in the dark circles surrounding his eyes, torture evident in the limp that pulls upon his left leg -- my very presence is enough to rally his spirits to fight once more.
"Can you walk?"
"A thousand kilometres if I have to!" he boasts, a wry grin alighting upon his features.
I am about to respond with something witty, so glad I am to see my cousin whole and in fact unbroken, when a flurry of rough orc-voices echoes throughout the cavern.
"The Halfling has escaped! Find the Halfling traitor and spit him!"
I turn towards him and find wide, rabbit-scared eyes that mirror my own fright. "Pip, now would be --"
"-- a good time to run!" he breathlessly finishes for me, and without bothering to look back we bolt from the damp cell that had been Pippin's prison. Immediately, we find three armour-clad creatures of the night in hot pursuit, swords drawn as they charge down the immense passageway.
Swift from spending more time than we'd ever hoped among the Big People adapting to their breakneck pace of life, we quickly attain a considerable headstart. As we run for our lives, the corridor seems to twist all the more sharply, the passageway dividing into duplicate, even triplicate, and several times I am forced to yank sharply upon Pippin's shirt to keep him from darting down an opposite tunnel. The orcs hurl curses upon us in a foreign, fouler sounding language; at least it lets us gauge how fast they are gaining.
"Merry! This way!" Pippin gasps suddenly, and he tugs me headlong into a seemingly random fork within the corridor.
As fast as our short hobbit-legs can carry us, we fly through the tunnel into blackest night, and skid to a sudden end to our path as the tunnel gives way to but a small ledge, open air, and a dizzying drop down the mountainside to the ground below. The momentum nearly carries me over the side, but Pippin grasps me by the back of my cloak, its pin biting into my throat as he tugs me back from the edge. The rocks at my feet give way, and I fall back into my companion's arms rather than tumble together with them over the side of the mountain to a messy demise.
"As always, a stunning decision made, dear cousin," I remark, my tone partially sarcastic, the words forced out to cover my own paralyzing fright.
"'If in doubt, Meriadoc, follow your nose,'" he returns, quoting some of the last words any of us had heard uttered by the wizard Gandalf, then grinning absurdly at the glare I give to him.
"Either way, there's nowhere for us to go, Pip," I gasp, turning a wild-eyed glance first to the small band of orcs in pursuit, then to the edge of the chasm that seems to stretch for kilometres to the ground. "Alas, there will be no one to properly finish our chapter in old Bilbo's book!"
"Merry," Pippin suddenly utters, turning me sharply so my eyes meet his. "Do you trust me?"
The urgent passion that emanates from his heart enraptures me, and I whisper in spite of myself, "With every fiber of my being."
For a brief second, he snaps his head back towards the tunnel and the swiftly advancing orcs, as if gauging how many precious seconds we have left of our lives. "Then trust me on this one, cousin mine -- there will be someone to finish our chapter. Maybe even write us an entire book of our own!"
He grasps my hand tightly in his, and as the orcs make their final advance, swords charging towards us, he makes a sudden dart towards the brink. A cry of fear arises in my throat as he pulls me with him, the wind rushing up as we spill into thin air, and hand-in-hand we tumble through blackness into a bottomless tomorrow.
When I open my eyes, I find myself not within the hands of the Over-heaven but of Pippin, his arms looped about my chest as he huddles our bodies close against the face of the mountain. He is shivering... or perhaps it is me who shudders so uncontrollably. Upon this narrow ledge some four metres below our escape tunnel, we sit locked together in a suffocatingly silent embrace until the fiercely arguing voices of the orcs arguing above our heads disappears.
"Pip, how did you know?" I finally whisper when I've managed to find my voice once more.
"I didn't," he remarks with a terrified laugh. "When those rocks fell, it sounded like they hit something further down, but I couldn't be certain."
"You... fool!" I exclaim, pulling myself from his lap and staring at him incredulously. "If I weren't so angry with you, I'd kiss you!"
"Well, you might not want to go kissing me or killing me until we're out of danger. We've still got to get down from here." Releasing a deathly tight grip from around my shoulders, he crawls to the edge, surveying an almost sheer rock face to the ground far, far below.
I feel the sinking within Pippin's heart, and I do not have to look down to guess: "We've got to climb, don't we?"
Pippin bites his lower lip and nods, already beginning to tremble once again. "Aye."
"Then if we're to go," I remark, removing my cloak and knotting an end of it to my belt, "then we go together."
"To the ground or to death?" he asks, immediately taking up the other end of my cloak and tying it to himself.
"Does it really matter at this point, Pip?"
"No," he remarks solemnly, his faery-tinted cerulean eyes sparkling sadly. "I suppose it doesn't."
There is nothing worse to a hole-dwelling, earth-bound hobbit than heights. Pippin and I are seized with terror as we descend the rock face, holding ourselves often by our fingertips alone. Tentative, terrified, we move centimetre by centimetre, although the sweet rush flowing through our veins might bid us hurry -- yet knowing that to do so, with clumsy hobbit-hands and unwieldy hobbit-feet, would undoubtedly mean certain death. Perhaps it is hours, perhaps it is days, before the ground nears close enough for us to tumble to its embrace again. And perhaps we are both crying as we hug the earth, too emotionally undone from fear to keep our tears in check.
For some reason, I cannot stop shaking, even after we manage to recover our wits to walk again upon solid ground. At the bottom of the mountain is not the blessed forest we'd hoped to seek shelter within, but a battlefield of carnage. The battle had been fierce, and fiercely deadly to the enemy, evident in the orc bodies -- both whole and unintact -- that litter the ground at the base. Pippin hears the gasp that escapes my throat and walks close to me, our shoulders touching.
Everything dead, everything dying, it's as if we've walked once more into Balin's tomb. As I sway unsteadily upon my feet, Pippin stoops to kneel beside a mostly unspoiled body, rifling through the orc's meagre possessions. The creature's great sword is much too large for either of us to wield, even together, so he pulls from a scabbard a rusted, crudely hewn dagger and hands it to me. Numbly, I slip it beneath my belt, and he moves on to another body, tucking a dagger of his own into under his belt. Yet he pauses before turning away from the deceased creature, and in a sudden motion plucks a blood-stained arrow from its torso.
"Merry, look," he whispers, voice breaking the desolate silence that surrounds us like a fog. "The arrow -- it's Elvish."
I take the arrow in hand as it's offered to me, unable to kneel to join Pippin at his side -- otherwise, I know I might never stand again. While the tip is nearly blackened with dried blood, the white feathers and silver-scribed etchings remain as radiant as ever. "Legolas," I murmur thickly.
"Exactly what I was thinking! Come, Merry! The Fellowship cannot be too far off! We may still be able to reach them by daybreak!" Although unequivocally weary, Pippin forces a grin to his face.
But I am overcome with exhaustion, with sorrow, the thrill of sweet blood charging through my veins ebbing all too swiftly. My step falters, and I stumble amid the burnt ground and the desolation. Dizzyingly, the ground seeks to rise up to meet my face -- it has all been much, too much.
"Merry?" my cousin whispers, locking an arm around my shoulders as my knees threaten to buckle.
"I cannot go on, Pippin. All I want to do is sleep forever," I murmur, staying upon my feet only by the strength of my companion alone. It is so dark, and I am so very tired.
Yet as I raise my eyes, his dirt-stained, hunger-hollowed face brightens, his grin almost sunny. The light of which reaches everywhere save his eyes, which continue to glitter darkly, haunted. "Fear not, cousin. I will be your beacon. Now, I cannot carry you. You must walk with me, lean upon me as you need, but walk. I will find us a safe place to rest."
And somehow, I manage to will the strength to move my trembling legs. My weight hangs heavily upon Pippin, and somehow he manages to carry on for the two of us, finding some metres down a more gently sloping path up the mountainside. I walk within a dream as we again traverse higher, away from the destruction of a one-sided battle and from our Fellowship, returning closer to the danger of the orcish stronghold, desolately empty as it is. Pippin serves as my guide and as my legs, and somehow together we manage to find shelter within a hollowed alcove recessed into the mountain. Like our own prisons, it is dark and damp, but it is a hole nonetheless, and it provides a small degree of familiarity.
Exhausted, we remove our cloaks and wind ourselves tightly together to sleep the way we once did when we were wee children -- he upon his back, me upon his chest, arms looped about each other and legs intertwined. Despite the chill of the outside air, he is warm, so very warm. And even though I'm bruised, and hungry, and emotionally spent, just knowing that Pippin is here -- that Pippin and I can hold each other protectively through the night -- allows me to slip almost immediately into a deep, blissful slumber.
And for the first night in nearly a week, I do not awake in choking torment amid memories of the whip, of the stench, of the pain of being truly alone.
I awaken on my own, Pippin having extracted himself from my arms at some point in the night, and I find myself enveloped in the warmth of twin Elven cloaks. Although he has gone, I continue to feel him, thoughtfully, unbecomingly solemn in my mind, and I know he is still close. Unwrapping myself from both his and my cloak, I sling my own across my shoulders and gather Pippin's into my arms. My back aches from the combination of the orc's whip and from sleeping upon hard ground. Slowly, I shuffle from the huddled alcove within the mountain's face into the burgeoning light of day and am met with a silence of peace.
I find Pippin sitting at the foot of the path, staring up at the sky overlooking the mountain. The brightening azure of an impending daybreak reflects in his gaze. After swinging his cloak across his back, I sit beside him, drowsily rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My shoulder touches his, and I find solace in quiet company. After a time, he seems to grow aware of my presence, and turns towards me with a gentle smile -- yet a smile that does not reach his once-laughing, cerulean eyes.
"It's so beautiful, isn't it?" he asks in a soft voice. "There were times when I thought I'd never see such a beautiful sky again."
"Don't tell me you doubted that I'd find you," I remark, very lightly joking.
"I never doubted that we'd meet again," he returns. "I merely doubted whether we'd survive to see the face of the sun upon ours once more."
The flippant grin fades from my face, and he looks away, gaze flickering first to the ground then to the lightening sky. It never was like a hobbit, particularly Pippin, to worry or to internalize. Even after Gandalf fell into blackness on the heels of the Balrog, even after Boromir took arrow upon arrow within his breast and dropped in a valiant death before our very eyes, he had always kept a bright spirit. To think that he might lose that brilliantly innocent essence scares me more than a hundred battalions of orcs ever could. I place a hand upon the center of his back and ask, "Oh, Pip, what did those stinking orcs do to you?"
His brows knit, shadowing the bruised hollows beneath his eyes, and yet he doesn't immediately speak. Instead, he inclines his head, locking pained eyes with mine as I search within those fae, oddly cerulean depths for the answers. He opens his mouth to speak, but his voice only manages to come after several breathless attempts to talk. "Merry," he murmurs finally, "is it safe now?"
Even without further explanation, I know what is coming next. I am thankful that he manages to give me warning, precious seconds to prepare my heart. "Yeah, Pip. It's safe."
Immediately, his face crumples, tears suddenly flooding from his eyes as if a dam had burst. His hands wrap around the edges of my cloak, tugging desperately, and I circle my arms around his shaking shoulders. His forehead buries into my shoulder, and I hold him -- as I have held him countless times before -- as he expends his grief into the arms of comfort.
"Oh, Pippin, Pippin," I whisper, brushing tangled hair from his hot face. "We're together again. Do not despair."
"I -- I don't despair," he chokes out through a barrage of sobs. "It's just -- you're here, and for that I'm so glad. But the memory --"
"Ssh," I murmur immediately, cutting off any further speech. Dimly, I feel tears of my own sneaking from my eyes, only mine flow in comparative silence. "Let the memory go, Pippin."
He doesn't respond, only slides his body bonelessly down mine until his head buries into my lap. He seems to cry for an eternity, glistening crystal spilling like a waterfall down his cheeks and melding with the woven fabric of my cloak. Yet eventually, his shuddering sobs taper off first into soft hiccups, then into sniffling, and finally nothing save the residue of his tears drying upon his face. I continue to rifle my fingers consolingly through his hair, and he breathes quietly, evenly.
At some point, I find the energy within me to speak once more, and to will a bright tone to my voice. Though I cannot see his face, I know that he is not asleep, but is instead allowing the green hurt of our capture begin to heal. "I'll bet you're hungry, dear Pip."
Surprisingly, I hear a very light laugh drift to my ears, and reassurance fills my heart. "Was there ever a doubt in your mind?"
A smile comes to my lips, and I shake Pippin's shoulders gently. "There likely isn't much out there, but I should like to search the forest for something to eat. Some of the trees are still unspoiled by the enemy, so there is hope yet of finding something."
Pippin reluctantly leaves the warmth of my lap, but his very presence continues to radiate. It is as if he never left. He rubs his eyes and cheeks with the backs of his hands and offers me a wan smile. "Shall we be off, then?"
"You wouldn't want to stay here? Reserve your strength? You've been through a lot, Pippin." I fix him with an assessing stare, one that had once been enough to force my younger cousin to back off in his eagerness when we'd been children.
"As have you," he replies, stubbornly lacing his arms across his chest. "Don't tell me you've forgotten last night so quickly. We're in this together. And besides, it will be safer for us both in case danger returns."
Smirking, I ruffle my fingers through his hair, spilling tangled brown curls atop his eyes, and he pushes them away impatiently. I hop to my feet and extend a hand to my companion, which he takes eagerly as he pulls himself upright. Pippin hums to himself as we travel, arms linked, down the winding mountain path, and it fills my heart with gladness. While at one point some short weeks before he might have sung a merry tune to lift our spirits, the wound of our encounter with the orcs is still too painfully fresh. But he is healing, swiftly healing.
Pippin and I separate some metres into the forest so that we might encompass more ground in our hunt for food. I watch his back as he disappears through the underbrush, following the overgrown route that had once been a Man's path. After a time, his grey cloak seems to meld with the scenery, and I lose sight of him; it is only then that I commence my own surveillance of the area.
After some time of picking through the burnt corpses of trees, of the poisonous-thorned underbrush, even around several fly-blown pockets where battle-slain orcs were lain for the carrion-birds to pick clean, I happen upon a small tree sparsely scattered with tiny crabapples. From a struggling, leafless branch, I snap off one of the fruit -- no larger than the clasp that holds my cloak closed -- and tentatively bite into it. The taste is bitter, but it is edible, and pleasantly reminiscent of a time many a year ago when Pippin and I had once eaten ourselves sick after a raid of Farmer Maggot's crabapple orchard. I smile at the memory and pop the rest of the apple into my mouth, seeds and all; yet although I'm half-starved, it is all I will allow myself to eat. While not a feast, the discovery will taste infinitely better shared with my cousin. I pick what I can from the tree and carry them in the edge of my cloak.
A sharp shout rouses me from my search, and the scant picking of crabapples spills to the ground. Pippin's shriek, so reminiscent of the night the orcs separated us, rises through the trees, stopping my heart in its very beat.
"Merry! Merry!"
"Pippin," I whisper, terror flooding icily through my veins.
Suddenly, there is a brilliant energy in the air, and, overwhelmingly relieved, I feel Pippin's presence before I see or hear him. His is an electric blue, brighter than any wizard firework, enveloping me in its intensity. Truly unaware of how much he projects of himself, Pippin breaks breathlessly through the underbrush, the sun bright on his cheeks and returning a glitter to his eyes that at one point I had imagined lost forever.
"Merry, come quick! It's wonderful, you have to see! Come now, don't just stand there gaping! There's something I must show you!"
"What is it, Pip?" I inquire, hoping the fear that overtook my expression is no longer evident as I join his side.
"Come on, Merry!" is all he responds, wrapping fingers around my arm and sharply tugging me to follow him.
The dash through the trees and the tangled briars that obscure what once was a path is a frantic one. Through what seem to be endless twists, leaps over uneven earth and smattered rocks, my cousin physically pulls me, swift despite the limp, and I very nearly struggle to keep up. Unexpectedly, he pulls to a stop, and I nearly stumble atop him.
"Look," he exclaims, pointing to an outcropping of trees. "Do you see that?"
I arch an eyebrow and gaze first at Pippin's eager face, then to the grouping of trees. "You're off your rocker, Pippin. I don't see anything but --" The words die upon my lips in sudden realization, and I break away from him. Dashing swiftly closer, I see the rough carving upon the tree -- a series of lines slashed within the bark at eye level to a hobbit.
"The number nine," I murmur beneath my breath, recognizing the Elvish symbol. Spinning on my heel, I join Pippin in bright laughter. "Good eye, Pip!"
"Do you think they've gone far?" he asks.
I study the marking, carved as a sign by the sword of Aragorn, touching the split bark with my fingertips. "I don't think this is more than a day or two old," I remark, although I can't be completely certain.
"Then there's time for us to catch up!"
I cross my arms overtop my chest and regard him with a grin. "Plenty of time to catch up, dear cousin. But first, shall we have some breakfast? I have found some apples. There's not that many, but with the Fellowship so close, we could use the strength."
If I had not seen it with my own two eyes, I would not have believed that Pippin's face could get any brighter. But it does at the mention of food, and his tangled curls bounce as he nods rapidly.
"Come then. I dropped them back in the clearing after you nearly scared me out of my skin --"
Without warning, Pippin silences me with a sharp raising of his hand, palm out. He inclines his head curiously, ear to the wind. I close my eyes and lift my own chin to the air, and after a time a clanging of sorts reaches my ears, drawn in a faint whisper upon the breeze. Metal upon metal, like a sword striking armour, followed by cries both human and inhuman.
"Uruk-hai," Pippin spits in a strained whisper. The brightness in his eyes fades, darkness overcoming his features. I have to struggle to keep the projection of his fear from overcoming me. Yet beneath that apprehension lies a strong, silver line of determination.
"Then the orcs have found the Fellowship once again," I return.
"We must help them. They can't be more than a few kilometres off." Pippin starts towards the direction of the cries, until I grab his arm and restrain him.
"No, Pip, you're staying here. I won't have you fight."
He wriggles out of my grasp and gives me an uncharacteristically astute smirk, shaking his head. "You would have to tie me down first, and I know that you've brought no rope."
Blinking, I can only stare at him mutely, knowing that he will, regardless of danger and of his own fears, push blindly forward to assist the Fellowship.
"I will not be separated from you again, Merry," he states firmly. "Nor will I abandon the others. I am no maiden in need of a lord's protection. We will fight together."
"If that is what you desire, then, let us at least go back to camp for our belongings."
Pippin pushes a grin to his lips. "Can we eat along the way?"
Although I'm horribly frightened, I cannot help but chuckle. "Yes, Pippin. We will eat on the way."
He nods brightly, cheered for the moment despite the danger, and I cannot help but marvel at what a remarkable creature he is, this Peregrin Took. He is indeed a fool, often rushing into life without any forethought of the consequences of his actions. Troublesome, at times; life-threatening in others -- but for his closest companions, he would do absolutely anything, even at the expense of his own life's essence. For that attribute alone, I would trade away none of his foolishness for anything in the world.
I may well lose him again, but it is a risk we will both have to take. Brothers in arms though we are, what remains of the Fellowship also needs us. Hobbits are not naturally brave creatures, and we are both deeply afraid as we dash back to camp, gathering both food and orc-blades. Who knows what lies ahead on the battlefield -- perhaps separation, perhaps injury, perhaps even further loss of life. But for now, Pippin and I will be brave despite our terror, for if it means dashing into the maw of death, at least we will not run blindly, but together. Side by side, we will fight to the bitter end, for Middle-earth, for the Shire, for each other.
hurts like a tight embrace
and the memories of us together
paint a beautiful loneliness
presses heavily like a kiss
the scars of being together
tell us of a beautiful parting