Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit.  This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.

Stars in the Dark

Chapter 1

The Company trudged on wearily through the gloom of the Mines of Moria.  Frodo’s heart was slowly settling back into its normal rhythm, the terror of being snatched and hoisted aloft by the Watcher in the Water fading.  Behind him, Aragorn kept a close eye on the hobbit as they struggled up the debris-laden path, reaching out now and then to lay a hand on the small shoulder and steady him.  Though the little one seemed calm and kept pace with the others, the Ranger feared he had taken more hurt than he showed.

It had come out of nowhere, as he and Boromir and the other warriors of the Company peered about them at the murky shadows.  Their relief at having the gates open and leaving the foul-smelling lake behind had quickly turned to revulsion and dismay when Gandalf lighted his staff and they were able to see about them.  The rotting skeletons and broken weapons had disconcerted them all; Legolas kept arrow to his deadly bow, Gimli’s axes were in his hands, his and Boromir’s swords drawn and ready.  But nothing rose to menace them except the musty smell of old death.  The hobbits’ hopes of Gimli’s promised feast, “roaring fire, malt beer, and meat hot off the bone,” evaporated in the stark reality of the cavern.  In the tight group they seemed to form instinctively when threatened, they had already starting backing towards the Moria gate, their eyes darting from one decaying dwarf corpse to another in horror.  Pippin (and it would be Pippin, Aragorn thought with a sigh) had stumbled over one of the skeletons, uttering a brief cry of shock and disgust. 

Then Frodo had gone down, pulled backwards off his feet by the slimy-green tentacle.  Aragorn could now spare a brief surge of admiration for the other three - their courage far surpassed their size.  Merry and Pippin had at once leapt to Frodo’s aid, drawing their small swords and slashing at the clutching, finger-ended arm.  Samwise had used his head, first turning and shouting “Strider!  Strider!”, then leaping to help the others.   Alerted, Aragorn had whirled around.  He thought he would never forget the sight that met his eyes.

Frodo was being dragged by one leg to the very edge of the black, stinking water, his huge morning glory eyes wide with terror.  Merry and Pippin had grabbed his flailing arms, hands tangling in his cloak, trying to pull him back while Sam hacked at the monster, “Get off  ‘im!”  The brief moment of respite when the arm recoiled, leaving the four panting and shocked hobbits frozen on the stony shore.  Then the water had exploded with tentacles, knocking Sam and Merry and Pippin off their feet.  His horror as it grabbed Frodo anew and heaved him, upside down, high into the air.  Frodo’s drawn-out wail of pure fear.

The warriors had waded into the water, wielding sword and axe, seeking to strike some vital body part.  There had seemed to be no body, only slimy, reeking arms of incredible strength.  Legolas fired arrow after arrow into them without effect.  Aragorn and Boromir cut away several of the arms, and now the sounds of battle were punctuated by the beast’s rumbling roars of pain and rage.  It had whipped Frodo from side to side with such force that Aragorn feared it would break his back.  

Then the head – or whatever – had emerged, water cascading from its rubbery black skin.  Great bat-wing like gills, bulbous unlidded eyes, a mouth filled with glistening teeth the length of the hobbit’s arms.  Frodo was twisting, kicking frantically, his cloak tangling about him.  Another tentacle had risen up from the seething body mass to grasp him by one wrist and swung the hobbit before the opening mouth.  If they did not free him, the creature could tear him apart.

Aragorn had finally identified which writhing, shifting tentacle held Frodo’s leg.  With one swing of his sword, he severed it completely, black ichors spurting from the wound.  The air vibrated with the monster’s scream.  The hobbit fell, somersaulting in the air, landing hard in Boromir’s outstretched arms.  His small arms had wrapped around the man’s neck with terrified strength.  With Legolas acting as rearguard, Aragorn had herded the Fellowship back into the vile den they had just quitted, and felt the stony walls tremble as the beast seized the gates and slammed them forever shut.

Then there had been nothing but their panting breaths and the darkness.

Gandalf had raised his staff and the crystal he had inserted into its tip blazed into radiant light.  He walked past them and the Company could hear the resignation in his voice, “Now we have but one choice…  We must face the long dark of Moria.  It is a four-day journey to the other side.  Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.”  Silently, the Fellowship had fallen into line and trailed after him.

Later, as they stumbled on through the dark, Aragorn had asked, “Gandalf, what was that thing in the water?”

Gandalf had replied in heavy, measured tones, “I do not know.  There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world.”

“Whatever it was,” Pippin piped up, “it grabbed Frodo first out of all of us.”

“Be quiet, Pippin!” Gandalf had snapped at him.

How many hours ago that had been, Aragorn did not know.  His usually accurate time-sense, honed through years of experience in the Wild and in many dark places of the world, was confused by the unyielding darkness.  The blackness pressed down upon them like a great hand, snatching away their breath, smothering small and familiar sounds. 

When the wizard finally called a halt, all were more than ready.  The hobbits cast themselves full-length on the dusty stone floor; the larger folk sought seats among the broken rubble that had once been magnificently carven stone.

Aragorn had noticed that Frodo was beginning to lag behind the others, limping, and now he curled himself into a ball with his back to the Company.  The Ranger’s gaze sharpened on the small form.   Aragorn had noticed first after the attack on Weathertop, that the little one would often seek solitude when he hurt, would curl himself into a ball as if to shield himself from pain and concerned, prying eyes.  After understanding the posture, the Ranger had learned to watch for it.  Seeing that the others were occupied with breaking out water-bottles and rubbing aching feet and legs, the Ranger picked up one of the torches they had kindled and drifted over to him.

“Let me see, Frodo.”

The hobbit started; he had not been aware of the Ranger’s approach.  He shook his dark head and protested, “I’m not hurt, Aragorn…” but the Ranger would have none of it. 

“Let me see.  You do none of us a favor should you lame yourself on the trail.”  The hobbit started to argue, then the fight went out of his face and was replaced by pain.  Squeezing his eyes shut, he drew back the cloak that had covered his leg, and Aragorn stifled a gasp.  Where the creature had held him, the skin was crisped as if a burning brand had been held against it.  Completely encircling the ankle, part of the furred foot, and up the calf, the skin was black and peeling as if it had been washed in acid.

Aragorn captured Frodo’s arm, pulled it into the ring of light.  Similar burns encircled the small wrist, though not so badly.  His shirt and jacket had protected him somewhat.  The cuff now hung in slimy tatters, dissolving in acid.  Aragorn drew his knife and quickly cut the liquefying cloth back to clean linen.  The hobbit shuddered and clasped the elbow of the injured arm with his other hand, cradling it before his body.

Rebuking the hobbit for his stubbornness would gain nothing, the damage was done.  Aragorn unclasped the water skin from his belt and, as gently as possible, poured water over the wounds.  Frodo jerked involuntarily then stiffened, quivering, his teeth clenched.  Samwise materialized at Aragorn’s side, his attention caught by his master’s sudden movement.  “What’s wrong?”  Then he saw the burns and his grey eyes widened. 

If Aragorn was willing to let it pass, Sam was not. “You said you were all right, Mr. Frodo!  You said you wasn’t hurt!”  Unable to reply, Frodo could only gaze at him miserably.

Skin sloughed off under the gentle stream of water, revealing raw, abraded flesh.  Blood glistened, pooled under Frodo’s foot.  The hobbit started to curl into a ball again, but Sam reached across and caught the burned arm, keeping the burns from touching anything.  Frodo curled his other arm against him and laid his head on shaking knees.  He was breathing much too rapidly - he could hyperventilate and pass out.  That, Aragorn reflected, might not be a bad thing.

The light brightened about them and Gandalf knelt on Aragorn’s other side, propping his glowing staff against a stone.  “What is it?”

Aragorn gestured silently at the wounds.  Frodo did not look up but pressed his forehead tighter into his knees.  “He’s hurt, sir,” Sam whispered heatedly.  “He didn’t tell no one.”

“That monster in the lake put forth some kind of acid,” the Ranger said. “It has burned him badly.  I dare not put salve or bandage on the wounds.”

Gandalf grasped his staff and angled it down to examine the damage.  Merry and Pippin appeared over his shoulders, their small faces tight as they saw the wounds.  They exchanged a look over the wizard’s head, then wordlessly sidled ‘round to Frodo, one on each side, and placed a hand on his trembling shoulders.

“No,” the wizard sighed.  “No, these must not be covered until the burns have sealed themselves.”   He handed his staff across to Merry, who balanced it upright with his free hand.  He lowered himself to his knees and peered into Frodo’s averted face.  “Frodo,” he asked softly.  “Frodo?”

Frodo raised his head, his face taut with pain.

“We must move on soon. You cannot walk like this.  Aragorn and Boromir will have to carry you.”

Frodo nodded, silent.  Gandalf stared at the small figure a moment more, than motioned to the Ranger.  Aragorn rose and followed Gandalf back to the other three, who had watched from where they sat. 

“We must ease him.  He is in terrible pain, made the worse by walking on those burns.” 

Legolas spread his long hands expressively.  “I am not trained in the healer’s arts, and know little of the small ones.”

Boromir shook his bearded head.  “I can do rough triage for wounds taken in battle, for bones broken by mace or ram.  I can do some sewing and know how to cauterize a bleeding limb.  But I know nothing of burns and the tending of blistered flesh.”

Gimli rumbled under his breath, then spoke.  “My people have a way of easing pain, of the body or of the mind, without bandages or medicines.  I have some experience with the technique, having used it to ease injuries taken in the mines of my people.”  His gaze turned towards the hobbits as he considered.  “I will need light.”

The wizard met the Dwarf’s eyes for a moment, then nodded.  “I will provide the light.” 

Gandalf followed Gimli back to the four hobbits.  Sam was kneeling in front of Frodo, speaking to him softly but urgently.  He broke off as they approached, and Gandalf spared a small smile for the tongue-lashing, laced with comforting, that Frodo had no doubt been receiving.  Gimli crouched down by Sam, his heavy chain mail clinking softly, and removed his helmet.  Gandalf moved to stand between the other two hobbits, behind Frodo.  Frodo angled his head back at him, bewildered.

“Frodo,” Gimli said, capturing his attention.  “I have something that will help with the pain, without touching the wounds.  But first I want to show you a pretty thing I have, a most unusual thing.”

Gandalf retrieved his staff from Merry, and motioned for the two to return to the others.  It seemed they would protest, but the wizard shook his head and signaled again, glancing sternly at them from beneath bristling brows.   With worried, backward glances, Merry and Pippin left.  Aragorn knelt down, and putting his head close to theirs, began to explain.  The wizard motioned for Samwise to join them, but the hobbit refused.  “I’m not leaving, sir,” he mumbled.  “Mr. Frodo needs me.  Maybe I can help.” 

“You cannot, Sam.”  The wizard was adamant.  “Please go join the others.  We will call you back in but a little while.”  Unhappily, Sam went.

Gimli shifted until he knelt directly in front of Frodo, with the wizard holding his staff alight behind the hobbit.  Frodo looked back and forth between the two of them, confused and apprehensive. 

Gimli reached into his belt pouch and pulled forth a golden ring, heavy and ornate, set with a sparkling ruby stone.  He held it before the hobbit’s eyes, turning it so the facets caught and reflected the light.   Frodo glanced at it then gazed at it again as the intricate cutting piqued his interest.  Gimli leaned forward, began to talk in a soft, monotone voice.  “See how the stone collects the light?  Beautiful, isn’t it?  The little pricks of light look like stars in the sky, do they not?”  The Dwarf whirled the ring slowly, the facets reflecting in the hobbit’s so-blue eyes.  “How the little stars turn and turn, like the earth spins under the sky at night…” 

As Gimli settled himself comfortably on the cold stone and continued to talk in that soft, level tone, Frodo’s breathing began to even out, his features relaxing and the tension leaving his body.  Gandalf watched, careful not to let his gaze linger on the slowly-turning ring.   At last Gimli leaned forward, peered into the hobbit’s slack face.  “He’s under,” the Dwarf reported.  “Now I will instruct him not to feel the pain.  It will last for many hours.  When he starts to hurt, then I will renew it.”

As Gimli gave those instructions; not to feel pain, that the burns did not hurt, that Frodo should sleep, the wizard returned to the waiting Company.  The hobbits were uncertain, unable to see what was happening, watching Gimli’s back.  “It is an old method of suppressing pain,” Gandalf assured them, “long known by Gimli’s people.  It will not harm him.”  They looked up at him worriedly.

At last Gimli rose.  Frodo remained sitting, seeming almost asleep.  “He will not suffer so much, now,” said the Dwarf, slipping the ring back into the pouch and putting it in his pack.  Sam returned to his master and waved his hand in front of Frodo’s face.  Frodo’s eyes did not track the movement.

“It’s all right, Sam,” Gandalf assured him as Sam raised puzzled eyes to him.  “Your master is only deeply relaxed, his mind asleep.  We can move on without hurting him.”  At Gandalf’s word, Boromir stooped and lifted Frodo up, careful not to brush the dangling leg or wrist against his surcoat.   The hobbit, loose-limbed, nestled against his warmth.

“Quietly, now.  Be on your guard.”  Gandalf held his staff before them, casting but a small circle of light in the vast, echoing caverns.  Aragorn picked up the torch.  Single-file, silent, the Company gathered up their packs and began the march.  The darkness pressed close upon them once more.

* TBC * 

Chapter 2      

Twice more during that long march, their first day in Moria, the Company halted while Gimli spun his faceted ring before Frodo’s bespelled eyes.  The Dwarf kept a close eye on the passive hobbit and would demand that they stop whenever Frodo seemed to be coming back to himself.   Gandalf kept them moving, the crystal in his staff glowing but faintly, providing just enough light to pool at their feet and throw more shadow than define the shapes about them.  Pippin was glad; he did not want to see more clearly.  He still felt sick from what he had seen as they entered the East Doors and beheld the ruin of Khazad-dûm.

Several more times they passed by scenes of old death, decaying skeletons of dwarves and orcs and goblins, each moldering face stretched in a rictus of agonizing pain.  Black arrows and broken shields, rusted swords and shattered axes littered the battlegrounds.  Rats’ eyes glinted at them from every dark crevice.  The bodies swarmed with enormous brown roaches, their shiny backs giving the decomposing corpses the illusion of movement.  Pippin grew to loath the little skittering sounds made by millions of clawed insect feet on rock and wall; the sound would disappear as they walked through a space, then resume immediately after.  They moved in a little oasis of light, and outside of it, all was horror.  Pippin turned his eyes away from these sights and shuddered, and more than once considered asking Gimli if the Dwarf would allow him the same unawareness granted Frodo.  Merry and Sam walked beside him, their faces pale and set, neither looking to the side.  Shamed by their courage, Pippin steeled himself and buried his fears down deep. 

By the time Gandalf raised his glowing staff to signal their campsite for the night, Frodo’s dreadful burns had sealed and Aragorn was able to wash them and wrap them lightly in athelas-soaked bandages.  The fragrance of the healing herb was a balm to their weary minds, a reminder that outside, the sun still shone and the world still existed beyond the dank caverns.  Frodo merely looked straight ahead as Aragorn tended him, his stare inward-focused, and the Ranger blessed anew Gimli’s knowledge of his people’s pain-easing technique.  The Dwarf spun the ring before Frodo’s eyes a last time, the diamond-points of sparkling light seeming to sink into Frodo’s  eyes, and told him to eat then sleep.  The technique which Gimli performed upon the hobbit was by no means secret, Aragorn knew, but it was a gift rarely given to those not of dwarven-kind.

Finishing his own meal, the Ranger covered the curled-up form with an extra blanket and rose to speak with the wizard.  Sitting beside his sleeping master, Samwise was scouring the stew pot with a rough cloth.  There was no water to spare for cleansing.  The Company had expected to refill their water supplies at the Sirannon, the Gate-stream, renown for the crystal freshness of its spring-born water.  Instead, that foul, stinking lake had greeted their horrified eyes.  As much as they needed water, Aragorn would never permit them to take it from that murky, vile-smelling reserve.  Not that anyone would consider it, after seeing that monstrous creature in the water.  Aragorn had poured the contents of his own water-skin over Frodo’s burns and used the rest to soak the athelas leaves.  The single remaining sip was all that he had drunk with supper. 

Pippin had already asked for a second cup of water and the Ranger had regretfully denied him.  His sharp eyes did not miss that Merry had poured a portion of his single cup into Pippin’s.  Sam, too, had poured some of his allotment into Frodo’s cup, taking advantage of his master’s enforced sleep to ensure that Frodo took it without protest.  Aragorn scowled into the darkness.  The injured Ringbearer would need water for his body to heal those acid burns, and they had none to give him.  They were all thirsty now; tomorrow, they would be truly suffering.  While they could go many days without food, the lack of water could finish them.

Several times along the march, the Ranger had thought he heard dripping water … all illusions of the echoing caverns.  With his superior elven hearing, Legolas had located a sprightly spring from which water burbled abundantly … from behind a solid rock wall.  They had placed the palms of their hands against the wall and felt the force of the rushing water as faint tremors in the rock.  It ran free and clear and forever beyond their reach.

As he had known it would be, the Company’s thirst was much greater when they rose to resume their march, the second day in Moria.  Aragorn used the last of the water was used to wash Frodo’s burns and moisten the athelas-wrapped bandages.  The wounds were beginning to heal but were very red and the new skin under that which had sloughed off was shiny and blistered.  The hobbit’s leg and wrist would still be tender beyond measure, and had to be safeguarded against infection.  Judging the pain still too much for Frodo to endure, Aragorn had asked Gimli to again perform his own brand of healing magic, and Boromir and Aragorn traded off carrying the entranced hobbit.

By the time they halted for the mid-day meal, all were desperately thirsty.  In the glow of Gandalf’s staff and the torches they carried, Pippin had thought he saw moisture gleaming on rock and had eagerly placed his tongue against it.  All he got was a mouthful of dust as he licked across a vertical vein of shining quartz. 

The wizard had extinguished the light on his staff and their only illumination was the small cook fire, built between what appeared to be highly decorated benches, conveniently tumbled on their sides.   The benches sheltered the fire from direct sight, and also absorbed the heat of the flames, affording the hobbits some unexpected but much appreciated warmth.  Torches were plentiful, lying scattered on the ground or even remaining in the many carved stone torch-rests that had once decorated the city.  Merry and Pippin gathered several from the debris and laid them by the fire for future use.  Their dry rations swallowed painfully, the hobbits curled up close together in their cloaks and slept.  Watching their small forms rest uneasily on the hard ground, Aragorn wondered if they were seeking perhaps to escape the ever-pressing weight of dead stone around and above them.

Of all the Company, it was perhaps the Elf that suffered most in the closed and musty space.  In these dark mines, Legolas felt constricted, almost as if the rocks walls inched a little closer with every breath.  Longing to feel fresh air on his face and missing the open sky, he would often raise his clear eyes as if to see past solid rock to the stars so beloved by his people.  Suddenly, Legolas gave a soft cry of wonder.

Above them, little points of light twinkled in the black unyielding darkness.  They could not possibly be stars; the cavern ceiling arched high and solid over them.  The Elf rose to his feet, seeking understanding.  The little points of light did not truly twinkle, he realized, but only seemed to move as his eyes roved from one place to another. 

The soft exclamation drew the attention of those awake, who then followed a long hand upward as the Elf gestured at the glowing points of light.  “What are they?”  Legolas asked. 

It was Gimli who answered, son of a cave-dwelling folk.  “They are luminescent lichen, a type of moss, a small plant that clings to rock.”  He took his pipe out of his mouth and rumbled, “I have heard it said that they are actually animals, but I cannot see how it could be so.  They grow like little flowers, strong roots eating into any crevice they can find.  Their light results from processes deep within them.  They are an interesting curiosity, but of no value or use.”

Legolas sighed.  “They do not guide us or light our way or lift our hearts, yet it gladdens me to see such things in this dark place.  Little touches of beauty to remind us that, outside, the stars still shine.”

Pippin had opened his eyes at the Elf’s soft cry.  Beside him, Merry and Frodo still slept and Sam snored softly.  He sat up and rubbed his eyes, listening as the Big Folk discussed the faintly glowing points of light.   Fascinated, he edged over to Gimli.

“Are they growing on the ceiling, then?  Like stars stuck on the curtain of night?”

The Dwarf chuckled softly.  “Some are.  Most of what you see is growing on the walls of this cavern itself, but the darkness hides the details from our eyes.”

Pippin stood up and stared, thinking of crisp nights in the Shire when the stars had seemed so close he could actually touch them.  More than once (and not so long ago) the youngster had raised himself up on his toes and reached for the shining stars.  When he was very small, he thought he could hold one in his hand, did he reach far enough…  There seemed to be a ledge directly under where the moss-stars started growing.  Some kind of raised gallery?  Pippin wandered over the cavern wall and regarded the fallen masonry and tumbled stone piled there. 

Behind him, the Big Folk continued talking softly and his cousins and Sam slept on.  Pippin wondered what the moss-stars looked like, up close.  Were they warm; did they give off heat?  Would they be diamond-hard and sharp like he imagined stars to be?

Almost before he knew it, the youngster had started to climb.  The very lowest of the stars looked not far above him.  Their glow was just enough for him to find handholds among the storied rock, and his tough, furred feet easily found toeholds in the carved and pitted masonry.   Sure-footed and hobbit-silent, Pippin ascended the wall easily.

He had almost gone as high as he could before a loosened stone betrayed him.  The treacherous rock bounced off another and started a whole avalanche of small stones, spraying the resting Company indiscriminately.  Pippin grimaced … he was in for it now.

“Fool of a Took!”  Gandalf was on his feet and staring up at him.  No one had been hurt by the small stones but now everyone was awake and no one looked to be happy with him.  Pippin momentarily debated the wisdom of staying up there until the wizard calmed down.

“I just wanted to see the moss-stars,” he called softly.  “I’m sorry!  I’ll come right down.”  Pippin turned back to the wall to start his descent.  The nearest moss-star was only a little above his head.  It seemed a waste to go to all this trouble and not get what he had come for…  Pippin flexed his knees and jumped, swiping at the glowing patch.  Not quite high enough…

“Pip, you come down here right now!”  Merry was in no mood for his younger cousin’s antics.  Asleep, he had been able to forget the thirst that clawed at his throat.  Rudely awakened by a stone bouncing off his ribs, he rubbed the bruise angrily.  Beside him, Frodo also sat up and gasped as he felt his injuries.

One more jump…  Pippin took a small running leap and caught a small handful of the glowing stuff on his way down.  His forward momentum carried him several feet past where he had been standing. 

“I’ve got -" the others heard, followed by a tremendous splintering crash.  Pippin disappeared from sight.  They heard a short wail and then nothing.

Legolas was up the tumbled rock before the echoes of Pippin’s soft cry had faded.  Aragorn caught up Merry as the hobbit rushed past him to follow the Elf.

“He’s fallen into some kind of hole,”  Legolas called down.  “He landed on a rotted wooden grate, which gave under his weight.  I cannot see him.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 3

Aragorn handed a shaking Merry to Gandalf, who put a steadying hand on the hobbit’s shoulder.  The Ranger caught up the torch Boromir held out to him.  Climbing swiftly up besides the Elf, he sank to his hands and knees and peered into the dark tunnel. 

Gimli had been examining the ledge and now called up to them, “This looks like a guard-walk.  The wooden grate would have covered a drain for mopping the walk.  The drain would be very narrow.”

“Pippin!  Pippin, can you hear me?” Aragorn angled the torch in the small opening, but the brand only illuminated three dusty stone walls and one dust-free one. 

“None of us can fit down that hole, Aragorn,” Legolas said.  “Pippin is the smallest of the halflings; perhaps Frodo might be able to push himself down it but not hurt as he is.”

“Help!”  a small and frightened voice drifted up to them. 

“Pippin!  Are you hurt?”  Aragorn would have given a score of filled water-skins to be able to see down that hole.  Merry cried out inarticulately and Sam grasped his hand.  Frodo started to climb to his feet then froze as his face turned deathly white.  Gritting his teeth, he remained on the ground, silent, his eyes huge.

“No … no, I don’t think so.  I slid down and tore my jacket.  I’m all right!  But I can’t climb up!”  Pippin’s voice sounded thin and strained.

“Very good, Pippin,”  Aragorn called to him, striving to keep his tone steady and comforting. “Take a deep breath and try again.”

Faint scrambling sounds met their ears.  They ceased.  Then there was a thud and a weak “oof!” 

“Pippin!

“I’m all right!  I tried to put my back against the other side and walk up, but I can’t.  The sides go almost straight up, Strider!”  The young hobbit’s voice had been rising with each word and the last was delivered in a sob.

“Stay calm, Pippin.  We’ll have you out of there shortly.  Just give us a few moments.”

The Ranger climbed down the wall and rejoined the others.  Legolas remained at the opening and continued to comfort the frightened youngster, asking him questions and urging him to talk to stay his panic.  The Elf held the torch above the entry so that the hobbit could see it, and the faint light far above helped to anchor Pippin and calm him.

“Rope!”  said Sam.  “We want it an’ we haven’t got it.  Can we tie our clothes or blankets together and pull ‘im up?”

“If this is as it seems, then there is an easier way.”  All eyes turned to the Dwarf.  “The drain would be part of the city’s drainage system.  If Pippin finds the water channel, then he could just walk until he comes out in one of the maintenance junctions.”

Gandalf frowned, thinking.  “How far would that be?  Could he traverse the channel safely without light?”

The Dwarf rumbled into his beard, considering.  “Not far.  Dwarrowdelf  was a great realm, once.  It was built to support a great many people.  Dwarves take great pride in all aspects of engineering; even the drainage channels would be smooth and level.”  He folded his thick arms and stared up at the walk again.  “And the young one need not walk in darkness.  The cleaners would use torches, cut to half their normal length.  The small ones gathered fallen torches earlier.  We could saw a few in half and drop them down to him.”

“Where are these maintenance areas?  How would we meet up with him there?”  Frodo’s voice did not betray the pain he must have been feeling, but his eyes were tight and his face very pale.  Aragorn felt a pang when he saw the hobbit had freed himself from the influence of Gimli’s ring; he knew the Ring-bearer well enough now to know that Frodo would not accept the oblivion from pain the technique offered if it meant he was also unaware of Pippin’s situation.

“They would have been spaced at regular intervals along the drainage channels.   There are entrances to the maintenance areas all along the galleries; we have passed many.  The design of this city was very precise; very symmetrical.  We need only to agree to go one direction or the other and Pippin go the same, and we will meet him at the first junction.”

Their discussion was interrupted by a faint, “What are you lot doing up there?  I want out!”

At that, Merry tore himself from Sam’s grasp and scrambled up the tumbled wall.  Sam took a step after him then turned back as Frodo again tried to gain his feet and sank down with a cry.  Sam caught his master’s arm as Frodo started to curl in on himself, and began to murmur to him softly.

Aragorn exchanged glances with Gandalf then climbed back up the hole.  Pulling himself up over the edge, he almost rammed his face into the soles of two large, dirty hairy feet as Merry knelt over the hole, sticking his head down as far as he could reach.  Whatever words the two were exchanging were muffled by Merry’s head.  When Aragorn prodded the hairy feet, Merry scooted to the side.  The hobbit raised himself up then unfastened his cloak, followed by his jacket.

“Merry, what are you doing?” the Ranger asked as Merry unbuttoned his bright yellow waistcoat. 

“I’m going after him.  You can throw down the torches and we’ll meet you at the junction.”  He leaned down and called softly, “I’m coming, Pip!”

So saying, Merry took hold of Legolas’ arms and the Elf braced himself and started to lower the halfling into the hole.   Aragorn bit back his objection, and in a moment, saw that he had been right.  Though Merry twisted and pushed, he could not force himself down the hole.  His chest and shoulders were simply too broad.  When Merry began to bleed from abrasions on his ribs, Aragorn told Legolas to pull the protesting hobbit up.

Far below, Pippin yelped as the light from the torch again became visible. “Oi!  What’s happening?”

“It won’t work, Merry. You can’t fit.  We’ll have to do it Gimli’s way.”  Aragorn stuck his head down as Merry had done, hoping it would keep the sounds from carrying.  “Pippin, Merry won’t fit down the hole.  You are going to have to walk to where we can meet you.  It isn’t far, Pippin.  We are going to throw down some torches to you; one will certainly stay lit until you can pick it up.  All right?”

There was a long silence, then a weak “All right… ”  A pitiful sniff followed, and Merry shut his eyes and groaned. 

Below them, Gimli and Gandalf had worked out the directions.  These were called up to Merry, who relayed them to Pippin.  When they were certain he understood, Merry collected the sawn-off torches from Sam, who had cut them while they were speaking and climbed up with them.  Merry leaned down again and instructed Pippin to feel along the walls until he found the two channel openings.  Running his hands along the sides, Pippin quickly found the narrow openings and wasted no time ducking into one as the first torch was dropped carefully down.  The flame extinguished as it fell.  So did the second.  The third one fell lit and remained so while Pippin snatched it up.  He was so relieved to have light that he forgot to move out of the way and when Merry dropped the fourth one, it bounced and whacked his shin.

“Ow!”

“Sorry!” 

Now those on the ledge could see the young hobbit … or the top half of him anyway as he held the torch up.  Pippin’s green-gold eyes were enormous in his strained face.  He was shivering and the torch trembled wildly in his grip. 

“Mr. Merry!”  Merry turned from the hole to see the top of Sam’s curly head rising over the lip of the ledge.  “We put together a few things for Mr. Pippin.  Here, take ‘em.”

Merry accepted the sack and opened it.  Inside, neatly packed, was Frodo’s spare cloak, a small hard loaf of bread, cheese, dried apples, and Gimli’s water-skin.  Right on cue, he heard, “Merry, I’m hungry.”

Merry edged to the lip and called softly, “Thank you.”  Then (after warning Pippin) he dropped the sack.

“You are welcome, young hobbit.”  Gimli crested the ledge and joined them.  Below them, juggling the torch, Pippin had recovered the dropped sack and donned the extra cloak.  He was tearing into the bread and they heard his small crow of delight as he discovered the honey that Sam had spread on it.  The Dwarf grinned, his dark eyes twinkling.  Turning to Merry, Legolas and Aragorn, he said, “There is one more thing Pippin should know… “ 

Gimli positioned himself over the drain.  “Pippin!”

The youngster looked up, sticky breadcrumbs at the side of his mouth.  “Ummph?”

“Pippin, what you are caught in is a drainage tunnel for waste-water.”  Pippin nodded, he understood that.  The Dwarf considered how to phrase his next item of information.  “All types of waste-water, Pippin.”

Those above saw Pippin pale as he understood what the Dwarf was delicately trying to say.  He looked about him quickly and edged up against the wall, where the ground was higher.  "You mean I’m in a sewage tunnel?”

If the situation had not been so serious, those above would have laughed at the combination of indignation and apprehension in Pippin’s voice.  Indeed, Gimli laughed and tried to turn it into a cough.  “A very old and long-unused sewage tunnel, Pippin.  There is nothing to fear.  I just wanted you to know so that you would not be tempted to explore or tarry along your way.”

Pippin crammed the rest of the bread back into the sack and took a quick swing of Gimli’s water-skin, forgetting he held the torch and nearly setting his hair on fire.  Holding the burning brand farther away, he rubbed at the stickiness on his face.  The dust on his small hands combined with the smeared honey to make him look like he was growing a beard.  “No fear of that!  Why are you all standing there?   Why don’t you get a move on?”

This time the Dwarf did laugh, a deep rumbling chortle, and beside him, Legolas struggled to school his expression.  Aragorn sat back and laughed softly.  “Pippin,” he murmured, “only you … only you…” Pippin took no offense.  He was already far down the chosen direction and still accelerating.

* * * * *

The mood of the remaining Fellowship was much lighter as they packed themselves up and set out after the young hobbit.  Gimli did not know exactly where the first junction would be but said he doubted it would be more than a quarter-hour’s walk.  Pippin would almost certainly arrive ahead of them and had been told to climb the stairs and wait for them just inside the door.

Gimli’s comment that the junction areas often contained water-cisterns gave them hope that perhaps Pippin’s accident would turn serendipitous.  The water-cisterns, great stone reservoirs, were designed to hold the funneled rainwater that supplied the city in times of drought.  Enough rain had fallen that perhaps some remained in the storage tanks.  The Company’s thirst had receded in the swirl of activity following Pippin’s fall, but now had returned two-fold.  Leaning over to pick up Frodo, Aragorn noted that the burns were crusting, indicating the hobbit was becoming dehydrated.  As he pulled the hobbit up, Frodo dug his small hands into the Ranger’s arms and hid his face against Aragorn’s chest, shuddering until he could regain control of himself.  All of them, but especially the Ring-bearer, needed water very soon.

Acting as rearguard and carrying one of the torches, Boromir paused for a moment and stared back into  the debris-laden space they had just quitted.  The small fire had been extinguished and no longer cast unexpected shadows about them.  Yet he had, for a moment, thought he had seen something move in the darkness.  Something large but very quick.  Turning, the man waved the torch and watched as the light danced over the tumbled benches and the broken masonry.  Nothing… 

Hurrying after the subdued light of Gandalf’s staff, he never saw the luminescent eyes that followed.

* TBC * 

Chapter 4

“Oi!  I’m here!”  Pippin’s small cry split into echoes and rolled away into the darkness.  Nothing…   “Where is everybody?”

Sighing, the young hobbit plopped himself down on the inside of the door to wait.  He had made it through the sewage drain in record time and upon emerging at the junction opening, had sat down on the bottom stair and wiped his feet as thoroughly as he could with Frodo’s spare cloak.  He’d wash it before he gave it back.  The drain was completely dry, but still…  Pippin scrubbed and scrubbed, then turned and climbed up the staircase.

It was cold, sitting on the floor, just inside of the closed door.  Pippin laid down one of the halved torches and placed the lit one across it, relieving himself of holding up his arm.  He regarded the small blaze worriedly for a moment, but there was nothing around it to ignite if the wood popped or burned down.  He sniffed disdainfully at the cloak, then sighed and put it on.  At least he wouldn’t freeze…  or starve, either.  Opening the sack, Pippin pulled out the remainder of the bread, the cheese and one of the dried apples, and ate them with relish, washing them down with the rest of Gimli’s water skin.  He thoughtfully considered the other two apples then decided to save them until later. 

That done; fed, warm, and tired, Pippin curled himself into a ball next to the small fire and dropped off to sleep.

* * * * *

It was taking the rest of the Fellowship longer to arrive at the agreed-upon rendezvous point.  They had heavy packs to carry, and debris to crawl over and edge around.  Aragorn, carrying Frodo, had to hand him over to Legolas so he could climb over a fallen archway that had collapsed and almost blocked their path.  Legolas passed him back and they continued on their way.  In the Ranger’s arms, the hobbit laughed softly, his eyes strained.  “I wish you Big Folk would not pass me about so, like a sack of laundry.”

“If you would not let yourself be snatched by enormous lake-beasts who bleed acid, perhaps we would not have to do so,” Aragorn returned, his voice warm.  “How is your leg, and your wrist?”

Frodo stretched out his arm and turned his wrist carefully.  “Both are sore, and feel … feel as if the skin is too small.  But the athelas wrappings have helped very much.  They no longer hurt so badly.”

“Good.   As soon as we get some water into you, you will feel much better.”  Aragorn licked dry, cracking lips, and added under his breath, “Let us hope that is soon.”

“Aragorn?”

“Yes, Frodo?”

“You…  That was your water you used to wash my wounds, wasn’t it?  And to soak the athelas bandages.  My water skin was empty.  You haven’t had any water since, have you?”

The Ranger did not reply immediately, having to concentrate on negotiating a small gap in the broken paving stones.  One stone was tilted up on its end and Aragorn had to turn them sideways and feel his way past it.  “It was my duty and my pleasure, Frodo.  I was glad to have the water to give you.  A little thirst is nothing; I have endured much worse in the Wild.”

“Thank you,” said the hobbit softly.  “I will not forget it, Aragorn.”

Aragorn’s arms tightened around the hobbit for a moment.  “May you live long to remember, Frodo,” he replied with a smile in his voice.  Then he sighed.  “We must quit this evil place without being discovered.  Tomorrow is the third day of our journey through Moria – we should find the East Doors before sunset of the fourth day.  Outside, there is snow to melt and streams run fast from the accumulated snowfall above.  It will be very hard on all of us if we do not find water before then.”

Sam had been struggling along directly behind them.  “What about findin’ a public well?”

Aragorn stopped in mid-step and stared at the hobbit.  Then he turned and hissed, “Gimli!”

The Dwarf, walking alongside Gandalf, stopped and turned back to them.  Gandalf, too, stopped, and light bloomed around them as the two walked back.  Aragorn settled Frodo gently on a piece of tumbled masonry and placed his hands on his hips, arching his back with a groan.  Without needing to be called, the other members of the Company gathered close.

“Gimli, Sam has had an excellent idea.  Did we leave these concourses and move to the residential areas, could we find a public well?”

The Dwarf stroked his beard.  “A public well…  Not around here, certainly.  We would have to make quite a detour.  The residential wells would be placed in courtyards between the housing blocks.  Hummm…”  Gimli stared off into the darkness.  “See that great entryway far off to our right?  Behind the last row of colonnades?   That would be one of the entrances and exits to the concourses.”

“But Pippin is waiting for us at the junction,” Merry objected.  “We need to meet him as soon as we can.”

“The need for water is the more urgent need, Merry,” replied the wizard.  “Pippin can sit and wait for us a little longer.  He is in no danger as long as he is quiet and still.”

“Do you see Pip sitting quiet and still for very long?” returned Merry a little stridently.  “We have to -"

“Peace, Meriadoc.”  The wizard’s eyes held warning.  “A public well is our best chance for water.  The storage cisterns are only a hope, and a small one.  It is more likely that any water that chanced to be in them would have evaporated by now, with no one left to tend the seals and the covers.”

“Then let us split the Company,” Frodo suggested from his seat on the dusty stone. “The swifter folk can take the water skins and go, and we others -"

“No!” Aragorn and Boromir spoke at the same moment.  The two warriors looked at each other then Aragorn continued, “We doubled our chance of discovery when Pippin was separated from us.  If we divide the Company again, we triple it.  That is too much risk to take.”

“I will take the water skins,” offered Legolas.  “I can go and return the swiftest and most silent.”

“You would not know how to find the wells,” said the Dwarf.  “And two would fill the skins more quickly.  I would welcome the opportunity to show you the City’s housing.  I have heard that the luminescent lichen – Pippin’s 'moss-stars' – were cultivated in the living areas, solely for their beauty.  It would lift my heart to see if they still survive among all this ruin.”

“Aragorn and Boromir are right,” said Gandalf.  “There must be no further separations.  We will all go and see if we can find water.  Then we will all go and join up with Pippin.  We must march through our evening rest to make up the time lost.  Every hour we stay in Moria, our risk of discovery increases.”

* * * * *

After the company had departed, united if not unanimous, the quiet figure that had trailed them emerged from its hiding place under a sculpture that had fallen against the wall.  Luminous eyes followed the retreating light of the wizard’s staff and the torches.  Even its night-sighted eyes, tuned to the dark through generations bred and raised without light, could see little so it lowered itself to its hands and knees, cautious of the creaking of the leather clothes it wore, and snuffed over where the company had stood for their discussion.

Strong clawed hands raked over the dust.  When it came to where the Ringbearer had sat on the stone, the figure pressed its snout to the rock and sniffed deeply.   A long, snake-like tongue darted from its mouth, and it licked where the small hurt one had been.  Moving down along the stone, it caught the faint fragrance of the athelas bandages and wrinkled its fanged mouth in disgust.  The creature raised its scaled head and debated its chances of catching the small one alone.  Then it turned and disappeared into one of the side passages that lined the vast, cold cavern.

 * * * * *  

Pippin didn’t know how long he had slept, and that frightened him.  The fire did not look much burned down, but the torches were treated with some substance to make them consume the wood slowly.  Surely they would have come by now.  Gimli had said it was only a few minutes’ walk.  Had they called to him and he didn’t hear?  Had they gone on when there was no response?

Cursing his innocent nap, the youngster leaped to his feet and scurried to the closed door.  After a few tugs, it swung open with no more than a faint creak.  Pippin gave no thought to the wonders of dwarven construction as dust dropped into his face.  He listened for a moment, wiping his eyes.  Nothing.  Screwing up his courage, Pippin called out softly into the darkness, “Hullo, anyone out there?”  Still no reply, but the young hobbit heard a faint scrambling sound.  “Merry?”

A huge rat, its body fully the length of the young hobbit’s arm, emerged from the shadows and glared at him.  Its tiny bulbous eyes reflected the small fire behind him, glinting red.  Entirely without fear, it sat up on its haunches and curled its thick, naked tail around itself.  Then it dropped to all fours and leaped towards him.

Pippin yelped and jumped back into the room, slamming the door after him.  Trembling, he leaned against the door as small scratching sounds came from around the bottom of the door.  Shaking in revulsion, he stayed still until the sounds went away.  He waited what seemed a long time, then thrust one of his spare torches into the fire and slowly edged the door open again, angling the torch down about his knees.  Nothing…

He edged a little farther into the main cavern, careful not to let the door swing shut behind him.  Turning, he caught up one of the many broken pieces of stone that littered the floor and pounded it under the door, ensuring that he would not be trapped outside.  He gave the doorstop a good kick to make certain the stone would not slide, and had to bite his tongue against the sudden, pained exclamation that sprang to his lips.  Awarding the stop a furious glare, Pippin took a few steps out onto the main level.

Another battle had taken place out here.  The skeleton of a dwarf lay just before the door, one arm still reaching for shelter.  A rotting spear transfixed the ribs, and looking down, the hobbit could see that it had been thrown with such force that it had driven partially into the floor.  Or had it been driven in after the dwarf was down?  Gulping suddenly, Pippin didn’t want to look any closer.

More bodies lay beyond.   All of them were twisted in the agonies of death, that one factor unifying dwarf, goblin and orc.  Many of the moldering bones showed gnaw-marks, and Pippin understood why the rat had been here.  One of the decaying figures did not wear armor and clutched no weapon.  Pippin moved over to it and stared down at the body of a young female dwarf.  The corpse of a small child clung to the bones of her hand.

Pippin felt his inadequate meal rise in his throat.  He didn’t want to explore any more.  Pippin returned to the door and removed the doorstop.  Then he sat down inside the door and leaned against it, and wept for the people of Moria.

* TBC * 

Chapter 5

“Well, that’s it, then,” remarked Merry, as he leaned on his belly over the raised stonework that formed the lip of the well.  “Can we go now?”

“Quiet, Merry.”  Gandalf leaned over the smoothed stones and peered into the dark depths of the well.  The wizard grasped his staff by the very end and lowered the glowing tip into the well and closed his eyes.  The crystal imbedded in the tip brightened, then blazed.  The Company, clustered around the well, leaned forward and sheltered the light with their bodies, eyes narrowed in an attempt to see past the radiant glare.  But it did not help.  Eyes tearing, burning, none could see beyond the brilliant light. 

“Drop a torch down,” suggested Sam, rubbing his eyes against the large blue dots that seemed to have invaded his vision.

“It is a very long drop.   It would make too much noise,” replied Aragorn. 

“A stone, then.  That will tell us if there’s water there, an’ how far down it is.”

“We are trying not to draw attention to ourselves, Sam.  We do not need loud, echoing noises – or the possibility of settling something afire, if the well is dry.”

Muttering under his breath, Gandalf muted the blazing light, pulling up his staff and lifting it high above their heads, trying to catch a reflection of the faint light far below them.  They leaned forward again, straining their eyes against the dark.  No dim spark met their gaze, and the wizard did not dare to brighten the light out of the protective concealment of the well’s walls.

Gimli had stood silent after leading them almost directly to the public well.  While the others sought a way of discovering if there was water down there, the dwarf had stood quietly, hands resting on his axe, as his deep eyes swept the destroying housing areas.  Here the damage had been particularly vicious, as if by striking at the heart of the City, its attackers had sought to obliterate its soul.  The gracefully carved walls of the courtyard, all arches and delicate filigree, lay in tumbled ruins around them, and smashed masonry and broken stonework were all that remained of the once-stately homes.  The homes had been looted, destroyed, defaced, and the hatred and maliciousness reflected here brought tears to the dwarf’s eyes.  Bisected by mathematically precise streets and alleyways, each home had been constructed and carved differently, some boasting stone columns and cornices, some carved gingerbread work.  The stone had been crafted with such care that even the dust and destruction could not obscure the pride and love that went into their building.  No two had been alike.  They were alike now, shattered and deserted, tenanted only by spiders and rats and sorrowful memory.

With an effort, the dwarf dragged himself back to the matter at hand, the news of Dwarrowdelf  he must carry to his people heavy on his heart.  After watching the fruitless discussion for a moment, he joined the others in peering down into the darkness.  “What about the lichen?”

Aragorn looked over at him.  “The moss-stars?  What of them?”

“Drop some down the well,” Gimli suggested.  “Their light is faint, but with a sizable piece, you can see it as it falls.  And if there is water, it will float and move and dip with the lapping of the water.”

The stillness that followed was absolute, until Gandalf planted his staff at his side and leaned on it, and began to laugh.  Heartily but silent, the wizard laughed, bent almost double with his mirth.  “Ah, good Dwarf,” he said at last.  “What would we do without your good sense?”

Legolas leapt lightly up one of the tumbled staircase, and gently gathered the glowing plant-stuff from the nearest wall.  He tugged tenderly on its roots, pulling out the fine stiff hairs with care to avoid harming more of it than necessary.  The luminescent lichen was the only fair thing left in the ravaged courtyard, and the combined light of its thick growth cast forgiving shadows on the ruin about them.  How beautiful it must have been when it was cultivated and cared for, and the Elf apologized to it softly in his own language as he eased it free of the wall.

The others stepped back to allow Legolas room to spread his arms and drop the saddle bag-sized lump of lichen into the well.  It did not drop heavily but wafted slightly from side to side, growing smaller as it sank into the distance.  Leaning far over (Aragorn placed a hand on Sam’s back as the hobbit nearly lost his balance), the Company was able to keep the moss-star in sight as its pallid light gleamed up at them.  There was the faintest splat as it reached the bottom.  It seemed to disappear for a moment, then returned, swaying and dipping as it floated.

A collective sigh ran through the Company.  “Water,” said Gandalf softly.

* * * * *

Sitting on the cold floor against the closed floor, Pippin was also thinking of water.  His eyes burned and his throat hurt and there was no more water in the water skin Gimli had so kindly given him.  He had wept until he had no more tears to give the dead of Moria.  Vaguely, he wondered if any of its people had had time to weep before the end; he hoped not, hoped that it had been quick for them.  Yet he knew, thinking of the bodies outside, that for some it had not been quick enough.

Though he was stiff from sitting, he did not want to explore outside the room again.  He would wait here.  And if they do not come, whispered a small voice in his mind.  Or if they came and left, while you so foolishly slept?  I’ll wait, Pippin thought.  I’m not going out there again.

* * * * *

After some searching, the Company discovered the well’s bucket under what had once been a bench.  The finely-wrought metal chain was rusty yet intact, but the wooden bucket splintered and broken.  It did not matter; the water skins could be tied to the chain and lowered, and the pressure of the water in the well would fill them.  They would gain enough to last the remaining two days of their journey, until they could taste the clean air and snow-fed streams outside the Black Pit of Moria.

Legolas tied the water skins together and to the chain, and Boromir lowered them and brought them up, ice-cold and dripping.  The hobbits cupped their hands under them as they were brought from the well and laughed as water puddled in their palms, tilting them to their mouths.   Aragorn untied his water skin first from the sloshing pile and handed it to Sam with instructions to make Frodo drink, then himself, and then pass it around.

Down went another burden of emptied skins and came up filled.   And another.  The Company drank until they could hold no more, and the ice-cold water caused more than one uncomfortable belly.  They poured some over their heads and hands, and if only succeeded in turning the dust into mud and swirling it over their faces, it made them feel better.  Aragorn poured two skinfulls over Frodo’s leg and wrist, and re-wetted the athelas bandages.  After the hobbit had stopped shuddering, Frodo tentatively eased himself to his feet and found he could stand.  The Ranger would not allow him more than a few steps, but the relief in all the hobbits’ eyes was immense.

Gandalf required them to top off each water skin with the contents of the last fishing, saying that too much water was better than too little, and they were not free of Khazad-dûm yet.  Much could happen before they saw the sun again.  Drunk with water, they agreed and poured the contents of the newly-retrieved water skins into each other until all were completely full.  That done, they laughed and much to Merry’s relief, set out to reclaim their missing member.

* * * * *      

Bored with sitting (and possessing a cold posterior), Pippin had decided that he could wait as well within the room as without it.  He rose and began to explore the shadowed recesses and great stone structures about him.  A cleaning closet revealed nothing of interest.  The junction room had also been used for storage, and Pippin curiously ran his hands along the crushed crates and looted barrels.  There was less destruction here, probably because there had been no defenders in such a place.

Fading light called him back to his small fire.  He added the fourth and last torch, and did not allow himself to think of the others not coming before it was consumed.  To keep his mind from such thoughts, he ventured in another direction of the room and came upon a great stone vat, as high as his chest.  One of the water-cisterns, surely.  Pippin pulled himself to the ledge and peered inside eagerly but the fire did not illuminate the shadows.  He reached down, then farther.  No water.  With a grimace, he shinnied around on the ledge and dropped down into it.  Twin puffs of dust stirred the hair on his feet.  Pippin sighed and pressed his palm to the bottom just to be sure.  No water.  The cistern was as dry as his throat.

He climbed out again, disappointed and depressed, and resumed his seat against the door, watching as the last torch burned.  Just when he was growing sleepy again, he heard a soft and much-loved voice murmur against the door, “Pippin-lad?  Are you there?”

 * * * * *

Far away from where the young hobbit joyously greeted the other eight, the one that had followed them, snuffling and sniffing on their trail, had also found the others of its kind it sought.  In the hisses and snarls of its own coarse language, it called them together and reported that intruders had entered the Mines, and told them of their number and kind and weapons.

The highest-ranked of these carried the report to the Orcs, their larger, more cruel kinsmen, who gloried in battle and death.  Softly, softly, so as not to alert the Men and Elf and Dwarf and whatever the small things were, word was sent for the troops to arm themselves and muster to attack.  It pleased them mightily when it was agreed to send for the great cave beast they held chained, that it open a way for them.  Not overly brave unless gathered in great numbers, the goblins laid plans to rush the invaders in some closed space where they could not get out.  They would watch and wait, and when the signal was given, would in a great mass converge upon the invaders and utterly destroy them.

The End