Disclaimer - Sadly, none of these characters and places are mine. The only thing I own is the rock that Pippin falls asleep on. Don't sue me - what you'd get wouldn't be worth the legal costs.

A/N - This is a companion piece to 'Everything Goes, Everything Stays', but it isn't essential to have read that before you read this. This shows Pippin's side of the story during the final days of the War of the Ring. So, obviously, it contains RotK spoilers.

Chapter 1 - The endless night

Clouds rumbled low on the horizon. The group, who had stopped for their first long rest in the day and a half since leaving the White City, began to grow restless. All apart from one. A small figure, no more than a child to the unknowing eye, lay, clothed in the regalia of Gondor, slumped against a large rock. A roll of thunder announced the impending storm.

"Peregrin." A man approached the exhausted figure and shook his shoulder gently. "Peregrin, wake up."

The halfling stirred and rolled to face Beregond of the guard. "What's going on?" he asked sleepily.

"A storm is coming. We must march further while we can and then seek shelter. Once the rain sets in we will be unable to advance far. Or quickly." he added. "Now you must get up Pippin. A soldier of Gondor must not show himself up amongst the many troops." Beregond left Pippin and alerted his leader that all were accounted for.

Grudgingly, Pippin eased his stiff and aching limbs away from the rock, feeling sure that the imprint of a thousand small stones remained on his back. He adjusted the heavy armour and stretched himself out. How long had they been marching for? Days, weeks surely? Minas Tirith seemed such a long way away, yet he had seen it at first light the day before. There he had left behind his best friend and only companion of his kind. Merry. He wondered how Merry was. Probably having the time of his life in the many inns of the White City, Pippin thought as he approached the assembling ranks. He wondered if Merry had forgotten him, then dismissed this thought with a sigh. The haunting anguish displayed on his friend's face as the group departed had confirmed that he would be remembered.

Pippin took his place toward the front of his company, feeling awkward and somewhat out of place as he walked past the many soldiers of men; all tall and powerful in appearance, looking grim and ready to fight. This was what they had been trained for, thought Pippin. Or had they? In his final days with Merry in Minas Tirith he had seen many of the preparations for the war. The gathering of the professional soldiers and the counting of weapons. But he had also seen many young, untrained men, all being conscripted to do their duty, all wanting to know that they had done their part in the defence of the world. Some were not even as old as him.

The increased pressure from standing up and the effort of moving caused Pippin's feet to ache abominably, and he berated himself for rejecting the offer of soft boots to walk in. He had not realised the road to Mordor would be this long. He did not know how much further they had left: the featureless land told no tale of distance to the hobbit. It seemed to remain as it was now: cold and grey; the once grassy plain flattened and stained with mud. How Pippin wished he was to be marching only on the soft grasses of the Shire. Nothing had prepared him for this. Of course he had glanced over maps and scrolls during his days in Minas Tirith and, before that, Rivendell, but the elaborate details and script had meant little to him as they did not tell him how many days - and so he had continued with his duties or left in search of second breakfast.

The first droplets of rain rang clear on the armour of the men, and so they commenced on the next stage of the march; the troops differentiated only by the raised up standards and slight changes in dress for their faces were all the same. They were marching further from safety and nearer to the uncertainty and evil of the Black Land.

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It took an hour and a half for the soldiers to reach any form of shelter. As it was it was only on the edge of a wooded area on the outskirts of Ithilien, but it was better than remaining unprotected when the rain was coming down in droves. It was as if the sky was trying to complete its own futile task: to wash clean the shadows of evil. There was only one who could do that.

Pippin was given leave his troops for his evening meal and so it was with the three hunters, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, that he spent the rest. Gandalf the white wandered ceaselessly amongst the troops, not wanting, or not needing, to rest, only to discuss stratagems with the captains. The four huddled under canvas, unable to find wood dry enough, even under the shade of the trees, to light a fire with. The chill moved even Legolas' heart.

"How long until we march, Estel?" the elf asked, spreading his damp cloak out in an attempt to have some dry garments for the march's continuation.

"We move at midnight." the ranger replied, "Whilst we are not afraid of our enemy knowing we are abroad, we would prefer it if he remains unaware for some time longer. Thus we will travel under cover of nightfall."

"All is night now." was Legolas' reply.

"How I long for the sun," said Pippin, fancying that he was back in the Shire, or even in Rivendell or Lothlorien, where the sunlight would play on his features and bring joy to all who saw it. There was no sun in this wilderness, only shadows, night and grey dawn. It was an endless night; one in which they would find no day until the fate of the quest had been decided and the shadow had either taken hold or been destroyed.

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Pippin passed the three hours after his unsatisfactory meal sleeping silently in the makeshift tent, whilst his companions prepared to move further towards the Black Lands. The rain had subsided and the air was now surprisingly crisp, the dark of the night indistinguishable from the ever increasing shadow. In a state between rest and waking Pippin heard only the murmuring of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli and, in this departure from consciousness, discerned them to be the voices of Merry and the Healer, Ioreth, who had attended to him following his injury.

"I am ready to leave now, Mistress. Will you please find me my sword and a helm. I wish to march with the soldiers of Rohan." Merry was stood at the foot of his freshly made bed, his small pack on his back, his injured arm hanging limply by his side. He was clothed in the regalia of the soldiers of Rohan.

"I'm sorry, Master Meriadoc, but I am under strict authority to make you remain within these Houses until you are fully healed. You are not to go to Mordor." Ioreth gently pushed the halfling back towards his bed.

"I have to go to Mordor. I will not stay behind and know that I have done nothing to aid my friends."

"You cannot leave this House," the healer had argued.

"I cannot let my friends die."

"Master Meriadoc! You know what I saw the other night during your recovery? I saw the hands of a King! Your friends are in the company of a King: they will return."

"Begging your pardon, Mistress Ioreth, but you do not understand. My friends' lives do not depend on the presence of a King, they depend on two halflings, alone in the Black Lands! If they do not succeed in their quest, me remaining in the Houses of Healing will not matter because there will be no Houses of Healing. There will be nothing!"

"Then it will not matter that you remained behind."

"I cannot sit and wait for the end. I wish to ride out with the soldiers, to know that, even if the end should come, I, a hobbit from the Shire, did all that was in my power to prevent it."

At that moment a herald had come in, to inform that the soldiers were leaving.

Ioreth's voice had softened. "You cannot go, Master Merry."

Merry had looked at her, an apology in his eyes. "I know."

Merry walked out to say farewell to his friends. He embraced Pippin and had ruffled his younger cousin's hair.

"Don't leave me Pip."

"I have to."

The troops at the front began to march. Pippin looked away to prevent his cousin from seeing his tears. He had to be strong now. The surge of soldiers pushed him forwards.

"This isn't goodbye."

"Don't leave me, Pippin. Don't go. Pippin."

Pippin cast a final tortured glance towards his cousin, who was sobbing profusely and chanting his name.

"Pippin...... Pippin......"

His shoulders were shaking with distress.

"Pippin..... Pippin...."

The hobbit opened his eyes to see Aragorn shaking him.

"We have to go now. We cannot yet risk travelling far by day."

Pippin knew Aragorn was wrong: there was no day, yet he knew his meaning. Yawning and scrabbling in his pack for food, Pippin prepared to march once again.

The endless night was continuing.

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A/N - Do you think I should continue? Do you think I should pack up writing altogether and become a cleaner? Do you think I could be the next JK Rowling (J/K)?

Regardless of whether you actually want to answer any of those questions..... leave me a review! Please? Feedback makes me very happy, and the happier I am the better I write! Or something like that.....

So go on... !

Rachel xxx

Disclaimer - I don't own anything that features in this chapter! Poor me! I don't make any money from writing this, so please don't sue!

A/N - Wow! I was not expecting such a positive response! Thanks! This chapter is dedicated to Ailsa Joy because she keeps bugging me to write some blood in!

This chapter is AU in that the time scale is off and I invented a couple of things! So now you know....

Chapter 2 - Unexpected Darkness

Hoarse cries from the grey wilderness ahead halted the soldiers as they prepared to leave. Pippin squinted from his place at the front section of the troops and tried to make out who the lone scout running towards them was. The cloud and shadow formations shifted slightly and a brief shaft of weak moonlight allowed the halfling to see the bright golden hair that flowed out behind the scout, who was travelling with a grace that could only be elvish.

"Orcs! Orcs! Yrch! Yrch!" Legolas cried as he ran, lapsing into his own tongue. He reached the group and sought out Aragorn and Gandalf.

"Where are they?" said Aragorn.

"A league or so ahead, running ever further towards us. They aim to make a surprise attack on Minas Tirith. I believe that they are unaware a group marches to the Black Lands."

"How many?"

"Several hundred perhaps. Maybe less, maybe more. The dark remained too impenetrable to clearly make out. I could not be sure, but I think they had some men with them."

Aragorn turned to Gandalf and the man and the wizard locked gazes. "They cannot reach the White City."

Pippin caught only the end of this exchange, yet he knew all that he needed to know. They could not allow the orcs and men of the enemy to pass them. They had to protect the White City. They had to protect Merry.

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It took perhaps five minutes to organise the soldiers and move them to a position away from the wooded area where they had taken their rest. Any longer would have been disastrous: orcs travelled fast and one league was not a vast distance to them. They would be safer on the wild, flat lands which would not lend trees or cover of dense night to conceal the enemy. The plains that would expose the soldiers would be made to work in their favour and distract the orcs from their path.

A series of animal like cries announced that the soldiers had been seen.

As the enemy rushed towards them, two soldiers emerged from behind the main group brandishing lit torches, and set them to the tinder they had been able to collect in their haste. It would not help if they could not see who they were fighting. The bonfires blazed brightly within seconds and several hundred orcs and cruel featured men were illuminated.

"Pippin," Gandalf said to the halfling, as Aragorn signalled for the soldiers to stand ready, "I want you to stay back and unnoticed if you can. The Dark Lord has many servants with many purposes and I do not want you to place yourself or any others in unnecessary danger."

"But surely I will be in more danger if I do not fight."

"Not if you remain unseen. Pippin, Sauron knows that a hobbit carries his Ring. We need to destroy the troops without the complication of rescuing any captives who will draw the Eye towards its own land."

Pippin looked forlorn. "I can fight. I will not get captured, don't make me sit and watch while many die."

"You have to do this. For Frodo."

Pippin nodded and started to run, dodging between the soldiers in the gloom and finding a collection of large rocks a short distance away to hide behind.

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The smooth grey chunks of rock somewhat sheltered Pippin from the chill of the night, but left him too far removed from the area of combat to be able to see clearly what was occurring. From what he could hear, the charge had begun; the clash of metal and the whistling of arrows singing clearly in the dark. Pippin squinted to see further, but the slight breeze was blowing the smoke from the bonfires across his line of sight and his view was obfuscated. He glanced at the sky instead, and was surprised to see a scattering of stars through a rent in the shadow that lingered constantly. Pippin wondered if Merry was looking at the same sky and drew hope from the thought.

He would fight. For Merry.

~~::~~

Pippin ran, hobbit quiet, onto the battlefield and tried to avoid being seen. His sudden bravery began to wear off as he moved further into the epicentre: he was no match for an orc or manservant of the enemy. They were almost twice his height and at least three times his weight; a hobbit would be like a small, frightened animal to them.

"Peregrin, look out!"

Pippin turned sharply around, alerted by Beregond's call, and swerved just in time to miss being cloven in two by the black sword of a wild looking man. The man regained his balance and went to strike again, but never even moved his sword. As he fell, Pippin withdrew his short sword from the body and stood back in shock.

He had killed someone.

Shakily, Pippin withdrew from the centre of battle and rushed into the black night. He had to get out: he did not belong here. He could not fight, he could not destroy a life - he was just a hobbit, peaceful and fun loving. He was not even of age yet. A child in the eyes of men should not be experiencing this. He had to get out. He had to get back home.

With the shock getting the better of him, Pippin collapsed, sobbing, onto the ground. After a few minutes he felt calmer, having somehow managed to convince himself that by killing he had saved the lives of his friends in Minas Tirith. That was, after all, where the orcs and men had planned to attack. He smiled. Merry would be proud of him anyway, when he told him how he had outwitted a fully grown man using his hobbit speed.

~~::~~

The sound of a heavy tread getting louder alerted Pippin to the fact that he was not alone. Pippin crept backwards. By the sounds of the boots shaking the earth, it was Gimli coming towards him, but he could not be sure. All of the orcs and cruel men were dead, weren't they? Pippin called out in greeting.

The footsteps stopped, and Pippin saw for the first time who had been walking near him.

They were not all dead - one remained.

"What's this?" the snivelling creature approached Pippin with a sneer on his hideous features, his sword drawn, "A rat? We don't get many o' the likes o' you round here..."

Good, thought Pippin. Now leave me alone so that you don't wipe out a species. He giggled at this in his nervousness, momentarily masking the feeling of terror that had come upon him.

The orc's sneer turned to a snarling smile. "I think I'll take you as a prize."

"N.. no!" Pippin stuttered, desperately scrambling backwards on the damp grass, then finding his back against a large solid mass.

"There'll be no escape for you, you little rat. Those men can't save you now."

The creature limped further towards Pippin, his leg seemingly damaged from some previous battle. Or perhaps a disagreement with one of his kin, thought Pippin, remembering the ruthlessness with which orcs survived from when he had been taken prisoner with Merry.

In a final, hopeless move, Pippin grasped the hilt of his small sword, which had dropped to the ground when he hit the rock, and drove it hard into the leg of the orc. A cry escaped its foul mouth and it lunged towards Pippin.

"I'll get you, rat. You'll die for that!"

Pippin closed his eyes, waiting for death. There was a whistling sound, followed by a loud 'thwack' and Pippin felt a heavy weight fall on him suddenly, crushing him. It groaned, the arrow in its back not enough. Pippin opened his eyes cautiously and was aghast to see the fire in the orc's eyes, glaring wildly at him. The orc raised its jagged, black sword with some effort and went to bring it down on Pippin's head.

'Thwack'.

The orc's arm slipped in its agony and Pippin watched in horror as the blade fell and broke his skin. White hot pain passed through Pippin's body and he saw no more.

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Disclaimer - The usual - I am but a poor student who is therefore not part of the Tolkien estate in any way. I don't own LotR, its characters or any place mentioned and I am not making any money out of writing fanfiction involving them.

A/N - This fic is somewhat AU as I have altered timescales and invented a few... shall we call them... mishaps?!

Chapter 3 - Darkness Increasing

Pippin opened his eyes. The pain emitting from his wound was beginning to subside, and he was able to take a look at his surroundings. Piles of gold and silver lined the far off walls of a great cavern, and heaps of jewels lay nearby. Rubies, there were a lot of rubies, Pippin noted. And garnets: blood red and sparkling in the dimmed light. Pippin tried to move to reach them and he realised that his movement was constricted by a great lump of rock. There must have been an earthquake or something, he thought. But what was I doing in a cavern in the first place? Thundering footsteps coming his way answered the question.

Ah yes...... I was looking for dragons.

A great roaring sound filled the space. It seemed that Pippin had found what he was looking for. He wondered faintly if Merry would find him before it was too late.

The footsteps stopped and there was another roar. It had seen him.

Before Pippin lost consciousness the last thing he was aware of was the weight being lifted from his body.

~~::~~

"Pippin.... Pippin..."

What was this? Dragons didn't talk? Did they? At least not in such a concerned tone of voice, thought Pippin.

"Pippin! I need you to raise your left arm for me...."

The pain had returned. The whole of the left side of Pippin's body was now throbbing, unrelenting in its quest to cause him misery. Conceding to the voice, dragon or no, he lifted his arm a couple of inches off the ground. The agony doubled. It was burning now.

"Good. Now can you clench your fist?"

Pippin did so, struggling all the time not to cry out in anguish. He heard the voice murmur something, some utterance of the dragon folk. Only something, or someone replied.

Now being more curious than afraid, Pippin pushed himself up from his position on the floor of the cavern and opened his eyes once again. He was confused by what he saw; Aragorn, Legolas and Gandalf were sat crouching over him and he was in the middle of a tent.

He smiled, relieved. "Where did the dragons go?"

"Dragons?" said Gandalf, "I do believe, Peregrin Took, that you have been dreaming. There are no dragons here."

Pippin eased himself back down on the blanketed floor. He would have to recall this tale to Merry when the soldiers returned to Minas Tirith - it would make him laugh. Then Pippin remembered that he would probably not be returning home. The soldiers were marching to their death, to the final battle. For perhaps the first time he realised the enormity of the task he had taken on: he was a tweenage hobbit, alone and on the way to fight for the saviour of Middle-earth. A great wave of homesickness washed over him, but was replaced by a second influx of pain. He felt as if his skin was almost going to explode, the pain was pushing ever upwards so strongly.

"W..what happened?" he asked shakily.

"You were attacked," said Legolas, "An orc, attempting to escape from the battle, stumbled upon you and thought he'd get himself a pretty prize."

"You were lucky Legolas reached you when he did." continued Aragorn, "Of course he did not realise you were there until you uttered such a haunting cry of pain that you could not be ignored. You have taken a knock to the head that could have killed many greater than you and a shoulder wound that appears to be superficial. Fortunately, you seem to have taken no lasting damage and should be fully healed within a day or two."

The third full day since the soldiers left the White City had begun, and it was in fact day for Pippin saw the red polygons that only sunlight can bring dancing inside his closed eyelids. Perhaps the dire situation was improving. Perhaps the end was beginning. Pippin could only wonder between bursts of pain as he took a sip of a concoction Aragorn administered to him. He would see no more daylight for some time.

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It was at the Cross-roads that Pippin awoke. In the gloom of shadow and dusk he could see little, and in the aberrant silence of the place he could have been forgiven for thinking that the soldiers had grown tired of bearing him as their burden and simply left him at a convenient point. As it was, he was not afraid, nor had he any thought that he had been abandoned. Even Gandalf the White, to whom he had proved himself to be a trying companion at best, held too much affection for him to just leave the injured young halfling in the relative wilderness.

Letting his curiosity discard the thought that he should probably stay where he was, Pippin stood up, using some care to avoid placing weight on his injured arm, and began to walk in the direction where he fancied he could see some glow of torchlight. The herbal infusion he had been given to dull the pain remained in his system and so Pippin was somewhat disorientated as he went in search of his friends and fellow soldiers. After all, several thousand soldiers could not be that difficult to locate.

The sound of voices punctuated the still evening air. Far away though they sounded, Pippin followed them, assuming that the discerned distance was just his hazy mind playing tricks on him.

For perhaps fifteen minutes, Pippin trudged through the damp grass, his injured arm aching more with every jolt of movement. In his pained state, Pippin did not realise that, had the soldiers indeed come this way, the grass would not be in the 'fresh' state that it was. A sudden screeching sound brought the hobbit to a halt, and he flattened himself to the ground, listening to the tortured shriek that was only to familiar to him. A dart, swift and poisoned, seemed to pierce his heart and he became almost paralysed with fear.

The Nazgûl were abroad, leaderless but not powerless. Wraiths on wings.

The sound passed and the chill left Pippin's heart. After a moment he was able to prise himself away from the grey, almost greasy, ground and he peered into the distance, hoping to see some sign of the troops. Nothing. They have forsaken me then, he thought. Yet there are some lights still ahead.

The injured hobbit began to walk again, little knowing the peril he was heading towards.

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It was Beregond who was sent back to the camp to fetch the groggy halfling. Aragorn had said that he wanted all present for his announcement, so that everybody would have the same choice to make. The point to which he was to take Pippin was perhaps a quarter of a mile to the east, and he was also to fetch the young soldier who had been appointed as Pippin's guard.

The camp was empty when Beregond arrived. The fire, which had been burning so brightly when the soldiers had left, was now smoking, flakes of ash catching the wind with each icy breath. The tent where Pippin had lain was gone and the only other sign that any life was ever there was the tattered shred of black material that was fluttering in the breeze, having been snagged on a prickle bush. Beregond picked up the scrap of fabric and then dropped it instantaneously as he felt it burn his skin. It floated back onto the flattened grass before disintegrating and disappearing altogether with the night air. Beregond thought back to the far off screeches of the ringwraith.

One had been to the camp, no other force would make a piece of fabric do that.

Pippin was gone.

Evil must have taken him.

Beregond ran as fast as he could towards the field where the thousands of soldiers stood.

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The night was closing in. Pippin lay, sobbing silently, on the ridge that faced Minas Morgul. He had tried to move away from the watching eyes in the tower, but found that they penetrated even trees and solid undergrowth. He was waiting for them to take him - he knew they were watching him. Ceaselessly, the pinpoints of light in that haunted tower watched every movement he made. There was no chance of rescue now: hours must have passed since he woke alone. There was no chance of his escape either. The enemy would take him and torture him until he knew all: about Frodo, about the Ring.... about everything.

It was over, and he had failed them all.

In any case, Pippin did not think that he could walk far enough to return to Minas Tirith. His head felt as though it would implode, and there was a crashing inside it that felt like fifty thousand dwarves mining for Mithril. How he wished Merry was with him.

A second Nazgûl passed high in the night sky through the shadow. Hope renewed itself in Pippin's heart: he would not stay there and do greater damage to his friends by being found by the enemy. He would return to the troops, where ever they may be.

Then he would go home. He did not belong here.

Before he realised what was happening, Pippin was sobbing once again, and he collapsed onto the shoulder of land. The extra, unexpected weight, however, was too much and it crumbled, sending the halfling tumbling into the darkness, too late to see the concerned face of Aragorn appear in the nearby night.

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A/N - Well? I'm not so sure about this chapter, but I would like to know what you think! I promise I will stop with the hobbit torture soon.... I don't want to get a reputation (mentioning no names..... AJ!)!

Please review me!!

Rachel xxx

Disclaimer - I own no part of this fic, with the exception of the rather odd storyline! Please don't sue me!!

A/N - I appreciate that there are RotK spoilers here! I also have taken some liberties with the storyline, and while I have tried to keep this so that it fits in with events in RotK, it is partly an AU story!

Huge thanks go out to everyone who has taken the time to read and review! *hugs*

Chapter 4 - Darkness Unceasing

For perhaps three or four metres Pippin fell, overtaking and becoming covered in the crumbling strip of land. Over and over he rolled until a sharp pain in his side and the hard feeling of rock caused him to stop. He cautiously looked down, and was shocked to see the hurt he could have obtained had the rocky ledge not been there.

Above, faint voices were calling Pippin's name, anxiously venturing as close as they dared towards the precipice. The increasingly fragmenting land prevented them, however, and they were forced to retreat and find another way to reach the landslide's casualty, leaving no sign apart from the fluttering of dark cloaks as they blended into the night.

The feeling of grogginess had more than left Pippin now, only to be replaced by a feeling he had felt only too many times: fear. Fear for his precarious position, fear for his friends and fear of the Nazgûls that continued to circle high above the shadow. His injured shoulder still ached terribly, and his head felt as if it had a small mountain strapped to the side of it. Pippin raised his hand to the wound to investigate the condition of the bandage: it was still tightly wound, albeit covered in almost an inch of sticky mud. In fact, Pippin's entire body seemed to be caked in the damp, dark earth. He wondered if those up above would be able to see him, blending in to his surroundings as he was. That is, if he wanted them to see him. Who knew where the enemy lay, waiting for weakness.

Pippin gazed once again into the grey, starless sky, not knowing if the day had yet ceased, nor knowing if the night would ever end. He could see no signs of life on the ground below, and no way of safely climbing down to see if it was habitable. Unless he could find his own means of clambering onto the flat terrain, however, he would have no choice but to trust the distorted voices above. As a last check to make his choice, he surveyed the land. The only outstanding features of the strange place he had stumbled into were the flickering lights in what appeared to be a tower, not too far away. If Pippin could only reach the lights then he could rest for a few days and restock his food supplies before returning to Merry and Minas Tirith. The soldiers were surely far away now.

As Pippin's eyes slowly adjusted to the darkening of light around him, he was able to see more of the rocky ledge on which he had landed so fortunately. It appeared that the ledge was far more than the initial jutting out of rock that he had discovered; it was in fact a walkway, evidently created for the use of travellers to the mysterious buildings so far away. To Pippin's left was a set of worn stone steps, hewed out of the rock long ago by the craftsmen of inhabitants that had dwelled in the now wilderness an age ago. What was to his left, Pippin could not discern, but he suspected that, was he able to see around corners, there would be a similar set of steps ascending the incline.

A sudden scrabbling sound alerted the hobbit to the company that seemed to have joined him. By the sound of the footsteps, there was at least one presence, and Pippin also became aware by their heavy tread that they were booted. Had the wraiths on wings become black riders once again, or was Pippin less alone in the world than he imagined?

"There he is, look over there! Quick, get him!"

The voice was deep and harsh sounding. Pippin quailed: the Black Riders had returned then. As the footsteps belonging to the voice moved closer, Pippin turned and did what any sensible hobbit in danger would do - he kicked the figure sharply in the knee and then fled, hoping at least to find a hiding place before his pursuers recovered.

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It was near a decrepit bridge that Pippin halted; exhaustion, hunger and pain from his injuries preventing him from running further. What he wouldn't do for a plate of fried mushrooms and bacon..... and tomatoes wouldn't go amiss either....

Pippin attempted to heave himself from the ground where he had stumbled. If he could only keep going for another league or so, he would be able to reach the tower with the bright lights shining into the gloom. He looked up to view them and glimpse their warmth; a warmth that now looked positively frozen. From his close position, the lighted windows looked ghostly and empty, the lights only there to lull travellers into their grasps. Yet try as he might to move away from the watching eyes, Pippin's limbs felt leaden, much as they had when the Nazgûl had had him in their sights. As a cold wind began to swirl overhead, Pippin lowered himself back down against the ground and began to cry.

He was alone.

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When Pippin woke, a light of sorts had returned to the sky. The smell of breakfast cooking laced the air, and chattering voices sounded all around. He had been captured.

"Look, he wakes."

Strange, Pippin did not remember orcs or other fell beasts speaking softly before. He glanced up hopefully. Could it be?

The concerned face of Beregond met Pippin's gaze, and he wordlessly pushed a plate of cooked sausages and tomatoes in front of him.

"I want to go home." said Pippin.

"Lord Aragorn will shortly be addressing all of the soldiers. You can leave then if you wish, but you will not return home: it will be to Minas Tirith that the troops return."

Pippin looked forlornly to the muddy ground, before picking up the metal fork and beginning his meal.

"Master Peregrin," continued Beregond, "It would make no difference if you were to return to my city. We both know that it is not upon us that our fate rests."

"I cannot help but feel that my remaining here is of little use though...." said Pippin between mouthfuls of dripping tomato.

"It is of little use for any of us to remain here. But we must try."

"I just feel so...."

"So what?"

"Lonely," whispered Pippin.

"We are all alone." said Beregond.

"Not everyone. You are with the soldiers you have served with. I am a sole hobbit of the Shire. They wouldn't let Merry come."

"Yet Merry will be thinking of you. Now come, for Lord Aragorn must end the first stage of this debate."

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The soldiers of the South gathered on one of the great empty plains of the area on the edge of Ithilien. Should any winged servants of the enemy have flown overhead, they would have seen a number and fierceness of soldiers so great that fear would have been struck in even the Dark Lord's heart.

Aragorn and Gandalf addressed the assembled soldiers, inviting them to make a decision either to continue on the march into growing darkness or to return to the White City and suffer the final debate there. No shame would be placed on those who returned: after all, they had already been responsible for great deeds, but they would not appreciate the glory received by those who were to continue.

Following the speech, a farewell was said to those who had chosen to return. Pippin sat, anguished between whether he should stay or return. It would be wonderful to see Merry again, yet something in his heart was telling him to continue. If he could aid in the distraction of the Dark Lord, then he would play a part in ultimately saving the world he knew, and that was surely the route he should follow. As he rocked himself back and forth, staring at the shadowy sky, he was reminded of a song that his father, the Thain, had sung to him when he was younger and hungry for adventure. Pippin began to sing softly to himself.

"As tales of foe and fire have told
In some old inn where once we sat,
Hate will grow and love go cold
Old enemies will see to that
And friends will leave as once foretold.

~~::~~

Yet some so true and valiant
Will never cease to shine a light
Stars amongst the distant sky
Whose deeds so bold inspire flight.
That even the small will take up fight.

~~::~~

You will leave and drop my hand
Wandering deep into the gloom
Alone you'll feel and where you stand
You'll take upon a certain doom
To fall down or conquer far off lands.

~~::~~

Yet you should not fear, for I will be here
Waiting in the peaceful inn
For your return will come someday
And you will hear the people cheer
"All praise, the halfling saved our way!"

~~::~~

And should you wake upon your quest
To find that this was all a dream
You should not hope for quiet ways
For all is not what it may seem
The halfling's time will soon be mean.

~~::~~

Look to the stars when you are cold
And you shall see my name
Holding on 'til I am old
Until we end this deadly game
Lonesome moods will not sustain while the hobbits speak your fame,
And the merry old inn remains the same."

----

The remembrance of the old song brought joy to Pippin's heart, and also aided his resolve. He would continue on the march, and then perhaps he would one day be remembered in songs of his own.

He had to go on.

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A/N - I'm SO sorry this chapter took so long! I have been very busy attempting to escape from my pile of work and revision! I'll try and get chapter 5 up within a week, I promise!

Anyone who can work out where exactly Pippin's poem came from will get Chapter 5 dedicated to them! Sorry I have nothing better to offer!

Thank you once again - you all make me very happy! Please continue to review! If anyone is interested, this fic is the companion piece to 'Everything Goes, Everything Stays'....

Rachel xxx

Disclaimer - The Lord of the Rings and everything and anything related to it does not belong to me. Really. Please don't sue me... I'm going on holiday next week and so need the money :)

A/N - Extra special thanks to Shirebound for the inspiration for this chapter!

Once again, I remind you that this is a partly AU story and that it contains RotK spoilers! Then again, if you've read this far...

Chapter 5 - Darkness growing uncertainty

The black velvet backdrop of night surrounded the guard as they settled down on makeshift seats to begin their watch. The air was stiflingly quiet, and not even the resting soldiers nearby made much sound. Beregond turned to face the camp and looked at the low murmur of firelight that reflected on the features of those still awake. A long day of marching in the grey wilderness had passed since Beregond and Aragorn had recovered Pippin from the outskirts of the haunted city of Minas Morgul, and all were now glad of the rest. All except Beregond, whose mind was filled with so many questions and images that he doubted he would be able to sleep if all of the sedative herbs in Middle-earth were bestowed on him.

Beregond glanced through the shrouded camp to the draped canvas that housed the halfling under the watchful eyes of Mithrandir. It appeared that he was recovering now, but what if he had not been found? The shadow may have been thick, but the black wraiths did not require sight to hunt out what it was they sought. And Beregond may not have known why, but he knew that the thing they sought was a hobbit - albeit not this hobbit. The soldier shuddered to think how close they had come to losing the young halfling to the shadow, yet at the same time he cringed to think that Pippin had been able to run away from the camp at all. He was ill, and Beregond should have been there to look after him; as he would have done with his own son, Bergil. For while Pippin was by no means a substitute for his own flesh and blood, he brought some comfort to the guard through his naiveté, vulnerability and incessant happy chatter. A chatter that had subsided somewhat since the surprise attack.

Beregond's mind wandered once again to the wraiths. Why were they in search of halfling? Did the halfling hold some great power within them, some great power that could be put to the Dark Lord's aid? They certainly had not displayed this extraordinary power, if this was indeed the case. What was it then? he thought. Mithrandir had said something about, 'they must not find it', did the 'it' mean that they carried something of value that the Dark Lord required to increase his strength? If so, then why on earth were they taking it towards the black lands and not as far away as they could? Beregond could only suppose on the matter.

When the soldiers had 'lost' Pippin as he slid down the steps of the rocky walk way and onto the plain the shadow had suddenly seemed to close in. Indeed, it was as if Pippin had declared himself to the world and the Dark Lord was now able to take him for his own bidding. Except that he failed to do so. Beregond, Aragorn and several of the unknown soldiers who accompanied them had stood and watched in amazement as the shadow had seemed to become personified and take on a life of its own. Instructed by the Nazgûl, no doubt as Beregond had thought, the mass of darkness seemed to reach towards Pippin with flailing and groping hands, searching for whatever it was their masters desired. Then, although Beregond had absolutely no idea as to why, they retreated, leaving the hobbit sprawled across the grey grass, passed out with exhaustion.

Beregond yawned; tiredness had finally begun to creep up on him. A tap on his shoulder from a fellow soldier informed him that his watch was over. Had the three hours really passed that quickly? Beregond shrugged and waded through the untrampled wild grass back to the camp. He would be keeping a close eye on Pippin from now on.

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"Master Peregrin, Sir," said a soft voice from behind Pippin as he prepared for the commencing of the day's march. His shoulder was still tender, several days after the wound had been inflicted, but the pain had become bearable, almost as if it were simply the weight of a heavy pack pressing down on his shoulders, and he now felt that he would be able to march relatively comfortably. Upon hearing his name called, he turned slowly around to face his visitor.

"My name is Miran, Master hobylta. Mithrandir and the Lord Aragorn have appointed me your most noble assistant or, if you will, squire, on these last steps of this perilous adventure."

Pippin bowed his head, as was his custom, and smiled at Miran, thanking him for his kind offer. He felt slight annoyance at Aragorn and Gandalf for their thoughts that he was weaker and so needed help more than the others, but, all the same, some company would be nice. Especially company whom Pippin had not met before and so could tell all of his many tales to.

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With Miran's company, the long march on the flat, featureless land seemed to go a lot quicker somehow, and Pippin was surprised when the company was told to halt for the night. He had passed the time by telling Miran stories of his life at home: in the Shire. Stories of his childhood.... of the times when he had gone to visit cousin Frodo in Hobbiton, encountering much mischief along the way.... of the time himself and Merry had snuck into the blackberry garden of one of Pippin's elderly neighbours and gorged themselves so much on the almost ripe fruit that they did not leave their beds for three days. Stories of his ongoing tweenage years were also related to Miran, and it was at this, the telling of raucous singing in The Green Dragon only months ago, that made Pippin realise that he and Miran were not so different.

Miran too had been taken from all he knew at a young age, to attempt something that was surely futile. Leaving his family and friends behind in the process and being cast into a soldier's life.

Pippin smiled sympathetically at Miran when he heard of this. Perhaps he was not alone on this mission after all. M was no older than Pippin would have been were he not a hobbit, yet he seemed to have a graceful strength Pippin did not possess. He had been trained as a warrior, as many Gondorian youths were, and did not seem to be afraid of what lay ahead on the road to the Black Gates, or indeed inside the Black Lands. It was this that amazed Pippin the most; how could someone so young be so unafraid of what was clearly so dangerous? Miran himself provided the answer:

"Pippin.... I am not saying that I am unafraid. Because I am afraid - we all are. But I believe we are doing what is right, what gives the rest of Middle-earth and those delightful communities of halflings you have told me about the best chance of survival. And that is why we have to fight, to show Sauron and the shadows in the east that we will not let them win."

This comment had comforted Pippin, not just because of its content, but because of the way it reminded him of Sam, or even Merry. He wondered if he would ever see his friends and cousins again. He missed them terribly, but he had the solace of knowing that he was marching to save their fate; much as Sam and Frodo were, wherever it was they were now. Pippin gasped with the knowledge that he could, on his march, be incredibly close to them. Perhaps they would meet on the path to Mordor, and he could introduce them to M and say how he had inspired him to keep his hopes up and keep marching, and then he would join Sam and Frodo and they would destroy the Ring together...

"Ouch!"

Pippin stumbled on a tree root as he walked away from one of several bonfires the camp had prepared to cook their meal on and inform the enemy of their coming. He rubbed the sole of his foot, inspecting for blood, and continued towards his tent, where Miran was waiting, thankful that he had not dropped his plate of food. Now that would be a disaster.

Pippin smiled to himself again as he realised that it was this attitude that would aid his recovery and continuation on the quest the most, and, for the first time in several days, felt truly happy as he sat and ate his evening meal. He had a weapon that even the foulest and shrewdest enemy could not forsee.

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Beregond glanced back at the camp as he took his position for his second consecutive night on watch. He knew that this was partly to do with what some saw as his betrayal of the late King Denethor II, but his did not mind. It was hardly punishment to have to remain awake until the small hours, especially when it meant that he could watch Pippin without interruption. What many may have seen as a strange interest in the halfling, or simply as an interest in halflings themselves, Beregond saw as a way of becoming closer to his son. There was a small, ever kindled fragment of hope and happiness in the hobbit that reminded Beregond oddly of Bergil, and he was going to keep a hold on that. It was all he could hold on to.

The guard watched Pippin trip and then smile as if he had been part of some private joke. The light of the small lantern that illuminated his tent was extinguished, and Beregond looked away. It had been his idea to introduce the hobbit to Miran, an older companion of Bergil's, in order to alert Pippin to his own power and teach him to hope again. After all, they could afford to hold on to precious little else, for fear it would be lost. And all would be, should the quest fail.

Beregond slipped into sleep easily when he was relieved that night. There was not much time left to wait and think now; the battle was just beginning.

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A/N - Thank you to everyone who has continued to support this fic! It always amazes me when I open my inbox to find another review *hugs*

Oh, and for everyone who asked, begged or just plain forgot about it until now... I wrote the poem in Chapter 4!

Thank you once again to everybody - your reviews mean more to me than you could ever know! Parallels with 'Everything Goes, Everything Stays' are entirely intentional!

Please go on and press the little green link!

Disclaimer - I do not own any part of LotR, so don't try and sue me. Parts of this text are AU to the original text, and parts of the dialogue are also quoted directly from Tolkien.

Chapter 6 - Darkness

At dawn's first dim light the battle began. The battle for Middle-earth. The orcs, both small and large and carrying what even Pippin recognised as poison darts swarmed across the damp, empty plains and attempted to infiltrate the soldiers camp. There were not many of the orcs, never as many as even half of the troops, but there were enough to do serious damage if they were allowed to get too close.

As usual, it was Legolas who saw the dim outlines of the approaching invaders. He alerted the leaders of the divisions as quickly as his elven legs would take him there and Aragorn and Gandalf prepared the soldiers to fight this deadly distraction. A small band were selected to avert the orcs away from the rest of the soldiers; a small band of the fastest and strongest fighters. It was perhaps, Aragorn had mused afterwards, a desperate tactic, but entirely necessary for preservation.

Pippin watched the battle through half closed eyes from his position with the remainder of the troops. Sleeping... waking, both were of a muchness now and, in all honesty, Pippin was not entirely sure which of the states he was experiencing at any given point. Everything had seemed slightly surreal to the hobbit since the day he had been wounded - a day that seemed an eternity ago now - and he felt almost sure that he was experiencing shock. These things, these deaths and woundings, just weren't supposed to happen to him; but then again, the experience of the Quest was something wholly strange, by anyone's standards. Not something a future thain should be partaking in.

To Pippin's honest surprise, the battle was over quickly, and with minimum casualties on the soldier's side. Inevitably, some had fallen, but in falling they had taken many more of the enemy with them. They died with honour. Perhaps it had been a bid by Sauron to simply weaken the troops. If so, it had failed.

"It is but a feint," said Aragorn, "And its chief purpose, I deem, was rather to draw on us a false guess of our enemy's weakness than to do us much hurt, yet."

"The Dark Lord has many subtleties." Beregond later muttered to Pippin.

Pippin wept silently for those who had been lost, and those who would soon be lost to this madness.

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It was Miran who approached the weeping young soldier, feeling that the time had come to tell Pippin something of his own past. His father had once been a soldier, that much Pippin knew, but he had been told of nothing else.

"Did I tell you what happened to my father, Pippin?" said Miran, praying that he himself would not start crying as he related the tale to his new friend. Honourable as it was, the truth still hurt.

Pippin shook his head, wiping the tears from his own eyes, ashamed that he had been seen crying. He was a soldier now. Yet he felt that someone needed to cry for those who had been lost, else they would not be remembered.

"My father was killed almost a year ago in the onslaught on Osgiliath, which he had been sent to defend."

"Oh." Pippin did not know what to say. Miran continued.

"Pippin, my father once told me that battle is never an acceptable thing to happen. Killing is never a good thing. However, he also told me that sometimes we have to make choices: will it you who dies or the being stood in front of you?"

Pippin looked up, the admiration showing as a steady glow in his dulled eyes. How could this, although he hated to say it, child, have this wisdom and courage, especially after he had suffered a great sadness? He should still be playing at soldiers, much as himself and Merry had done when Pippin was that age. Perhaps he knew less about the minds and hearts of men than he thought.

"So you're saying that killing is right when not killing will end in your own death?"

"Yes." said Miran. "If in your act of wrongness you can preserve your own life and the lives of others whom the being might have killed otherwise then how can you question it?" Miran paused, sensing the question at the forefront of Pippin's mind. He had not been there, but word had got by him through Beregond. "Pippin, what you did on the day you were wounded was not wrong. You saved Beregond's life."

"But he was a man. A man as much like any I have seen before and who have done me a great kindness."

"He was a man who made the wrong choices," said Miran, "And one of those was to dare attack the friend of a most noble halfling."

"Hobbit," Pippin corrected, nodding and laughing at Miran's sudden lightheartedness.

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A Black shape loomed in the distance as the soldiers drew closer to Mordor. Even in the thickness of the night, they could sense what it was: the Black Gates of Morannon.

A stench hung in the air, difficult to place as it was as no soldier in the company had smelt before, yet it reeked unmistakably of death. The air was foul and thick with dust and had a bitter taste. Even if the soldiers had become lost on their route to the Black Lands there would have been no doubt in their hearts that they were now reaching their final, terrible destination. To their left, the jagged rock formations of Emyn Muil stood silently and threateningly, guarding what was left of the innocent world behind them. In front of the great cliffs of rock were the Dead Marshes, which lay almost unseen but certainly not unsensed; the air passing over them and towards the soldiers was stifling, and Aragorn wondered how on earth Frodo and Samwise had ever survived taking this route. Faint shimmering lights reflected off the still waters of the marshes, tempting the soldiers to come closer, to visit the warmth and comfort they protracted. Aragorn sighed with the relief that he had warned the soldiers against this; the last thing the morale of the troops needed was to lose men to lurking, inhuman dangers not even within the bounds of the Black Land.

The heralds sounded their arrival in loud, clear voices, while trumpeters played and the banners of Rohan, Dol Amroth and the banner of the Tree and the Stars were unfurled, fluttering lightly in the limited breeze.

"Come forth!" the heralds cried, "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!"

And so the gates opened, scraping and screeching with the movement of the oversized devices, moving to the beat of a great drum hidden inside the walls.

A lone figure on what was once a horse emerged: the Mouth of Sauron.

Pippin quailed as he stood within the ranks. He could not see what had come, but he could sense the presence of the evil it seemed to radiate. More and more he wished he had remained in Minas Tirith with Merry. He would have been safe their for a time, with the company of his beloved cousin, and he would never have to look upon the ghastly, terrifying face of the messenger as he did at that moment when the soldier in front of him shifted to the side.

The end was near.

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A/N - Yes, it's short, but I'll try and get the next one up over the weekend!

To my reviewers:

Thank you to anyone else I haven't mentioned for continuing to read and review! Please press the little button and make me smile some more!

Rachel xx

Disclaimer- Sadly for me and for you, I don't own LotR! So I'll have to just keep dreaming. Don't sue me for my words - it is not a crime to expand the horizons of a world. Parts of the dialogue in this chapter are taken directly from The Return of the King, by JRR Tolkien, and parts of this piece are entirely AU to the original text.

A/N - This chapter is dedicated to Sakura123 and Xena for their interest in the troll, and to Ailsa Joy because it's full of blood and hobbit torture! Note: if you read this and you are not Ailsa Joy then I assure you it's not as horrible as it sounds!

Chapter 7 - Darkness Embodied

Pippin cried out audibly from his position amongst the soldiers as the Mouth of Sauron produced the possessions that were only too familiar for him. The mithril coat that had saved Frodo's life in Moria; the sword that Tom Bombadil had presented Sam with all those months ago in the Barrow Downs; the elvish cloaks given to them by the fair Lady Galadriel. So much had changed since then... They had seen so much. And lost so much. As the coat glinted coldly in the grey light Pippin realised that nothing would ever be the same again: he was separated from Merry and would most likely die that very day; Frodo and Sam were captured and probably nearing death themselves; he would never see the sun again, or feel the soft grass of the Shire between his toes as he walked about the woods. This was it: the end.

What the messenger demanded for the return of the precious objects, Pippin never did find out. Hatred was building up inside him; igniting like a pile of dry leaves and a falling spark, and then bubbling up like a kettle left to boil for too long.

With a sudden malfeasance for a guard of Minas Tirith, Pippin lunged forward at the messenger, his angry form seeming to take on a strange luminescence in the stifling air. Whether Pippin intended to harm the malevolent being or simply to take back the possessions of his friends, none of the soldiers discovered, for the Mouth of Sauron swept Pippin back with one hand before he got near enough to reveal his purpose. It was as if it was swatting a fly that had been causing it great annoyance, and many of the soldiers stood silently frozen, entranced by the messenger's brutal strength.

Neither Gandalf, nor his close companions were fooled. As Pippin lay limp on the stony ground, dazed by the blow he had been dealt, but unhurt, Gandalf raised his staff and stepped slowly towards the mounted figure.

"These we will take!" he said, with such an authority in his voice that it seemed to those around that the messenger actually quailed, "These we will take in memory of our friend. But as for your terms, we reject them utterly."

At this point, it seemed to Pippin that nothing Gandalf did could surprise him any more. Yet as he lay unobtrusively by the foul messenger, he was amazed by the power that the wizard held over it, using only his voice and that ancient brand of magic he contained. It was as if Gandalf had a light shining from within him, and it was a sight that the young hobbit would never forget.

The messenger shrank back from the light, and Gandalf was able to reach forward and reclaim the objects. It was almost as if it was afraid, but surely, thought Pippin, being afraid would require a conscience... and a soul.

Gandalf retreated, and the Mouth of Sauron turned on its horse, hissing at the crowd of soldiers. No other sound could be heard, save for the nocking of arrows as the messenger became aware of its imminent fate.

Determined to prolong its own life, the horseman snatched up the nearest thing of value: the semi conscious halfling on the floor. Pippin struggled desperately, but his strength proved meagre against the trained warrior, and he was soon restrained by the chilled, bony fingers. The messenger held Pippin in front of itself, and Pippin could almost feel the evil radiating from the skeletal form under the black shroud as it smiled at the waiting warriors. They understood the message instantly: if they killed it, they killed Pippin.

The arrows fell with a clatter on to the rock.

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Pippin bounced uncomfortably on the messenger's horse as the Black Gates rolled shut behind him. He could not remember ever being in greater peril, and now understood why Merry had wanted him to remain behind. Oh, how he longed to see Merry again; for his cousin to soothe him and bathe the many wounds he had accumulated. For Merry to spin him a tale, or to run off into some sort of mischief with him. That would be wonderful, yet even as he had wondered at his fate when the horseman appeared, he had never lost faith. The faith leaked out of him now with the last hope for his future. He had no future beyond this day... beyond this ride.

A chill crept through Pippin and he began to tremble: both with fear and with the cold of the messenger who now held him in front of itself protectively. The shudder increased as the messenger started to speak:

"A pretty prize we have here. We shall take you to your friend-"

"Frodo..." breathed Pippin.

"You shall deliver a message... telling him of the tragic fate of your friends - how you murdered them by revealing them to the enemy..."

Pippin cried out once again in anguish, and bit hard into the messenger's not-flesh. He could not do that to Frodo - not ever.

The messenger was distracted. It shook the helpless hobbit hard, holding him up so that he drew level with its face. Behind the Mouth of Sauron, Pippin was able to see the forms of Beregond, Legolas and Aragorn, their swords and knives drawn, afraid to shoot. Flailing wildly, Pippin kicked hard, making contact with the chest of the messenger. The cry of pain was enough for the rescuers to strike.

Beregond made the first blow, stabbing the messenger in the back, aiming to wound but not to kill. Black blood hissed and dripped from his sword as he withdrew it to harm again. In its pain, the messenger let go of is prize, and Legolas was able to catch Pippin as he fell, running hard with him towards the Gates. They had to get out before the main onslaught began.

"Are you hurt, mellon nin?"

Pippin was still trembling hard, but he managed to answer: "No, Legolas. I'll be all right this time."

The mouth of Sauron disposed of, although still alive, Aragorn caught up with the pair, with Beregond limping after him. The soldier was wounded, but Pippin did not think it looked deadly.

"We have to leave."

~~::~~

Even as the four exited the realm of Mordor, the signal sounded. A single note, blown on an ancient horn; a horn reserved for purposes such as this. The soldiers assembled hastily into long arranged formations and waited for the onslaught. Pippin and Beregond rejoined the guards of Minas Tirith, and Pippin was able to thank Beregond for his actions when he was in the hands of the messenger. They were even now.

The enemy came as an avalanche, rolling in from all sides, smothering the soldiers until they surrounded them completely. A thousand arrows were fired at them, yet still the enemy kept on coming, simply trampling over those in their ranks who had fallen. They showed no mercy.

Pippin stood calmly in the throng of the soldiers of Minas Tirith. He was not afraid anymore: this was his moment to fight, his moment to try and save Middle-earth. If he was going to die, he would go down fighting. He thought of Miran's words, and looked to see the small soldier a few places away.

The sky darkened as the Nazgûl circled overhead, casting their shadows on the heads of those fighting. A single shaft of sunlight broke through the shadow that replaced the sky.

"Pippin!" cried out a hoarse voice. It was Beregond, trying to warn him of something. He looked up to see a towering being, at least three times his height, with its foot raised to pulverise him into the soil. Pippin slipped out of the way and looked desperately back to Beregond, who was in combat with a great orc. What could he do? He was no match for a troll. The troll raised its foot again, and stamped down just as Pippin ran a few paces to the left, crushing the unfortunate orc who Beregond had been fighting only moments ago. Angered, the troll went for a third attempt, this time with its great smashing fists. Pippin unsheathed his sword, the sword containing some of the ancient power of the Westernesse, and stabbed as hard as he could into the troll's iron hand. The troll writhed in agony at the cut inflicted on it, and threw its fists back, arching its head back to the sky, before toppling over as an arrow hit its mark of the being's heart.

Pippin saw the troll falling towards him, but found himself rooted to the ground. His peril had reached him at last, and it seemed that he had no choice but to meet it. As the troll hit the ground, Pippin fell under it.

"Goodbye." he said simply, before falling into an oblivion of dreams and wondering. The last conscious thought he had was that he would never see Merry again.

Around him, the battle raged freely; men and orcs alike falling constantly. At the head of the battle, a faint voice cried out.

"The eagles are coming."

TBC

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A/N - As you may have guessed, we are approaching the latter stages of this tale. However, I still have at least one chapter's worth that demands to be told, so you won't be getting rid of me too quickly!

Thank you to everybody who reviewed - you sure know how to put a smile on my face!

If anybody is interested in reading Merry's side of this story, then feel free to check out 'Everything Goes, Everything Stays' as they run parallel with one another!

Updates coming as soon as I write them!

Please review me!

Rachel x

Disclaimer - Not mine. Never has been. Never will be.

A/N - As you can see, we are winding down for the final chapter or two now. This chapter is dedicated to Xena for leaving me an absolutely beautiful review, but I hope you all enjoy - more thanks will come at the end.

Chapter 8 - Darkness ever changing

The arrival of the Eagles sparked a great, unknown excitement amongst the soldiers who still lived. Excitement because the Eagles had such a presence that radiated majesty and significance, and unknown because no one could explain why they had come. Yet the enemy seemed to quail at their sight as the golden birds flew high below the ever increasing shadow, before disappearing into the clouds.

The time that seemed to have frozen at Gandalf's call resumed again and the battle continued mercilessly. Few noticed as the largest and most grand Eagle swooped low and took up Mithrandir in his great claws.

Seconds later, a great roar filled the stifling air and all went black. Frantic screeching sounds could be heard, wailing and spiralling as if they were being sucked into the very night. Those who had been fighting as the darkness hit suddenly found themselves facing no resistance, and they longed to see what it was that had swiftly disposed of the enemy in this manner. Only three fully understood the significance.

Almost as quickly as it had come, the darkness fled and the grey shades of the shadow returned again. Or perhaps it wasn't the shadow; it seemed to be moving quickly, swirling above their heads, containing fragments of rock and other elements. It looked almost as smoke did.

As the soldiers' eyes adjusted to the changing levels of light, Aragorn called them into action.

"Hurry," he shouted, "We must leave this place else the mountain will be brought down upon our heads! Carry the wounded.... we will have to return for the dead."

Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn spread the message quickly, and the dazed but largely uninjured soldiers were able to aid and escort the ailed to a place further away from the Black Gates of Morannon. It would not be safe to remain too close, although there was to be little safety anywhere around Mordor. The smoke was ever thickening, yet the three hunters were able to see that few of the enemy remained alive. Those who had died in the battle seemed to be almost disintegrating into the dust that circled the sky, and those who had fallen since the blackness were fast gaining an odd grey pallor. Yet there were still some ready to fight, and Legolas recognised these as Southrons, and the remainders of the Uruk Hai that Saruman had brought into being. They survived independent of the power of Sauron and so could face his destruction unscathed.

The call of the Eagles could once again be heard, and the three hunters set themselves on the task of getting the soldiers out alive. Many now had been accounted for, but there were some still who had not been seen. Pippin was one of these, as he lay, crushed: blocked from view by the great mass of the troll.

Gimli toiled for what seemed like hours trying to find the halfling. After all, they had been through a lot together and, loath as he was to admit it, he held a great affection and admiration for the youngest of his companions. It would not bode well to discover his death, and it would surely break Meriadoc's heart to hear of it when they carried the small body back to the White City. The dwarf rubbed his eyes to clear the smoke and continued on his search.

Legolas also searched long for the halfling, sensing that he lay alive, but injured, yet struggling to discover him as thickening smoke affects Elven eyes as much as it affects those of a man or a dwarf. Or a hobbit, he thought sadly.

A harsh cry suddenly rang out behind Legolas, and he turned to the source of it, eager to see its owner. But faster than even his senses could react, an arrow was nocked and flying towards him. Unable to move quickly enough, it grazed the skin on his forearm and the elf cried out in the only too familiar sensation of pain.

Gimli was instantly alerted to his friend's plight, and he ambled over the bodies, looking much like a dog in a field full of coney holes, in order to reach Legolas, who grasped his injured arm tightly. The man who had made the shot died instantaneously at the dwarf's axe.

"Master Legolas," Gimli shouted as he surveyed the area where the man lay for more signs of life, "Quick."

Legolas walked as lightly as if on snow across to where Gimli stood. He looked where his friend was pointing.

A single large and dirty foot stuck out from underneath the body of a troll that was easily the size of an ancient tree.

Legolas bowed his head in respect. It seemed they had found their hobbit.

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"Aragorn..... Lord Aragorn.... I think he's waking once again...."

The soft voice of Éomer registered in Pippin's sleepy mind, and he slowly inched the woollen blankets that covered him up over his head to block out the sound. He was enjoying his rest, and waking again would just remind him that his thoughts of the Shire had been only dreams, and not the reality he had hoped. Although, thought Pippin, the smell of mushrooms still remained, lingering about where he lay. Perhaps he had not been dreaming.

Pippin gently cracked open his eyes and, removing the cover from his face, looked up at his surroundings. An olive green canvas ceiling faced him. Strange, he didn't remember this in the Great Smials. Still..... he had been away for the best part of a year; much could have changed.

Pippin sighed, taking in the smell with his deep breath and then gasping in pain as he exhaled. His ribs felt as though a tree had fallen through the roof and onto him. Yet there were no trees near enough to his room in the Great Smials for this to have happened. Pippin groaned as the realisation that he was not at home hit him, and then promptly shrieked with agony at the disturbance of his bruised body.

"Pippin.... Pippin, calm down, you have to stay still....."

The hobbit squirmed under the cold touch of the man's large hands, yet he felt them relieve some of the fire in his chest. What had he done that could possibly have hurt him this much? Pippin closed is eyes once again and tried to remember..... The pained separation from Merry.... The long march from Minas Tirith..... His injury sustained at the hands of an orc.... The Nazgul..... The Mouth of Sauron..... The troll.....

Ah, thought Pippin. That was it - he had had a bad encounter with a troll. He remembered now; the crushing fire as the troll stumbled and fell, shot down by an arrow true to its mark; the darkness that had hit him; the dreams.....

Pippin opened his eyes wide in alarm. Frodo and Sam were dead: his dream had told him so. The quest had failed.

Then why was he lying in comfort and peace?

Pippin turned his head and focused his eyes on the kindly face of Éomer.

"I, I saw him... Frodo.... and Sam was with him.... at the end of all things....." How could he possibly explain what he had seen so that he would be understood? He was not exactly known for his foresight.

Éomer smiled, soothingly. "Frodo and Sam are safe now, Peregrin...."

"They succeeded? The Ring has been destroyed?"

"Yes, Pippin... they are resting now, recuperating from the great hurts they have received. You will see them in a few days."

"Then it was wrong," frowned Pippin, "It showed me them on the side of the crumbling column of fire, too exhausted to proceed. It showed me the world collapsing...." Pippin trailed off into nothingness.

"What did?"

"The dream I had."

"I think that what you saw was indeed true, but you did not see it in the right way. You saw Frodo and Sam after they had destroyed the Ring, before they were saved by the Eagles."

An understanding filled his mind and he sighed, glad now that he had ignored his instinct, and brought himself out of the darkness. Now he had other questions that needed answering.

"H-how long?"

"Since you were injured?" asked Éomer.

Pippin nodded. It was an important thing to know, after all.

"A week now. You are lucky to be alive, and you have master Gimli to thank for your life."

An utterance came from a corner of the spacious tent.

"What was that, master dwarf?"

"I would recognise a pair of hobbit feet a mile off, whether they are under a troll the size of a small mountain or not. Although I feared you were dead. Let me tell you, I was never so overjoyed as when you kicked me in the face as I tried to remove you from under that great monstrosity."

Pippin smiled with joy as he noticed the scene under the canvas roof for the first time. It seemed that he was in a tent reserved specifically, but not exclusively, for the ailing or injured, as Beregond lay sleeping in the makeshift cot next to him. Across the room sat Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf, watchful of their smallest companion and waiting patiently until his awakening. They were all alive then.

Pippin sighed, ignoring the pain it caused him. It would seem that everything had worked out for the best after all.

He had only to wait for Merry's arrival, which he had been assured would come soon.

Looking once again at the plate of mushrooms that had been placed in front of him, Pippin picked up his fork and ate a meal such as he had not eaten since happier times.

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 A/N - Coming next chapter.... Pippin and Merry are reunited and there are hobbit cuddles all round!

To my absolutely wonderful reviewers:

Please continue to read and review - pressing that little button and writing a few words makes on little girl very happy indeed :)

Rachel xxx

Chapter 9 - Darkness and daybreak

Pippin stared at the green canvas ceiling of his seeming prison. Three days. Three days since he had last left his bed and witnessed the spring sunshine brought by the departure of the shadow. His ribs ached with every breath, and it took all of the strength he could muster just to sit up; and all because he had wanted to run in the forest. He smiled weakly, and watched as the olive hue of the tent seemed to change into the deep pine of the woods of North Ithilien.

The healers amongst the soldiers had discharged him, only days after his awakening, allowing him to sit quietly outside and enjoy the fresh air. If the truth be told, it was as much for their sanity as for Pippin's; after all, a sleeping hobbit is one thing, but an awake and recovering hobbit is quite another. On at least two occasions did Pippin have to be bodily forced back into his bed. It seemed that the knowledge of the completion of the quest had brought new life to the crushed hobbit, and he was happy enough to forget that his ribs still pained him if he even so much as lightly brushed them with his hands. More than anything, Pippin was becoming slightly claustrophobic in the cramped tent with the big folk, so they had given him leave to spend the afternoon under the shade of the trees. It was only when Pippin became reluctant to re-enter the confines of the aid tent that the accident happened. He had run, attempting to escape from the soldier sent to collect him, and tripped on a protruding tree root - jolting his already injured ribs. He remembered little else; only the fire that had consumed him with fever, and the ice that seemed to follow. The darkness had held an increasing hold too, causing his world to spin as if playing childhood games.

Then he had woken, and bright sunlight streaming through the canvas door chased away the blackness. The pain had remained, however, and Éomer had informed the hobbit that it would be several days until the healers allowed him to travel to the fields of Cormallen and sit a vigil at the Ringbearer's bedside. Aragorn and Legolas had gone on ahead, once they had been assured that Pippin would suffer no lasting harm and his fever from the strain on his ribs had abated, so there was nothing left for Pippin to do but lay and wait. Merry would be arriving soon.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On the fourth day, news came of Mordor: a band of rogue orcs remained and were headed towards the camp. The injured, who had remained only while they recovered and were too ill to travel the extra miles to Cormallen, had to be moved. They would be safer together.

The group left in the dead of night, many bearing makeshift stretchers created from wooden shafts of spears and blankets, on which to bear those who could not walk. Pippin was aware of none of this, for he had been slipped a sleeping draught with his supper. It was well really, as his discomfort would have been great otherwise, and Éomer doubted that he would have slept willingly.

~~::~~

The drug induced haze began to end, and the dark blurry shapes against a grey sky became focused images of people and feature of the landscape once again. The pain returned to Pippin's ribs, although it did not feel as intense as before, the fire now being reduced to the buried embers that continue to burn long after the flames have left, and he now felt able to sit up for longer periods. The Ringbearer and his companion still slept, by all accounts, although whether it was enchanted healing sleep or the sleep of sickness Pippin had not been told. He would have to visit them when Merry arrived.

When Merry arrived... Gandalf (who had swept in, his brow creased and looking older than Pippin felt he had ever looked before, to greet the sick hobbit) had said that word had come from the White City that a walking party had departed the day before and looked set to arrive in two days. Two days was too long, thought Pippin, but there was nothing he could do. At least they were coming.

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One hour, two hours.... five hours passed and still Pippin waited; a forlorn figure wrapped in a blanket. There were only five more travellers to arrive, the first party had told him that much, although they had no recollection of whether there was a hobbit amongst them. They had only said that they were behind because the sicknesses they had suffered made them move at a slower pace. Pippin could not blame them really, after all, a hobbit, especially a sick hobbit, would look just like a small, stooping child to them. But what if Merry had not been with them? He had been recovering well when Pippin had parted with him on that wretched day, but who knew the potency of a wound made by the Witch King? None he knew, save Frodo, had suffered one, and Frodo had had Lord Elrond to heal him What if the hands of the King were only a temporary healing device? What if Merry had been taken from him?

Pippin did not think he could stand the pain.

Merry must be with the party that would surely arrive soon. He had to be. He would be. There was no other way it could be. Pippin needed Merry; he had always needed Merry. What he thought would be his last living thoughts as he lay crushed by the troll had been of his cousin, and he was certain that that was what had withheld him from the blackness. Merry had been like a brother to him, the best brother he could ever have wished for; they had played together, cried together, and Merry had always been there for him... through everything. He couldn't have left.

A dim light bobbed far in the distance, and the sound of weary voices could be heard over the silence. Pippin stood up, his eyes blurred with tears and a wooziness that had settled in his head brought on by exhaustion. He went to trip and found himself being caught by strong arms. Arms that held a familiar scent. Aragorn had come to take him back to the camp.

"Come Pippin," said Aragorn, "You will see them in the morn."

"Merry..." whispered Pippin. He would be there when the travellers arrived even if he were dying. Tiredness and a protesting body was not going to stop him.

"I will let you know if Merry is with them, but now you need rest."

Rest? What good was rest if it brought him only ill news? He needed to know now.

"Please, Aragorn. I need to do this. I need to wait for him." Pippin looked up at the ranger with glittering eyes, and Aragorn saw the pale skin that shone through in trails that cut through the dirt on his face. He could not say no now.

"If you hurt beyond comprehension tomorrow then you will have only yourself and your scallywag cousin to blame."

Pippin smiled and embraced his friend. He understood.

~~::~~

From where he stood, swaying gently, against the support of the healer's tent where Aragorn had insisted he wait, Pippin could just discern the murmuring voices of Aragorn and a soldier from Minas Tirith. What were they saying? Who were they with? He needed to know.

The flickering lantern light illuminated the figure's faces, but Pippin could see nothing of their clothing or whether Merry was with them. There was nothing he could do but wait; wait with an urgency he had never felt before.

He closed his eyes: tiredness was beginning to take him into its clutches. The chill air was beginning to affect him too, and Pippin drew his elven cloak closer around his shivering frame. In the half light, he imagined a child coming towards him; the figure he had been thinking of since they had been parted; the being he wanted to see most in the world. It was just his fanciful imagination as usual. Or was it?

A warm hand touched his cheek and wiped away the tear that trickled from his eye.

"Merry..." whispered Pippin, and dared look at the hand's owner, seeing what he had known he would see the instant he felt the hobbit's presence.

The two cousins had been reunited.

Chapter 10 - Darkness no more

The air of the night hung coolly, but the night was far from cold. Hundreds of thousands of leagues into the sky, stars sparkled with white flickerings of flame. The moon was full, and cast an almost enchanted pale glow onto all its light touched. In a sheltered but clearly important encampment, banners bearing seven stars and one white tree fluttered delicately in the night breeze. And in a small, damaged area of greenery, where only a diminutive cluster of green canvas tents stood, two figures, tiny though they were in stature, embraced tightly, as old friends who had not thought they would be reunited do.

Because that's what they were.

"Oh Merry..." Pippin breathed in the strange familiarity of his cousin's cloak; a cloak woven with threads of tales that would bind them together for all of time. "I thought you'd never arrive."

"Frodo? Frodo, where is he? Does he yet live? And Sam.... I have had no word..." Merry's eyes glinted in the white light; his expression was wild.

"Merry.... I have not been waiting for you for this long to have you not even inquire after your favourite cousin's wellbeing!" His tone was indignant. After everything he'd been through, everything he'd fought, everything he'd done... for Merry. And now he didn't care.

"Oh, Pippin," he pulled gently back from the younger hobbit and put his hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye. "I have spent the last weeks thinking about nothing other than your wellbeing, silly hobbit! But Frodo.... truth be told, our hope for him was growing ever smaller as the days went by, although it never vanished. And to find he and Sam did what they set out to do is amazing, but I cannot help but wonder after his health." Merry smiled sadly, "He has survived, hasn't he?"

"Yes, dear cousin, and Samwise too. But they are under strict orders not to be disturbed. Not by anyone." He did not add that he had not seen them yet. To be honest, he was not entirely sure that he wanted to see them yet. Not after some of the rumours he had heard. If Frodo and Sam were not yet certain of survival then he did not wish to see their damaged, disfigured bodies. He wanted to remember them for their bravery and.... the way they were before. Also, Pippin had been concerned with his own welfare and concentrating on becoming well enough to see his beloved Merry. Now Merry was here perhaps he could find one last resource of courage to approach the guardians and visit his dear friends.

"Then I will not anger Aragorn and Gandalf by demanding entry." Silence passed between them, but Pippin did not need words to see that Merry was frightened of visiting the harsh white tent too, scared of what he would find.

Pippin broke the silence with a yawn, and it was only then that the tiredness he had managed to withhold flooded his body. He swayed unsteadily on his feet, and Merry drew him closer.

"Forgive me, Pippin. I should have known you'd be tired. Only as stubborn a hobbit as you would wait outside for so long."

"If I am a stubborn..." he failed to stifle the yawn that assailed him, "... hobbit, then you most certainly are too, dear Cousin."

Merry smiled and gently picked his cousin up, much as he had when they were younger and Pippin had stayed out too late, watching the stars. "My, Pippin," he said as he struggled to walk with the prone form in his arms, "You're so heavy, anyone would think you've grown."

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"Pippin!" Merry shook his cousin almost out of the cot he slept on, "Pippin, get up!"

"Mmmmm?" Pippin's eyes opened reluctantly. Why would Merry wake him; it was barely daylight? But Merry.... he would wake at daybreak all the time just to see his cousin now. Just to be reminded that they were together again and safe.

"I saw Strider," Merry spoke, a sense of panic showing in his voice. "He said we must go to Frodo and Sam-"

"Have they woken?"

"He did not say.... just that we must go now." He paused, "Oh, Pip.... what if..." Merry's question faded in to a whisper, and Pippin felt his own voice wavering. But he must be strong now.

"Then we must go."

~~::~~

The two small figures cautiously approached the pristine white tent that had so alarmed Pippin before. Yet there was no fear in the place now, just an air of immense sadness. It wasn't supposed to be this way, he thought. They were supposed to wake up, and reveal no further hurt than sore feet and unquenchable hunger. Frodo was supposed to smile and tell Pippin how tall he had become, and Sam would laugh and smile and then blush when Pippin said how brave he thought he was. Instead, they would enter the tent to see friends who's kin had only been called so they did not die alone.

Merry took a deep breath and unlaced the tent flap. Pippin following behind.

Frodo lay still, under the pristine linen sheets, his dark hair contrasting sharply with the pale cotton of the pillow. His hair was a little longer than it had been, and the curves of his cheekbones a little more pronounced, but other than that he looked... well, like Frodo. Frodo as Pippin remembered him being. Pippin stared silently as his cousin, noting the transparency of the flesh, and the beads of sweat that quivered on his forehead as he struggled with some inner foe. So the rumours had not been true: Frodo retained the same light and beauty he had always done. A tear threatened to escape from green eyes, and Pippin hastily wiped it away, disturbing the otherwise motionless figures in the tent. That the light would soon be gone and the Ringbearer would no longer lay there was inconceivable. A second tear snaked gracefully down Pippin's cheek and he made no effort to constrain it. He could cry for Frodo; there was nothing else he could do now.

Unnoticed by Pippin, the quirked brows smoothed themselves, and the lines of care vanished from Frodo's face. It was over.

Cerulean blue orbs of light surveyed the room.

"Pippin, Merry," A soft voice, Aragorn, who Pippin had not seen next to the bed, spoke. It was no wonder really, as the ranger, shrouded in layers of cotton, blended in almost perfectly with the white hue of the tent, and Pippin had been too transfixed by his cousin to observe little else. "Frodo wakes."

Pippin looked up at the blurred form on the bed, and wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. Sure enough, his too thin cousin had opened his eyes, and was staring at him and Merry in bewilderment.

"S...Sam?" he choked out, his voice dry.

Aragorn gently lifted a mug of water to his lips and let Frodo drink. "Not yet, Frodo. Soon."

Frodo swallowed painfully and looked at his cousins, the dullness gone from his eyes. "You've got so tall!"

Tears of joy came to Pippin's eyes and, were there any need, his smile could have lifted the shadow from all of Middle-earth. Everything would be all right now.

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"Merry?" said Pippin as they returned to their quarters for the night. Sam had awakened briefly that evening, and the happiness in Frodo's face had been plain to see. They still had a lot of healing to do, even Pippin could see that, but the care of Aragorn, time and the presence of the Fellowship would see to that.

"What is it Pip?"

"You said to me once...." Pippin's eyes started to close, and he stumbled onto Merry's soft mattress, curling up next to his cousin. "A long time ago.... or at least it seems like that....."

"What?"

"You told me we would see the Shire again..." Pippin slumped further onto the feather pillow, and Merry gently stroked his wayward curls.

"I did, Pippin.... now go to sleep, I know when you're tired." Merry smiled; his Pippin, his young, innocent cousin had been returned to him. Nothing could make him happier.

"You were right, Merry," a small voice mumbled from the expanse of a pillow clearly not made for those as small as hobbits. "You're always right Merry.... and that's why I love you."

The smile on Merry's face grew, and he leant over his cousin, pulling the blanket up to cover him. Perhaps there was just one thing.

Pippin smiled sleepily as he nestled into the blanket. They had been reunited. They were going to make it home.

The night had ended.

FIN