With Hope and Without Hope

'Yes,' said Aragorn, 'we shall all need the endurance of Dwarves. But come! With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them, if we prove the swifter! We will make such a chase as shall be accounted a marvel among the Three Kindreds: Elves, Dwarves, and Men. Forth the Three Hunters!'

Chapter 1: Decision

As the three remaining members of the Fellowship scrambled over rocky slopes, the afternoon came back to Aragorn. The pain of Boromir’s loss remained fresh, but he forced his thoughts to those he might yet save. Upon finding a boat missing from their camp, Aragorn was certain Frodo had gone on with his task and that Sam was with him. Once they had seen Boromir over the Falls of Rauros, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had taken only the daggers they had found and arrows for Legolas’s quiver, and then they had turned their hunt to Merry and Pippin in the hope that they still lived. Upon the winking of the first stars, the three had covered much rough terrain, climbing stony slopes only then to descend the sharp cliffs of the Emyn Muil.

They followed the Orcs’ wide trail through land of dry rock and short turf all the next day. As the sun made its leisurely passage overhead, Aragorn related to Legolas and Gimli how he had failed to recognize all the Orcs they had slain. Some he knew to be of Mordor, some from the north, but others were strange to him. The three together concluded that these were likely sent by Saruman at Isengard. If this were so, the wizard knew then of their journey and purpose, and possibly much that had befallen them. They would need to take care on their path.

Long after the sun had slipped behind the spires of the Misty Mountains, the wide plains of Rohan flattened out before them. Earlier the grass had glinted silver with moonlight; now the setting moon stole even that last color from the land. Having run since the afternoon of the previous day, they halted their march to consider seriously the choice of continuing once more through the night or taking much needed rest.

“My own thoughts on the matter conflict. For I deem that you guess rightly,” Gimli said. “The easiest way may be the Orcs’ own trail, yet we cannot overtake them by following their path. And we need rest if we are to continue this chase.”

“I agree,” Aragorn said. “Unless we can match their speed, we cannot hope to reach them by following their steps, but my concern is that while we rest, their lead grows.”

“If we find a shorter path and continue through the night, we may have a true chance to overtake them,” Legolas said as he stared out over the cliffs into the gloom. “Is there another way that would have our paths cross sooner?”

Aragorn was silent for a time as his eyes passed over the grey plains rolling west. “The Orcs travel west towards the Entwash. My guess is that they will follow that river as it bends northward and then west to meet Fangorn Forest where they can find more shelter from the eyes of Rohan. If we travel more northwest, we shall save us some miles in the chase.”

“But those saved miles are lost again if we rest,” said Legolas.

“Or else those saved miles allow us the rest we need to continue,” Gimli countered. “Then we do not lose so much time tomorrow.”

“Nor do we gain any. We have agreed we cannot reach them if we continue thus.”

“Do you forget the brooch? Not even you would have seen that in the darkness. What else might we miss?”

“Such a thing will not happen twice,” Legolas said quietly. “They will be more vigilant now in their watches. Indeed they may have increased their pace.”

“You both speak rightly. I know not the best way here,” Aragorn said with a sigh. “I think that no longer am I best suited to make such hard choices. My decisions have gone ill in recent days.”

“Yet we will follow your decision, as it will be the best we can do. I for one still trust your judgment,” Legolas said.

“As do I,” Gimli added. “You have not failed us yet.”

Aragorn closed his eyes. The weight of this choice bore down on him, seeking to stoop his shoulders, slow his feet, and bring despair into his heart. Already they had felt an ill power delay their steps even as it gave speed to their enemies. Was this indecision more of that work?

If so, he would not succumb to it. He would not allow Saruman to keep them from their friends. And Saruman must not have the hobbits. He closed his eyes and felt his cloak billow as the wind passed over him, taking with it his indecision. “We must do all we may, as long as we may, for our friends. Things will turn foul if the hobbits fall into the hands of Saruman. I believe there is a chance we may catch them, if we change our path. But I fear rest will counter what we gain. And so my decision is to continue. We will lay our hopes with our lembas and the Valar for the strength to continue.”

“For the hobbits, then,” Gimli said, nodding, “I continue as long as I have strength.” He rummaged into his pack for lembas, which he now surely needed, “If that is to be our path, let us go!”

******

Uglúk sent out his command to halt. Slowing to a walk, he listened as his order passed through the company of Orcs and watched the scouts return from their search for the Whiteskins. “What did you find?” he barked.

“Just the one scout, Uglúk. No other horsemen to see.”

“You took care of him?”

Snaga grinned in response and held up an empty helmet. “Took care of him, well and good! He won’t be talking to no one!”

Uglúk nodded. “You get a moment’s breather for your work. Then we move again! Be ready!” Uglúk paced down the column as they halted the march, his ears alert for the inevitable grumbling that erupted once they had something other than marching to do. No matter what those Mordor rats thought, he was in charge. He’d prove that if he had to take every head. Then they’d see what their master said. He’d get these lads and the prisoners to Isengard if he had to kill every one of these rats.

******

The next day passed nearly wordlessly. Aragorn’s ears were filled with the even rasp of their breathing, the rustle of the wind through the short grass of the plains, and the pounding of his feet on hard earth moving in quick time to the beat of his heart. The thin green line at the base of the Misty Mountains grew, expanding as Fangorn Forest drew closer. Miles passed ere the sun began her descent, and still they ran.

As they trudged into another nightfall, they finally came within bowshot of their prey. Soon they jogged alongside them. But still there was no sign of their friends. When the land began to undulate with the rolling downs dividing the plains from the forest and the sun’s light had fled west, Aragorn’s hope faltered. The new night would not help them to gain sight of the hobbits.

“There!” Legolas cried suddenly, crouching behind a new rise in the land. “It must be a hobbit! No Orc is bestowed with such a head of curls. It appears they are carried. An Orc unable to run would be left behind. It is a hobbit. I am certain of it!” Aragorn strained his eyes to see them amid the black silhouette of the Orc army, but with only a slim moon for light, even a Dúnadan could not see so far.

“Where?” Gimli asked. “Where are they? I have not elf-eyes to see in the dark! Tell me where!”

Legolas smiled, hope evident in his voice. “Near the rear of the column. There are many Orcs about them. I have some work ahead of me.” Legolas trotted higher on the hill they used as cover, which separated them by sight and smell from the Orcs. Gimli and Aragorn ran lower, out of sight but in pace with Legolas and the army.

Their only hope was in separating the group that guarded the hobbits from the rest of the army. Only then could they think to attack. A desperate plan, Aragorn rued that they were without an alternative. Truthfully, there was much to regret about their situation. Nibbling on lembas bread, Aragorn once again debated the wisdom of his decision to run through the previous night. He had considered the path he believed the Orcs had taken, his familiarity with Orcs and their behavior, and his knowledge of the land across which the three had then run unceasingly. He had heard the arguments of his fellow warriors on the matter. After all those considerations, he had also taken a moment to listen to what his heart told him was best. Aragorn could now only trust he had chosen well, as they had indeed reached the column of Orcs, but uncertainty nagged at him. They would soon learn the consequences of their choice.

After Legolas found the opening he sought, he fired several arrows into the crowd of marching Orcs, striking their legs and so taking them down at once but keeping the cause unknown to those around them. Aragorn ran up the hill and was gratified to see the bodies on the ground trip up those behind them and cause an immediate halt to the rest of the troop. Those who fell on top of the stricken Orcs let them know their feelings on their fellows’ clumsiness with their mouths and fists, unaware of the arrows stuck in their legs. A scuffle soon arose, which quickly evolved into a brawl.

But the group of Orcs that had halted their march and were now fighting among themselves was disappointingly large. Legolas had indeed separated the rear group from the rest of the column, but their numbers were still too great. Perhaps they would have to divide them again, Aragorn thought, and wondered for how long they could continue this plan. He reckoned Dwarves sturdy enough to keep up with Elves and suspected that Gimli would run till his legs were worn to stumps rather than let Legolas know he was weary. He hoped the dwarf had some will left for when his strength waned. They could not make an error now through impatience. They would only have one chance to perform their rescue.

By the time a large Orc arrived from further up the column to berate the lingering beasts, several were left on the ground not to rise again. The rest managed to re-form the line and continue the march, leaving behind those killed in the brawl. The large Orc remained with the stragglers to provide the encouragement needed to catch up with the rest of the army, supplied mostly by his whip.

The sun approached the eastern horizon and the Orc army continued. The three were forced to follow, though they were weary beyond imagining. Once more Legolas took aim at Orcs surrounding the hobbits. Not surprisingly, his shots had the same result. But now the large commander was nearby and looked into the grey predawn as the new brawl ensued. He narrowed his eyes in the direction of their protective hill and sent out a small group of Orcs to investigate. The three met them with their blades and cut them down before any could raise a defense or alarm.

“Legolas!” Aragorn whispered, wiping his blade clean of black blood in the grass. He had hoped to rid themselves of more Orcs than they had at this point. “We cannot continue in this manner! They will soon send too many for us to counter, and our strength wanes. We must decide on a new course of action.”

Legolas looked to Aragorn, then Gimli. “There are still too many to fight, I agree, and my arrows do little to diminish those that yet stand between us and what we seek. I would persist for a time, though. Can you not go on?”

Gimli sighed heavily, and Aragorn prayed his weariness had not shortened his temper. The Dúnadan understood that the dwarf would go on as long as there was hope, from which he drew his strength. The elf had yet to realize that. “Aye, Legolas, I can go on, but how long? You might shoot through the new day and still we could not fight such numbers. Could we not fashion a smaller battle? Then we may yet have a chance.”

Aragorn answered swiftly. “We must diminish the numbers that surround Merry and Pippin. It is our only hope of success. If we can create a smaller group to attack, then–”

Legolas looked behind him sharply. “I believe our choice has been made for us. Such a small group as you request now has been sent from the company to find us. They approach this hill, as you will soon hear. But their numbers are greater than the previous band. This will be more of a challenge.”

Dwarf and man looked at each other, then to the elf, and gave a stern nod. They had no alternative but to face the coming battle. Leaving it to Legolas to give the sign that their prey was near, Aragorn pulled his blade free. They would vanquish these Orcs and all that followed. They must. They were the only hope for the hobbits.

******

Chapter 2: Taking Winnings

The defeat of the three spies was never in doubt. The uruk-hai Norgry only wondered whether they would give up or fight to the death. They had lasted longer than he’d expected, but after the man’s leg had caught the arrow, the dwarf had soon followed. Maybe he was distracted by the wounding of his comrade. These mortals tended to stick together. Worry about each other. That usually ended badly for them. Orcs and Uruk-hai were not bothered with such worries. Survival and little else mattered to this rabble. Norgry nearly laughed when the elf attempted to defend all three of them when he alone was left standing. It wasn’t long before the fool realized his efforts were in vain and held up his hands in defeat. Norgry was a bit disappointed, for it would have been a pleasurable kill. But now that Uglúk had given orders to keep the three creatures alive if they surrendered, Norgry hoped to savor their deaths at his own pace. Especially that disgusting elf – he would enjoy killing him.

Norgry hadn’t kept the back-row fracas from Uglúk’s notice as he’d hoped. The uruk leader had halted the march to stick his nose into what was supposed to be under Norgry’s control. When the battle raging on the far side of the eastern hill caught his attention, a strange gleam had grown in Uglúk’s eyes. Norgry didn’t know what Uglúk was up to, changing their orders from ‘kill all but the halflings’ to this talk of keeping prisoners, but he was not of a mind to argue with the hulking uruk. So he had watched the battle, silhouetted against a pale predawn sky, making sure Uglúk’s new command was obeyed.

Norgry pointed to a group ogling their catch and five Orcs approached the three as they stood in defeat, their weapons at their feet. The man panted and leaned on his good leg. The dwarf’s leg bled, but he seemed not to notice. The elf stared at them all with steely eyes. “Step back from your weapons!” shouted one of his soldiers.

The dwarf grumbled. “This is madness. Better to battle until they have slain us!” The dwarf was smarter than he looked, to Norgry’s surprise.

“Aye, Gimli, it would be better for us,” the elf answered quietly. “But we can help no one if we are dead.”

The dwarf gave him no reply but stepped back stiffly from his weapon, as the others did when the Orc repeated his command more forcefully.

A small goblin that had climbed the hill to watch the spectacle grabbed at the gleaming sword the man had cast down in the end, but after a moment, he cried out and threw the weapon away as if it burned him. With a snarl, he glared at the man then back at his fellow soldiers. “Elvish make that one must be! It burns like fire!”

At that moment, another small Orc cried out. From the North, both of them, Norgry remembered. “Ai! This one too!” He flung the bow into the field, and Norgry noticed the elf’s eyes follow its path through the brightening sky.

Norgry laughed. “You northern lads must have rat dung for brains! Of course it’s elvish, bûb-bag! It belongs to an elf. Now stop this nonsense and bind them!”

“Norgry, this axe ain’t elvish. It’s strong. Can I keep it?”

Norgry narrowed his eyes at this rat. Always he was asking for the go ahead for what he meant to do anyway. If he didn’t get permission, he’d find another way to get what he wanted. Norgry looked at the Dwarvish axe. Hefting it, he swung it about, causing many to step back, uncertain they weren’t about to be cut down. “It’s strong, but heavier than I like my weapons. Keep it if you want.” With a shrug, he thrust it back to him. “But you best search them for other weapons if you don’t want your throat cut of a sudden. And take their packs. Might have something of use. Now hurry up!”

An Orc quickly began retrieving their belongings. The man hesitated, holding onto his pack, his hand inside, rummaging as if trying to salvage something from it. The Orc tried to wrench it from him, then suddenly the man surrendered it, hands empty, yielding the pack and all its contents. Norgry narrowed his eyes at the strange behavior, but he didn’t have time to figure out the man’s actions.

As all five got to work binding their captives, the rest of the Orcs sat about, taking the chance to rest from their march. “You lazy pack of dogs! Get ready to move on. We got no time to waste!” Norgry made his way through the milling rabble to report to Uglúk on their new catch.

He hadn’t gotten a dozen steps when he heard Fagrod calling out to him. “Norgry! If we’re gonna kill them, why don’t we just do it and be done with it? As you said, we got no time to waste.”

Norgry growled. Though only an Orc, Fagrod was one of the smarter ones. Sometimes that was more trouble than aid to him. At least he was of Isengard, and there was no need to question his loyalties. “Are you trying to decide what my orders should be?”

“No! It’s just that what we’re to do with them decides even how we bind them, uh, sir.”

“What we’re to do with them, that’s for Uglúk to decide. Now unless you want him to find out what’s happened from the chatter and claver instead of my report, you won’t harry me with questions. And right now, I’m of a mind that I like to look at our prisoners and know that they will die. So I say keep them for a bit. Which means, bind them so they’ll keep!”

“Well, Norgry, there’s, eh, one more thing I was thinking…”

“What now!”

“It’s just that, after all this, I was thinking we earned a bit of sport for ourselves. Plus, the lads are starting to grumble, especially that whining Mordor lot. If we gave them all some toys to play with, it might keep them quiet and marching longer in the end. Besides, we’ve trekked for days on end through this empty place, and do you expect Saruman to thank you for it? There ain’t no reward waiting for us at Isengard, and if there was, Uglúk would take it straight away. So why not take some when we can?

Norgry’s eyes narrowed. So this was his point, finally. “So we take a bit of sport, eh?”

“I was thinking so. You should get the elf yourself, sir. He’ll last, no matter what you do to him. You could have fun with that one for a while yet. I don’t know what Uglúk’s got planned for them, but I’m thinking he don’t care what we do with them, long as we leave the killing to him.” Norgry let himself smile at the thought of the elf as his own prisoner, but he wasn’t as sure as Fagrod of Uglúk’s disregard for the captives. He remembered the shine in the uruk’s eyes. Perhaps his thoughts had been similar to Fagrod’s. And he might not be of a mind to share.

“The man won’t last long, I figure,” Fagrod continued, “with the way he’s bleeding, but that doesn’t mean he can’t provide some distraction for a few of this lot. And the dwarf, who knows? I’ve never had a dwarf to play with. Might be interesting to find out how long he lasts.” He stopped there, waiting for Norgry’s decision.

“Hmph. Always thinking, you are, Fagrod. Knew there was some reason I had you around. You’re right about no rewards from no one. Only thing is, we have to be careful about Uglúk.” Norgry looked pointedly at Fagrod. “We might have to do a bit more sharing than we’d like. That’s all right, though. We’ll take what falls in our hands! Don’t mention it to nobody till I tell Uglúk, see what’s on his mind for them. And I’m not asking for an extra break for this, so there’s no time for it now. At the next break in our march, we’ll have ourselves some games. When the time comes, I will take the elf. And you can have the dwarf if you’re so interested. You decide who gets the man. But make sure enough of them get a piece of him. This is supposed to shut them up, after all. I don’t wanna hear no grumbling after this. Make sure they know that!”

“Will do!” Fagrod went off with a toothy grin.

Norgry turned to continue on to Uglúk when Fagrod’s original question regarding the binding of the prisoners sunk in. With a curse, he returned to where the prisoners were now trussed and sitting silently on the ground, hands bound in their laps and connected to each other with a length of thick rope. Norgry was mildly irked he neither saw nor smelled fear in them yet. There would be time for that, though, and he smiled at the thought. He lost the smile when he realized he needed yet again to teach this rabble common sense. “Machlhug! What’d you use to bind the prisoners?”

The Mordor Orc frowned. “Rope. What’d you expect me to use?”

Norgry narrowed his eyes at the insolence and took a step towards him. “On all of them?”

“Yeh, all of them, tied up good and tight.”

Norgry suddenly whacked the Orc on the side of the head. “Haven’t you ever had an elf prisoner afore? If you did, you didn’t keep him long. You can’t keep Elves with simple rope, bûb-bag! They’re not as weak as Men! Here! Put these on him,” he ordered, detaching a pair of iron cuffs from his belt.

Machlhug glared but turned to the elf, who watched Norgry intently. The uruk repressed a shiver at the glance. He hated when they did that! He swung his fist good and hard into the elf’s face. That made him feel much better, though the elf had managed to see it coming somehow and dodged it, so he barely caught the side of his head. There was a red spot growing on his cheekbone, though, and that was enough for Norgry right now. Soon enough, he’d make it so those eyes would never look at him again.

Norgry shook himself. No time for those thoughts now. Business first. He watched as Machlhug carefully undid the ropes binding the elf, while two other Orcs held their blades at his neck. Finally, Machlhug clamped the iron shackles forcefully onto the wrists of the elf, who gave no resistance. This one was waiting for death, Norgry supposed, and had no fight left in him. That would prove disappointing, not to mention boring. Maybe he just knew when he was outnumbered. Elves weren’t stupid; Norgry knew that and had the scars to prove it. Machlhug shook the cuffs, assuring that they held.

“Now that’s how you bind an elf! Remember that! When we’re ready to move, get them moving and place two on guard ahead and behind them, then one on each side. We keep marching!”

As he stepped away, Norgry noticed the shiver Machlhug failed to suppress when the elf glowered at him. Machlhug kicked at the elf, who quickly ducked. The Orc tried again, aiming this time for the dirt in front of him. The elf was too fast, though, and rather than spraying the elf’s face, Machlhug had to be satisfied with an elf in dusty clothes. Norgry chuckled as Machlhug growled in frustration. “I can’t wait to watch you die,” the Mordor Orc hissed, turning quickly, likely to avoid the sting of another glare, and commanded the Orcs next to him to keep watch. “When I give the call, you get them on their feet.”

Norgry added as he turned to leave, “Remember, no killing just yet! You lot hear that? They stay alive.” Norgry smiled as he added, “At least for now.”

******

Aragorn gave up trying to push his mind from the present, as they plodded over swelling hills in the darkness and the pain in his leg prevented his mental escape. He was fortunate that the arrowhead was still imbedded in the wound, as it had prevented more serious blood loss. But his leg burned, likely with infection, and Aragorn was uncertain how much farther he could march.

He dwelled instead on his growing list of missteps that had brought them to this point. Always he went back to the decision to run through the night rather than rest. He had had sound reasons behind his choice. They might not otherwise have caught up with the Orc army – that much was likely. But what he had failed to properly reckon was their strength, even his own, after three days of running with scant rest, which had left them unfit for battle. Had he not faltered and been injured, Gimli might not have been distracted and then wounded as well. Legolas would not have had to fight for them all, an impossible task. At least Legolas remained wise enough to remember their quarry and accept defeat.

He had chosen poorly once more, a possibly fatal error, and now the worst had come to pass. How many of his friends would he lose to his poor judgment? How was he to rule a kingdom when he could not rescue two friends from Orcs? They did not yet know the fate of Merry and Pippin; in fact, they had not seen them since they had begun their attack on the Orcs. He could only pray for the hobbits’ safety. For their own, he thought perhaps even prayer was in vain. In all his time as a Ranger wandering the wild, he had never been so unfortunate or unwise as to be captured by Orcs. He did not need first-hand experience, however, to know that Gimli spoke truly – their end would have gone easier for them had they battled to their last breath. But Legolas was also correct. They were not on a mission for themselves but to save the hobbits, and most especially to keep them from Isengard. For Saruman had clearly gone after hobbits and would know precisely what questions to ask. And Saruman had ways of ensuring he received his answers.

Consequently, they traveled in fetters over the plains of Rohan, the babble of the Entwash enticingly near. Night had fallen long ago, and occasional torches shed an eerie glow upon their dark captors. With little expectation of their own survival, Aragorn held onto the hope that they might yet manage to free their friends. He would die more at peace knowing Merry and Pippin did not suffer the same fate.

He stumbled again and failed to hide it this time. Gimli, trudging in front of him, slowed so that Aragorn could lean on him. The man allowed himself a moment of relief to see that the dwarf’s stride was barely slowed by his own wound. Aragorn then felt Legolas grasp his elbow to steady him. Their efforts helped, but he knew that at some point they would not be enough.

Too soon, the world pitched sideways and Aragorn found himself on the ground, pulling his companions with him. Legolas and Gimli scrambled to get him up before the whips came, but he was as a dead man already, and they could not lift him with their bonds.

“Aragorn!” He heard Legolas cry harshly. The use of his true name roused Aragorn from his daze, and he looked about to see if the word held meaning for any others. That one word could prove more dangerous to him than any sword. For the same reason, he had made the desperate decision upon their capture to remove his Ring of Barahir and deposit it in his pack. Orcs would ransack the bags and then hopefully discard them. The chances of the ring reaching Saruman were, if not remote, certainly not as likely as they would have been had it remained on his finger. He could not be recognized for who he truly was. And he would not have the heirloom of the House of Isildur in the hands of Saruman.

Legolas seemed confused by the concern on his face, then noticed where Aragorn looked – at his bare finger. The elf’s eyes widened, but clearly he understood. “You must get up! A Ranger does not give up so easily, or have they become so lax? You cannot give up! Now on your feet!” He yanked the Ranger to his feet, only to have both of them greeted by a whip.

“Get moving, you rats! I don’t remember anyone mentioning a rest!”

“He is injured!” Legolas said. “If you wish him to keep moving, you must allow me tend to his wound.”

“I don’t gotta do nothing. You, on the other hand, better get moving! Now!” There was a swish Aragorn recognized as the whip in motion, and as he heard it land on flesh, he was dragged until he was once again able to stumble on his own.

It was not long before Aragorn fell yet again. “Come now, Ara- Strider! You were not named such without cause! Live up to your name!”

“Aye, Strider,” Gimli added, “Stride now! You must not falter!” Struggling as he was with his own injuries, he fairly dragged the man behind him.

But it was no use. Aragorn shook his head, panting with his efforts. “Forgive me, my friends. But I am beyond even my endurance.” He paused to catch his breath. “I have erred, and gravely. Forgive me.” His final words trailed off as Aragorn collapsed into a heap on the ground. No prodding from the two could get him to rise.

Aragorn vaguely heard shouts above him, but they meant little. Even the whip failed to prod his body into movement. He sensed his friends still near him, urging him onward. In the darkness beyond them were the Orcs and their rough speech. “I think that one’s dead already. Get Norgry – but not Uglúk! Now!” And another one, “You’d better hope he’s not dead. Norgry says Uglúk wants them alive. For what, I’d like to know. But I’m not taking the blame for it if he is.”

“What’s this?” A loud deep voice barked as an Orc pushed through the cluster of soldiers.

“It’s the man, Norgry. He won’t get up. I think he’s dead.”

“You think he’s dead? Did you check to see if he was dead?” Heavy boots stomped over, his friends were shoved away, and a hand clamped onto his chest. “His heart’s still beating. What’s all the fuss?”

“He won’t walk no more. The other two can’t even get him up. Whips and kicks ain’t stirring him neither.”

The uruk pulled Aragorn up and shook him. His head flopped and rolled with his body. “Blasted men. So weak. I don’t know what your lot will get out of this one, Fagrod. But no changing now.”

The footsteps of another Orc neared. “Well, then, if he’s gonna die, lemme take him now, so they can get something out of him. What say you?”

After a pause, the uruk grunted. “I suppose we could take a breather – a short one, mind you! We’re almost to the forest anyways. You’re responsible for him, including after. If he or the dwarf’s in a dead-sleep when we’re ready to move again, you’ll be carrying them.”

Aragorn’s ears perked up and he focused his concentration. His attention may have faded somewhat in his daze, but he realized if he wanted them to treat him as alive he had better start acting alive. He breathed deeply and attempted to move. The one who still held him noticed and shoved him into the arms of another Orc, who apparently did not expect the sudden burden. Aragorn fell to the ground with a thud and a groan.

“See? He ain’t dead. Enjoy your sport with him!”

Aragorn cracked his eyes open to see outlines of Legolas and Gimli sitting nearby in the dim light of far-off torches. Legolas’s eyes glinted, wide with concern. “Ara- Strider!” cried Gimli. “It does not sound good for you, my friend. And I can do nothing…” Aragorn realized Gimli was also losing his grip on his faculties. They had both pushed themselves beyond their endurance. And now he had been put in the hands of an Orc given counsel to ‘enjoy’ him. He was sure all enjoyment was to be had by the Orc.

Instead of leaving, however, the uruk walked over to Legolas, pulled him up by the hair, and disconnected him from their tether. “And this one, I’m gonna enjoy this one, all right! Fagrod, I’m gonna have to keep you around. You have some good ideas. Listen up, lads. This one’s mine unless I say so.” Legolas was buffeted back and forth as the uruk gestured with the large hand that held him. “Fagrod will decide who gets the man. He’s gonna share the dwarf among some of you. Said something about wanting to see how long a dwarf will last. They might be dying, being mortal and all, so pay attention! No killing till I say so. This one,” he looked greedily at Legolas, “this one will last a nice long time.” The large uruk laughed as he dragged Legolas off with him.

Aragorn held Legolas’s eyes, and the determination he found there sparked a seed of hope he had not dared to nurture. Legolas would survive, at least. And if he were the only one, he would see the hobbits freed or die trying. Aragorn looked for comfort in that thought, but found little.

Gimli, on the other hand, stumbled as he was dragged away by a small group of Orcs. He had not the presence of mind to look back, and Aragorn silently prayed for him to find strength. As another group of Orcs dragged Aragorn to his feet, laughing and joking gleefully for the sport to come, he knew he had best pray for strength of his own.

******

Waking to the feel of rough grass beneath his face, Gimli found himself under guard of one lethargic Orc in the early morning light. He tested moving a leg. Still hurt. The Orcs’ beating had not eased the pain from his initial wound. Less painful was his other leg, uninjured in their desperate battle that had ended in capture. Gimli bit down the shame he felt each time he thought of their failure. Guilt and blame would not help them. What would, he could not imagine.

At least he was able to stand on two legs, if not steadily on both. Able to walk, his captors were less likely to find him too much trouble to keep alive. He knew not for what reason they had been kept as prisoners. Perhaps the sport the Orcs had just enjoyed had been reason enough for them. To be kept alive for torture was a dismal prospect.

He was not overly concerned with his own wound. It was only a graze by one of the Orcs’ decrepit blades, not nearly as serious as Aragorn’s wounding at the point of an arrow yet imbedded in the Ranger’s thigh. It was no doubt causing him great pain, as Aragorn had been unable to avoid limping and stumbling as they marched the previous day. Now his injuries would be compounded by the beating the Orcs had visited upon him. In the coming dawn, Gimli could see Aragorn lying on the ground beside him; they must have returned the man at some point before Gimli had awakened, but Aragorn had yet to regain consciousness.

At the sound of nearby shuffling, Gimli opened his eyes a crack to watch a large uruk dump Legolas nearby with a chuckle. The elf flopped heedlessly beside Gimli. Oblivious to the jeers and grumbling of Orcs around them, he watched Legolas and Aragorn intently until the rise and fall of their chests assured him they lived. It was the only sign of their health, however, as they lay still as the dead. Aragorn’s clothes were torn, revealing dark blotches of which Gimli could not discern bruises from blood. Legolas’s jerkin had been all but destroyed, and cuts and bruises were clear through tears in his tunic and breeches. Both were muddy and disheveled. As with Gimli, their Elven cloaks were missing, likely ripped from them while the Orcs beat on them.

But they drew breath and so lived. Forced to be satisfied with that, he closed his eyes once more. Gimli was fortunate, he knew. The beasts had thought that he, too, might be near death, and so did not abuse him as greatly as they might have had they considered him healthy. He wondered how close he – or any of them – were to death in truth, but his head began to pound and he gave up his train of thought, instead listening to the sounds about him.

The Orcs surrounding Gimli argued ceaselessly. Nothing was agreed upon without quarrel, even when assignments such as guard duty were clear. Gimli hoped their masters held enough sway over them that they would not disregard entirely their orders to keep them alive.

“Come, Grishnákh! Isengard don’t rule us. I say we return to Lugbúrz. What have two halflings got to do with the Great Eye? If he wanted them, he would have them.”

“He does want them. Maybe Saruman thinks to get them for himself, but the Great Eye will have them – and whatever they have – in the end.”

“The halflings are a nuisance! I say we kill them and take off. We’d move much faster without them.”

“You’ve got some good sport with those new prisoners. And I say they’ll live a while yet. So quit your griping. Remember who you serve! We serve the Great Eye and no other!”

“Grishnákh is right, lads. I’m thinking, if we got to trek across horse country, at least we got some toys to fill the time. What we got waiting for us back in Lugbúrz? I’m for enjoying this bit of fun while we got it.” There was a chorus of cheers, and the Orcs seemed to settle down. Then, in a quieter, guarded tone, as if spoken to one only, the same Orc continued. “So, you do think the halflings got something the Great Eye wants.”

The answering Orc hesitated. “I’d wager it. It must be.” It was the one they had called Grishnákh.

“You think they got a weapon or something?”

“Could be. Or perhaps it’s them. Maybe halflings have some magic about them. Can’t say I know much about them. But I’m planning to keep an eye on those two. I don’t care what this Saruman has to say.”

A muffled groan beside Gimli drew his attention from the conversation as Legolas finally stirred. That Legolas had been unconscious at all alarmed Gimli, but he hoped the elf’s recovery would be swifter than theirs. Legolas was the likeliest of them to live through this. Without him, the hobbits had no chance.

Although a groan from Aragorn soon followed, the approach of a large lumbering Orc cut off any question he might have asked of how elf or man fared. They all tensed warily as the uruk cajoled them for lying about and tried to kick them to their feet. The three struggled clumsily to stand, and though Gimli offered what support he could, each leaned heavily on another. “Remember what he told you – if they can’t walk, you carry them!” the uruk told another. There were several moans and snickers from the goggling group around them.

Among the general rustling of the gang readying themselves for more marching, three Orcs nearest them discussed whether they would indeed need to carry their prisoners. “They’re standing. They can march as well!” He shoved at Aragorn, who nearly toppled over.

The Orc next to him laughed. “And that’s the one you’ll be carrying for sure! Wretched creature!”

“If I’m carrying one, you’ll be doing the same! So take your pick, but get ready for hauling!”

The third Orc grumbled. “I ain’t carrying no elf! You can take your elf to Norgry, or Uglúk, or Saruman himself. I don’t care! I ain’t doing it!”

The first Orc turned and punched the whining Orc in the head. “Shut your trap and pick up one of these creatures. Or I’ll teach you a thing about Isengard.”

The third Orc narrowed his eyes. “Isengard, eh? Just wait. The Great Eye will teach you all you need to learn. Just wait till those Nazgûl come for you!”

“Enough you two! I’m sick of Isengard this and Mordor that! We got toys now, and I care a lot less which way we go. But look, there’s nothing for it. We’re carrying these mangy creatures. Nothing gonna change that. Although,” he cackled, “I am glad I don’t have to carry the elf!” The Orc who apparently had been given that duty snarled as he grabbed his charge. The other chuckled, turned to Gimli, and hoisted him over his back. Gimli groaned at the strain on his arms as the Orc pulled them over his head. Just as he watched Aragorn undergo the same indignity, he was led away by his carrier, setting off in a bouncy trot.

***

After his arms had numbed to the painful position, Gimli had fallen blissfully asleep. Hours later, he moaned as a return to consciousness brought back to him the many hurts of his body, aggravated by the constant bouncing of the jogging Orc. For a few moments, he held onto enough sleep to deny what had befallen them. He cracked open his eyes to find the sun shining brightly, high and warm, in sharp contrast to their plight. As his wits returned fully, his thoughts turned to escape. All plans that came to mind were desperate at best. He could not see a way out. Forlorn, he laid his head down against the back of the Orc and drifted away again.

The world came back to him suddenly as he hit the ground solidly on his back. Stunned for a moment, he simply stared up at the clear sky, where the sun was sliding behind the mountains to the west. With a groan, he attempted to roll to his side and stand. It was some time before he made it to his knees and he decided to be satisfied with that. After Aragorn’s disengagement from his carrier, he called to him, “Ara–Strider,” remembering the man’s distressed look when Legolas had used his given name. “How do you fare?”

Attempting to wait patiently for a response, Gimli looked about him. The trees of Fangorn were decidedly nearer than when he had last seen them. Orcs milled about scattered fires or huddled together in various levels of conflict, but none yet stood guard over them.

His restraint suddenly reached its limit, and Gimli was about to ask his question again when Aragorn rolled over and gave something of an answer. “I live yet,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Though I do not look forward to feeling my arms again.”

Gimli nodded. He did not feel up to even that much speech yet. His throat was parched, as was Aragorn’s, from the rasp in his voice. He turned his attention to the elf, who had just been dumped alongside them by a grumbling Orc. Staggering over to Legolas, Gimli watched the crowd for a moment. He kept an ear tuned to their grumblings, to be better prepared for a sudden change in their mood or for a moment when opportunity might show herself.

“Water,” Aragorn whispered, his cracked lips barely moving.

“What was that?”

“We need water. And soon. It has been long since we had any.” Aragorn struggled to sit up, favoring his injured leg. With a heaving sigh, he asked, “And how fare you, Gimli?”

Gimli shrugged. “I am likely no worse than either of you. I ache and I am weary, but I shall live. I believe those dreadful creatures were unsure of my health, for I expected poorer treatment.”

“Legolas? How do you fare?” Aragorn asked quietly.

Legolas was quiet for a time. He breathed deeply and finally sat up without support before speaking. “I live yet.” Aragorn looked at him expectantly, clearly wanting more. “You are correct, Strider. We are in great need of water. I am aware that mortals can scarcely go a day without it and not suffer. This will be the second day, and we went with little the two days before our capture.”

“Yes, it concerns me. Without it, our bodies will weaken, including yours. But for now, we can do nothing for it. And aside from your thirst?” the Ranger looked pointedly at Legolas.

“As well as can be expected,” Legolas finally said.

Aragorn sighed. “Seeing as I can do little for you regardless of your health, I suppose we must be satisfied with that.”

“Ai! Hush you! No talking or I’ll show you what I mean!” They turned to the Orc they had not seen approach and stilled themselves. Gimli glared as he stomped away, apparently not intending to enforce his own threat.

“They are testy,” Gimli whispered. “And they seem uncertain why we have halted. Naturally, they are quarreling again, though it seemed we had provided enough distraction to quiet some of that. Do you think their plans change?”

Aragorn shook his head, turning away from the troops to avoid notice. “It seems we have marched far. This is not a pause for the daylight. I would expect the coming night to be cause to push farther and faster.” He looked at the crowd again. “They are tense.” He turned back to them once a pair of Orcs passed them. “I cannot do much for your hurts, yet still I would know what wounds you have suffered. Do you feel any bones broken, nausea, lightheadedness? These are very important.” Gimli sat stubbornly mute beside a silent elf. Aragorn’s tone became stern. “We must do all we can to survive this. Or have you forgotten why we are here?”

“Ai! Who said you could talk?” a new Orc said and grabbed Aragorn by his worn tunic. “No talking!” Throwing Aragorn down, he stomped over to two Orcs talking nearby and assigned them to guard duty.

“I could not forget!” Gimli muttered, as the Orcs argued among themselves over the new task. “I have tried to spy the hobbits through the crowd with no success.”

After some time under watch, the Orcs once more drew themselves into an argument, and Aragorn continued in a whisper as if not interrupted. “If we perish, there will be none to find the hobbits. We must take care and look for the first signs of afflictions that put us in grave danger. So I ask you again, is there aught that you suffer?”

With a sigh, Legolas quietly yielded to Aragorn’s questions. “I have no broken limbs. But my head does swim.” His voice drifted, as if speaking to himself. “I have never felt such weariness.”

Aragorn frowned with one eye on the Orcs. He shuffled closer to Legolas and laid his bound hands on his brow, though Legolas only permitted it for a moment before pulling away. “You do not burn with fever.” He then reached over and felt Gimli’s brow, who scurried away from his touch with sputterings of consternation. “Peace, Gimli. I only wish to be sure.”

“Worry about the elf! I am well enough.” Gimli found the elf’s lack of focus alarming, and he thought it best that Aragorn do what he could for him while the Orcs’ attention wandered.

Aragorn reached for Legolas, but a bark from the Orcs told them their attention had returned. “Ai! What’re you doing? No tricks! No talk! No nothing!” He pulled Aragorn away from Legolas roughly, yanked on his bindings, and threw him to the ground, where Aragorn wisely remained.

Gimli tried to look as small and inconsequential as possible and so drew no attention from the Orc, who glared at Legolas, shook him for no apparent reason, then stomped back to his post. Gimli watched as Legolas slowly righted himself, cataloguing the cuts and bruises Aragorn had aimed to check. They were much like the injuries Gimli sported and that he saw on Aragorn, but more numerous. Gimli understood Aragorn’s concern, though he wondered what the man could do for them with bound hands, even if not under this half-hearted scrutiny. He could not even clean their wounds. The dwarf felt despair creeping in on him and concentrated on following the location of the Orcs.

When the Orc finally relaxed and began conversation once more with his partner, Gimli looked back to Aragorn, who sighed with frustration. With a wry smile, he said, “There is little I could do even if left alone. I have herbs that would aid us, but most are of no use without water. And before healing any hurts, we must ease our thirst. Water is what we need most of all, and most bereft of such are we.”

They were silent for a while, each in their own minds and worlds of worry. Soon, Aragorn turned to Legolas. “I suggest we rest while we are able.” Aragorn shut his eyes and lowered his head to his knees. As Legolas moved stiffly to stand, Gimli wondered what would become of them.

“I will not sleep, not amongst these. You sleep, as you must. I do not need it.”

Gimli frowned at Legolas, but the elf stopped him before he spoke. “Sleep, Gimli. You have perhaps only minutes before we are put to march again. I will try to wake you before they come.”

“If minutes are all we have, I would rather spend it on watch,” Gimli said and stood. “You rest, for you were abused the worst. And do not argue!” he added as Legolas opened his mouth. “Or do you seek to prove that Elves are indeed more stubborn than Dwarves after all?” Legolas’s mouth remained open at the unexpected challenge, giving Gimli time to take a few steps and assume his watch. Hearing no response from Legolas, Gimli scanned the crowd. He would be alert for any surprise. But surprises are those events one does not expect.

******

Chapter 3: To Isengard

Groaning, Pippin landed hard on the ground and heard Merry land nearby soon after. Pippin’s arms were useless weights after clinging to the Orc’s neck all day. He and his cousin lay still as they watched the Orcs stomp away, grumbling again about carrying prisoners with two working legs, leaving them alone in the deepening dusk. Pippin slowly sat up and looked off to the fading light in the west, where the dark of Fangorn Forest loomed. He remembered the warning of Lord Celeborn and shivered. Would the Orcs take them in there?

He felt a tug on his arms and turned to see Merry grab his hands, still bound together, and begin shaking them vigorously, so that his arms swung up and down. “What are you doing?”

“Your arms are numb, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this ought to get the blood moving again.”

“Oh.” Pippin allowed Merry to continue until he felt the prickle of returning circulation in his fingers. “Ooh, pin pricks.” He shook off Merry’s hands. “Now let me return the favor.”

After a few minutes, both hobbits were feeling more fully limbed. Pippin was examining the knots on the ropes binding his wrists when Merry suddenly squeezed his arm hard. “That’s quite enough now, Mer–”

“Shush, Pippin! Look!”

Pippin peered in the direction Merry was looking, but he saw nothing unusual. That is, he saw a bunch of smelly Orcs arguing, as they always seemed to do. Many of the creatures glanced over at them often. The two appeared unguarded, but they were not unnoticed. Even in the dark, the brutes would see every move. Pippin looked back at Merry. “Yes?”

“That one, over there. Look at what he’s holding.”

Pippin watched for a creature holding anything of interest. The grey Orcs seemed to blend in with the twilight and he could barely distinguish one from another. Many walked at all times with their weapons in hand, as if always ready for battle. More often, it seemed the battle was with another Orc. They brandished swords carelessly, threatening each other on a whim. Then Pippin saw something that struck him as vaguely familiar. He frowned as he tried to remember.

“If you don’t say that’s Gimli’s axe, I’ll shear the hair off my feet!”

“That’s it, Merry! I couldn’t place it without–” Pippin stopped suddenly and swallowed. “But if he’s got Gimli’s axe…” He looked at Merry with concern. “That doesn’t bode well, does it?”

“No, Pip. It doesn’t, not at all.” Merry seemed deep in thought as he lowered his voice to a whisper. “He may have tried to rescue us, instead of going off to Mordor with the others.”

Pippin wondered at Merry’s words. “You think the whole Company would go off to Mordor, leaving Gimli alone to come after us? Boromir wanted to go–” Pippin’s last sight of Boromir loomed before him suddenly, complete with arrows. “Oh.”

“Whoever was left, that is,” Merry said quietly. “Maybe Gimli had to go alone. Of course, seeing an Orc walk around with his axe…” Biting his lip, he looked pointedly at Pippin. “I’ve heard they take the weapons of those they’ve slain.”

Pippin stared at his cousin, eyes wide with horror. “Merry! How can you say – can you not see any hope for them?” He added in a whisper, “Have we no friends left at all?”

“I don’t know, Pip. It’s hard here, among these beasts, to find such assurance.”

Recalling the many times when Merry had raised him up out of despair, Pippin realized now was the moment to be strong for Merry, and he drew himself up. “Well, you must. Whether there is hope to be had or none at all, we must hold onto ours. It’s the only way that we’ll get out of this. That much I know.”

Merry rewarded Pippin with a small smile. “We hope then. Whether it makes sense or no.”

Pippin beamed. “That’s my Merry.” His smile faded as he looked out among the Orcs. “An Orc may have Gimli’s axe, but Gimli may yet live.”

“That he may.” Merry’s look grew distant. “He tried to rescue us, that’s what he did. But not alone, I think. Legolas would not be parted from him.” He looked back to Pippin with a solemn expression. “They must have trailed the army, but then something happened. Something went wrong.”

Pippin nodded with a grimace, accepting Merry’s attempt to create a new fate for their friends. “I can’t imagine what would make Gimli give up his axe.” Pippin’s chest grew tight suddenly and his throat felt as if it had shut on him.

Suddenly, an Orc appeared in front of them then. “Quiet, you two! No talking. No tricks. Got it? We got ways of keeping you quiet that won’t upset nobody.” The threat in his gravelly voice was clear. The two hobbits looked back at their new guard with wide eyes and closed mouths.

When the Orc had stomped off far enough, Merry continued their conversation quietly, without looking at Pippin. “He would only give up his axe if he had no choice, Pip. If he were captured, for instance.”

“Captured!” Pippin whispered, fighting the doubt creeping into his mind. “Right,” he said tentatively, hearing Merry’s words again on Orcs’ habits with their victims’ weapons.

His cousin frowned sternly. “Gimli lives, Pippin, remember? The rest have gone off to–” Merry looked up at the guard now paying them no mind and hushed his voice anyway. “– to complete their task.” Merry sighed. “Gimli captured, I’d never have imagined it. Gimli is as tough as stone.”

Pippin nodded, clamping his eyes and mind shut against more likely tales. Didn’t he just tell Merry they must hope even when there was none? It was proving harder to do than to say. “If Legolas went with Gimli as you say, he must be a prisoner with him then!” Pippin frowned. “But Legolas is faster than anyone, Merry. How could he be captured? And by Orcs! Bilbo says they hate Elves so!” He thought for a moment, then raised his eyebrows hopefully at Merry. “Perhaps it’s part of their plan, to get closer to us.”

“I suppose.” Merry’s voice held no conviction, and Pippin’s optimism faltered.

Pippin looked at his filthy feet. “I hate to think they’ve been captured because of us. Perhaps they haven’t been captured! Perhaps–”

Merry gave Pippin a fierce look, his brow furrowed deeply as his face twisted in what Pippin thought might have been anger or despair. “An Orc is walking around with Gimli’s axe! What better explanation can you give – what explanation do you prefer for why that Orc has his–?”

“Ai! Do I have to teach you the meaning of quiet? Hush now! If I have to go over there and leave this hunk of meat behind, it won’t be here when I come back. Then you’ll have to provide some meat for me!” With a threatening glare, the apparent guard returned to his seat and his meat.

Merry looked straight ahead and finished his thought quietly, the despair in his voice even more evident. “What better scene can you imagine that ends with an Orc walking away with Gimli’s axe?” He took a deep breath and continued. “There was a battle, we can be sure of that, and we know they fought fiercely.” Pride raised Merry’s voice and he had to lower it to a whisper once more. “But with so many Orcs, even great warriors as they could not win such a fight.” Merry sighed. After a moment of thought, he added, “I suppose the escape we were hoping for won’t be coming from that direction now.”

Pippin closed his eyes. He could not bear the thought of losing more friends. As it was, he could hardly think of Gandalf without being overcome with grief. He did not allow himself to think on Boromir. Additional losses would be more than he could endure. He believed in the tale they created because he needed it. He was able to feel a bit of relief then in the idea of Gimli and Legolas’s capture, dreadful as it was. They were alive. That was enough.

It must be enough, for there was little else from which to draw comfort. Alive they were, but prisoners, as he and Merry were. They were likely injured, too, and the Orcs wouldn’t treat them too kindly, he imagined. “Well, I suppose it’s up to us, then.” Pippin looked at Merry expectantly.

Merry’s frown slowly turned into a bit of a smile. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. We must work something out. We’ll have to free them as well, naturally. Wouldn’t do to escape and leave them captive.”

“Oh, certainly. That wouldn’t be polite at all.” Pippin smiled back, but his smile, like Merry’s, failed quickly. They had no weapons. Their hands were bound so tightly Pippin feared he would never again feel his fingers. And the Orcs assigned to them rarely left them alone. Even now, he felt the watchful eyes of their new guard upon them. Escape of any sort was going to be quite a trick.

******

“What’re you doing over here?” Norgry stopped mid-stride as he found Fagrod standing guard over the halflings. “You’re supposed to be on the others.”

“Machlhug wanted to switch,” Fagrod muttered. “Said he was bored. My guess is he was feeling a bit empty in the gut. Always he was asking why we couldn’t make a meal out of the rats, seeing as how they’re bite-size and all. I reckoned it better if he put some distance between him and them, so I told him I’d take his shift.”

Norgry grunted. Not a bad move on Fagrod’s part. “Well, maybe one shift. After that, I need you back on duty over the elf and the others. Those three’ll try to escape given half a chance. Need someone I know is going to keep an eye out. Can’t have no bumblings by this Mordor lot. I ain’t losing them.” Fagrod nodded. “And another thing. Keep a careful eye on Uglúk. He was right pleased when I told him about the elf but didn’t want nothing to do with the man or the dwarf after that. He’s got half a mind to leave those two to die and just keep the elf. Says mortals are too much trouble to keep alive, that the halflings are enough to worry about.”

Fagrod interrupted, “What he have to say about the sport we had?”

Norgry gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, he was none too pleased until he realized he would be getting some sport of his own with the elf. See, I figured that’s where his mind was headed anyway. I just made him think it was all his idea in the first place. After he got to thinking about the elf, he didn’t think too much about the other two. Which is good for us, ‘cause I think they’ll get this lot to quit their complaining along the way. I’m sure tired of the whining! So I have no thoughts of killing them yet.”

Suddenly, Norgry heard shouting and hollering, and he and Fagrod turned to a loud ruckus rising up on the forest side of the camp. Norgry groaned. “Not again. I can’t take much more of this! I think it’s time for some heads to roll.” Fagrod smiled.

Quickly ordering Fagrod to stay with the halflings, Norgry took a few steps until the other prisoners were in sight. Still under guard, though one of the guards was looking curiously at the scuffle. He gave him a warning scowl, and the Orc settled himself down. Only then did Norgry make his way to the brawl.

By then there were Northerners, Mordor rats, and uruks battling it out with a fury. As he watched, Norgry realized two things: Mauhúr and his lads had shown up, having come through the Forest, and were looking to show they were Isengarders not to be messed with. And they were mainly showing Grishnákh, who seemed to think he could take on the entire lot single-handedly. His Mordor lads were making themselves scarce.

So be it, then. Somebody had to put Grishnákh in his place. If Mauhúr wanted to take that on, it was all his. Norgry was going to just sit back and watch the show.

******

The sounds of Orcs quarrelling and scuffling had grown to a steady din as dusk became night. For some unknown time, chaos had seemed to reign. The peak of the frenzy had been punctuated by the head of the miserable Orc they called Grishnákh rolling past the two hobbits before the madness had gradually subsided. Now, as horrid faces gathered round distant fires to recount their roles in the violence with glee, Pippin questioned his cousin with his eyes.

“It’s a bit quieter than earlier. But they’re still distracted. We ought to try moving around a bit, see if they notice,” Merry said. “But we can’t simply take off without thinking it through, right?” Pippin nodded in agreement, and they struggled to their feet.

“Ai!” one of their guards cried as soon as they had taken a few steps. So the Orcs were more observant than they appeared to be. “What are you doing?”

“Just stretching our legs. That’s all.”

The other Orc slapped the first on the arm. “Look! I gotta see this.”

“What’s gonna be better than seeing Grishnákh’s head lopped off? Now that’s a sight that’ll bring a smile to my face for days to come. Ain’t gonna get any better than that! ‘Sides, we’re on guard.”

“Hey, after you seen that, you never can say what’s gonna happen next. I ain’t missing it – come on!”

“And what are we supposed to do? Carry these vermin on our backs?”

The other Orc’s eyes lit up. “Nah, but we could bring them! Come, you two. You’re with us. No tricks or I’ll use this – and I’ll enjoy it, see? So it won’t take much for me to pull it out! Not a word now!” He put his knife away and grabbed Pippin; the other grabbed Merry and the hobbits were led by their guards into the crowd. As they neared the gathering, an odd change crawled over the group. First distant and then closer groups became subdued. Eventually, a confused tension smothered the raucous atmosphere of the entire crowd. The Orcs now chattered in taut, low voices. Pippin feared this calm more than the earlier clamor. Trying to pull himself closer to Merry, he watched the transformation with wide eyes, but he dared not speak.

Reaching the line where the Orcs pushed to have the best view, the hobbits were crushed amid a sea of grey legs, old leather, and crude metal weapons, surrounded by the smell of old meat, something akin to whiskey, and the general stink of Orc. Their guards clutched their necks in claw-like hands, keeping them close. Merry seemed to have the better vista, while Pippin was relegated to a view behind another Orc. But he would see something of what had the attention of all these creatures, so Pippin ignored his surroundings as best he could.

A shout came from across the camp. Movement rippled through the horde, followed by more scuffling and shouting. The commotion drew nearer. “Do you see anything, Merry?” His cousin only shook his head, so Pippin, also unable to see past the hulking bodies, resigned himself to waiting.

Merry was still as he watched the crowd. Then his eyes widened and he clutched at Pippin’s arm as furtively as he could with his bound hands. “Pip! Look!”

Pippin anxiously angled his head from side to side, attempting to see what held Merry’s attention. The Orcs’ legs were in the way! And there were so many of them! For a moment, while he had no desire to be other than a hobbit, he might have appreciated being a rather tall hobbit, perhaps a few inches taller. As it was, they would have seen nothing at all if it weren’t for one or two Orcs with torches in hand. Then – what was that? The crowd had parted to let someone pass. There, again, a bowed head, fair hair reflecting nearby torchlight. The pale head looked up and Pippin heard Merry gasp beside him. “Legolas,” Pippin breathed.

As the elf drew nearer, Pippin could see a smaller figure marching ahead of him. He heard Merry’s voice faintly through the din. “I don’t know whether to be glad I was right or wish I’d been wrong.” Pippin glanced up at their captors, but they had become completely engrossed in the parade of prisoners. Besides, they couldn’t hear them talk, even if they had been paying attention, with the ruckus around them. “But it looks like they’re captives indeed, just as we are. Only I don’t know what they’re planning for them now. They seem to be leading them somewhere.”

Though Pippin’s heart clenched to think to what fate his friends marched, he was elated to see them again. He was glad, too, to see them seemingly hale and whole. Pippin bent his head back and forth to keep his friends in sight. After a few moments, they neared enough that he began to lose sight of them among the crowd in front of him. Then an Orc shifted and the scene opened up before him.

Gimli was first in the line they were forced to march, strung with rope from one to the next and led by an Orc. Ropes bound the dwarf’s hands, much like the hobbits, yet he walked straight and to his full height. Pippin was disconcerted to see him without his ever-present axe at his side. That Orc indeed had held Gimli’s axe. ‘Well, you don’t have to shave your feet, at least, Merry,’ Pippin thought. As he looked closer, he saw cuts and bruising on the dwarf’s face he hadn’t worn when Pippin had last seen him. Though it pained him to see the wounds, Pippin felt some of the pride Merry had proclaimed over Gimli’s heroism in a battle he had only imagined; now it was all too real – Gimli clearly hadn’t given up without a fight.

Behind him walked Legolas. Instead of ropes, his hands were bound in metal cuffs, attached to Gimli’s ropes. They were taking no chances with an elf, Pippin supposed. Legolas also walked proud and tall, meeting the Orcs’ jeers with a glare that flustered or angered many. Pippin was dismayed again, despite the elf’s defiance, to see the evidence of the fight he had given. His face was bruised and scratched; his braided hair was tangled and matted with dirt, his tunic was in such shreds that Pippin could easily see the plentiful injuries done to Legolas’s body, and he wished the beasts had spared the garment. It occurred to Pippin then, as the Orcs about Legolas threatened or cajoled him, that not all his injuries may have been received in the fight; the Orcs might have continued to punish him afterward. Might they have done so to Gimli, too? Pippin’s heart tightened with new fear. He tore his eyes away, unable to look anymore.

To Pippin’s dismay, another captive followed Legolas in the line. What was Strider doing here? Surely not rescuing them? Was Boromir with them as well, then, he wondered, clinging to hope beyond reason. They should have gone after Frodo and Sam. Did Frodo and Sam not go to Mordor after all? Were they on their way to Gondor instead? Or had their journey ended at the Anduin? Terror washed over Pippin at the thought.

“Strider’s with them!” Merry suddenly whispered as if reading Pippin’s mind.

Pippin was momentarily grieved when he saw no one followed Strider. He had quickly gathered up hope that he would see Boromir walking behind him, alive if not well. And just as quickly, he thought perhaps to see Frodo and Sam in binds trailing the man. When he did not, he was all the more confused. If his cousin and Sam were not with Strider, Legolas, and Gimli, where could they be? Did Strider leave Frodo and Sam alone to their fate? Pippin’s hope began to crumble. He had not seen Frodo since his cousin had walked off along the shore of the Anduin, before the Orcs had attacked. So much could have happened since.

“What I can’t figure,” Merry continued, “is why the three of them would come after the two of us. How could Strider leave Frodo and Sam without a guide?”

Pippin looked at Merry with a dismal look on his face, his hope in pieces. His cousin was trying so very hard and all for him. He would say it and show his cousin he could be brave. “Merry, Frodo and Sam might have gone with them.”

“And where would they be then?” Merry said fiercely.

Pippin backed away, shocked at his cousin’s outburst. Perhaps his efforts were not for Pippin but for himself. “Or, maybe – maybe Strider and the others didn’t have a choice but to leave them?”

Merry considered his words, calming quickly, and nodded. “Strider would have gone with Frodo and Sam. Legolas and Gimli gave chase after this army. They very well couldn’t bring Frodo and Sam on such a trek. But Strider would never leave them…” Merry shook his head. “There’s more to this tale than we know, cousin.”

Yes, Pippin thought, so much more than we know. They knew nothing at all. No, that wasn’t quite true. Pippin knew one thing, if he paid attention. Frodo lived. He knew this somehow. He would not question it. When he would forget to hope, he would remember this.

Pippin returned his gaze to the approaching captives. It was far more distressing than he expected to see Strider in captivity. The ropes that bound his hands seemed an insult to Pippin, but he was heartened to see the nobility shine in the Ranger’s eyes despite the injuries he wore. The blood on Strider’s leg was plentiful enough to be from a serious and recent wound that had bled long. As he watched the Ranger limp, Pippin realized that Merry had gotten the story of their chase and capture right. And Strider’s wound was likely the cause of their fall. Pippin wondered then, what further injuries did he suffer? On the heels of that question came another that struck a new blow to his wavering hope: What harms did the others bear beneath their clothes? What if the pride and defiance they now displayed were for the sake of the Orcs who only wished to see them beaten? Pippin worried then at the true extent of their hurts. And throughout it all, he fretted over the possible whereabouts of his cousin and Sam.

Merry startled him by grabbing his arm and jerking his head toward his own guard. Merry’s guard had released him to pump his fists in the air and add to the mayhem of cajoling the prisoners. Pippin’s guard had taken a few steps forward in his enthusiasm. Merry’s message was clear: they were unwatched. Merry peeked behind him and Pippin’s eyes followed. There was land clear of Orcs behind them and trees further, darker against the night. Orcs beside them jeered and yelled, pounding on each other in their frenzy. Pippin looked back to where their friends walked battered and in bondage; as they grew closer, he longed for more sight of them. Merry had started edging backwards, however, and so Pippin reluctantly mimicked him, moving away from the crowd, and finally taking shield under a bush. After a moment, seeing they were still unnoticed, they turned and scurried a few more feet away, ducking behind a large boulder. Already, they were nearly to the edge of the camp.

Merry moved to continue, but Pippin clutched his sleeve in his bound hands. “Merry‑”

“We must keep moving!”

“But they’re almost to us!”

“That they are!” He stopped reluctantly. “And what do you suppose will happen when they lay eyes upon us?”

Pippin opened his mouth to answer but decided to rethink it. He came up with the same answer he originally intended, though. “They’ll be happy to see us, I suppose. Would it not ease their minds to know we are all right?”

“And when they all turn to look at us, so will every Orc around us. I figure our guards weren’t supposed to bring us up there. One of their bosses sees us and we’ll be locked up good or worse.” Pippin’s mouth opened into a small o. Merry looked back to the spectacle they’d left behind with a frown. “We should not distract them anyway. To walk among these bloody Orcs as they are, they need all their strength.”

Pippin didn’t quite understand Merry’s last words, but could not argue that their presence might bring unwanted attention. With one last glance, he saw their friends’ feet trudge by, prodded by a large uruk and pulled by a somewhat smaller Orc. “Did they look all right, do you think?” Pippin looked to Merry, his need for reassurance showing far more than he wished.

Merry started to answer, but then stopped. He looked at his cousin sadly. “I don’t know. I think – I think they’ve been beaten, Pip, from the look of them, but they’re well enough to walk, and that is a good sign.”

An ache was growing in Pippin’s stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. “I would follow, if we could. We should know what this is about.”

Merry was quiet for a moment, looking about them. “I’m worried about where all this is headed, too, but if we tarry too much longer, we’ll lose this chance. We must leave now, Pip.”

“But they’ve forgotten all about us, see. We just need to skirt around the edge of them.”

“Pip, we leave now. Follow me.” With that he turned and walked into the arms of an Orc.

“Ai! There you rats are! We didn’t leave you here! See, Machlhug! They were thinking of walking off! Norgry would’ve had our heads!”

“Well, now we get to teach them a lesson about wandering, I’m thinking!”

“Forget about lessons and remember your orders!”

“Eh, we’re right where you left us!” Pippin said in desperation. He was quite sure he wanted to avoid their lessons. “We’ve been here the whole time. You’ve just been distracted by whatever spectacle is happening over there.”

“That spectacle is the call of the Master looking for his prisoners. And now it’s your turn. You’ve been summoned.” The Orc smiled with a frightening glee.

Pippin looked at Merry. The Master? That could only mean Saruman. Being summoned didn’t sound much like fun.

“Get moving! This way!” The Orcs pointed in the same direction in which Gimli, Legolas, and Strider had been taken. It seemed they would see their friends soon enough. That could be good, Pippin thought, but the notion did not raise his hopes.

With a shove from an Orc, Pippin began trudging behind Merry towards a future master.

******

Merry squirmed under a sharply clawed paw as he was led to the treacherous wizard Saruman. If they hadn’t tarried, they might have had their escape moments ago. Instead, they were to be brought before Saruman. This was the wizard whom their captors called Master, who held Isengard under his command, and the one who had betrayed them all. But what he was doing here, under the eaves of Fangorn Forest, leagues from his Tower? And what did he want with Pippin and him? What if Saruman asked for the Ring? Merry’s heart froze at the thought. Of course he was after the Ring. Could he force them to reveal what they would hold secret? He was a wizard, after all.

As the Orc shoved Merry to his knees before Saruman and a crowd of curious Orcs, Merry saw that the wizard wore long white robes, and his staff glowed dimly in the torchlight surrounding them. His white beard, long and thin, ruffled in the evening breeze. Merry thought of Gandalf and his heart ached, but he felt at once that this wizard was nothing like Gandalf. Saruman’s eyes glinted in a way Gandalf’s never had, and Merry began to understand the meaning of corruption. Despite all he observed, there was something insubstantial about Saruman Merry could not explain. He had a suspicion that if he reached out to touch the being in front of him, he would feel nothing.

“Here are the halflings you asked for, Master. They have not been damaged, as you commanded. I apologize for the delay. They were wandering, sir.”

“Yes, I see they are undamaged. That is good. These two are more important than you imagine. I will therefore stress that losing them would prove rather unhealthy.” Saruman then gazed upon the hobbits intently. Merry looked at Pippin, trying to hide his worry. He tried not to fidget, but as the silence stretched on, he became more uncomfortable. Then suddenly, Saruman’s eyes narrowed, and slowly he said only, “I see.” He was silent for a moment more until he appeared to come to a decision. “You halflings presume much for your small stature. You should not meddle in affairs much greater than you. The world is much larger than the Shire.” The condescension with which Saruman mentioned their homeland irked Merry. “You have only brought misery upon yourselves and your kin.” Merry could see now a strange mixture of desire and disgust in his eyes. The wizard looked to the large Orc called Uglúk. “And these others you have found?”

“They’re here, Master.” Merry’s stomach flipped as Uglúk motioned for an Orc to bring the other captives before Saruman. Only now did Merry see them, as the Orc grabbed Gimli by the neck and shoved him onto his knees, holding him in forced obeisance before Saruman. Legolas was shoved down with some struggle to his left, and Aragorn on his right. “See how they look upon the others, Master? My guess is these three were hunting for the halflings.”

Merry glanced up at Saruman as he turned from the hobbits to examine his newest prisoners, and Merry shivered at the cold smile the wizard now wore. Turning back to his friends, he sucked in a breath as he laid eyes on them, a far closer look than he had gained through the legs of Orcs. He thought again of Boromir and knew he never rose from the wood where he was shot with arrows. That was all that would prevent him from being by their side now. Even as the thought threaded through his mind, he shut out thoughts of his cousin and Sam, loathe to consider that they too had been lost along the journey. He could not finish his thoughts and instead refocused on those friends he could see. Looking at them now, he could see that their injuries were more numerous and their weariness more evident than he’d expected, especially in Strider. Yet a shade of life returned to the Ranger’s eyes as he laid eyes on Merry and his cousin. Gimli went so far as to offer a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Legolas wore an expression Merry could not decipher. It was almost as if he felt guilty. But for what could Legolas feel guilty when they were the reason for their friends’ predicament? Merry felt his own shame spring up anew, knowing that they had suffered so much for them. And their suffering was likely not over.

“Saruman.” Gimli was the one who named him, as if he only now discovered to whom the Orcs answered.

Saruman looked upon the dwarf with disdain, then to the elf, and his eyes turned hard and cold. “And what have we here?” He drew nearer though he kept a distance still between them. “Mm. A young elf, I see. How… amusing. Ah, you are of the forest of Mirkwood, are you not?” Legolas glared back silently. Merry wondered if he knew Legolas or if he was reading his mind. The thought terrified him. If he could read the mind of an elf, what chance did a hobbit have? “One of the Woodland Elves,” Saruman chuckled, his voice thick with derision. “You are of no consequence, then.”

Legolas finally bristled. “Better to be of no consequence than to be responsible for betraying all of Middle-earth.”

Merry’s heart leapt into his throat, not knowing how Saruman would take Legolas’s impertinence. To his surprise, Saruman laughed deeply and slowly. “Yes, quite amusing. Your King Thranduil has dug himself into the ground in his stubbornness. I see that stubbornness runs in you as well.” As Legolas stiffened, the wizard peered closer, as if to look deeper inside him. Saruman gasped then and let out a loud laugh. “My words hit the mark, I see, Thranduilion. Oh, but that the proud Thranduil would witness this moment, with his son in chains before me. This would be a moment to cherish.”

With a laugh, Saruman turned from Legolas. “And so an elf travels with a dwarf. How you shame both your peoples. Neither Thranduil nor Dáin would relish this partnership. I imagine none that travels with you trusts you overmuch. Without doubt your greed will overcome you, and you would try to claim that which you propose to protect.” Gimli managed to hold his tongue, but Merry began to feel indignant for him as he had for Legolas.

“An elf of Mirkwood, a dwarf of the Lonely Mountain, and a man.” Merry strangled a small gasp as he realized the danger. What might Saruman do if he knew who Strider was? Strider was strong, but was he strong enough for a wizard? “Strange company kept,” Saruman continued, “most of all if you indeed came in search of the two halflings. You can only be some of the company that set out from Rivendell. A fool’s mission, now ended.” Saruman looked narrowly at Aragorn. “Mm, and a Ranger as well.” Merry stiffened. Did he so easily discern his mind? His hope that Strider would be able to forestall the wizard wavered. “Rangers are always concerning themselves with that which is not their concern.” Saruman stared at Strider then. “What is your name?” he asked mildly.

The man hesitated not a moment. “Strider.” Merry was relieved that he used so many names.

“Strider? No Man would name his son such.” Merry saw the curiosity in Saruman’s eyes grow, as did a twisted smile on his lips, and a shiver traveled down Merry’s spine. He spoke in a pleasant tone that was almost… melodious. Merry was suddenly struck with an urge to offer whatever names he knew for the man, but something told him to keep his silence. “What did your father name you?”

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, stared back at Saruman with cold eyes. All was silent for a time. Soon Merry could sense the struggle between the two and grew afraid. As he willed the Ranger to have the strength to resist, he thought he saw Legolas’s lips moving. Perhaps the elf prayed to the Valar for strength for Strider.

As if the words were ripped from his throat, Aragorn finally said, “My father named me Estel.”

Merry breathed in relief, his own urge to offer information easing. Once again, the man’s many names were to his advantage. He’d heard others refer to Strider by this name, but only at Rivendell. Perhaps he had a new name in every place he went. Merry hoped this was enough to deceive Saruman.

Saruman straightened, silently examining Aragorn. The five captives unknowingly held their breaths as the wizard narrowed his eyes. “The Dúnedain yet prefer to name their offspring in Elvish fashion. Hanging on to the past, I would say.” His eyes continued to bore into Aragorn, as if still uncertain about his response. Merry thought desperately but in vain for a distraction. “Estel? Undoubtedly your father placed much hope in you. I suggest you abandon your hope, Dúnadan, for you fate now lies with me.”

Suddenly, Saruman turned from the man. “Uglúk, you did well to keep these alive, despite your doubtless thirst for a kill. And for that, I will not withhold from you more of the sport you’ve already taken on these. But I command you now to arrive at Isengard with all prisoners alive.” Saruman looked at the Orcs. “Do well to remember that mortals die easily. And these mortals shall be brought alive to Isengard or you shall have much to regret. Dwarves are sturdier than Men, but mortal all the same. Elves are difficult to kill, as I see you have not forgotten.” Saruman paused to smile, and Merry began to despise the twisted expression. “Arrive as soon as you may, but do not go at a pace that would kill the mortal prisoners.” With that, Saruman turned and walked toward the forest, blending into the darkness and fading from sight.

All looked about them disconcerted at the eerie departure. Then Uglúk announced, “You heard Saruman’s orders! All captives are to arrive at Isengard alive. Spread the word. There will be no accidents!”

It was odd to find himself grateful to Saruman, and Merry wondered if he’d soon regret it. Saruman’s orders and Uglúk’s announcement made it sound like they hadn’t planned to keep them all alive. Merry couldn’t stand to think anymore on that possibility, so he returned to the three would-be rescuers. They had been abused already, but perhaps now they would be treated better. As it was, every injury on each of them was due to Pippin and him. They were the cause of every hurt they felt.

Large hands tore Merry from his contemplation and drove him back to their place in camp. On the way, the Orc leading him found those who had guarded them earlier, reminding them of their duty. “And don’t lose them this time!” Merry thought wistfully of their lost chance of escape and wondered if there would be another.

******

Chapter 4: Looking for Escape

Pippin gazed anxiously at the Forest that now accompanied their march to Isengard. In the early morning light, the dark woods that ran along the length of their path appeared less forbidding than in the midst of night. Chewing on a crust of bread, Pippin contemplated whether the Orcs would take them through the forest and wondered how long it would take to get to Saruman’s stronghold. They had already been in the hands of the Orcs for four long days. Reaching that tower could take many more – and since he hadn’t paid much heed to all the talk of maps and such in Rivendell, he had no way of knowing. Only two days earlier, he and Merry had convinced their guards that they must eat if they were to be brought to Saruman alive, resulting in occasional bread and water. But it was no hobbit breakfast he ate, first or second. How long must they survive on these crusts?

He had to admit he was worried. The thongs about his wrists were as tight as ever, wearing the skin beneath them raw, and the scrutiny they were under rarely wavered. Though the disquiet in his heart had eased somewhat the previous day on seeing three of their friends alive and hale, it was not quite the meeting for which Pippin had hoped. Strider, Legolas, and Gimli were bound up, prisoners just as they were. And though he had managed only rare glimpses of them since, he had thought they looked unwell. Perhaps they had not succeeded in convincing the Orcs that they, too, needed food to survive.

Pippin had insisted on keeping hope for their friends, hope that they lived. But neither he nor Merry had counted on their capture. How would they get out of this mess now? Pippin sighed as he felt the weight of the burden they had placed upon themselves. Only he and his cousin might have the strength or the opportunity to make an escape. Perhaps Elrond had been right and this was no place for young hobbits. Well, sitting among enormous, smelly, constantly quarrelling creatures such as these seemed no place for anyone – unless you were an Orc.

There was no one left now. Frodo and Sam clearly hadn’t come with them. That the pair had begun the doomed trek with the others but had not made it to this point was a notion Pippin could not consider. What he did consider was that either of them may have continued to Mordor on their own – a dreadful prospect that brought on such anxiety Pippin had to quickly push the idea aside and return to his original train of thought.

No Frodo and Sam. No Gandalf. No Gandalf ever again. Another pang seized his chest as his grief surged again. It then doubled as he pondered the fate of Boromir. He tried to keep a hope for him, but it was like a candle against a gale and all but flickered out.

The Fellowship was dead.

In all likelihood, their Company was down to the five of them now captives of Orcs bound for Isengard, to be delivered to Saruman. The wizard would undoubtedly demand the Ring and then torture them when he learned they did not have it, demanding they reveal its location.

Pippin looked over at Merry, who nibbled at his bread on occasion but seemed otherwise lost in thought. What he contemplated, Pippin couldn’t say and wondered if he intended to devise an escape. ‘Well, someone must,’ Pippin thought. ‘And might not that someone be me?’ He was looking to every other for his rescue but himself. He might wait a long time.

Pippin’s musings were interrupted by a harsh laugh. “Ah! You shoulda been there!” Two Orcs were walking by, one carelessly swinging a dirty sword. “It was a good time. Never played with a dwarf before. Fagrod’s the lad to talk to, see if you get a piece next time.”

“I’ll be sure to. Though I can’t complain about the sport with the man. Only thing was we couldn’t get too carried away. He was bleeding plenty afore we started. And we weren’t allowed to let him die. Kinda spoils the fun if you ask me.”

Pippin stared, frozen for a moment. He felt that if he moved, his entire body would revolt against him. His stomach threatened to upheave what little lay there; his eyes were suddenly moist with tears ready to flow; and many, many words quivered on the tip of his tongue, straining for release. Instead, he sat entirely still, afraid even to look at Merry to see his cousin’s reaction to the overheard conversation.

“Yeh, well, Saruman didn’t ask you, so make sure you remember that. Didn’t ask Uglúk, neither, and he was right pissed!” Another raspy guffaw. “Did you see him? Glaring and grumbling about having to keep mortals alive! I heard he went over and had some good sport with the elf after that.”

“Sure I heard. Wouldn’t wanna be that elf!”

“You got that!” The Orcs settled down on a nearby rock, chortling and joking about their fun.

Suddenly Pippin needed to breathe, and he broke the spell over his body. Forcefully releasing a breath, he threw his crust of bread to the ground in disgust. “Merry, we’ve got to do something,” he said, strangling his voice into a whisper.

Merry looked at him strangely, as if he’d said he really didn’t care for mushrooms all that much. “Do something?” he said in a harsh whisper. Merry’s face was red, but that was the only sign of his anger. “And just what did you have in mind?”

“Well, nothing yet – but if I manage to have a good think on it, I bet I could come up with something.”

“A good think on it?” Merry’s face reddened further. “And what do you think I’ve been doing since we’ve been let off those stinking Orcs? It’s not a matter of simply coming up with something, Pippin. This isn’t like sneaking into the farm to steal some mushrooms.”

“But Merry, didn’t you hear them? The longer we take to think of a way out of here, the more our friends suffer! Besides, the Orcs are going to watch them much more closely, thinking that Big Folk are more dangerous and such. There’s got to be something we can manage.”

“Of course I heard them! You don’t think it cuts me to the quick to hear it? Do you think I feel nothing, Pip?” Pippin didn’t answer him. He hadn’t meant to anger Merry or cause a fight. “They’ll be in no shape to help us or to escape themselves now, either,” Merry continued quietly. “Although, those beasts will have to keep them in condition to march. But that may be all they’ll be up to managing.”

“Which is why it’s up to us. There must be a way. We just have to figure it out.” Pippin couldn’t understand Merry’s seeming reluctance, when just the day before he’d agreed with Pippin that escape would have to come from them. After what they’d just heard, he had expected a bit more eagerness from Merry.

In a harsh whisper, Merry answered, “Just like that, is it, Pip? We’re simply going to walk away? Our hands are bound. We’re miles from any village. All we’ve had to eat for days is this crust of bread and some foul water. And someone’s always guarding us. Do you see any way out of this? Unless there’s another spectacle like yesterday to distract them, I certainly don’t.”

“Haven’t you noticed, cousin, how bored the guards have grown with minding us? They watch us much less closely than they did at first. They don’t think we’re up to anything. We’ve just got to keep giving them that impression, and soon they’ll stop being so careful with us.”

Merry turned a close eye to Pippin, wary interest showing. “And then?”

“Well, there’s always the Forest.”

“Fangorn Forest? Have you forgotten the Old Forest? Old Man Willow?”

“I’d rather wrestle with Old Man Willow than these Orcs. Besides, we’ve dealt with Old Man Willow, and now perhaps we’d know how to handle any ill-meaning trees.” Merry simply looked at him as if he thought an Orc had hit Pippin one too many times on the head. “Fine, Merry, we’ll keep thinking. There’s got to be something we can do.” He sat back against the rock they leaned on for support, retrieving his discarded bread as he abandoned the argument. He was still convinced Fangorn Forest was a perfectly acceptable escape plan. All right, a sufficient one. It was certainly worth considering, which was more than Merry seemed inclined to do.

“Just lie down and try to get some rest,” Merry said finally. “We’ll be marching again soon enough.” He laid himself down, turning his back to Pippin.

Pippin took advantage of his cousin’s brooding and looked around. Sure enough, their guards were now chatting with another Orc, only glancing at them on occasion. Well, Pippin couldn’t imagine sitting here without any possibility of escape. He laid himself down to give the impression he was going to sleep. They’d surely stop watching him then. He needed only a short while. He would show Merry he could reach the edge of camp and return without notice. He would show him escape was still possible.

After a few minutes, he cracked open a lid. The pair watching them had wandered away, engaged in some sort of gambling game. Here was his chance.

There had to be some chance, hadn’t there? This was not the end for them. It simply could not be.

He remained low to the ground, scurrying slowly backwards towards the bushes behind a rock. Soon enough he was behind the bushes. Out of sight. No one had noticed. He only needed to crawl around this bush–

Pippin bumped directly into a pair of thick legs covered in dirty leggings. A short blade hung from a belt, next to a whip. One grey hand clenched into a fist.

Pippin looked up to see a snarling face. He supposed he had made a mistake about nobody noticing. Merry would really get him for this one.

“Uh, hello, I was just looking–”

“You were looking for some trouble, you were!” The uruk grabbed Pippin by his cloak and dragged him back to his place.

“Pippin, what are you doing?” Pippin was dismayed to see the horrified and angry look on Merry’s face as he rose from his bed of grass.

“He got it in his mind to wander.” The Orc bent down close to Pippin, giving him a big sniff of rancid breath. “Didn’t we tell you no tricks?” he hissed. He turned to the Orcs that had been gambling. “Weren’t you supposed to be watching these two?”

Pippin looked up with wide eyes at the beast. He hadn’t thought of getting caught. He hadn’t thought of something to say. He hadn’t thought much at all, he supposed. He glanced over at Merry. His cousin looked more angry than anything else. Pippin looked down at the ground, overcome with disappointment in himself. He hadn’t shown Merry anything hopeful.

“Well, I just have to teach you what happens when you play tricks on us!” The Orc cackled as he pulled out his whip. Pippin’s eyes grew wider and he leaned as far away as he could while still in the Orc’s grip. He shoved the whip in Pippin’s face. “Now you’ll think twice before trying to wander!” He pulled the whip out its full length. Still holding onto Pippin, he cracked the whip across his legs.

Pippin felt the sharp sting of the whip across his legs and bit down a yelp, wishing Merry weren’t there to see it. His legs felt as if they were on fire, but thoughts of what Merry would say to him burned hotter.

“What’s going on here?” a deep gruff voice came up behind Pippin.

“I’m teaching this halfling about tricks and wandering. As in not doing it!”

“Wandering, eh?”

“I caught him in the bushes over there. I think he was going to make a run for it.”

“Well, that’s enough of a lesson. Any more and he won’t be able to march and then you’ll have to carry him again. How’s that for a lesson! Next time, you bring him to me, you hear?” The Orc holding Pippin took one look at him and dropped him with a snarl. Both Orcs stomped away without another word.

Pippin looked down at his legs, a bright red welt growing across them. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Merry and instead watched his cousin’s approaching feet. After some moments of silence, Merry crouched next to him.

“What were you thinking?” The harshness in Merry’s voice brought Pippin’s eyes up. The anger he saw was greater than he had ever seen in his cousin’s face, and words failed him. Words were useless anyway; Merry wouldn’t understand what he’d tried to do – what he’d failed to do. He bent his head once more.

“Pippin, look at me.” Pippin sat there in silence. “Peregrin Took, look. At. Me.” There was nothing for it. He wouldn’t let this go until he’d had his say. Stifling a sigh, Pippin looked up at his cousin. His eyes were blazing, but Pippin thought he saw more than annoyance there now. His cousin’s eyes bore into him silently for a moment before he spoke. “I know what you were trying to do. I understand. But what you seem to have forgotten is that this isn’t the Shire. This is the world of the Big Folk. Everything’s bigger out here. Getting caught isn’t like Farmer Maggot telling your Da you were sneaking mushrooms again. This is life and death.”

Pippin couldn’t keep the words from springing from his mouth. “Well, you seem quite ready to die here, Merry! I’m not ready to die and I’m not going to let them kill me so easily!”

Merry smiled, in a slow, queer way Pippin couldn’t quite figure. “That’s good, Pip. Neither am I. But we’ve got to be smart about this. That means we think through whatever plan we come up with, make sure it’s going to work. And we work together. One of us can’t escape on our own, but two of us just might manage. Do you understand now?”

Pippin found something of a smile for his cousin. Mayhap his cousin still held onto his hope. He nodded. “Right. No making plans without you. We think it through. We’ll find a way out.”

Merry’s smile grew, but too broadly, so Pippin could see how it was forced at the edges. His chest constricted again. “That we will, cousin,” Merry said. “We must – how will the others escape? They have no one else. Now lie down and get some rest. When the time comes, we must be prepared to act, and then no rest will be had.”

Pippin considered that. Did Merry have a plan in mind already? He would have shared his thoughts with Pippin if he had. Perhaps Merry’s lack of action was preparation for a time when they would need to act without hesitation, and he wanted Pippin rested and ready for flight. Unsure of where Merry’s thoughts truly lay, Pippin was tired, his legs ached, and he’d lost the last of his bread. There was nothing left to do but sleep. And so he laid his head down in the grass, ignoring the Orcs, the high sun, and his empty stomach.

******

Legolas felt the collision through his entire body as the uruk dumped him on the ground in their corner of the camp. He gazed at the low eastern sun as he lay still, allowing his muscles to release the tension in his body. The uruks were crueler each time they had their sport, keen to see what he could endure. When in the hands of Norgry and his band, Legolas was surprised at their skill in drawing blood without inflicting a fatal wound. Their commander Uglúk, however, surpassed their viciousness. He was not content with fists, whips, and knives. He had been the one to start with fire. Legolas shivered as he remembered.

Weary as he was of the treatment, thoughts of escape grew rarer. The notion of death was no comfort, though. If he were to die, he had always envisioned falling in battle. This torment was no way to end one’s time in Middle-earth. But as they drew nearer to Isengard, the likelihood of avoiding that fate waned.

Legolas turned his gaze slowly to Aragorn and Gimli, who lay nearby bruised and battered as he was. He thrust aside his growing fatigue, knowing what he felt was but a fraction of what they must feel. Pushed to the limit already by their race to catch the Orcs, tormented no doubt much as he was, and given no food or water, he grimly wondered how long his two mortal friends would last.

Legolas forced his body into a sitting position, shutting his eyes until the world about him stopped spinning. His body resisted the movement; bruises ached, cuts reopened, burns pulled and stung. His cuffs shifted with a heavy clunk, chafing wrists already scraped by the metal edges. He willed away his pains with deep breaths, but the throbbing of his head persisted. He had lost count of how many times his head was hit with weapons, boots, or the ground. Those injuries were the source of his nausea as well. With nothing to be done for it, he would simply have to distract himself.

Looking about the camp, the same scene greeted him as when they had first halted: vile Orcs defiled the plains of Rohan, which had grown into rolling downs, and the lush trees of Fangorn Forest beckoned him just beyond them to their west. Despite Celeborn’s words, he longed to explore those woods and learn the songs of such an ancient forest. Any escape they might find would likely send them beneath those branches, but without an opportunity to linger as he would. He idly wondered if they might be welcome.

His gaze wandered back to the camp, sliding from Orcs and uruks, to dirty weapons and rancid meat, to swaying grasses and the far off wood. He longed for silence, or at least enough quiet to hear the trees. Indeed, sleep called to him, but all about him were grey-skinned, gnarled, scowling beasts. The Orcs marked with the badge of Saruman proudly called themselves uruk-hai, but were as prone as the others to bickering at the slightest provocation. None relished the task of looking after them, either, as it seemed none had appeared for the duty. Though Legolas could not muster the concentration to assess how well they were guarded, he knew it made no difference, in any case.

After allowing his eyes to wander aimlessly for a time, he spied the small curly head of a hobbit. While assuring himself he truly saw it, another head popped into view. Though they were hunched over, Legolas could see the two talking animatedly. His heart eased to see them hale, but regret and guilt lingered. Their own captivity would have been worthwhile and bearable to have seen the hobbits free. Perhaps they could yet.

Merry and Pippin continued talking intensely. Merry’s face, lit by the early sun, revealed some distress. Pippin’s back was to him, so Legolas could see only his shaking head. Soon, glancing about at their guards, they settled down near a large rock. After a few quiet moments, followed by quieter words, the hobbits lay themselves down to rest.

Legolas’s eyes remained on them as he ignored the arrival of his own guard. He pondered how only months ago he had known little of these creatures, but after a short time, he had readily trekked across leagues in pursuit of an army of Orcs in an effort to save them. A failed effort, Legolas reminded himself. Their endeavor had ended in their own capture, while the hobbits continued to endure their imprisonment. He thought again of the resilience of which Gandalf had spoken so often regarding hobbits. They had shown a true measure of that hardiness these past days, and Legolas thought fleetingly that Gandalf would have been proud of them, though he wondered if they had been fed. Seeing that his mind was wandering and that the hobbits had lain down to sleep, Legolas began to turn to the two lying beside him. Then he saw Pippin rise once more and move slowly around the boulder beside them. Stunned, Legolas watched as, bit by bit, Pippin eased himself away from Merry until Legolas could barely see him through the bushes under which he hid.

Legolas was riveted to the scene as he realized what Pippin aimed to do. Naturally, the hobbit had given up on them, his would-be rescuers. Now Pippin attempted his own escape. He closed his eyes as Pippin disappeared behind the bushes.

Legolas’s eyes shot open at the sound of yelling from an Orc in the hobbits’ direction. A large uruk was dragging Pippin by his cloak and shouting at him, then at another Orc, likely an incompetent guard.

“What’s happened?” Gimli asked. Legolas had not noticed that the dwarf had risen, but he heard weariness and worry in his voice.

“It appears Pippin has attempted what we failed,” Aragorn said before Legolas could give an answer. “An Orc found him seeking an escape.”

Legolas kept his eyes on the hobbits, watching as the angry uruk tore the bread from the hobbit’s hands and pulled out a whip from his belt. As the Orc thrashed the hobbit’s leg, the uruk Norgry approached and hollered at both Orcs. They all stomped away then, leaving Pippin with the one lash apparently as a warning.

Despite the whipping, Legolas breathed a sigh of relief that Pippin did not receive harsher treatment. He dreaded the thought that the hobbits might be treated as cruelly as they had been themselves. Perhaps the hobbits could withstand it; they had proven themselves stalwart, but he had sworn to protect them. His failure to do so meant that the hobbits’ suffering was also his responsibility.

With his eyes yet on the hobbits, Legolas said quietly, “Aragorn, time runs short for us. We must choose a course of action and soon.”

Aragorn nodded. His cheeks had hollowed and his lips had cracked from thirst, amplifying the weariness in his face. In a gravelly voice, he said, “I agree, but our first concern remains the same. If we do not have water today, this will all be in vain.”

“Then we shall ask for some,” Gimli insisted. He was pale, his beard stark against his skin. “Their orders were to bring us alive. If they do not bring us water, they shall not be able to obey their master.”

Aragorn was silent as he looked about him much as Legolas had. The Orcs gathered in knots, gambling or trading, quarrels erupting randomly. The man shrugged with one shoulder. “It is worth the attempt, at the least. They cannot kill us, can they?”

“Not if they intend to deliver us to Isengard,” Gimli said wryly.

Legolas frowned at the mention of their destination. If they reached Isengard, their chances of escape all but vanished. To flee that tower would be far more difficult than to escape here on the plains. If they arrived at Isengard, there would be no hope left.

Aragorn stood suddenly, wobbling on his good leg, struggling for balance with his bound hands. He immediately had the attention of a nearby Orc.

“What you think you’re doing?”

“I must speak to your captain, if you have such.”

“You don’t have to speak to nobody!”

“I want to know why you are disobeying Saruman’s orders.”

“Disobeying–” Legolas tensed as the Orc grabbed Aragorn’s tunic. “What’re you talking about, you stupid tark?”

Aragorn kept a steady gaze with the Orc. “He ordered you to keep us alive. But we are going to die, and soon.”

“No, you’re not! You’re not even bleeding, not much anyway. You’re just fine!”

“We are not dying from injury. We are dying of thirst.” That got the Orc’s attention. “Mortals – even Elves – must have water – clean water – every day. We have had none for more than three days.” Legolas understood that if he failed to include Elves in his request the Orc would likely deny him any water. Before the Orc could respond, Aragorn added, “And whatever it is you drink will not do. It must be water. Or did your captain not tell you?”

“My captain?” the Orc sputtered. “Norgry? What does he know? He don’t know nothing we don’t tell him.” He narrowed his eyes at the man. “You’re bluffing. You’re just trying to play a trick, thinking you’re smart.”

“Well, you will know we were not bluffing when you have to carry our dead bodies to Saruman. What do you think he will do to you then?”

The Orc was silent, breathing heavily in his frustration. Legolas could see Aragorn’s references to his leader made the Orc want to act on his own, rather than having to check with another. It was a shrewd strategy. They were more likely to get what they needed if the Orc decided himself to grant them their request.

The Orc grunted. “It is just water, I reckon. But where do you expect me to get that?”

“If you carry none yourselves, then we will have to find a nearby stream. We still have our waterskins; they can be filled quickly.”

After a moment longer of deciding bluff versus truth, the Orc released his hold on Aragorn. Looking behind him as if to check for observers to his questionable behavior, he put out his hand. Aragorn looked down at the hand for only a moment, then to his own waterskin where it still hung from his belt. The Orc grabbed it from his belt, then took Legolas’s and Gimli’s as well. He looked at them with a fierce scowl, then to the Orcs beyond them, who were oblivious to the conversation as they prepared their own meals or engaged in yet more bickering. Checking behind him once more, he took off with a warning to stay put.

******

Aragorn dropped limply to the ground, his exhaustion amplified by his efforts. He had waited too long to ask for water. As they awaited their first drink in nearly three days, Aragorn looked wistfully at the trees that abruptly ended the open plains of Rohan with Fangorn Forest. Between the trees was murky and grim, but would make for excellent hiding. He had assumed the Orcs would use the Forest as cover by day, rather than skirting the border as they were. Opportunities for escape were as rare as ever.

The Orcs had kept a more manageable pace since Saruman’s visit, likely an effort to keep their captives alive. They continued to take regular, short halts on the march, bringing a brief respite and a chance to catch their breath. The fewer, longer breaks to take a meal or rest often ended in bored Orcs looking to play with their captives, as they had this morning. The torment of the Orcs, with their beatings, whippings, and disturbingly careful slices with their knives compounded their injuries from the original fight. Their punishing trek across Rohan, both before and after captivity, strained their reserves of strength, leaving them nothing with which to make any escape.

His fear was greatest for the hobbits, but Aragorn could do little for them as of yet, so he turned to his own circumstances, troublesome enough in themselves. Their thirst was sapping their stamina more rapidly than any injury. He knew his own limits and he feared he was fast approaching them. Gimli had proven his great endurance, but he, too, was tiring. He spoke less, walked slower, and had begun to stumble, needing Legolas’s aid on occasion.

“How fares your leg, Strider?” Gimli asked, moving closer to the man that they might speak and not be overheard.

Aragorn sighed. “The same. None of our injuries will begin to heal until we have water, though food would be better.” He looked to Legolas, who sat gazing into the Forest lit by the early sun. “This is true even for Elves, is it not?”

“In time, lack of food, and water especially, would make it so, yes,” Legolas answered carefully. “Nevertheless, as of yet, I fare better than either of you.”

“Please, Legolas, do not deny what is plain to our eyes,” Aragorn said brusquely. “Having gone without provender for so long, your injuries linger as ours do. Even Elves need water, if not as often as mortals do.” Having little worry over an Elf’s survival, the Orcs had spared him nothing in their sport. From what he could see, Legolas bore more bruises, and his cuts were deeper, causing him to bleed more. None of these injuries healed as expected. Without food or water, even an Elf would falter.

“Regardless, I will heal,” Legolas said curtly.

“But not quickly enough,” Aragorn added, then lowered his voice. He was pleased the Orc had opted to go for the water himself, offering the double advantage of leaving them without a guard nearby to overhear them. “I apologize, my friend. I am afraid any plan of escape I may devise relies on you – at your full strength. You are the best hope we have of any escape or survival. I regret to put that responsibility on you, but you will likely be the only one to find freedom from this.”

Legolas held Aragorn’s gaze but betrayed nothing of his own thoughts. “And so I am to rescue us all single-handedly?”

Aragorn allowed himself a faint smile, but shook his head. “I know not how we might escape on this march, bound and under guard as we are. But if we do not find an opportunity to liberate ourselves before Isengard, fate will not be kind to us.”

“In that you speak truly. And you will be the first to suffer at the hands of Saruman, if he learns what destiny holds for you. But I fear they will see no further use for Gimli.” He looked at the dwarf with anxiety he had not before revealed. “He must escape first.”

Gimli grunted, but Aragorn interrupted any response he aimed to give. “I must disagree. While your reasoning is sound, it is also true that if we flee, they are likely to use arrows. Only you can hope to avoid or outrun an arrow – if you are strong enough.” Aragorn looked about, checking on the attention of nearby Orcs before continuing. They prepared to break camp and were sufficiently occupied to not bother with their prisoners, who made no trouble. “I thought perhaps you could run into the Forest. It will make pursuit more difficult and perhaps the Orcs will hesitate to enter Fangorn.”

“Fangorn!” Gimli cried then quickly lowered his voice. “Of course they would hesitate! As should Legolas! Celeborn warned us of those trees. Who knows what will befall him there!”

“No worse than what will befall us here,” Aragorn answered crossly. “It is not without its flaws as a strategy, but after much thought, I deem it the safest chance to take. Think you differently, Legolas?”

Legolas merely shook his head, gazing into Fangorn in the distance. Aragorn was troubled by the doubt he saw in his friend’s eyes. If Legolas doubted he could escape successfully, he was more wearied than Aragorn had suspected. If he were fully hale, there would be no question; Legolas could make the eaves before one arrow fell. When he answered Aragorn, though, the man heard more hope than doubt. “Think you that we might free me of these cuffs?”

Aragorn’s doubts eased a bit with the glimpse of elvish mettle. “We will try.”

******

Chapter 5: Hope against Hope

After a day-long march, the Forest of Fangorn remained to their right as they traveled southwest to Isengard and looked more mysterious and worthy of Celeborn’s cautions in the deep dark of night. The dim light from distant fires was enough for Legolas to furtively watch their guards, but the brutes had not chosen to take any of them for sport tonight. Legolas sensed a growing anxiousness among them. They tired of the march, of the limited food and rest, and of guard duty. With their dwindling patience, there was constant arguing over everything from food rations to task assignments. Many tried to trade away their minding duties and with it the boredom of being tied to one place. The guard who had brought them water earlier that day had quit at once, as if unwilling to risk being seen with them any longer, and he had not returned to the post. Legolas recognized the current sentry and knew his patience always wore out quickly. As the goblin paced back and forth erratically, Legolas sensed it would not be long. He turned to Aragorn and Gimli, who were studiously ignoring him as they watched the other side of camp. They needed the right arrangement of many Orcs in one place and few in another.

“More Orcs are leaving now,” Aragorn said quietly. “They prepare to move again.” He turned to Legolas, looking down at his manacles. “If only we might find a way to remove those.”

“I should have been able to, and I regret that I could not,” Gimli said. “I am forced to say something of orcish make befuddled me in the making of it! I hope they will not hinder you overmuch.”

“As do I. We shall learn, either way. The guard will ask for a change presently. I believe it is time.” Legolas turned back to the guard who paced faster and faster.

With that prediction, the Orc threw up his hands. “I can’t stay here like this. Someone else needs to do this!” Legolas turned to Aragorn and Gimli as the Orc stormed off. They quickly nodded their encouragement.

The immediate area was free of Orcs. Just beyond were a few knots of soldiers that would provide cover, presuming they didn’t suddenly become observant. Legolas took a few steps in a crouch and stilled himself among tall blades of grass the Orcs had not managed to crush. When none took notice, he broke into a run, still in a crouch, heading for the trees of Fangorn Forest with all the speed he could muster.

Not until he had nearly reached the limbs of the forest did he hear a shout, followed by many more as they realized a prisoner was loose. It was still some moments before he heard any give chase, by which time he was among the trees, struggling to climb with his bound hands.

Once above, travel became considerably easier as he leapt from branch to branch with skill honed over centuries. After spanning several trees, he paused to check on his pursuers. They were in the woods, but had not yet thought to look up.

He turned, leaping to a nearby limb of the next tree, stretching his arms out before him for balance. With his restrained hands, he could not move with his usual speed. But he hoped still to move faster than the Orcs below. Grasping the trunk for a moment, he was struck by how many days had passed since he had been among trees, and at once felt the great age of these trees he had so longed to meet. He caressed the bark in greeting and quickly moved on.

But he did not move as swiftly as he had hoped, and the Orcs gained on him. Their pursuit grew louder and when he glanced behind, they were close indeed. If he were recaptured – he turned and forced himself to move faster.

Soon, to his dismay, he saw that a few had nearly reached the trees in which he ran and had finally thought to look up. Legolas glanced about as they began to climb the surrounding trees. Those on the ground waved swords at him, and all yelled various threats and epithets. He needed to move more quickly. Even with hands bound, he was a wood-elf – he could move faster through the trees than any Orc.

A hot searing pain ignited his thigh and knocked him off balance. He cursed his fettered hands as he swung them in an attempt to balance himself. He flung his arms over a branch but could not grasp the tree. That he slipped shocked him as much as the black arrow he found sticking out of his leg. He scrambled for a foothold but his right leg buckled with the pressure. And then he felt air all about him. Only when he crashed into branches did he realize he was falling. The leaves ripped at him, the branches knocking his flight about so that he bounced from one branch to another.

Though the ground was covered in moss, he landed hard, bruised and bloody. Looking up as he caught his breath, he was met by dozens of pairs of black eyes filled with glee. He was surrounded. Fear shot cold through him. He could not be recaptured. This was his only chance. Their only chance. He pushed his body off the ground suddenly, determined to continue his flight. The Orcs descended on him, beating him back to the ground. He persisted until a well-placed punch to his wounded leg forced him to cry out in pain. Falling to the ground once more, they continued their beating until he faded into blackness.

******

Treebeard watched with resignation as the Orcs beat the other creature. His hatred of Orcs could grow no greater. They were becoming frequent visitors to the forest, and always did they bring destruction.

As they dragged away the one who looked a bit different from the other Orcs, Treebeard pondered what had awoken him. A sensation he had nearly forgotten had broken his slumber. It felt like a caress. None had come through these woods with tenderness towards the Forest in countless seasons. Even more curious, he thought he had heard a greeting from the creature. The only beings wise enough to communicate with the Ents were Elves. Could the creature have been an elf? Why, many seasons had passed since he had seen or shared thoughts with an elf. He had opened his eyes only to hear the creature sprinting through the canopy. Then the Orcs had come and he had lost his interest. Orcs.

Treebeard sighed, though to an outsider it would have appeared a tree creaked in its own breeze. He would have liked to speak to an elf again. Had he seen an elf? He had been unsure, but with the arrival of the Orcs, his curiosity had quickly waned. He wondered suddenly – had he been hasty?

Treebeard slowly stretched his limbs. It would feel good to walk for a while. He turned himself west and began his way to Welling Hall. Perhaps he would ask Quickbeam what he thought about the greeting Treebeard had felt and about being hasty.

******

Gimli gave up his attempt at feigning ignorance and turned fully to the woods, watching nervously, but with little to see in the darkness, he judged Legolas’s progress by sound alone. Despite his apparent nonchalance, Gimli knew Aragorn listened acutely to the proceedings as well and that he shared Gimli’s concern over how many Orcs had followed Legolas into the woods. They had hoped for no more than a dozen, but instead, scores had lifted war cries in pursuit of the elf. Gimli’s stomach had tightened when the shrieks had increased moments before. If they recaptured Legolas, retribution would be harsh at best. There would be no second chances.

He glanced at Aragorn. The man had been sitting with his back to the forest, shoulders tense and his wounded leg outstretched before him, but now he, too, gave up his pretense. Worry lined his face as he gazed with wide eyes into the forest, seemingly shocked at the notion that Legolas might not succeed. Gimli’s hope diminished further as Aragorn’s faded.

“They’ll catch him, you watch. You thought to follow him didn’t ya? Don’t get any ideas. Uglúk’ll make sure you all learn a lesson, you watch…”

Gimli ignored the guard’s berating that had gone on since the others had run after Legolas, and eyed the darkness where he heard crashing through the woods. The Orcs returned. Did they return in defeat or victory? Were their cries for the quarry that had escaped or for a prisoner regained?

As they broke through the eaves of Fangorn, Gimli’s stomach flipped, and for once he was grateful for its emptiness or he might have lost its contents. The lead Orc held an apparently unconscious Legolas over his shoulders like captured prey, and the beast grinned like a victorious hunter. As the Orc dumped the bloody body of Legolas on the ground before Uglúk, Gimli’s hope dissipated into dust. The coming days would be dark indeed.

******

Aragorn’s face froze into stone as the Orcs dumped Legolas on the ground in a nearby clearing. He attempted to feel pride; clearly Legolas had fought viciously for his freedom. But they now had as much likelihood of escaping as they did of retrieving the waxing moon sinking behind the western mountains. They were surely headed for Isengard.

Aragorn tried not to wince as an Orc kicked Legolas, but he quickly became alarmed when the elf did not stir. After several more sharp kicks, he began to wake, but Aragorn’s relief was short-lived.

“Get up, you lazy elf! We didn’t hit you that hard!” The Orc grabbed Legolas and hauled him up to face a scowling Uglúk. By the light of a torch held by another Orc, Aragorn watched as Legolas’s eyes opened slowly then widened in what looked to be fear before he hardened his face. Aragorn dreaded what would come next.

Uglúk slowly stepped toward Legolas with narrowed eyes. He chuckled slowly. “So, you thought you’d make a run for it. Had no problem leaving your friends behind, didn’t ya? Not so stupid as I thought. But stupid enough to need a lesson!” The uruk playfully slapped the beast beside him, chuckling gleefully.

Aragorn prayed that the Valar would give Legolas strength now, but he had no misconceptions of his own strength. He closed his eyes to the scene, resting his head on his knees.

Suddenly, strong hands dragged him to his feet, as another Orc did the same to Gimli. They brought the two to Uglúk, where Legolas kneeled limply at his side, a stub of a black arrow still imbedded in his bloody thigh. Two more torches had been brought to the area, shedding enough light that Aragorn could clearly see the vacant expression on Legolas’s face. He worried that perhaps the elf was going into shock from blood loss.

“Oh, I do love teaching lessons!” Then his tone suddenly turned hostile, and he glared at Aragorn and Gimli. “Especially to bloody mortals we must keep alive!” He looked back at Legolas. “And now for your first lesson! Do your work, Machlhug!”

A hand struck Aragorn across the face, the sting vying with Aragorn’s shock. Then there was a punch to his side. He glanced at Gimli when he heard a grunt, and he realized how clever the Orcs were. He had expected them to force Gimli and him to watch Legolas beaten in punishment. Somehow, they had discerned that Legolas would suffer more to watch Aragorn and Gimli beaten.

Aragorn worried briefly over the intelligence the uruks displayed. But a kick to the head, followed by a strike to his injured leg cleared those thoughts from his mind. He stole a glance at Legolas to see him struggling to keep his stony expression.

Once the Orcs tired of the lesson, Aragorn sat still, waiting for the world about him to stop spinning and the white lights before his eyes to fade. Soon he made out Gimli’s figure not far from him, catching his breath as he lay on the ground. And further on was Legolas, still held in place by the Orc, his eyes squeezed shut. Now the Orcs that had abused them turned to Legolas.

Uglúk smiled then. “Maybe you’ve learned your lesson, huh?” He grabbed Legolas by the hair and forced the elf to stand and face him. “Have ya? You think you’ve learned your lesson about escaping?” Legolas returned only a stony stare, and Uglúk let out a bark of laughter. “Perhaps you haven’t. I think you need more teaching!” Aragorn’s stomach turned, not knowing what would now come. His head still swam, and he was uncertain how much more he could endure before unconsciousness overtook him. But then Aragorn sensed he was not the one in danger.

Uglúk threw the elf to the ground, his shackles clinking. The uruk took a deep breath through his nostrils. “Do you smell that boys? Huh? That’s the sweet smell of fear! You couldn’t get that with all your knives and whips, but mess with his fellows and there it be. Ah!” He took another deep breath. “Almost makes all the work worthwhile! But in the end, it’s still work!” His smile upturned suddenly into a frown. “I don’t look for extra work! So it seems like we got to teach you a lesson well and good.” He paused long enough for a chill to run down Aragorn’s back. “Maybe this’ll teach you not to run!” And Uglúk slammed his booted foot down on Legolas’s ankle, the bones crushing loudly.

As Legolas cried out in shock and pain, Aragorn’s stomach turned again. He tried to close his eyes, but could not take them off Legolas, who dug his hands into the ground in an attempt to ride out the agony of the breaking bones. “Try running now!” Uglúk laughed boisterously with his comrades and they stomped away, Uglúk shouting out commands for added guards and for preparations to move on.

It took greater effort than Aragorn expected to drag himself over to Legolas. His own body ached terribly, but he thrust aside his pains to focus on what he must do. He would try to mend Legolas’s leg somewhat before they were forced to move again.

He heard Gimli beside him and was relieved the dwarf was able to move on his own. “Gimli, you must help me,” Aragorn muttered, disappointed in the panting he could not suppress. “We have little time.” He reached out to Legolas, turning him gently on his back.

“Aragorn, what – how could they–” Gimli stopped. While the dwarf took control of his grief and steadied himself, Aragorn occupied himself with reviewing Legolas’s wounds in what light the moon offered, as the uruks had taken the torches with them. In a much firmer voice, Gimli continued, “What can I do to help? What can you do to help?”

“I hope to bind his ankle.” Aragorn grabbed his already shredded tunic and began tearing it further. “There is an arrow wound here as well.” Legolas hissed as Aragorn felt the wound. “The arrowhead is still within the leg. I can–”

“Just pull it out!”

Aragorn only hesitated a moment. “Are you sure?”

“Stop wasting time and do it!”

Aragorn ignored the sharpness in Legolas’s answer and made swift work of drawing out the arrowhead, while Gimli shredded a ragged end of his own tunic. After wrapping that wound, Aragorn turned to the ankle, already purple and swollen. “I need more cloth to make a binding.” After tearing some of his clothing for Gimli to prepare, he took Legolas’s pale face in his hands. He was frowning in pain and a gleam of sweat covered his brow. Blood, dirt, and bruises covered the rest of his face and neck. “Legolas.” He waited until the elf opened his eyes to look up at him. “This is your choice only. I want to bind your ankle. But if I set the bone first, it will heal faster and cleaner. But only you know if you can bear such pain as that will bring.”

Legolas looked at him for a moment. Closing his eyes, he said quietly, “Set it.”

Immediately, Aragorn turned to Gimli. “I will need you to lean on him. You must try to keep him as still as possible. Use all your weight, for pain makes one strong.” Gimli simply nodded and moved his body over Legolas’s, ready to put his weight against the elf’s strength.

Aragorn turned as he heard a cackling behind him. It was Machlhug, the one who had beaten him. Aragorn stilled himself, watching for his next move, but the Orc said nothing, merely paced about them as one of the added guards. Determined to ignore him, Aragorn turned from him and moved to Legolas’s feet, straddling the injured leg. As carefully as possible, he removed his shoe. Then he arranged the cloth he would use to bind the ankle. “Be ready, Gimli.”

“I am ready.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, dreading the sounds of grinding bone. First, he would have to find the point of the break. He hoped there were not too many. If the bones were crushed completely, he knew not what he would do.

Feeling carefully around the puffy ankle, he quickly found the worst point. He could hear Legolas panting. If the elf would allow himself such a kindness, he would lose consciousness after Aragorn set the ankle.

Taking a deep breath and positioning his hands, he swiftly pushed the bones together as they should be. Holding the ankle stiffly, to keep it still against Legolas’s jerk as the pain went through him, as well as to keep the bones from shifting, he wrapped the leg in the cloth. Legolas’s muffled cry rang in his ears, but he heard nothing now but Gimli’s murmurs. Finished, he rolled off his leg. “Legolas?”

“Give him a moment,” Gimli said gruffly. Aragorn watched as Legolas lay panting in the grass, one arm flung over his face and realized he was shaking himself. The din behind them had grown louder as the Orcs prepared to continue the march.

“Time runs short,” Aragorn said quietly. “They will likely draft someone to carry him. I cannot imagine they would expect him to march.” He wondered to himself if Uglúk had purposely broken the right foot. Compounded with the arrow wound in the right thigh, he indeed could not run.

Aragorn heard a rasp he did not understand at first to be Legolas speaking. Legolas turned his head slowly and repeated himself. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. I–” He paused, then turned from Aragorn and did not continue.

Aragorn sighed. He heard the shame, anger, and despair in Legolas’s voice. “There is no need, Legolas. There was but a small chance. If you could not succeed, neither of us could have.”

“I should have!” he said from beneath his arm. “What wood-elf cannot outrun Orcs in the trees?” he said in a whisper Aragorn barely heard. “But for these cuffs, I might have. And you and Gimli paid for my failure…” He seemed ready to continue but spoke no more.

“Then I must beg your forgiveness. For I should have discerned a way to unlock the chains. But the beating we received was not wholly unexpected. Gimli and I knew that if you did escape, they may have turned to us for retribution. Therefore, in success or failure, we were ready to pay the price. What I did not expect was the brutality they visited upon you, which will only make it more difficult for them to bring us all to their Master. Perhaps I should not underestimate the cruelty of these creatures.”

Legolas did not answer. Even in the moonlight, Aragorn could see his pallor. His days would now be far worse than they already had been.

Aragorn heard a call go out, and Orcs surrounded them, preparing to guard them on the march. “Up, maggots! Time to move!”

Another chuckled. “I suppose this one might have a bit of trouble marching. Well, there’s nothing for it.” Without another word, he grabbed Legolas and hoisted his arms over his head, turned, and headed out on the march.

Another Orc tied the usual rope between Aragorn and Gimli’s bindings, then tied it around his own waist. There was no escape when trussed up like this, when the beasts would know their every move. “UP, I said! Move, you two!” Aragorn roused himself from watching Legolas fade away and dragged himself to his feet. Trying to ignore the screams of every ache in his body and the swimming of his head, he turned his body to Isengard.

******

Gimli ripped his wandering thoughts from their stray path and brought his attention back to his task. There was but one task for him: moving. His legs had gone numb long ago; only the rhythm of the army kept him going now. He could not let his mind stray far or he would lose that rhythm and stumble.

He allowed his mind to wander only as far as his companions around him. Checking the tension in the rope that attached him to Aragorn used less effort than turning to see that his friend was not flagging too terribly. He was unsure how Aragorn kept pace – his injured leg was surely festering now – but Gimli was thankful nevertheless. The Orcs, for their part, had sharp eyes on them, and more eyes, to guard against future escape attempts. Gimli sighed at the thought. There would be no future escape attempts.

He looked up at Legolas, hanging limply from the large Orc in front of their train. It appeared the elf slept or had found escape through unconsciousness, and Gimli was glad for it. He had suffered enough at the hands of the Orcs only to then suffer under Aragorn’s healing hands in the moments before the march began again. Gimli wished once again that he knew more of Elves, for he did not know how long Legolas’s leg needed to heal. Dwarven bones took time to mend, even when properly set and cared for; he would not have wielded an axe on a patrol for some weeks after such an injury. Gimli was sure it took longer for Men, but for Elves he knew only of their oft-noted speed in healing. This elf best heal quickly, for the Orcs would surely show him no mercy.

He thought once more of the hobbits. He had caught glimpses of them from time to time, as the Orcs had brought their prisoners closer together to better guard them. The hobbits appeared well enough, to Gimli’s great relief. They did not appear injured, nor to suffer greatly in hunger or thirst. Somehow, they must have convinced their captors to feed them.

Gimli sighed, as he was reminded of what was one of their greatest concerns. They had gone four days without food, and for the two days prior to that they had sustained themselves solely on lembas. For the entire six days, they had only drunk what water they had taken on the run before their capture and the bit their guard had fetched for them the previous morning. They would need more water today, but he doubted now that they would be given any. How long men, elves, or hobbits could go without water he did not know, but he was sure even an elf needed water to live.

Their worries might be over soon enough. There were no new plans to free themselves. They were too closely watched. And they were all, Legolas especially, in no condition to make a bid for freedom. The Tower of Orthanc loomed closer with each step. Once there, they would learn their fate.

Meanwhile, the creatures argued and complained beyond the usual, it seemed to Gimli, and this new restlessness was more disturbing. Whether it came from the disruption of the escape attempt or from other matters, he did not care for it. He could only hope that their next halt for camp was long in coming. As weary as he was of the march, it was their safest time. Once stopped, the beasts might decide to turn to their prisoners to vent their displeasure. Gimli did not know how much torture, hunger, and despair he and his companions could tolerate. And their arrival at Isengard promised no relief.

******

Chapter 6: Orthanc

Aragorn stumbled as the Orc prodded him up the stone stairs, his wounded leg buckling. Petty though it was at this point, he resented that he would be unable to hide his limp from Saruman. And he would see the wizard soon. They had arrived at Isengard.

They had only needed another day’s march to arrive at the Tower. But to Aragorn it had seemed an age had passed, and he knew Legolas and Gimli must feel the same. While the elf had clearly suffered the worst in the last day, Aragorn’s own injuries as well as the lack of nourishment were draining him of his strength. A part of him was relieved to arrive at Saruman’s stronghold, if only for an end to the march – a misguided hope, he knew. Saruman was sure to have new untold horrors awaiting them.

Climbing the Tower Orthanc took longer than he expected. In the gloom relieved only by reflected torchlight, he pushed himself up winding stairs, listening to those who followed. The uneven shuffling of Legolas disturbed him, but the elf could not yet put weight on his broken foot and had been forced to accept Gimli’s shoulder as a crutch. The weary hobbits panted behind them as they climbed the steep steps. He hoped for their sake it was not much longer to their destination.

Finally, the five prisoners arrived at a large circular hall, many levels above the ground. The stairs continued beyond the landing, circling the walls of the room and ascending to unseen spaces. Small, deep slits of windows high above them, following the rise of the stairs, allowed a hint of the dawn to creep into the room. The shining black stone that had greeted them at the doors met them here as well. Sharp ridges had been cut into the stone, deepening the sense of strength and solidity of the walls. The air hung heavy and stale, oppressive as the walls surrounding them.

As the Orcs shoved them into the center of the dim empty room, Aragorn lost his balance and sprawled to the floor, the others soon landing around him. They lay there silently as the Orcs filed out of the room without a word, leaving them alone together for the first time since the hobbits’ capture.

Aragorn hesitantly looked about him. He heard nothing but the breathing and rustling of his companions and the clink of Legolas’s chains. Any shouts or other noises were faint and far off. It appeared there was indeed no one but them nearby. He scrambled up to his knees and looked to the others for signs of their well being. Each showed the same astonishment at being left unguarded as they pulled themselves awkwardly off the floor, warily looking to the doorway through which they had come and into the many archways that lined the room, opening to murky unknowns.

But signs of well being were hard to come by. They were all quite a sight, especially the three of them who had hunted the Orcs. The man was painfully aware of how they must appear to the hobbits and he was glad for the meager light. Gaunt from days without food or water, their elven cloaks long gone to the amusement of their captors, their remaining clothes hung from their bodies, now too large and in shreds. The many bruises on Legolas’s face showed brighter through his pallor. Gimli seemed less solid and formidable, his small stature more apparent. Aragorn could only imagine how he appeared, but he was certain he was unsightly. They were bruised, bound, and starved. Not a proud moment for a Ranger.

Thankfully, the hobbits had fared somewhat better. Their clothes were intact though filthy, which gave hope to Aragorn they had not been ill-treated. And they appeared to have been fed, not having a wasted look about them. They were not unchanged, however. Merry wore a sterner expression than Aragorn had ever beheld on a hobbit, as he sat protectively close to his cousin. The younger hobbit seemed daunted by the space. He looked up with wide eyes into the gloom where the far-off ceiling was engulfed in blackness.

Pippin looked to his cousin and then to Aragorn. “So, this is Isengard then?” he said with more timidity than his usual manner.

“Yes, Pippin, we are at Isengard, in the Tower of Orthanc,” Aragorn said quietly, listening for a sudden approach of footsteps of any kind. He saw the weariness in the hobbit, the dirt on his clothes and face, the tears in his breeches, and swallowed the bitter taste of his failure.

Legolas took in his surroundings silently while Gimli turned to the hobbits. “Quickly, Merry, how do you fare? How are your legs, Pippin?”

“Well enough,” Merry answered firmly. “We have few injuries to speak of. Mostly, we’re just tired.”

“And hungry!” Pippin added, looking dismayed at the thought of his stomach. With a glance to the vacant doorway behind him, as they heard heavy steps climbing other stairs to other rooms, he added in a hush, “But please, Gimli, don’t you fret about us! You and Strider and Legolas have fared far worse than we have, and it is all due to us.” Anguish washed over his face. “Please, you must forgive us!” As Pippin continued, his voice began to waver. “We never meant for this to happen! You should be watching after Sam and Frodo, and who knows where they–”

“Pippin!” Aragorn said in a harsh whisper, looking at the dimly lit entrance as Pippin had. The steps had faded, but they could not know who approached. “Do not mention those names! Ever!” His heart beat wildly at the thought that Saruman might have heard them. “Forgive me, but you must always be wary here. You know not who listens.”

“For that matter,” Gimli rushed to add with his own glance to the door, “while you do not often use any name for him but Strider, you must remember to never use his true one. Things would go much worse for him, I fear.” Aragorn simply inclined his head, ambivalent over Gimli’s words. It was clear the hobbits already felt at fault for all that had gone awry. He did not wish to place further burden on them.

“Sorry, uh, Strider,” Pippin continued. “It’s just – I know you tried to save us. How long you must have run! And now, you’ve been captured and abused, all on our account.” He paused to calm himself. “I want to thank you all on behalf of my cousin and I, and I’m so very sorry you got captured with us.” Pippin finished his speech in a small voice and looked down at the floor shamefully, tears glistening in his eyes.

“Sorry! Thank you!” Gimli sputtered and grumbled for a moment. He paused as they heard far off shouting that quickly died away. “Had we freed you, all that followed would have been fair price. But you remain captive. You hobbits should not have to endure such trials as these.” Filled with the same regret and disappointment he heard in Gimli’s voice, Aragorn could add nothing to the dwarf’s words.

Merry looked at Gimli with an unreadable expression as stern as it ever had been. “And yet, it is because of us that you are here.”

“I assure you,” Aragorn said before Gimli could answer, frowning as he looked not to Merry or Gimli but to the still empty doorway. For what did Saruman wait? He turned to Merry, despising the rasp to which his voice had been reduced. “And I know Legolas and Gimli will agree, we would submit to every trial again for the chance to free you. We would never leave you to the torment of Orcs.”

Merry’s eyes bore into Aragorn. Maintaining his grave composure, he asked, “We knew you would not. But tell us, then, please, what of – the others? Why is Boromir not with you? Did he go with our cousins? Where did they go?” By the end of his questioning, Merry’s resolve faltered, and his need for news of his friends’ well being showed clearly.

Aragorn was taken aback, not realizing all the hobbits had missed. And now, they had so little time, there was none left for gentleness. “Your cousins have – gone on, continued. That is all I will say of them. Boromir…” There was no other way to tell them. “Boromir is dead. He died on the shores of the Anduin in the attack by the Orcs. After we set his body to ride the river, we turned in pursuit of you.”

The hobbits were still. Then they looked to each other, some silent communication passing between them. Pippin remained quiet and withdrawn, but Merry nodded. “We feared a story such as that when we failed to see him. We hoped, but…” He trailed off, then seemed to refocus on Aragorn. “And how do you fare, Strider? You look weary.”

Merry’s quiet tone stilled Aragorn, and his quick reassurances died on his lips. “I am well enough, Merry,” he finally said softly.

Merry passed his glance over each of the others, then returned to Aragorn, his stern expression back in place. “No, you are not well enough, Strider. None of you are. You are stiff with bruises and injury. And now that we are here, I fear for you.” Merry’s candid statement left Aragorn without retort. Then faint shouts began to float up to them, breaking the silence. They stiffened as they heard the ruckus grow louder and leaned into each other unconsciously. With the approaching steps, Merry lost his new severity, and he was suddenly the young hobbit again. “What is to become of us, Strider?”

Aragorn’s stomach clenched in dread as he contemplated what Saruman might have in mind for the hobbits. He was uncertain whether it was wise to hope the wizard spared their lives. In this tower, life might be the cruelest sentence. The thought of the hobbits tortured and abused grieved him deeply. “I do not know,” Aragorn said quietly. “We must wait to learn what fate lies ahead for us.”

******

Watching Strider speak with Merry, the depths of the man’s weariness surprised Pippin nearly as much as Strider’s failure to hide it from them. Pippin had not thought to ever see the end of his endurance, nor to be the cause of it.

They were all at their limits. Even Legolas, though he sat quietly, revealed his pain through his stiff posture. And now here they were, in Saruman’s Tower. Surrounded by this black stone, without light or air, was there hope for escape any longer? His pointless attempt two days previous had gotten him only a lash on the legs. Legolas’s attempt – more hopeful or more desperate? – had earned the elf far worse. Pippin found it hard to expect another opportunity.

What was clear to him was their need to think swiftly, if Merry and he were to do anything to help their friends. For once Saruman learned that the hobbits did not have the Ring, he would likely see no reason to keep them alive. The thought twisted Pippin’s stomach with fear, but he knew it for the truth. He wondered what Saruman would do to them then. Would he kill them right off? Would he give them to the Orcs to play with until they died of their torment? Would he put them under his spell till they finally revealed the secrets they held? Each possibility chilled Pippin more than the last.

Saruman had proved secrets were no great obstacle for him. He had but to ask and the answers poured from one’s mouth, it seemed. Pippin shivered. Aragorn – no, Strider – barely kept his secret from the wizard; what chance did he, a mere hobbit, have? What would he tell Saruman in the end?

His heart racing, Pippin turned to the doorway as he listened to a clamor of footsteps approach. As much as he feared seeing who or what would pass through the entrance, he could not tear his eyes from the opening. Suddenly, Pippin noticed the dimness giving way to light as fires burned in sconces not lit before.

As Saruman’s figure filled the doorway, dressed in white robes, staff in hand, he seemed larger than he had standing before the forest in the night. Then, there had been something soft about him. Pippin had thought of Gandalf then, and how this was someone Gandalf had once held in high esteem. This wizard before them now looked hard and cold and brought no thoughts of Gandalf. Pippin suppressed a shudder as Orcs following Saruman into the room surrounded them, pulling them to their knees. “Kneel before your Master!” The wizard wore a grin that failed to reach his eyes. The smug expression annoyed Pippin, but when Saruman’s eyes landed upon him, Pippin felt nothing but fear.

Saruman strode across the room and took a seat on his throne, as Pippin could not help but call the elaborately carven chair in a recess opposite the entrance. “Welcome to Isengard.” He smirked as he looked upon each of them in turn as they knelt in a rough half-circle before him. “So, this is the rag-tag company who decided they knew what was best for all of Middle-earth.” He scrutinized them carefully. “There were more of you at the start,” he said slowly. “Yes, I know much about you. And Uglúk has related to me your attempts to thwart his task. Perhaps your losses and consequences suffered have taught you the foolishness of this errand. If not, you shall soon learn.” He turned to Pippin and the hobbit’s stomach flipped. “Some losses are unfortunate. But of others, I must know more. This need not be an unpleasant visit,” Saruman continued, his voice softer than before. “Simply provide me with the whereabouts of the other halflings, and you shall be spared.”

Gimli let out a boisterous laugh, startling Pippin. “You truly think us fools. There is no such thing as mercy in this Tower. We would sooner take our chances with the Orcs!”

Saruman scowled. “Well, then,” he said after a long moment glaring at Gimli, “if you prefer to do so, you shall. Fagrod! Take the dwarf below! Do what you please.”

Pippin’s mouth dropped open in time with his stomach. He heard Merry gasp quietly beside him, and even Legolas’s eyes widened as he watched Orcs take Gimli away.

Saruman’s eye returned to his prisoners as the dwarf was dragged out of the room, leaving a few Orcs standing against the walls. When his glance fell upon Pippin once again, the hobbit’s chest tightened and breathing was suddenly more difficult. He tried hard to think of anything but what he knew Saruman would want to learn and filled his mind with visions of the Shire, his family, the Green Dragon, a pint of ale and – He stopped suddenly as he realized he was only sharpening his ache for home without cause. Saruman had moved on to Merry, then to Strider, and Legolas.

The wizard’s gaze lingered on Legolas. Saruman cocked an eyebrow but did not lose his smug expression. “I must say, my Orcs certainly did their best to find the limit of an elf’s endurance.” Legolas fixed his defiance back onto his face, staring straight ahead at nothing as he knelt before the wizard.

Saruman chuckled, his voice full of condescension. “What would your father say, Thranduilion, to your present plight? I deem he would be rather disappointed. Though your choice to travel with a dwarf might prove more disturbing. I will give you an opportunity, however, to make yourself useful. You need only give me the location of the other two halflings who began the journey with you.” Pippin’s stomach lurched. He did not know if Legolas would be able to withstand Saruman’s questioning. The elf looked ready to fall over.

Slowly, Legolas turned to Saruman in his chair – bold, stern, unyielding. His denial needed no words.

Saruman’s gaze grew hard, then wandered back to Aragorn, then finally to Pippin and Merry. His silence worried Pippin more than anything he had said yet. He looked once more at Aragorn and Merry, then back to Legolas. Saruman rose then, smiling, and Pippin’s fear grew once more. “Elfling that you are, you believe you can withstand any torment to keep your silence. And likely you would. For yourself.” He strode closer to them. “But there are many forms of pain, young one.” His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “What would you do for the sake of others?” Pippin’s blood ran cold, though he knew not Saruman’s intentions. He only knew they were not good.

The wizard turned then to Pippin and Merry. “Halflings. Long has it been since I have seen any.” He then returned to Legolas. “They are far afield, are they not? It must seem such a pity to you, to involve them in such matters that are far higher, far larger than they are.” Pippin felt uneasy with the wistfulness in Saruman’s voice and shifted his aching knees. “More of a pity would it be for them to suffer torment.” The eyes of the elf were riveted to the wizard as he went on. “Undoubtedly, they believe themselves strong and brave. Such naiveté and innocence need not be destroyed.”

Saruman was silent for some moments before he said suddenly, “You will choose – this halfling or the man.” Pippin was at once alarmed and relieved that he had singled out Merry. “Choose one of them. The other shall be… interrogated. If you choose neither, both shall be questioned.”

Pippin pressed his fist into his mouth to stifle a gasp as Legolas’s expression faltered and his eyes grew wide. Beyond him, Aragorn closed his eyes in what seemed to be resignation.

Legolas said nothing, but Pippin could see the tension in his face over the decision handed to him. The hobbit’s mind reeled with the thought of choosing to condemn one friend to save the other, yet not making the decision meant both would suffer. Pippin ached for Legolas. He wanted to say something, but his mouth was sealed shut. He glanced over at Merry and found a furious look on his face. But his cousin remained as silent as Aragorn. It seemed even the heir to Gondor’s throne would not cross Saruman. Were they going to let this happen?

“So! I ask you once more: give me the location of the other halflings, and these two shall remain unharmed.”

Legolas swallowed hard, his face revealing hints of the indecision within. Finally, he sighed heavily and regained some of the strength Pippin had thought he’d lost. “Both hobbits and Men are stouter than you measure them, Saruman,” Legolas said, anger lacing his voice. “They shall surprise you.” Pippin suppressed a shiver and closed his eyes. Was there no hope at all?

Saruman laughed loudly, banging his staff on the stone floor. “Just the foolish response I would expect from any who agreed to such a journey as yours.” He bent closer to him. “You would rather both your friends suffer? Such selfishness. But then you are an elf. Elves will always choose their own pride, regardless of the consequences to others. Men are much more practical.” He tipped his head to Aragorn. “His kind expect all others to accept self-sacrifice as easily as they do.” Saruman smiled cruelly. “I pray you have no illusions of this Ranger’s loyalty to you. If it were convenient and practical, he would betray you in a heartbeat.” Aragorn watched Saruman closely but silently. “He would let you rot in the bowels of Mordor before offering the position of the sun.”

Pippin had enough. Such slander against a friend was unbearable, against one so loyal and noble was intolerable. Yet not one of them uttered a sound! Legolas was forced into an impossible position, and Aragorn had not said one word to sway Saruman from it. Pippin could remain silent no longer.

“Aragorn would never do such a thing!”

As soon as Pippin spoke, he knew he’d said something wrong. He wasn’t sure what or why, but the look of horror on Aragorn’s face told him that he should have kept his peace. Merry turned to him, his expression full of regret.

And if there was any doubt, the scrutiny Saruman now gave him was terrifying. He took a step toward Pippin, who strove to maintain his gaze with the wizard. “Is that so?” Pippin was confused but refused to look away. The smile that blossomed on Saruman’s face chilled him, and Pippin wondered at the import of his words. All he had said was – Pippin gasped as realization came over him. He wanted to sink into the floor and finally looked down at the hard stone, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

He saw Saruman’s feet walk over to Aragorn. Aragorn. He never called him Aragorn! Pippin squeezed his eyes shut and longed to take back his words.

Slowly, calmly, in a voice that hinted at a terrible future, Saruman said, “There is only one Aragorn in all of Middle-earth.” Pippin looked up now, seeing Aragorn – no, Strider – looking at a wall with great interest. He looked away before Strider could look at him with the reproach he deserved. “Could it be that I have in my grasp the only heir of Isildur? The heir to the throne of Gondor?” Strider said nothing, and Pippin supposed there was nothing he could say. Saruman wouldn’t believe a denial. Regardless, Pippin was not about to say another word. Ever again.

Merry elbowed him hard and Pippin stifled a gasp. “How could you?” he mouthed with a frown. He said no more, but Pippin didn’t need to hear a word. He just shook his head and shrugged. There was no explanation he could offer.

Strider had turned to face Saruman now, obviously choosing not to deny Saruman’s words. They locked gazes for what seemed an age, then Saruman began to laugh. Slowly at first, then loudly, stomping his staff. The revelation rather pleased him – which meant bad things for them. And it was all Pippin’s fault. He gave up his attempts to hold in his regret and let his tears flow openly. Merry knelt beside him, silent.

Pippin jumped when Saruman turned back to him with a smile. “I must thank you, halfling.” He turned to the Orcs lining the room, alert – or perhaps wary – for a call from their master. “Machlhug, Norgry, Uglúk! Machlhug, bring this halfling to where I take my meals and give him something to eat. Norgry, take the elf down below. He is not in the mood to talk… yet. See that his mood changes. Return him – and the dwarf – to me by nightfall. Alive. They are not to die until I give the word. Make sure the others know this. If either of them dies, it will be your head. Uglúk, you have served me well. Take this other halfling. He has spirit, but he is a small creature and will likely die far too soon to give any of you sport. I give him now to you as a servant. He may prove useful for you down below; use him where you need some assistance. As with the others, he is not to die, remember that. I will yet need to speak with him. Go with Norgry and be sure that all goes as I have said. Machlhug, take the man with you and the halfling. He must remain alive as well. That means he must eat, I suspect.” He looked about him. “That is all! Now go!”

What he intended to do with Strider now, Pippin had no notion. If there were any way that he could make it up to Strider, he would find it, he swore.

The smile Saruman wore brought up the bile in Pippin’s stomach as he watched Orcs take away his friends. He mourned for Legolas already as he was dragged to his feet and forced to limp away. He turned to speak to Merry, but was overwhelmed by the despair he found there, and simply watched him disappear into the gloom.

And then he was alone. Nearby was Strider, a friend lost to him by his betrayal. And there was Saruman, who held them all prisoner, here in this tower of stone, leagues from the Shire. But their presence only accentuated Pippin’s sudden and overwhelming loneliness. He was crushed, suffocated by his isolation.

Pippin took a deep breath, dispelling a bit of the gloom that had settled around him. He was alone in Orthanc, for who knew how long, but he was not ready to surrender. He would do what he could for the moment. He owed Strider that much.

******

Merry tripped over his feet as Uglúk shoved him out of the hall and into the dark stairwell. He looked back to see his cousin escorted away with Strider to who knew where. Would he see either of them again? A knot of dread settled into his stomach. Who could say what was to become of any of them now?

Uglúk barked at him. “Move! Forget about the others! You’re going down to the Pits now.”

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. They were to escort Fr– his cousin to … that place, to rid everyone of …that thing. That thing was the whole reason for this! And now they were trapped in a tower of stone by a mad wizard who just had Pippin and Strider dragged off somewhere, while sending him and Legolas and Gimli into a pit of Orcs. He peered ahead of him to see how Legolas was managing to walk with his bad leg as they descended into the darkness. Norgry had hold of Legolas’s arm, as much dragging him as leading him. Though he knew Elves healed quickly, Merry was still amazed that Legolas was able to totter along with a broken foot and an arrow wound, when not much more than a day had passed. It looked painful, nevertheless, and Merry didn’t think he would be able to walk much longer. He quickened his pace down the stairs till he reached the elf. “Lean on me, Legolas. I’m not as tall as Gimli, but I should do.”

“What are you talking for? No talking!”

“He can’t walk!” Merry shocked himself with his defiance before the massive Orc, but a greater surprise came when Legolas shifted over and put his hand on Merry’s shoulder without protest.

Norgry looked at Uglúk but shrugged his shoulders. “I ain’t carrying him!”

Uglúk grunted. “Saruman did me no favors, giving me this one. What I need a servant for? I just gotta pound a rat out there and he does what I need doing. I can’t even beat this one up.” With those words, Merry felt even smaller than was usual among such big creatures. Once again he found himself reluctantly grateful for Saruman’s orders.

“Well,” Norgry said, “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him. It’ll be all right having someone to do my bidding.”

Uglúk looked at Merry, thinking for a moment. “Yeh, all right. He’s your lackey now. But no complaints later when he needs more looking after than he’s worth. Remember, Saruman said these two are to stay alive. The dwarf, too. Tell that rabble down there to be careful or it’s your head!”

And on they walked, shuffling slowly down each step. The stairs were steep for Merry, and it was awkward to time his step with Legolas. There was more light than when they had arrived, though, now that dawn had come, making their passage that small bit easier. Eventually, they reached the ground level where they had entered the tower. Merry looked longingly at the entrance, but Uglúk pushed him on. “Forget about the outside. It’s down to the Pits now!” He and Norgry laughed maniacally. As they continued down the stairs, it grew darker and hotter and strange noises grew louder. Was this his home now? Was this where he would die? Is this what Frodo and Sam would encounter in Mordor? It certainly was close enough to a Tower of Doom for him.

******

When Aragorn had set out with his two companions on their ambitious trek in pursuit of the Orcs, he had not been overly concerned for their own welfare. His worry had been for the hobbits. There was the possibility that the Orcs would not bother trying to keep them alive. And he did not know what sort of reception Saruman would give them. But he had held onto his hope, his faith in the hobbits, and in the wisdom of Gandalf, and that had spurred his feet onward.

After their own capture, he had persisted in his hope. For the hobbits still lived, and there were yet possibilities for escape and rescue. But his notion of escape into the Forest had failed miserably. Perhaps if he had tried to escape with Legolas, the two of them might have been successful. He would never know; he could only be certain that once again, his decision had cost them greatly.

Now they were prisoners of Saruman in the Tower of Orthanc. Legolas and Gimli were below with the Orcs, enduring Aragorn knew not what suffering. Merry might be spared that, but he knew better than to look for such assurance. His steadfast, even defiant hope in the face of the worst odds was beginning to fail him, here in this black Tower, where they had landed due to his poor judgment.

Certainly, Pippin’s loose tongue did not help. That Saruman knew his true identity was regrettable and could not bode well. But he did not resent the hobbit for his blunder. He would never have revealed such knowledge purposefully. The shame and guilt were clear on Pippin’s face.

They now sat in a small, sparsely furnished room, torchlight flickering in a sconce beside them. Pippin picked at food laid before him where he sat across from Aragorn at a wooden table. That the hobbit was not eating with fervor was perhaps the greatest sign of impending doom. Aragorn suspected feelings of guilt had robbed him of his hunger, though he might simply be too nervous to eat. But eat he must. “Come, Pippin, eat. I do not think they have poisoned it, as they intend for us to live. And it is not spoiled. You may as well eat.”

Pippin looked at him apologetically. “I’m – sorry. I just – I don’t seem to have an appetite.”

“Now, Pippin. That does not sound like a hobbit to me. You have not eaten properly in days. You are free to eat all of this food.” He looked at Pippin pointedly. “And there is nothing you can do about Merry at the moment, nor Legolas or Gimli. You ought to eat your share.”

Pippin looked at Aragorn, then at his plate. “Why aren’t you eating, then?”

Aragorn looked at his plate, where much of the bread and fruit still lay. “I have not eaten solid food in six days, save some lembas while we chased the Orc army. After so long, the stomach becomes accustomed to being empty. If I ate more right now, I would become ill. I shall eat again in a bit, and then later, if they give it to me. In a day or two, my stomach will recover.”

Pippin looked at him with a curious frown. “Sick from eating? After not eating in six days? Nonsense! I should think you would want to eat all you see! Are you trying to save more food for me?”

“No, I am certainly not. That is the way it is, at least for Men.”

“Why, that sounds just mad to me, eh, Strider.” Pippin looked down and grew quiet, once more pushing his food around.

Aragorn saw the change in his mood and understood. “What is done cannot be undone, Pippin.”

“But what’s been done should never have been done!” he cried passionately.

Aragorn looked down at his own food. He could not deny the truth of Pippin’s words. If only Saruman did not know his true name, all might have gone better for them.

Or would they? Without the distraction of Pippin’s revelation, Saruman undoubtedly would have pried into his mind without mercy in search of desired information. He very well may have learned who his prisoner was then, and Aragorn was quite sure he would not be as gracious as when Pippin offered the information.

“In truth, you may have done me a kindness.” There was small chance these words would help Pippin, but he could show the hobbit that he had forgiven him. Forgiving himself was a matter Aragorn would have to attend to himself. “We will never know how it might have gone, but I believe Saruman would have learned the truth of my ancestry eventually. And his anger over learning what I had kept from him would have been great. I know not how he would have punished me, but you may have saved me from some terrible treatment.”

He looked up when he heard a footstep beyond the doorway to the alcove, soon filled by the wizard’s figure. Aragorn’s heart leapt when, for only a moment, he thought he looked upon Gandalf. Reality quickly assured him his friend had not returned.

Saruman walked into the room with two Orcs behind him. His face betrayed nothing as he gestured to one of them. The Orc obeyed his master and walked over to Pippin and grabbed his fists. Aragorn tensed as he saw the knife in the creature’s hand. Pippin saw it as well and his eyes widened. Before either could act, the Orc used his knife, slicing through the ropes binding Pippin’s hands. He let Pippin’s hands drop, the ropes falling away. As Pippin simply stared at his hands, Aragorn quickly took in the raw skin at the wrists.

“Fagrod, show the halfling where he is to put the crockery. Teach him to make himself useful.” Saruman looked at Aragorn. “Bring the man, Machlhug, and follow me.”

As Fagrod ushered Pippin from the room with the dishes, Pippin watched Aragorn with wide eyes filled with guilt, despite his earlier words. The hobbit’s eyes fell on Aragorn’s bloody leg as he was forced to limp over to Saruman. Pippin’s eyes then lit up in a way that would normally worry Aragorn, and he wondered if that concern was still well founded.

“Saruman,” Pippin cried out. He bit his lip as he waited for Saruman to turn to him, looking suddenly undecided about his words as the stern face neared. “Em, I just–” he took a deep breath and continued. “I thought you wanted to keep Strider alive?” As he waited for a response, Aragorn’s concern grew, and he hoped Pippin was not trying to make up for previous transgressions.

Saruman looked sharply at Pippin. His eyes flicked to Aragorn. “And what makes you think I have changed my mind?”

“Well, perhaps you’re not so familiar with mortal hurts. But the Orcs never tended to his wound and it’s been too long now. It’s surely festering, and that can kill a mortal, even a man like Strider.”

Saruman narrowed his eyes, then looked at Aragorn expectantly. Aragorn relaxed a small measure. Pippin had not said anything devastating this time. He considered briefly what answer to give but soon realized an honest one would suffice. “He speaks the truth. The wound is infected, and I have few days left before it turns fatal. If it has not done so yet, the infection will spread to the rest of my body. That will kill me.”

“And yet you failed to mention this yourself. It could not be so serious if you had not seen the need to bring it to my attention.”

“I would have and soon. Until now, other …matters seemed more pressing.”

Saruman stared at Aragorn for a long moment. He looked at his leg, then back at Pippin. Pippin looked back at Aragorn with an apology in his face. “What should you require?” said the wizard.

Aragorn hid his surprise at the wizard’s seeming compliance. “Boiled water and a clean rag, but I will need it three to four times throughout the day, until at least tomorrow.”

Saruman frowned. Aragorn could only wonder what were his thoughts. Then Saruman turned back to Pippin, who stood silently, dishes in hand, beside the Orc that awaited orders. “Very well. You shall be charged with this duty. Fagrod will show you where you may boil the water. You, halfling, must carry it here yourself and tend to his wound. There is no one to help you.” He nodded to the Orc, who pushed Pippin through the door.

Saruman turned once more to Aragorn and looked upon him for a long moment. “The heir of Isildur, destined for the throne of Gondor. Your destiny has changed, Dúnadan. You shall see. And you shall understand. The line of Kings is ended. Take this time to contemplate what will follow. What will be your part in the new order of the world? Will you cling to the past, or will you try to make life bearable for your people?” With those thoughts, Saruman left, the Orc ushering Aragorn behind him.

******

Chapter 7: Hope Fails

Merry trained his attention on the task assigned to him, willing his mind not to wander. It was hard enough not to think of where might Legolas and Gimli be in these dreadful caves, or what might Saruman be doing with Strider. But with his cousin out of sight, he could barely keep his fear at bay.

He hadn’t been sure in what sort of fix he would find himself as he followed Uglúk, then Norgry into the Pits. He’d hoped to have a chance to sneak around and find the others. Eventually, Norgry had given him chores that no one else apparently wanted. He’d been put into a crude room that seemed to serve as a sort of pantry or kitchen, dim but for the light from a rough hearth’s fire. Now, with a filthy rag tied to a stick, he cleared floors of rank muck whose origins he truly did not want to know.

There was so much around him to shut out: the rhythmic clang of metal on metal from the many forges below, the hollers and shouts of the ever-quarrelling Orcs, the foul stench that permeated the air and threatened to dispel even his appetite. And finally, there was the inescapable dark – or rather, the lack of natural light, which reminded him of all that he was separated from, perhaps forever.

Merry shivered as his thoughts drifted back to Pippin – his cousin was in the service of Saruman! Although, he had to admit his own predicament was quite possibly worse. He was in the depths of Orthanc, servant to an Orc. What would his Da say if he could see him, he wondered. Still, they could have fared worse, and Merry reminded himself to be grateful. They were forced into servitude, but they had not been tortured, not as yet. And though they served the corrupt wizard, they owed Saruman nothing more than obedience, a bitter fact Merry assuaged with thoughts of escape.

After scooping the sludge into a hole in the corner that served as a drain, Merry stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow, careful to avoid touching the slick walls as he set down his mop. The air sweltered from the heat of the ever-burning fires – fires for which he would soon haul firewood, he’d been told. As he started in another grimy corner, Norgry stomped through one entrance to the room and only nodded quickly to Merry as he left through another. He’d been left to his own much more than he’d expected, after a spout of boasting from Norgry that drew much unwanted attention, but he supposed this Orc wasn’t accustomed to having a servant. He was determined to take advantage as much as he could.

As a small Orc brought in a cauldron of the noisome concoction the creatures drank and placed it on the fire, Merry looked longingly upon the opening through which Norgry had passed. A narrow stone passage lay beyond, dark but for the dull fiery glow that washed this underground world in shades of orange and black. The constant clanging, chilling shouts and cries, and the occasional pounding of footsteps made the world beyond the room formidable to a hobbit. But he had now seen two Orcs pass that way. With something too frail to be called hope, Merry stepped into the corridor and let his eyes adjust, before taking a few tentative steps to his right. As the heat increased, the path curved to his left, and where another tunnel broke off on his right, the gloom deepened. Peering into the shadows of the second tunnel, his sight reached no farther than his hand. He would look more deeply at his next chance and find the end of that path. It was likely he alone among his friends had the ability to move about so freely. It might be up to him entirely to find an escape for them now. If he could learn his way through these tunnels, he just might save their lives.

He quickly returned to the kitchen to pick up his mop, just as another Orc brought in an empty cauldron. Merry knew he could not hope to be left alone for more than moments at a time, so he would accept small bits of knowledge won slowly. But how frustrating to know that as he waited, his friends suffered! How long would Legolas and Gimli endure? Or Strider? He could do nothing for the man, but he hoped to find Legolas and Gimli and learn how they fared. Could he find a way to free them? He had no notion of where they were held –

There was that screaming again. When he had first arrived, the hollers had sounded much like the Orcs’ arguing during their march to the Tower. This was different. This was someone in pain.

Merry covered his mouth as he gasped and tears sprang to his eyes. He covered his ears, then spared one hand for his face. But the screams reached his ears too easily and his hope drained away like soil in a rainstorm. As the cries faded, he caught his breath and groped for his mop.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?”

“Eh, yes, em, I’m mopping the floor, see? Those were my orders.” Merry tried to wipe his face surreptitiously as he returned to his chore.

The Orc chuckled. “The Pits too much for you? Oh, you’ll grow to love them, you will. They’ll be just like home in no time!” The Orc cackled, happy with himself.

Thoughts of home made his heart ache, but he managed to remember the notion that had begun to play in his mind earlier. “Could I have some water?”

“Water? What for?”

“To drink,” Merry said calmly. “I’m thirsty.”

“Oh, right. You little rats can’t take our drink. And the Boss says to keep you alive, so I guess there’s nothing for it! There’s a well down that tunnel. Keep going, you’ll see it.”

Just the chance Merry was hoping for. “Thank you.” He left immediately, noting details as he walked slowly down the dark hall. As he passed the murky passage, he peered into the blackness but continued on his way. He truly needed water, so he would find the well first. On the left, an archway opened to the inner pits below where Orcs worked. Studiously ignoring the opening, Merry followed the sound of water trickling out of a hole in the stone, where the relative cleanliness of the water surprised him. On his return, he found the passage and quickly snuck in a few paces. It did indeed go farther, much farther.

Running his hands along the damp surface, he stepped carefully yet quickly as he dared. It went on for some time, and after twenty paces he stopped. The entrance looked far away already. He turned back to the darkness. Was there anything here worth looking farther? Five more steps. Nothing he could see yet. He turned around and rushed back to the pantry. Perhaps he’d investigate this one further, or maybe he would try another corridor and hope he found more than today.

******

As the Orc brought the man to Saruman, resentment bubbled within the wizard and he narrowed his eyes. Five of them, five prisoners he had, and not one had given him the answers he required. He was confident in the strength of his power. The melody of his voice ensnared those of weaker mind, creating the desire within them to agree with him and please him. Under his enchantment they did his bidding without question. All but the strongest minds eventually bent to his will. Under such force, Saruman could alter the thought of any mortal, and perhaps a young elf, and persuade them to act as he commanded them. To draw answers to specific questions, however, was not truly his power; even a weak mind was able to focus on such an overt act and resist. After making some effort to hone his skills, he was now able to accomplish small gains from the process, such as the names of his prisoners. But said prisoners would not relinquish the knowledge he required. Such a task demanded more drastic, albeit traditional, means of persuasion.

Thus had he made clear the real threat of the Orcs’ ‘hospitality,’ and made good on that threat with two. Saruman huffed as he recalled the dwarf and elf, one more obstinate than the other. The halflings – with those he had to take more care. The one now serving the uruk would weary quickly. Clearly both halflings would die easily, but they would not perish before he wished it, and not without revealing the location of the one who carried the Ring. How that one had escaped his uruks he could not imagine, but there would be no escape for these. He thought perhaps they knew so, from the defeated expressions on their faces.

Now, as Saruman walked across the main chamber, he considered the one who trailed behind him. Aragorn. That name had changed much. Son of Arathorn. Chief of the Dúnedain. Heir of Isildur. Surely there was more here to be gained than simply information. The thought planted a seed of new plans in his mind. His frustration with the lot from Imladris eased, his need for information receded, and these were replaced by curiosity over the potential held in the man and his destiny. Confidence surged through him then that all was not lost. If he could not have the Ring of Power, the heir to the throne of Gondor was perhaps ample compensation. Mayhap he need not wrest from the Dúnadan what he knew of the Ring or the halfling who carried it. He would begin to press his will upon him and sway his view on approaching – and perhaps more urgent – events. The Dúnadan was of a strong will and mind, no doubt, for he had kept his true name from him on the plains. Saruman had the means to weaken the man’s mind further, if need be. That would likely prove unnecessary, however, for Saruman was stronger.

Yes, Saruman saw it clearly, a vision of the heir of Isildur bowing before him and then leading an army out of Isengard at his command. With this man under his control, he could influence King and Steward alike, even change the course of the coming war. As of now, he had only possession of the man. But soon enough, this Ranger would do his bidding. He had thought only to make him speak. Instead, Saruman would speak to him. He would show him the new way, where Saruman’s word was done. Saruman reined in his growing fervor as he changed direction and led the Orc and the Dúnadan into another shadowy alcove.

Turning to look at the man, he resisted the urge to laugh. “Stand before me, Man!” As the Ranger was brought before him, Saruman sneered. The man was haggard, filthy, and maimed. “How wretched, the future king of Gondor indeed!” He saw the resentment in the man’s face and the anger that lay beneath and was glad. His emotions were near the surface and would be easily manipulated. “You are just as feeble and disgraceful as your ancestor, who bears the burden of all you and your dear ones now suffer. I am sure he looks upon you with pride,” Saruman said, lacing his words with contempt and his voice with his persuasive power. He saw then impatience in the man’s face. Rather presumptuous, this one. He likely had long tired of waiting to learn what fate awaited him. He would wait no longer.

******

Aragorn glared at Saruman, willing his barbed words to end. Each phrase needled his wounded pride and fed his growing regret over his ill-made decisions. As a result, his despair wrapped more tightly round him. But his well-trained restraint enabled him to remain silent as Saruman finally ended his tirade and led him into a dim recess off the main hall. It was similar to the one in which he and Pippin had taken their meal, though it reached deeper into the shadows and was drearier for it. An Orc deposited a torch into a sconce, but it did little to chase away the shadows. At the wizard’s command, the Orc dragged Aragorn to Saruman, who stood before some small structure, perhaps a pillar or post draped with cloth. As the Orc thrust him before Saruman, the wizard’s words chilled Aragorn with foreboding. “So proud, so defiant. You shall soon learn the new way of things.”

The Orc brought him closer as Saruman stepped aside. Aragorn swayed in his exhaustion and struggled to puzzle out Saruman’s actions, as the wizard grabbed the ropes tying his hands together and lifted his arms. In one motion, he ripped off the cloth covering the pillar behind him and planted Aragorn’s hands on a smooth dark stone lying on the pedestal.

Aragorn gasped as he found himself thrown into an eddy of endless depths. The shadows of the alcove, the glaring face of Saruman, even the cold, smooth stone, all of it faded away as his vision was filled with a suffocating black darker than night. Aragorn strove to pull away from the stone where Saruman had placed his hands, but it was as if there was nothing against which to push.

Even as he attempted to make sense of what was happening, the gloom began to clear to a dim grey. He sensed, then saw shadows moving about, which soon became figures, and then Aragorn was on the fields of Rohan, amidst a fierce battle. Startled, Aragorn first tried to dodge an oncoming sword, then to rush an Orc, weaponless or no. But his efforts were in vain. He could move neither to his own aid nor that of another.

As he stood helpless, Orcs viciously attacked the Rohirrim. Some part of his mind tried to explain how this came to be, as the scene before him continued. The Rohirrim defended their land valiantly, but if only by numbers, they were fated for defeat. Powerless to do aught but witness the destruction, Aragorn watched in grim resignation as warriors of Rohan were slain before him. As the Orcs carried on their merciless conquest, Aragorn found he could not turn away as bodies were mutilated; he could not close his eyes as Orcs licked blood from their blades and howled in victory.

After what seemed a lifetime, blackness returned until Saruman was before him once more, eyes boring into him. Disoriented, he could form neither words nor thought. As Saruman released his hold on the stone, Aragorn shuddered. His knees gave way, and he collapsed to the floor, sending pain shooting through his injured leg that helped to clear his mind. He could only catch his breath and watch wide-eyed as Saruman sneered. “Think on what you have seen, Dúnadan. What would you do? What hope is there? Can you yet save them, heir of Isildur?” With that, he left the alcove, his questions hanging in the air behind him.

Lying prone on the floor, still panting, Aragorn’s scattered thoughts returned to the army of Rohirrim cut down before his eyes. He saw them whether his eyes were open or closed, but he tore his thoughts from that field. Though he would not have thought it possible, he was far wearier than he had been before he had entered this room. His body felt weighted down, his head too heavy to lift. As drained as he felt, questions plagued him. Had this been a vision of Saruman’s creation? Or had he taken him to that field? Aragorn could not contemplate such a thing and returned to the idea of the vision. Did Saruman create this scene as a threat? Was this the future he intended for Rohan? Searching his knowledge for some explanation, some power Saruman could have gained to perform such sorcery, what Aragorn dreaded most was that the wizard had somehow shown him the truth.

The wizard’s questions demanded their own answers. If this vision were based in truth, what would he do? As near as he was in this Tower, he could offer Rohan no succor. If he were free to journey to Rohan, what could he do, in truth, to save the people of Rohan now? He had seen enough to know the Rohirrim suffered, if what he had seen was reality. As Saruman had asked him, he now asked himself: was there any hope for them?

No! He stopped his thoughts dead. He would not give in to Saruman’s despair so easily. Hope was hard to find from his seat here in Orthanc. As little hope as he might be left with, though, despair would not win him without a struggle.

If only those images of the Rohirrim did not linger….

******

Pippin focused on the wide pot in his hands as he climbed the high steps, trying not to spill any more of the water before reaching Strider. Carrying the tub of hot water up all those stairs was more difficult than he’d expected, and he no longer had a full container. The pot was too large for him to carry easily, and his arms and back ached from the effort.

But he was almost there, he reminded himself as he reached the top of the stairs. He anxiously retraced his steps back to where he’d left Strider what seemed hours ago. It was silly, he knew, but he felt wary leaving Strider alone with the wizard. The glint in Saruman’s eye when he looked upon the man gave Pippin the shivers. Eventually he was going to act on whatever thoughts put such a look on his face. Pippin worried for Strider then.

Saruman was nowhere he could see as he shuffled through the dim hall, trying to be hobbit-quiet on feet sore from walking on hard stone. He hoped he would be able to help Strider, not that Pippin deserved the chance to help. But it was the least he could do. Strider wouldn’t ask for any, of course, but most likely he would need his aid.

Pippin made his way into the room where he had left Strider. Puzzled when he didn’t see the Ranger at once, Pippin noticed for the first time how many recesses branched off from the main space. He shrugged and began making a circle around the room, looking into each niche for a sign of his friend.

The spaces were small but lightless, and Pippin stepped into each to be sure he didn’t miss Strider. After circling halfway round the room, he willed away the worry that began to gnaw at his belly as he peeked into the next one. Finally, he spied a form among the shadows. He took a step inside and waited until his eyes could see in the darkness. Sure enough, there was a man huddled in one of the dark corners. His stomach tightened with foreboding.

Strider leaned against the far wall, unmoving as Pippin approached. The hobbit took in his haggard, disoriented look and guessed that Saruman had finally turned to Strider for his next amusement. Pippin shuddered as he considered what that might mean. Why had Pippin left him? He had to admit he’d been without a choice in the matter. If he had defied Saruman, he would likely have found himself beside Legolas and Gimli. Whether that was slaving away at some impossible task or something far worse was another fate he had yet to learn, for good or ill. He dared to hope Merry was faring well enough, and Pippin forcibly shoved his worry over his cousin from his mind. For the present, he could only offer help to Strider.

Pippin took a few more steps and decided to first rid himself of his burden. Carefully setting the basin on the stone floor so it didn’t make a loud noise, Pippin looked to Strider for a reaction. The Ranger was looking off into a distant view only he could see, apparently unaware of the hobbit.

“Strider?” Pippin asked, stepping closer toward him.

Silence answered him. After a long moment that used most of Pippin’s patience, Strider turned his head. He stared at Pippin, but somehow the hobbit was sure he did not see him. His stomach began acrobatic antics he did not appreciate. “Strider? Are you well?” The dull and unseeing eyes disturbed Pippin, and the man looked far wearier than when Pippin had left him. If it were possible, Pippin would have said he had aged.

Swallowing his worry and fear, Pippin took a few more slow steps toward the man. “Strider? Are you awake? It’s Pippin…” At a loss for another way to get a response, he advanced again. Now he saw confusion in those once clear grey eyes, which began to dart around. “Strider? It’s just you and me. There’s no one else.” He pointed towards the opening of the alcove and Strider’s eyes followed. He looked around the room then as if for the first time. It seemed to Pippin that Strider was not sure where he was, or whether Pippin were truly standing there, or if his nightmare continued. “We are in Orthanc, Strider. That much is true. Saruman sent Legolas and Gimli down to the Pits, as they seem to call them. Merry’s been made a servant of an Orc, but I wager he’ll make the best of that. Perhaps we will soon learn more of the others’ fates. I am, well, I am now in the service of Saruman. Do you remember? It is all real, I’m sorry to say, though it sounds more like a nightmare. But right now, Saruman is nowhere to be seen.” Pippin looked about him to be sure. “There is only you and me. For the moment, you’re safe. Oh, and I have hot water for your leg!” Pippin went back for the pot, set it down closer to Strider, and pulled out some rags from his back pocket. He looked at Strider expectantly, hoping his speech had penetrated the haze in which the man seemed to linger.

Strider then did the most unexpected thing: he began to laugh. A low chuckle, in truth, but it startled Pippin all the same. He wondered if he should worry for Strider’s mind. “My dear Pippin,” Strider finally said, his voice heavy with weariness, “Thank you.”

Pippin smiled uncertainly. “Whatever I’ve done, I’m glad for it, if it has helped you.”

Strider closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. Jerking his head forward and opening his eyes suddenly, he turned once more to Pippin. “You brought me back. I was… I lingered in places I would rather not be.”

Pippin looked at Strider with appraising eyes. When he trusted his tongue, he asked, “Where were you, Strider? Where did Saruman take you?”

Despair flickered across Strider’s face as Pippin waited. Eventually the man’s gaze landed on a pedestal to Pippin’s left he had failed to notice. It was about head high to him, and a strange rock sat atop it. It was eerily smooth and shiny, and darker than it should have been, he thought. His brow furrowed with curiosity. He had never seen such a thing.

“He laid my hands on that stone, then…” Strider said nothing more for a time, but the words dimmed some of Pippin’s interest. Whatever could affect Strider so strongly must be a terrible thing. “Through some power of his, he showed me …things. Dreadful things…”

Pippin turned back to Strider. “What sort of rock is that, that it can do such a thing?”

Strider’s eyes flickered, and he shook his head sharply, in what looked to Pippin like an attempt to toss away what threatened to return. Strider looked wearier still and his face told of some of the horrors into which Saruman had thrown him. “It seems to be under Saruman’s control. Perhaps it holds some old power that works with his own. The visions he brings me may be true or they may be his creation. I do not know. They are as real as you are when I am there.”

As he saw the despair and weariness resurface in Strider’s face, Pippin began to understand how Saruman intended to punish the man. For Legolas and Gimli, who meant little to him, physical punishment was enough. For this man, greater than all of them, his punishment was also to be greater. Whatever he planned, he had begun with his mind.

He turned his focus to Strider now, who looked beyond weary, moving slowly and gingerly. The water! “Well, we should get to this water before it goes cold, shouldn’t we? It would be a shame to waste it.”

“Yes, yes, please.” He tried to move closer to the pot, but sagged against the wall in defeat after a meager attempt. “Forgive me, Pippin. I must ask–”

“Oh, of course.” He dragged the water next to Strider and grabbed the rags. “What can I do to help?” Strider stuck his finger in the water. That he failed to swiftly pull his finger out told Pippin the water had cooled considerably. “Is it still hot enough? Will it work?”

“Was it boiling when you started?”

“Yes, boiling furiously. I let it boil a bit on the fire before taking it, hoping it would take longer to cool.”

“That was good, as it better cleans the water as well.” Strider slowly stretched out his injured leg, looking at the wound, which lay exposed through a large tear in his legging. He sighed heavily. “…hope this works,” Pippin heard him say under his breath. Strider took a rag and dropped it into the water, then after squeezing out the water simply laid the rag on the wound. Still, he winced. He laid a shaking hand on the skin above his knee. “The infection has begun to spread. You will need to bring me hot water as often as you are able.”

“Of course. I’ll do my best.” He watched silently as Strider squeezed out a new rag over the wound, and Pippin wondered if his tremors were due to exhaustion, hunger, or something worse. He thought again of the stone and of what he had told him. “What did you see, when you touched it?” Although he could not help asking, he feared the answer, feared for Strider and what more he might have to endure.

Strider sighed heavily. So long the silence stretched that Pippin thought he would not get an answer, and then, “Rohan, destroyed. They were all destroyed. Every last one…” He shook himself. “I could do nothing to help or hinder. I could only watch as the Rohirrim were cut down… I may never know the truth of what I have seen and trying to discern the reality will drive me into madness. But it is likely the suffering of the Rohirrim is true.” Once more he was silent and still.

“Don’t think on it further, Strider. Let’s attend to this leg, why don’t we?”

******

Chapter 8: Dreams

Gimli attempted to break his fall with his shackled hands as he crashed beside Legolas onto the stone floor. The dusk of evening had changed the room, closing the walls in, lowering the ceiling, and leaving the archways to the gloom. Torches burning on the walls enabled Gimli to see the darkened niche where Saruman had sat at their first meeting hours before. The dwarf scrambled up onto shaky legs; he’d rather return to the Pits than appear before Saruman unable to stand under his own power.

He welcomed, though, the respite from the torment he’d endured for what had seemed days, but he doubted his relief would outlast this visit to Saruman. The Orc behind him shoved him once more, sprawling Gimli to the floor. “On your knees before your Master!” Grabbing Gimli by the hair, he hauled the dwarf to his knees. Beside him, Legolas was likewise drawn up. To Gimli’s surprise, the elf did not struggle overmuch.

As much as he ached, Gimli guessed that Legolas’s pain was greater. Given their orders to keep the prisoners alive, the Orcs would not be as harsh with a mortal dwarf as with a hardy and enduring elf. Taking in Legolas’s bruised face, split lip, and the many wounds visible through tears in his tunic, Gimli put his hope in the speedy healing of Elves. Legolas strove to maintain a determined and stoic façade as he settled himself onto his knees, but Gimli could see his weariness and pain. He wondered if Legolas could see the same in him.

Gimli looked about him and wondered if Aragorn and the hobbits were hidden away in one of the dark recesses that ringed the room. He refused to think of any other fates for them. In truth, he dreamed that Merry and Pippin had been set free and walked away from the Tower. Would that he could follow! Ah, but these were dreams – and his reality was a nightmare.

The Orcs gathered near Saruman, who emerged from an alcove looking oddly surprised, Gimli thought. The wizard questioned the Orcs, with only a glance to his prisoners, and then it was Gimli’s turn to be surprised when he began to inquire on the status of the smithies, the forges, the arsenal, and something about molding and new issues. Gimli took advantage of their distraction and turned to Legolas. “How fare you, Legolas?” He winced at the heavy concern in his gravelly voice.

A frown creased Legolas’s brow as he scrutinized the dwarf, confirming that Gimli indeed looked as badly as he felt. “I would ask the same of you,” he said in a voice rougher than was fit for any elf. “Clearly, they now seek the limit to your endurance. Do you feel you have any grave wounds?”

Gimli bit off a cynical chuckle. “What would it matter? Grave wounds or no, a grave is where we will find ourselves.” He sighed, one eye on Saruman. “Forgive me my despair. From the concern on your face, I fear my appearance matches yours, for you look as though the Orcs had more than their share of sport with you. I ask you again – how do you fare?”

Legolas looked away. “As you say, what does it matter?” he said lightly.

His friend’s response left Gimli wanting. He had sought to master his despondency with the endless reserve of hope the elf seemed to hold, regardless of what they faced. Mayhap they were truly lost. Disheartened, Gimli sighed again. “We do not fare well, my friend.”

“No, we do not fare well.”

Falling into silence, Gimli was now able to hear Saruman. “Uglúk, tell me of the halfling. Is he obedient?”

The mention of a hobbit grabbed Gimli’s attention. “Oh, eh, he’s all right, sir. Does whatever I tell him to, he does. Norgry’s keeping an eye on him now, but he ain’t caused no trouble.” Gimli ached for whichever hobbit had been sent down as a slave for this Orc, but he had to admit it might also keep the hobbit alive. His fantasy of the hobbits’ freedom fractured, his own nightmare encroaching upon his dream.

Saruman turned from Uglúk and approached Gimli and Legolas, white robes and staff bright against the black behind him. He looked down upon them with contempt in his eyes and in the curl of his mouth. Despite his weariness and many aches, Gimli felt his ire boil at the sight of the wizard. His thoughts went to Gandalf and to how much they had lost. The Quest itself might be lost already.

“My Orcs have provided you both with a sound lesson in obedience, I see. Have you learned aught in your time with them, I wonder? Or do I waste my time with you?”

Gimli stared back at Saruman with hate. “I learned nothing I did not know before descending to your Pits. But it has made clear that your betrayal of your Order is great.”

“Do dwarves have no mind for survival?” Saruman growled and lunged forward to backhand Gimli. The wizard’s strength surprised Gimli as he landed hard on the floor. “I would release you for nothing more than the whereabouts of the halfling. Do you give up your life for the sake of a halfling?” Saruman’s voice softened, taking on the timber Gimli recalled from their meeting on the plains, when the wizard had drawn their names from them. “You must accept that your task and this ill-fated Quest are ended; war is now upon us. Attend to salvaging what is dear to you. The Lonely Mountain is far, but not out of Sauron’s reach. You might return to your people and prepare them for a war that will soon catch them unawares. Or do you sacrifice your people as well – for a halfling? Think carefully, dwarf, on whom you would save. Your choice decides many a fate.”

Climbing back to his knees, Gimli was silent as he fought the despair borne of the wizard’s power-laden words. He knew not to hearken to Saruman’s words, but his heart fell prey to his power and failed to ignore the doom the questions hailed. Struggling to divert his thoughts from the two hobbits for whose sake they suffered, his contemplation made its way to his kin leagues away in their mountain home. If they failed in their efforts, if this war did come, what would become of them? To what sort of home might he return? Would his family survive? If they lost the war, Sauron – not Saruman, as Gimli guessed he aimed to – would rule over Middle-earth. Would survival and slavery then be desirable over death and freedom?

“If war would come,” a quiet yet fierce voice beside him said, “our people will fight. If they lose and die, they shall escape the rule of Sauron. And yet they may win the war, and so our suffering is not in vain.” With words so close to his own thoughts, Gimli wondered if Legolas had withheld from him some elven power to know his mind.

“So the answer is that pain and torture teach you nothing. Loss of dear ones means nothing. You sacrifice them for your pride. You are a shame to your races.” Saruman stalked away, only stopping to speak quietly with an Orc. Then to another he said, “Uglúk, you know your orders. Continue with the preparations. Our time runs short. And take these two. Get them out of my sight.”

Gimli’s dream crumbled to worthless debris as Legolas and he were dragged from the chamber. He tried not to think to where – and what – they were returning. But his feelings would not be subdued, and despair filled the spaces where his dream had been.

******

“I suppose this is no fun for you, having to follow me, minding me like this. Did you do something wrong that you ended up with this duty?” Pippin asked, his eyes wide and innocent looking.

“Do something wrong? Nah, not lately, at least,” Fagrod said with a chuckle. “I’m just following orders.”

Hiding his smile, Pippin turned back to the pot of water he had set to boil in the plain room that served as pantry and kitchen of sorts for Saruman. It was much darker down here one floor below the main hall. The only light was the fire in the corner that heated his water and cast deep shadows on the face of his minder, whom Norgry had called Fagrod. If he kept him talking but did not look at him, Pippin found he could almost forget he was an Orc.

Wooden crates and baskets were stacked up on all sides of the room, and Pippin thought he could smell food among the dust and Orc-stench. He longed to rummage through the containers, but as of yet, he was given food only when Saruman remembered. If Saruman learned of his pillaging, he might lose this precious bit of freedom, and so Pippin restrained himself.

“Oh, I thought you were one of those who gave orders around here.” The hobbit was mildly surprised to find an Orc nearly as easy to manipulate as some of his aunts and uncles, with whom he had almost mastered getting out of trouble as well as getting what he wanted. Yawning widely, he had a vague sense that midnight had passed hours ago. But Pippin had been determined to bring a pot of truly hot water to Strider, and so he pushed himself to make another trip to the storeroom. Besides, there were tasks he had yet to do. “So, I suppose you have to sit with me and watch water boil. It is boring, though. I know! I could tell you the history of my family. We go back generations.”

“You’re making me more bored with every word. What are you going on about?”

“Our family history. You know, my mother’s parents, brothers, and sisters, and their parents, and their parents. And then, on my father’s side, we do it all over again. We can take all night into morning if we wanted. It’s just a way to pass the time.”

Fagrod scowled, and Pippin worried that he might have overplayed his hand. “What are you trying for? You planning some trick?” He stood and leaned into Pippin’s face.

“Trick? What trick could I play?” Pippin answered, putting as much shock and amusement as he could muster into his voice. “I’m only trying to help you pass the time. It’s rather boring sitting here with nothing to do. You likely have plenty of other more important things you could be doing and instead you have to follow me back to Saruman’s big room up there, up those stairs, and down the hall. I could find my way back by myself, but I understand you’ve got to follow me. Those are your orders, after all. So I just thought we could pass the time somehow.”

“Yeah, Norgry handed out duties like it was mealtime and they was your supper. And right now, this is my duty.” Fagrod’s eyes narrowed at Pippin. “You planning to sneak off somewhere? Is that it?”

“You think I’m going to sneak off somewhere? Try to escape?” Pippin truly laughed then, ignoring the pang of fear in his heart at the absurdity of escape. “Where am I to go off to? Orcs are everywhere, and I don’t even know how to get anywhere but back to where I came from. Besides, my friend needs this water to live. There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

“That’s right. Nowhere else for you to go. And if you happen to find some place to wander, you’ll be looking at the sharp end of this here.” He grinned fiercely as he displayed his knife, and Pippin wondered what made him think he could forget this creature reveled in mayhem and violence.

Suppressing a shiver, Pippin instead shrugged his shoulders, carefully assuming a nonchalant expression. “I understand, I’m your duty, and you have to do what your boss tells you. If that’s following around one little hobbit, well, I can try to make it less boring, like I explained. We can start with my family. I have my parents, Paladin and Eglantine, and three sisters, Pearl, Pimpernel, and Pervinca. Yes, three sisters to boss me around. It was not always fun growing up in the Smials. But let’s see…” He could see the Orc’s baffled expression begin to turn over to impatience. “Well… if you’re not interested, perhaps this isn’t such a great idea.” He paused, trying to judge whether to push Fagrod further. “But see, there’s such an interesting history to my family! My father Paladin’s father’s name was Adalgrim. Try walking around with that name. Even as an Orc! Oh, dear, if he ever knew I said that. No offense, but he wouldn’t take kindly. Anyway, his father’s name was Hildigrim, who was married to Rosa Baggins, which makes me related to–” Just when he realized what he was about to say, the Orc held his hands up in front of him.

“Wait just a bit there. I don’t know what’s all this talk of names, but I do know I’ve heard enough! And I don’t just do what the higher-ups say, if it’s a waste of time. Anyways, Norgry’s not my boss.” Fagrod looked at him for a moment. “I do have better things to do than listen to you natter on,” he muttered. “I might have a chore or two to do while your water boils, but if I hear you working any tricks, I’ll have no trouble teaching you a lesson, you hear?” He leaned close to Pippin and the knife that suddenly appeared in his hand told the hobbit he meant what he said, while the smile on his face reminded Pippin he would enjoy making good on the threat.

Despite the weapon and the Orc-breath, Pippin fought down the smile that threatened to break over his face. “There’ll be no trouble. You can be sure. All I want is to get this back to my friend. But you’re more than welcome to stay. My family tree is one of the most interesting – and longest – in all the Shire.” He grinned then, the grin that had bent the will of many a Took.

Fagrod grunted and looked upon Pippin as if he’d never laid eyes on such as him before. “Up those stairs. Nowhere else!” he said before heading out the door of the small room and down a staircase hidden in the dark behind the one they’d descended.

Pippin grinned again. So nice of the Orc to offer just the directions he needed as a parting gift. Now he would not waste time puzzling out his downward path. He only need wait a bit, then follow the trail of the Orc. He learned long ago, when someone suspects you of sneaking about, they never expect you will follow in their footsteps.

Deciding to risk some pillaging with a quick investigation into the crates, Pippin was rewarded for his cleverness. He had indeed been sitting among a grand store of food! Apparently Saruman’s own supply, there was fruit and cheese and bread and cured meat… he reluctantly ended his explorations as he was wasting precious moments. Grabbing a couple of bright red apples and some bread – while not freshly made, hardly the crusts they had recently dined on – and stuffed the treasures into his pockets. As quiet as a hobbit could be, he crept to the stone stairwell. Heat radiated from below, fire painting the walls a garish yellow. He knew not what he’d find, but Merry must be among his discoveries. Pippin was quite sure the Orcs wouldn’t remember to feed his cousin, and he was just as sure of Merry’s concern for him, though Pippin had far more reason to worry for Merry among the Orcs. If luck were truly with them and Merry had learned anything of Legolas and Gimli that might help free them, he could bring the news to Strider.

The rough-hewn stairs were dark and dank, the air hot and filled with strange smells and sounds he tried not to think on overmuch. He made as much haste as he could, knowing his time was short. All he aimed to find was another pantry, or kitchen, or whatever passed for such, directly below. He had yet to decide what to do once he found it. But he supposed there was as good a chance as any to find Merry in a kitchen.

Creeping down a short dark hall, he heard what sounded like a great fire burning somewhere behind him. The orange glow against the wall and the sweltering heat that made him work for his next breath told him it was near. He brought his attention back to his search and peered around the corner into a dark space. Here he found more than he’d dared to hope.

Merry trudged into a bare room larger than the pantry above with a load of wood. He looked tired and was quite filthy. Pippin’s heart broke to see him doing such drudgery. Knowing he would soon be missed, he made a noise he hoped Merry remembered.

Merry’s head shot up but he looked toward the doorway through which he’d come. Pippin’s heart sunk to see an Orc follow Merry into the room.

“What was that noise?” the beast said, as he unloaded his burden of tools.

“Noise?” Merry asked innocently as he piled some of his wood on the hearth. “You mean that insect sound? You haven’t heard it before? You must be accustomed to it. Insects love this heat. There are likely swarms of them down here.”

“There ain’t no bugs down here! It’s too hot.”

“Well, this one must like it.”

The Orc said nothing as he walked out of the room. Merry’s head whipped around. “Pip?”

“Right here, cuz!” Pippin stuck his head around the corner with a grin, holding up the two apples. “Look what I brought!”

Merry’s eyes grew wide. “Apples! Bless you, Pip!” He looked behind him one more time, then ran over to Pippin, hugging him fiercely. “Are you all right? Have you eaten? How is Saruman treating you?”

Pippin shook his head at the predictable barrage of questions. “I don’t have much time, Merry. I’m fine, really. Saruman fed me and Strider. Now I’m boiling water to tend to that nasty wound on his leg. And that’s where I should be now. I can’t stay.” He looked Merry over. “Are you doing all right?” he asked quietly.

Merry looked at him for a moment before answering. “I’m all right, Pip. Not much in the way of food, but they’re not mistreating me, otherwise. I suppose they think I’m so little, it would be too easy to kill me.”

“Well, don’t you dissuade them from that way of thinking. Any sight of Legolas or Gimli?”

Merry only shook his head. “Sorry, they’ve kept me busy, but I have managed to roam a bit. I’ll find them. I promise.”

Pippin took in Merry’s somber tone and realized his cousin had little hope for good news upon finding them. From what Pippin had seen earlier when the two were brought before Saruman, Merry was likely right. He decided not to enlighten Merry on what he’d witnessed and shoved thoughts of his friends to the back of his mind. “Here, some bread, too, nearly fresh. It’s from Saruman’s own stock. I must go. If they find I’ve been wandering, they’ll never leave me alone again. And I’ve got to keep an eye on Strider.”

Merry nodded. “Take care, Pip. We’ll get out of this mess somehow.”

“Of course we will, Merry.” Pippin wished he could have put more conviction into his words. “I’ll come down again if I can with more food.”

Merry nodded again. Pippin wondered at his quiet manner, but he was out of time. He started to say good-bye, but changed his mind and scampered up the stairs to his pot of boiling water.

******

At first, there was only unending black. Soon a pale light flickered within those depths that grew quickly into flames licking hotly at his senses. Suddenly, he was no longer in Orthanc but amid the fire. And he was not alone.

A faint whisper passed through his thoughts then that sent shivers down Aragorn’s spine; the voice grew stronger in his mind until the Ranger heard Black Speech brimming with contempt. Aragorn knew then who spoke, and shock washed over him, chilling his blood and leaving him open to the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him entirely. The Dark Lord laughed and whispered his name. Aragorn tried to steel himself against the pull into Shadow, but he was already weary and soon his strength waned. He could feel Sauron watching him, looking into and through him. Sauron was inside him then, and the sensation of Sauron’s gaze along his veins, under his skin, and into his being sickened and terrified him. He sought in vain to escape the hold, and Sauron’s amusement intertwined with his invasion.

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” he hissed, the words filling Aragorn’s mind, “spawn of Isildur. Weak was your ancestor, and weak are you. Through you shall I have my vengeance.”

Aragorn fought belatedly to gather his strength and banish Sauron from his spirit, but it was as if he struggled in quicksand. He found himself engulfed further by the flames, covered further by the filth of Sauron’s touch. He thought perhaps he whimpered, but he could hear naught but the sound of Sauron’s voice and the flames that burned but would not consume him.

Suddenly, he was flying backwards through the air. There was a dark wall in front of him that tilted, his back hit something hard, and then he fell, crashing into another hard surface. As the impact reverberated through his body, he stared at images before his eyes that made no sense, listening to gasps he did not recognize as his own. Eventually light and dark coalesced into Saruman and the shadows of the room.

“So, Dúnadan,” Saruman said, his voice conveying more than words, its power demanding more than Aragorn’s attention. “Where is your pride now? Where is your arrogance? Your honor? Do you see now that we must do what circumstances call upon us to do? You have felt the touch of Sauron, have you not? I heard his whisperings before you entered the doorway of the Stone. He is rather interested in you, but he desires Gondor more, I think. I ask you what you value more – your precious honor or a free Gondor? If you hope to salvage something of your lands, you will see the wisdom of my plans and ride for me. Fight for me, and fight for Gondor! It is plain you have no other recourse. Gondor has no other hope!”

The wizard stepped forward, leaning over Aragorn as he yet worked to catch his breath. He struggled to grasp the meaning of Saruman’s words, catching snippets but not the whole of what he said. Sauron, yes, he wanted him, and Gondor too. Sauron would wage war against Gondor, and soon. And Saruman now wished to stop the Dark Lord? Salvage your lands, he had said. Fight for me, he had said. Fight for Saruman? No, he had said fight for Gondor… yes, he would always fight for Gondor, with his dying breath…

“Gondor…,” he panted, trying to still his trembling limbs.

Saruman smiled. “Gondor. Perhaps you are not as feeble minded as your ancestors, after all. Yes, we will ride to Gondor.”

Aragorn looked at Saruman with confusion. Ride with him to Gondor? No, he must be confused. Yes, he was confused. He closed his eyes. He was so weary. He could not recall such overwhelming weariness.

Eventually, he heard the wizard retreat and order Orcs to drag him to another room, where they left him to sort out the world again.

But all he could think on was his exhaustion. How did Saruman drain him so? A memory flitted across his mind, but it would not stay put and escaped him. He dared not sleep, for his dreams were often worse than the visions Saruman gave him. Or were they visions of another sort? As his mind cleared, he felt the niggling of knowledge clamoring for attention. But his fatigue was too great and he unwillingly slipped into uneasy dreams.

******

Pippin made his way through the dark corridor to the hall where Aragorn was kept – no, he would never call him that again. Strider he would be, as he should have been. Setting aside the feelings that arose with those thoughts, Pippin focused on not jostling the pot. He managed to keep more water in the vessel today than yesterday, and it was still hot as he’d hoped. He knew his way around a bit now, even more than his minder Fagrod realized. Even so, Pippin reminded himself to keep his eyes open for new paths. Merry was roaming to learn his way about below. He would do the same so as not to let his cousin down. He would learn his way well enough to walk in utter darkness if need be, as well as find every nook and alcove in which he might hide or that might lead up and out of this prison. Fortune might still look upon them. After all, he managed to return from his visit to Merry without encountering Fagrod. And he would try his luck again later.

He stopped to take a breath on a landing and listened: the same random shouting from below, but silence above. He hated that silence.

Saruman had busied Pippin throughout the previous day doing menial and mindless chores. He was often bored and always hungry, but he knew better than to complain. Merry’s weary face was reminder enough that Pippin likely fared the best of all of them. Even Strider fared poorly under Saruman’s constant attention. The wizard had used his strange power on Strider again that previous evening, and he hadn’t been quite the same since. After witnessing Strider’s strength and valor in battle against all sorts of foes, to see what followed Saruman’s sorcery disquieted Pippin. Strider seemed to age a year’s worth and was left wearier than Pippin had ever seen the Ranger. Confused and distracted, Strider needed some time to return to his usual demeanor. Pippin preferred to deny that Strider was an ordinary man with weaknesses. Saruman, it seemed, could make those weaknesses painfully clear.

Pippin set down the pot in a corner of the alcove in which he found the man. Strider, or the shadow that appeared to be him, crouched as far into a corner as he could manage, his head on his knees and covered by arms that shook as he tugged anxiously at his hair. He looked as if he would melt into the walls if he could. To Pippin’s dismay, it seemed Saruman had returned and used his power on him once more.

“Strider, it’s Pippin.” The hobbit heard a small gasp. Jerking in surprise, Strider slowly raised his head, but otherwise did not acknowledge Pippin. Now utterly still, he seemed to wait for something. “It’s Pippin. I’ve come with the water. It’s time to tend to your leg.” The man simply stared ahead as Pippin pulled the pot over to him. Then Pippin made a decision. The hobbit had seen what Strider did to his leg several times already; perhaps he no longer needed the Ranger’s guidance. While he tended to him, Strider might come back to his surroundings.

He gently pulled Strider’s leg down, and the man stared at his leg without reaction. Pippin dipped a rag in the hot water and slowly squeezed it over the wound. Strider flinched and stared at Pippin.

“Pippin?” he whispered harshly.

“Yes, Strider, it’s me.”

“What are you doing here?”

The hope that had begun to grow wilted. “I’m here to clean your wound. Like we did earlier.”

Strider shook his head. “You should not be here. I know not how you are here, but you must leave. He will see you!”

“Don’t worry, Strider. Saruman knows I do this. He said I could yesterday. He put me in charge, in fact.”

“You must not let him see you,” Strider continued as if Pippin had not spoken, his voice a mere rasp. “He will never release you. Your entire life will be fire. If he grabs hold of you… he never lets go.” Strider’s whispers sent a chill skipping down Pippin’s back. The man still wavered between the nightmare world of Saruman’s making and the real nightmare. But something was different. His despair was more acute, his mind was as confused as ever, and he was more afraid than Pippin had yet seen him.

Torn, Pippin decided to continue his ministrations, in the hope that they might draw him back. After dipping the rag in water once more, he left it on the wound, while he felt the skin surrounding the injury. It was cooler than yesterday, to his relief. Strider had been uncertain they had caught the infection in time.

For good measure, he checked Strider’s forehead. He was sweating, but not clammy. “Strider.” With no response, Pippin struggled with what to do next. What would Strider do, if Pippin needed him? He would not leave him drifting in some nightmare. The young hobbit swallowed hard. This was no time for fear or indecision; he would do what he must. He patted the man’s cheek softly. “Come now, Strider. The fire’s gone. It’s just you and me.” He grabbed Strider’s chin and held his gaze. “Where are we, Strider? Tell me.”

Strider’s blank stare slowly focused on Pippin. He searched Pippin’s face as if searching for truth and meaning or long-held secrets.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Pippin continued, struggling to maintain his light tone. “We’re not in the Shire. I can tell you that.” Pippin sighed. “I don’t know that we’ll ever be back in the Shire, to roll down its hills in the green grass that smells like summer, or stuff our faces full of new strawberries, or – or – I’m not helping, am I?”

“You are, Pippin, very much so,” Strider whispered. His expression shifted then from one of confusion to one holding such deep grief that Pippin’s courage nearly abandoned him. Strider leaned forward to rest his forehead on Pippin’s. “Thank you.” After a moment, Pippin pulled his arms around Strider into a fierce hug. Knowing Strider needed him renewed his courage.

“It was worse than before, wasn’t it?” Each time Strider suffered this, he lingered longer in his confusion, as if he were losing the strength to find his way back on his own. “Where did you go this time?”

Strider sighed heavily. “To Sauron.” Pippin’s stomach lurched at the name. “Into his mind, at least. To where Sauron could …see me… know me…” His voice faded into the misery of his memories. “The fire was black,” he whispered. “I thought it would consume me.”

Pippin swallowed, daunted by the revelation. “How can Saruman do such a thing? How dare he do such a thing!”

Strider looked at him and gathered his strength with a deep breath. As his eyes cleared further, he gave Pippin a measuring look, then seemed to decide something. “I did not know at first. I believed Saruman had found some new sorcery and would use it to cause me to go mad. For a time, I hoped the infection in my leg was causing my madness…I would rather this was a madness. But then I remembered a rhyme from long ago.”

The man was quiet for a few moments and Pippin waited uncomfortably. But his gaze soon drifted and took on the glaze of distraction. As he had not told him nearly enough, Pippin prodded him to continue. “A rhyme?”

Strider’s gaze snapped back to Pippin and his thoughts soon followed. “Eh, yes. It was then that I understood. It is not madness. It is the Stone.”

Pippin wondered if they were not the same. Was this not madness to talk of the stone causing the visions? Was it already too late for Strider? And what was this talk of a rhyme? “What does this rhyme say?”

Strider looked at him with surprise. “The rhyme? Well, it has been told me as such:

Tall ships and tall kings

Three times three,

What brought they from the foundered land

Over the flowing sea?

Seven stars and seven stones

And one white tree.”

Pippin waited. When nothing more was forthcoming from the Ranger, he asked, “That’s all? From that you worked out how Saruman was giving you visions through a stone?”

Strider gave him a half-smile. “It was enough to remind me of old lore that few remember. The Dúnedain have long memories.” He looked to the Stone on the pedestal. “Though I have never before set eyes on one, I believe this is a palantír, a Seeing Stone, one of the seven stones in the rhyme. Once, the seven of them were scattered throughout Middle-earth, used by the Kings to communicate over long distances or watch events they would like to influence.” Strider paused to catch his breath, as if winded from exertion. “I imagine Saruman uses this to watch Rohan. But somehow the Stone became linked to Sauron, for I know it was he who looked upon me earlier and he holds another like this one. Perhaps the wizard meant at first to watch the Dark Lord, but clearly Sauron dominated him. Now, Saruman has another use for the Stone.” Strider put his head on his knees and was silent.

“Are – are you sure that this stone of Saruman’s is one of those Seeing Stones, as you called it? The Great Kings lived a very long time ago. Surely the stones would not have survived?”

“I am certain now. It may explain my great fatigue when Saruman is finished with me. Or that may be Saruman’s own will upon me. What I do know of the Stone is this: Using the Stone requires great power and strength of will. Even more important, the palantír cannot lie. Perhaps one might pass on a falsehood by distorting the truth, withholding some but not the whole of it.” Strider looked at Pippin then with a terrible look in his eyes. “It would mean all that I have seen is true.” Strider’s voice became flat and his gaze lost some of its focus as he continued. “Rohan, in ruins. All those dead, gone…”

Pippin did not care for the tone lacing Strider’s words. He could understand the anger, even the bitterness. He understood all too well the despair. But there was something else as well. Pippin could only explain it as a lack of something, and he saw the loss most in the Ranger’s grey eyes where something he was accustomed to seeing was missing. Pippin turned to look at the Stone, a round black rock, that Strider believed was the cause of his suffering. Whatever curiosity had remained regarding the Stone shriveled as he considered its power.

When the man sighed heavily, Pippin turned his gaze from the Seeing Stone to find Strider watching him intensely. “I do not think Saruman would ever force you to touch the palantír, Pippin. Nevertheless, do not go near it. It has power, and it is bound to Sauron. It is best to keep your distance.” Pippin nodded. If the palantír could make Strider fear it, he would not test it.

“You’re here now, Strider, not anywhere Sauron can see you. You’re safe – well, what passes for safe, for now.” Pippin watched Strider carefully.

The man shut his eyes but opened them again as if to banish what he saw before him. Fear flit across Strider’s face, chilling Pippin more than had the name of the Dark Lord, but the man soon hid the emotion behind his usual stern countenance. “I know I must keep him from my mind. I will use all the strength I can muster to resist him. I swear to you, Pippin, I will not betray your cousin to Sauron as long as I have the strength.” He left unsaid what would follow once his strength left him. After some quiet moments, he took a deep breath and whispered, “Tell me more about the Shire.”

Pippin nodded, reassured a bit. “Yes, let us stay in the real world. As poor as it is, it is better than the mind of Sauron.” And so Pippin related to him adventures with Merry and tales of mischief with Frodo, of getting caught by Farmer Maggot, of nights at the Green Dragon, and even of days spent reaping crops. He spoke of the Shire as simple and perfect as it was. And his own heart ached for it.

Finally, he asked, “How’s your leg, Strider?”

“Better, which is more than I had hoped for yesterday. I may just live.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Well, I will say at least, this injury will not kill me.”

Pippin could only nod. He couldn’t bear to hear Strider speak of his death so matter-of-factly. The man was falling into despair, and Pippin was close behind him.

“Come now, Strider. We must finish tending to this.” He freshened the rag with more hot water and began to cleanse the wound, searching for infection. As Strider sat back and watched his work, Pippin realized the Ranger trusted him to care for the wound by himself. He looked up at Strider with some surprise. “I suppose I’m becoming a regular healer now, aren’t I? Wouldn’t Merry and Fro – my cousins be surprised.” At the mention of the lost hobbit, Pippin’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“I am certain they would be quite proud of you.” Strider’s confidence raised his spirits a bit. “Tell me, what of the others? Have you seen Merry? Any word of Legolas or Gimli?” Pippin’s hesitation betrayed him. “Tell me, Pippin, no matter what ills have come to pass. It cannot be helped and it is surely no fault of yours.”

Pippin closed his eyes for a moment. He delayed his answer by refreshing the rag, then said in a whisper, “Hours ago, what was yesterday now, I suppose, I saw Legolas and Gimli. I had just arrived at the entrance to the hall. I’m sure Saruman forgot about me for the moment. It was quite dark, so I snuck into one of the dark alcoves nearby. He had ordered Legolas and Gimli be returned, to see if they would tell him where our cousins are. They wouldn’t, of course. Strange, though. Saruman seemed to have no interest in them then, and said they were at the mercy of the Orcs. But I heard him tell the Orcs Uglúk and Norgry that they weren’t to die yet. They were to teach them another lesson, as he called it, make them want to give him the information, but not kill them, because of the knowledge they had. Saruman said he would decide when they would die.” Pippin breathed deeply, steadying himself. “That’s the last I saw of them,” he said in a faint whisper. He shook his head then to dispel his gloom. “I did manage to find Merry, quite far down below here, where fires always seem to be burning.” He looked behind him, though there was no one to overhear them. “I snuck down while I waited for your water to boil. I was quite lucky, actually. Below the pantry I use, there is a similar room, and Merry just happened to walk in just as I rounded the corner!” He smiled with pride. “I brought him a bit of food and told him not to worry about us. But he hadn’t seen anything of Legolas or Gimli. He’s giving it all his effort, though, making a point to wander, to see what he might find.”

“Good for Merry. He is a wise one, your cousin, and very brave. Was he treated all right, do you think? Had they hurt him at all?”

“He seemed – all right, I suppose. I saw him a bit before he knew I was there. He looked tired then. And quite dirty. So I suppose they are working him enough. But as soon as he heard my signal, he lit right up. So he’s not too badly off.”

“Signal? What is your signal?”

“Oh, just the sound of a certain cricket that we always heard around Brandy Hall. It’s so commonplace, no one ever suspects that it’s not just a cricket. And I do it quite well, if I say so myself, so even the Orc thought it was a bug.”

“Orc? What Orc?”

“The Orc that followed Merry into the pantry, or kitchen-room of some sort. But he was easily convinced and left. So Merry and I were able to talk for a bit.”

Strider nodded. “Wise of you, Pippin, to use such a ruse. But you must be careful. It would not go well for either of you, but especially Merry, if you were caught. And Merry needs to maintain his meager freedom if he is to find our friends.” He looked pointedly at Pippin. “If the time is not past, time certainly runs short if we hope to rescue them.”

“Time runs short for all of us,” Pippin said, and Strider looked at him oddly.

“Thanks to you, my dear hobbit, I have some strength left in me, I assure you. My leg has begun to heal. I will not die yet,” he said with a wry smile.

Pippin nodded, for he could not speak. He was sure Strider spoke those words for him, that he would not lose faith. Pippin knew there was little time for Strider.

******

Saruman sauntered to the balcony, considering Sauron’s words after he had finished with the man. They had been few and his demands were clear. There was little room for Saruman to work his own will within Sauron’s and not reveal his own plans. But he had danced this ballad with the Ring-maker for sometime, and he was confident he would not falter. He knew how to suppress himself while meeting through the palantír, and Sauron would not know his mind regarding Gondor, because he knew the Dark Lord’s weaknesses. He saw little else when his greatest desires were before him. The wizard knew he would crave possession of the descendant of the man who stole the Ring from him. Forgotten would be plans of armies and Rohan and Gondor. Thus, Saruman had made it clear whom he held within his Tower, under his control. He was sure Sauron would need to see him for himself.

He had seen him. And indeed he wanted him.

Saruman was to bring Aragorn to Sauron, to deliver him to a regiment even now making its way across the plains of Rohan. Saruman had agreed, despite his own plans for the man. Expecting his orders to be followed without question, even Sauron would not predict all that Saruman would do. And Saruman had ways of turning events to his advantage. Even a contingent of Sauron’s army could play into his plans, Orcs not being known for their loyalty.

With the King of Rohan and the heir of Isildur at his command, even the Steward of Gondor would pause before rejecting Saruman’s conditions. The wizard could barely contain his glee. Through this man, Saruman would command an army so vast it could stand up against the armies of Mordor. But first, he would strip this pathetic man of his arrogance. He was nearly there. With every visit to the palantír, the man weakened, his confusion grew, and he became more malleable. He already considered Saruman’s plans. He would begin to see the wisdom of acting for his people regardless of the means, and then the Dúnadan would be his.

******

Chapter 9: Plans

Merry sat on a crude wooden stool in the dreary makeshift kitchen and stirred a foul-smelling mixture at the fire. He would rather not know the ingredients of the Orcs’ drink. The one taste he’d had on the march to Isengard told him all he cared to know. Yet here he was, cooking it up for his captors. A waste of good talent in the kitchen, he thought.

Hopping off the rickety stool, he went off to finish his other regular chore, hauling firewood. The ever-burning fires needed to be fed wood constantly. Struggling with the heavy load, he took the corridor that ran opposite the one he last took. Though darker, he was fairly sure it led to the other end of the same cavern. Along the path were dim openings he ached to investigate. Having cautiously tested how closely the Orcs watched him, Merry had found that Orcs were not good at minding. And so now the hobbit took every opportunity to wander in the hopes of finding Legolas and Gimli and, most importantly, finding their escape.

Three doorways here, two on the other side. Most openings seemed to lead into empty darkness, but he would brave the dark and whatever horror lay at the other end. First to deliver this pile of wood to the ovens, then to investigate. Dumping his burden with a satisfying grunt, he began to retrace his path back to the kitchen.

“There he is! That’s the halfling, my servant! See what he’s doing? I told him to bring the wood. That’s his job, a job I assigned him to, ‘cause he’s my servant!”

“Since when do you got a servant, Norgry?”

“Since yesterday!”

Merry made an effort to keep his pace steady, though he wanted to run. He did not want Norgry to take more notice of him than he already had.

“Well, the lads ain’t gonna like it! You lucky Mauhúr took care of Grishnákh on the march. He might’ve had something to say about it.”

Norgry narrowed his eyes. “Wasn’t luck. Just weren’t no reason to stop him.” He chuckled gruffly. “Let me worry about any rabble that gets it in their head to say something. Just you get back to work! Halfling! Get over here!”

Merry pulled up just as he reached the corridor, his stomach dropping. Reluctantly, he turned to the Orc who would be his master. He tried not to think of him as such, but he could not deny that he took orders from Norgry.

“Yes, what would you like?” He bit back the automatic ‘sir’ he nearly added. He would not give this Orc that much.

“Get over here, I said!”

Merry approached the knot of Orcs, his desire to continue his investigations beckoning him into the darkness behind him. He halted just out of hands’ reach of the Orc, but Norgry started to scowl, and so he took the last few steps.

Norgry grabbed him by the collar and dragged him along. “Come on! Why are you so slow?” Merry tried to keep up with the long-legged creature, wondering at their destination. Soon they were in a cavern deep in the center of the Pit, where Merry had dared not stray. Fires burned within a multitude of forges, lighting the area considerably more than where they had been. Before each forge, Orcs worked with heavy hammers, pounding on what sounded like metal, likely soon to be weapons. The center of the large space was open to below, from where Merry heard strange growls and shrieks.

His attention was drawn back when Norgry began laughing as he approached a small group of Orcs in one corner. “That’s right, Lugdush. This is my halfling. He’s my servant!”

Merry’s stomach twisted in knots. Showing him off to the other Orcs was only going to make them cross. Soon they would start resenting him and that would mean trouble for Merry.

Sure enough, Lugdush narrowed his eyes at the hobbit before returning his glare to Norgry. “So what? You think you’re special now?”

“When was the last time you had a servant?” As Norgry said this, he lifted Merry by his collar. Merry felt like a prize Norgry was displaying, as he tried not to flail his arms too foolishly. He just hoped the Orc didn’t release him too suddenly.

As they argued, Norgry continued to hold him up, until Merry became bored, so he looked about the cavern. Weapons lay in heaps beside most Orcs. Some piles looked like armor or helmets. He tried to avoid looking below. Something told him he didn’t want to know what growled down there.

The cavern was bigger than he realized. The ceiling was somewhere beyond the light, and tunnels leading to who knew where ringed the room. There was a dark recess to their left and Merry wondered why there weren’t any ovens there. Then a pair of Orcs walked into the space and faded into the darkness. As Merry stared, his eyes adjusted to the dark and he could make out some lighter shapes, but the Orcs blended into the murk and he could not see what went on.

He turned back to Norgry’s conversation with Lugdush and saw that the group of Orcs had grown larger. Their conversation was getting heated, and Norgry, still holding Merry aloft, now took to shaking him on occasion.

Suddenly all their attention was drawn away when the huge Orc Uglúk drew near, shouting and cursing. He was moving towards the dark recess, calling back the two wandering Orcs.

“Did I say it was time for play?” Uglúk punctuated his question with his fist against their heads. “You do nothing until I say you can! Now get back to work!” He used his fist again for emphasis and sent them on their way.

“We just wanted a little break, Uglúk!”

“We’re still getting the work done! What are you worried about?”

“Never mind, let’s go, Fagrod,” said his companion, holding his head.

A sick feeling coalesced in Merry’s stomach. He peered into the dark recess again, but he could make out little and wished Norgry would release him.

As if the creature had heard his thoughts, Norgry suddenly put him down. “If you touch him, I’ll make sure you regret it—by separating your head from your body. Do you hear?” They were coming dangerously close to blows, and Merry thought it was best he step away, regardless of what lurked in the dark beyond.

As they shouted and hollered, Merry crept closer to the recess, until the lighter colors coalesced into firm shapes. Figures. Bodies. That weren’t orcish bodies.

He had found Legolas and Gimli.

He had thought the sight of them would gladden him, but he’d never imagined this sight. They were hanging by chains attached to cuffs about their wrists. Their bare backs were a mesh of red strips and purple blotches. Those Orcs, Merry realized, had gone to torture them – to play, they had called it! Their heads hung down against the wall. They were not aware of him, or anything much at all, it seemed.

“Norgry!” Uglúk’s voice boomed out suddenly. “You letting that halfling roam free now? He’s not supposed to be in here!” He stalked over and cuffed Norgry, who ducked before he could land another blow.

“All right, all right!” Norgry looked around, just realizing Merry had wandered off.

Merry saw his cue and ran up to the other side of Norgry. “I’m right here.”

“There you are! Come!” He grabbed Merry roughly by the arm and dragged him off again.

Merry let him drag him, looking back into the dark alcove that was his friends’ prison, his heart breaking.

Back in the kitchen, Merry’s plans for sneaking about ruined, Norgry attempted to reprimand Merry. “What did I say about wandering? Now do your work!”

“I was doing my work!” Merry said with indignation. “You dragged me away to show me off.”

Norgry’s eyes narrowed and Merry thought he’d gone too far. “You watch yourself, rat.” He bent close to Merry’s face. “Or you’ll be hanging with your friends, see? If I get tired of you, there’ll be no use for you then. Nothing but playtime!”

As Norgry left, Merry stood there, chilled. Playtime. Legolas and Gimli were toys for the Orcs. He had been so anxious to find them, and now he wished he could wipe from his memory the sight of them. Despair washed over him as he wondered if he’d get another chance to look for escape or to approach his friends. He grimaced again at the memory and sighed as he climbed back onto the stool, his desire to see the two leaving him entirely. Recalling clearly the cuffs from which they had hung, he knew he had no way to free them. As he stirred the disgusting broth, he wondered when they last had taken any food or drink. Surely Gimli was in danger of dying of hunger and thirst by now. Anger surged in him briefly over his helplessness, but his despair soon overwhelmed it.

Then suddenly, there was the incongruous chirp of a cricket, and his dismal discovery was nearly forgotten. He looked about furtively, listening for heavy booted steps. All was relatively quiet. He peered behind him where he’d heard the sound. “Pip?” he whispered.

The “cricket” chirped again, and Merry followed the noise, grabbing a handful of wood along the way, in case he found himself suddenly in need of a purpose.

A hand reached out and pulled him round the corner into the stairwell. “Merry! How are you?” Merry grabbed his captor in a fierce hug, reluctant to let go even when Pippin pulled away. “Are you all right?”

“I – I’m fine, Pip,” he said, swallowing hard and suddenly wishing he had no news to tell. How could he describe what he had seen? How could he not?

“Have you eaten?” Pippin looked at him with some concern. “I brought some bread and more fruit. They’re somewhat fresh.”

“You are a wonder!” Merry said gratefully. He bit into the apple immediately. “It’s not so bad, not too old at all. How are you, Pip?”

“I’m fine, Merry, really. Don’t worry about me. Just listen.”

Merry reluctantly shut his mouth, holding on to the questions that filled his head. How did Saruman treat Pippin? He wanted news on Aragorn and how he fared. Did he suffer much under Saruman’s watch? These would go unanswered, for he could tell Pippin had news and they had little time. He worried Pippin was trying to avoid telling him something, but he was too distracted by his own omissions to pursue it.

“I haven’t much time. There’s something you must know.” Pippin peeked up into the stairwell, listening for his own need to escape. “I’ve heard something. From Saruman. I’ve heard his plans, Merry. We’ve got to do something – soon.” He checked the stairwell again.

“What are you talking about? What can we do about Saruman?” Merry was struck by the new seriousness with which Pippin spoke.

“I don’t know what we can do, but we can’t just sit by and let him go!”

“Go? Saruman? Where is he going?”

“To Edoras, to see the King of Rohan. King Théoden he is called, and I think he’s an ally of Saruman. Saruman seems to think he’ll agree to anything he asks, at any rate. And he’s going to tell Théoden to team up with Strider, it seems, with Strider leading them all to Gondor and making a big army to fight Mordor. But Saruman really means to be the one in control of it all. He aims to take over Rohan. Maybe he thinks he’ll be king of Gondor, too. But now he’s planning to go out to Edoras with Strider, and he’s bringing an army of Orcs with him!”

Merry took a moment to sift through Pippin’s ramblings. “Saruman is trying to make an army to fight against Mordor? I thought he was on Sauron’s side. And he wants Strider to fight beside the King of Rohan?” He tried to put what Pippin said into a strategy Saruman might make.

“Oh! I haven’t told you the worst of it! Oh, Merry! That’s what he’s told Strider, but really, he’s planning to give Strider to Sauron! They’ve arranged a meeting with an army from Mordor coming across Rohan. Except Saruman thinks his plan is better. I think he’s trying to double-cross everyone so that he comes out on top. I’m not even sure which plan he intends to go through with.” Pippin stopped to catch his breath.

“You tell me all about Saruman’s battle plans but you forget to mention he’s supposed to hand Strider over to Sauron!”

“Yes, but, Merry, don’t you understand? I don’t know what Saruman truly intends for Strider, but it’s even bigger than Strider now. Saruman is bringing an army of Orcs to Edoras. If they refuse to fight for Saruman, they’ll be attacked with no warning. They’ll all be destroyed! He might attack Gondor when they refuse to fight for him, too!”

Merry was surprised at Pippin’s understanding of Saruman’s battle strategy. He hadn’t presented the scenario clearly at first, but he understood the greater implications of what was happening. “Wait, you said Aragorn might command an army for Saruman. Why would he do that?” He paused as he thought on what Pippin had not said. “Pippin, is Strider under Saruman’s spell?”

Pippin glanced away at the question and Merry’s heart sunk. “Well, not exactly.” He sighed. “You see, well…”

“Pippin, you don’t have much time. Now out with it!”

“He lays Strider’s hands on this Seeing Stone, a palantír.”

“Palantír? What the plague is that?”

“It’s this awful-looking, black-as-night stone. But when Saruman makes Strider touch it, which is often, it begins to glow like fire. He sees things then, like the Rohirrim fighting – and dying – in a battle with Orcs. Strider says the Stone can’t make up its own visions, so I think he’s come to believe what he’s seeing is real. And then once there was – Sauron.” Pippin’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Sauron!”

“He spoke to Strider through the Stone. That’s when he decided he wanted him, I suppose. Because after that, Saruman started with these plans.” Merry shuddered, but then Pippin continued, serious as Merry had ever seen him. “After he’s finished with Strider, the man’s just worn out, more tired than I’ve ever seen him. And, well, he doesn’t know where he is for a while. I have to help him see that he’s out. But every time he does it, it lasts longer. His mind is tiring, and so now when Saruman talks to him, I think he’s starting to believe all that Saruman tells him.”

Merry was horrified. He understood why his cousin hadn’t been more forthcoming, and he now appreciated what Pippin had been doing above. He said he’d been looking after Strider, but he was actually trying to keep the man from going mad. “What’s he starting to believe?”

“What Saruman says about not being able to win the war. He’s trying to get Strider to give up, and he’s winning, Merry. I think he’s figured out a way to use Strider somehow, against Rohan or maybe against Gondor. Or maybe he will give him to Sauron,” now Pippin frowned in thought, “so Sauron won’t be mad at him, or maybe so he won’t suspect when Saruman tries to fight him. However he uses him will be awful, but now all of Rohan is in great danger. They must be warned!”

The anguish in his cousin’s eyes tore at Merry’s heart. He never did have much defense when Pippin got this way. But they had to get out of this Tower to do anything. Couldn’t Pippin see that? “Pip, I’ve done my best to find an escape. But I’ve had no luck yet. Without a way out, what can we do?”

“Well, we must, Merry, and now. More than our friends are in need of us.”

Merry looked at his cousin. He had worried so much about him, how he would bear these trials, if he had enough to eat and drink. But aside from the physical sufferings, Pippin had managed something Merry hadn’t expected. His view of the world had widened farther than the Shire, farther than his friends. His young cousin had suddenly grown up.

He nodded to Pippin. “You’re right, of course. We must find a way out. How is beyond me. But I will figure something out.” That brought back a glimmer of hope to Pippin’s eyes, and Merry felt some small relief. As they had suspected days ago, escape was up to them. If they managed it, such a feat would truly be fit for song. “Our friends need us and many others, too. We can’t fail them. We won’t fail them.”

“That’s right, Merry. That’s right.” He paused for a moment, glancing up the stairs once more. “No sign of Legolas or Gimli?” Merry could see the tentative hope in Pippin’s face. Would truth strengthen that hope or dash it? To know where they were was great news indeed, but their poor state might dishearten the young hobbit. Then Merry recalled Pippin’s look of purpose when he decided they must stop the ambush of Rohan. He returned that look of purpose now to his cousin. “They’re alive, Pippin. I’ve learned that much.”

Pippin’s eyes grew wide then stopped. “Have you seen them, Merry?”

He hesitated before answering, swallowing hard. “Yes.” He stared back at Pippin, willing him not to ask for more.

Pippin’s gaze was intense, and Merry saw his comprehension. Finally, Pippin nodded, swallowing hard as Merry had done. “They’re alive.”

(o)(o)(o)

Gimli resisted the pull to consciousness after he hit the hard stone floor. Longing for that numbing sleep, he was instead faced with the nightmare he could not escape with waking. His head pounded, and his back was on fire. His arms screamed when he tried to lower them as he looked about. He was in a small dark niche carved roughly into rock. He had thought he had been held in a much bigger room, but he could not be certain. Had not Legolas been beside him? He could not remember. His thoughts were a jumble that resisted straightening.

More insistent than any pain was his thirst. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and tasted as though he had kissed an Orc. He could not recall the last drink of water he’d taken. Too long, he was sure. Days – or weeks – ago, Aragorn had foreseen the lack of water to be their greatest danger. He wondered if Aragorn were still alive. Was he receiving the same treatment somewhere? Was Saruman interrogating him, thinking to wear down a man easier than an elf or dwarf? Or had Aragorn succumbed to his thirst? He grieved for the man, whatever his fate, guessing they would not meet again. After all, Gimli’s thirst would soon prove fatal for himself. He regretted and dreaded this manner of death; he would much prefer the honor of death in battle, not to mention the mercy of its swiftness.

Why they had taken him down from the wall was his next question. Had they something else in mind for him? Something worse than hanging about as a toy ever at hand for Orcs, worse than their knives and whips and other tools of their recreation? Had Saruman given up on obtaining information from them and allowed the Orcs their full measure of brutality? Until now, though their treatment was cruel, even Gimli knew it had not been life-threatening. The cuffs that attached him to the chains on the wall remained on his wrists, so perhaps he would be returned for more of the same.

Suddenly, a jug was placed before Gimli, startling him. He frowned. Orcs were not quiet, but he never heard footsteps. “There!” a rough Orc voice said. “I’ve given him water. Are you happy now?” Orcs for certain. He must truly be dazed.

“No! I’m not happy! If he dies, it falls on me. And I’ll make sure it falls on you then. The blade that is! It’s your head, got that! Every day he has to have water or he dies!”

“Stupid mortals! Too much work having prisoners, I say! If they’re not for killing, what good are they!”

“Ask Saruman yourself, why don’t you? It’s he who gave the order! Now get back to work!”

Gimli listened to the steps fade in the distance. It was nice for once to get his questions answered. And in such a timely manner. At least he was going to get some water, though he wondered what ‘water every day’ meant. But the Orc in charge had been clear – no plans to kill him just yet. What did Saruman have in mind for them?

It struck him then: There had been no mention of Legolas. Had they truly left him hanging with nothing for days on end? How many days had passed? Or had it only been hours? He knew not, but if an elf could survive this without water, he would readily admit theirs was the superior race.

So, it seemed all of his questions had been answered. Legolas was not with him. Likely he still hung from the wall, wherever they had been held. Why had he been taken to this place? A question not to be answered. It did not matter much. The important thing was there was water before him.

Picking himself off the floor took nearly all he had. He paused to catch his breath before moving to grab the jug. Surprisingly, it was full, so again it took most of his remaining strength to draw it to him. Looking into its black depth, with no light to reflect off the water, he could not judge its cleanliness. Probably for the best. He would have to drink it regardless. Slowly at first, but he would drink all of it. He knew not when he would be given more.

After what seemed an age yet not long enough to drink his fill of water, he heard the steps of an approaching Orc. “Water time is over. And you best not die on me!” the Orc threatened as he leaned over the dwarf, giving him a sample of his fetid breath. The Orc grabbed him by the arm and hauled him from the room.

His legs unused to supporting him, they buckled immediately. The Orc simply pulled him up, not bothering to break his stride. Gimli tried to gather his feet beneath him, but it took too much effort. He gave up and let himself hang from the Orc’s hand. He did not feel his body dragged across the stone.

(o)(o)(o)

Aragorn shook his head as the images before him blurred and faded. Where was the balcony outside his childhood bedroom? Where were the bodies that had been strewn about it? Had the Orcs destroyed them?

He looked down beside him: a stone floor. About him all was dark, with shapes standing out grey against black not far from him. As his eyes focused, he recognized one shape as the wizard Saruman. He was speaking, but Aragorn could not hear the words.

He panicked for a moment. Where were the bodies? Elves dear to him since childhood had been slaughtered in a one-sided battle unbalanced by a massive force from Mordor. He had watched his brothers fall, then his foster father. When Arwen had been pierced by arrows he thought they had pierced his own heart. All had lain quiet in death. He had been helpless to offer aid, but at the very least he could see them to proper burials.

No… no, that was not right. Something about this was not right. He looked at Saruman again. Saruman. Isengard. The palantír. He had witnessed the battle through the Seeing Stone, which vouched for the truth of the vision… But something was not right. His instincts raised an alarm, but they had betrayed him in recent days, and he was reluctant to heed them again. More likely, Aragorn’s weary mind was working to create an answer that would deny what he had seen. The palantír could not lie, after all.

Saruman was certainly powerful enough, however, to manipulate the palantír, distort the truth somehow. Was the latest slaughter simple truth or truth distorted into a nightmare? Neither Saruman nor Sauron could use the palantír to create images as they wished. At least, he knew not the magic that could do so. Saruman was learned in old lore, though, and may have discovered old power that Men had forgotten. Perhaps he had learned to twist reality into that which he desired. Had Saruman learned to create images with no truth in them?

As Aragorn struggled to separate truth from tale, what was to come mixed with what was, Saruman’s fantasies mixed with reality, and he was left with a desolate world. In his growing weakness, the world of the palantír lingered longer. He yearned to sleep and be beholden to none. At least in sleep, he would not know the reality he could not escape.

Escape – a hope he had abandoned when Saruman took him into his keeping. As he had expected, he was rarely left alone. His only plans awaited opportunities that never arose. To make things worse, he had not eaten since the day they’d arrived, whenever that was, and his body grew weak.

As his mind cleared, Saruman’s slippery tones crept into his consciousness, and he remembered to steel himself against another onslaught – of what? He only knew he must keep his mind occupied, so as to not hear the seductive voice, but in the end, it was a waste of precious energy.

“You do know that it need not be as you have seen it, do you not? The destruction of so many lands is but one possibility for the future. There is time yet to spare some. Of course, for others, it is indeed too late.” Saruman circled Aragorn as he leaned against the wall, head on his knees. Was Saruman saying that he had indeed created these images? Were they designed as some sort of threat? “Which would you save, if you would save half of them? Three? Two? One? I have the power to do such a thing.” Aragorn gave no response, though he was sure it pleased the wizard. At their previous meeting, he had paid for his protests with more time looking into the fires of Orodruin. Now he would be silent and ruminate on what power Saruman could have acquired. “Hm? Which would it be? The Shire and its witless halflings? Mirkwood and its backward wood-elves? The cherished home of your youth? The home of your elusive and mayhap unrequited love?”

Aragorn’s eyes widened and he shot Saruman a look full of emotion, unable to hold back the reaction. Struggling to hide his fear amid the shock and anger, he knew he had failed when Saruman chuckled. “Do not wonder on what I know; your mind is not so closed to me as you would have it. And I say there are those you would save. Would you then stand back, refuse to take up arms because the battle is not as you had imagined? Do you yet insist on fighting only a battle that you command? Or would you submit to another for the sake of your kin, your comrades, your beloved?”

Aragorn hid a smirk. Saruman knew so little of him. The coming battle was not about who led the army, or what shape the battle took. He cared not who led them into battle. Then why would you not fight with Saruman, if it would save those whom you love? Because Saruman was a traitor at best and an agent for Mordor at worst! Whatever battle they fought would be fought to his advantage. Saruman would win, not Gondor, and Aragorn was sure to lose. But is it about winning, or about saving lives? Aragorn shook his head, struggling with the voice within and the voice without.

“I have the power to save them. I have a king at my command; armies await my word. Would you not join that force if it were the only recourse? Instead of mourning the future you had envisioned, release that vision and embrace the present. You are a Ranger, are you not? Rangers are said to be a practical breed. Practicality would dictate that you work with the situation at hand.”

Yes, the Rangers prided themselves on practicality. What would Saruman know of practicality! Aragorn reined in his emotions; he seemed to not even have the strength left for such simple discipline. If you would be practical, then would you not take the only recourse and work it to your liking, to produce your desired outcome, rather than sitting here with your head in your hands like a stricken woman! The thought of joining forces with Saruman chilled the man, but his resistance was losing ground as he saw the reasoning within the arguments in his mind.

“The situation at the present is this: We shall go to Edoras and meet with the King of Rohan. He will readily take up arms with us. You and King Théoden will lead the Rohirrim across the fields of Rohan. Orcs traverse the plains as we speak and stand in our way of reaching Gondor. For Gondor is our destination. The Steward will hardly deny us when we come with such an army, ready to fight against Mordor.”

Aragorn leaned back against the wall; his body felt as heavy as stone. Simply to listen to Saruman seemed to drain him of strength. He tried to gather his faculties and consider fighting beside the King of Rohan. He had not met the present King Théoden, but had served his father, Thengel. Surely he was respectable. He did not object to fighting with the noble Rohirrim. Then Aragorn frowned. Saruman spoke now of fighting against Mordor? That was not right. Was he not fighting for Mordor? So many thoughts jumbled over each other in his head. Aragorn was unaccustomed to such confusion and it angered him. He would not fight beside Saruman! But the King of Rohan, he must concede he would not object to fighting alongside him. But then… Saruman wanted him to fight with King Théoden – this he knew to be true – was it not? So to fight with Théoden, would it not mean fighting for the wizard? He wanted to question Saruman to clarify his thoughts, but he was so weary, it was a great effort merely to breathe. He looked to the dim entrance of the alcove for his hobbit-caretaker. It seemed his head was clearer when Pippin was near. Perhaps after he slept, all would be clearer. He eased himself down onto the floor.

“Do you give up so easily, Dúnadan? What sort of Ranger are you? Surely you see the sense in my words. None know what the future holds. You have been told much of your ‘destiny’ but none could say what was to be, what direction fate would take. I give you the opportunity to fulfill some of that destiny. Better this than to forsake it in its entirety, no?”

The barbs aimed at his identity as a Ranger struck, despite himself, and Aragorn bristled. What did this wayward wizard know of his destiny? Of who he was to become? Or all he stood to lose? You lose less if you accept his offer… Brushing aside the voice that betrayed him as much as Saruman, he marshaled his strength and sat up once more to respond with a raspy voice, “What part of that destiny would you have me fulfill? And what part would you have me forsake?” Leaning back against the wall, he looked on Saruman with steady eyes.

Saruman straightened, peering at him curiously. Aragorn steeled himself for the next verbal onslaught. “You waste much needed strength, Dúnadan. You have but two choices before you. One may seem distasteful to you, beneath you even, for I see that you consider yourself above me – me, a wizard, and you have the delusion that you are my better?” The wizard huffed softly. “Such a choice as I offer may be in your best interest, as your other option is to come face to face with Sauron himself.” Aragorn willed himself to neither clench his jaw nor take a breath in response to the wizard’s words. “Yes, Sauron has his own plans for how to use you. I have decided I have a better plan. He expects me to hand you over to his Orcs on the plains of Rohan. I would use you more where your strengths lie. You would easily command an army, and even Gondor would follow you, with Rohan behind you.”

“And Saruman before me,” Aragorn added. Is your pride so much more important that you would begrudge him that, if he could give you Gondor? Gondor safe, if not at your command? Aragorn desperately wished to silence the traitorous voice, but it seemed to have a will of its own. You might yet take steps toward your destiny, even if they were steps in boots you do not recognize. With this, Aragorn found little to argue.

“Those are your choices. Command an army under my authority, or test your will with Sauron. How long do you suppose you will last in his hand? How long do you believe you would keep your secrets to yourself?” Aragorn’s eyes widened. He had not forgotten the feel of Sauron’s touch. He was not foolish enough to think facing the Lord of Mordor was preferable to anything Saruman offered. Saruman knew this, naturally, but as the wizard said, he was the one who must accept the present for what it was and choose.

Whether it be with Saruman or with the incessant voice within him, he could not argue one fact: as poor as his options were, the choice of Saruman fared the least poorly.

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 10: Reality

Hauling yet another heavy load of wood, Merry trudged into the innermost cavern, dodging the taller Orcs, goblins, and uruks busy making ready for war. He disliked coming to this cave, though he’d been forced to do so more and more as the Orcs needed more fuel for their fires. Despite his reluctance, he had tried – and failed – to reach his friends’ shadowy prison since he had made his terrible discovery. Sneaking close, he had been quickly noticed and, unable to explain away his movements, had paid for them with a brief beating. Abandoning his goal, his helplessness had burned in his empty belly, and now he took to averting his eyes and keeping himself distracted until he quit the cave. Once on his way, he would resume his investigations of pathways and tunnels, fostering plans of escape. He could not bear the sight of Legolas and Gimli, but he would not leave them to their death.

Dumping the wood beside an oven, Merry stretched his tired arms. He would have to look for food soon. He hadn’t eaten since Pippin had last snuck him the fruit and bread, when he had taken it to be morning. If they wanted him to keep moving, they had better feed him!

Heading back to the pile of wood brought in from the forest, Merry stole a glance across the cave where a large, dark tunnel led away somewhere, directly opposite the entrance through which Merry entered. The mouth of the forbidding passage was large and smoothly carved, as if done with care. Yet not one creature here paid the archway any heed. Much as he dreaded it, he remained certain he had to investigate that tunnel. He had managed to get across the cavern once by toting materials that gave all the impression he was on an errand. None had questioned him until he had reached the other side, and there his journey had nearly ended in another beating.

“Oi!” Merry looked up, ready to defend his actions, but Uglúk had called Norgry over instead. “Get all the weapons gathered up. Or get one of the maggot-goblins to do that for you. But make sure every lad’s got a weapon of some sort. Deal out what armor we got too. You take care of that yourself, as there ain’t enough for every soldier. You got all that?”

“Right, got it. Any idea where we heading to?”

“We go where Saruman tells us to go! Now get on with it!”

Merry realized he knew more than the Orcs around him of Saruman’s plans to march to Edoras. He likely knew more regarding the location and significance of the city as well; his time in Rivendell’s libraries had not been ill spent after all. Pippin had got it all right, like a good hobbit. It looked like Saruman might take Strider with him to Edoras, maybe to use as a trick against the King of Rohan – or against Sauron? Merry shook his head. Pippin hadn’t been clear on everything, except one thing: Rohan needed warning. But Merry had yet to come up with a plan for escape, much less one that would bring them to Edoras in time to give the people ample time to prepare.

Norgry stomped off with his orders and without a thought for Merry. Never the best at minding Merry, now Norgry was laden with enough to allow Merry to wander freely.

“Eh, halfling!” Or so he thought. Merry’s heart sunk as the call destroyed his plans. “Any wood left?”

“Oh, eh, yes, there’s some left. Maybe a couple of trips worth.”

Norgry nodded. “Bring it out then. These lads gotta finish what they started.”

Merry nodded, but Norgry was already on his way, giving his next order. Merry stood there for a moment watching Norgry stomp away. Orcs were running about, the pace picking up again as everyone got their new orders. He wasted no time.

Picking up a small hammer, what looked like tongs, and other tools he had no name for lying beside the woodpile, Merry left the cavern and turned into the corridor that ran along the outside of it. He re-entered the cavern at the opposite end, but all were too busy to take note. Barely glancing behind him, he slipped into the dark tunnel, the blackness swallowing him immediately.

He broke into a run, tools in one hand, his other hand running along the stone wall. He could barely see, but the wall of the tunnel told him the passageway curved to the right.

It grew darker until he could not see his hand before him. But then he noticed something else more remarkable. The air. It was cooler. Not a pleasant breezy day in the Shire, but cool enough to tell there was something different about this passage. But he had been gone too long. He’d have to return to the cavern.

When he reached the opening to the passage, he peered at the scene from the protective shadows. No one had noticed a hobbit walking into the tunnel; would they notice him coming from it? He’d have to risk it.

Walking casually, tools in hand, he entered the cavern and turned right sharply, so that it looked as if he had come from his left. He skirted the edge of the cavern, traveling slowly in a large circle. Too late he realized he approached the recess he had tried to avoid. Without hesitating, he walked steadily on so as not to attract attention. He was in an area in which he had no true reason to be and he cared not for another beating.

“Eh! You! I need your help!” Merry froze, again on the defensive. Turning to the voice, he saw a large uruk waving to a smaller Orc some yards ahead of him. “Norgry’s gone nuts and I can’t do all this alone, no matter what he thinks.”

“I gotta–” the Orc began his protest.

“Don’t give me excuses!” he barked, as Merry prayed the shadows would shield him. “Just leave it there! It’ll be there when you get back. Nobody’s gonna do your work for you. Come on!” The uruk demanded, and the Orc gave in.

“If Norgry says one word to me,” he said, dropping his load and stomping to the uruk, “I’m coming to find you!”

“Stop whining!”

Both creatures gone on other duties, Merry crept a few steps forward into the dim light.

He slapped his hand over his mouth and pulled himself behind a narrow stretch of wall. On the other side of the wall, Gimli lay on the floor in a heap. The Orc had been carrying Gimli! What for? To where? It didn’t matter. Was he alive? That did matter.

Merry peeked around the wall. Orcs carried weapons and distributed armor, coming and going quickly. “Gimli!” Merry whispered from his hiding spot. “Gimli! Can you hear me?” He kept one eye on the bustling crowd and another on Gimli, praying for movement. After a few more calls, the dwarf stirred with a groan. Not allowing himself to enjoy his relief, he called out, “Gimli, come, you must get up.” He looked about. The wall he stood behind separated the main space from smaller niches just behind them. He ran to the opposite end of the wall, closer to Gimli, and called to his friend again. “Over here, Gimli, can you crawl over here?”

Gimli began to look about, likely confused by the moving voice. Finally, his eyes landed on Merry and he stared. “Merry?” he said after a long moment, his voice a mere croak. He said nothing more but cocked his head to the side, as if trying to work out the strange scene. “Or Pippin?” he asked again, then muttered to himself something about madness.

“Yes, Gimli, it’s me, it’s Merry. I’m really here. And you’re really going to get up and, well, at least crawl over here. I know you can do that. Dwarves are the sturdiest of creatures, aren’t they? So, show me it is so!”

Gimli looked about him, looked at the shackles on his wrists, then looked about him again. Seeming then to make a decision, he began to crawl towards Merry, his pace excruciatingly slow, shackles scraping on stone.

“Come on, Gimli! That’s it, just a few more!” As soon as the dwarf was in reach, Merry grabbed his shoulder and dragged him behind the wall. Peering around the corner one last time, he sagged against the wall in relief.

“What is happening?” Gimli looked confused and disoriented as he put the question to Merry. Through the darkness, Merry could see that Gimli’s face was smeared with blood and grit and dust, one eye was swollen and purple, and his lip was split. With such evidence of what he had suffered these last few days, Merry knew he might not think straight.

“Don’t worry, Gimli. I’m going to get you out of here. Do you think you can follow me?”

Slowly, Gimli reached out and gripped Merry’s arm. Staring, squeezing weakly, he eventually seemed to satisfy himself that Merry was indeed real. The dwarf sat back with his eyes closed for a long minute. Taking a deep breath, he seemed to gather his strength and his faculties and leaned forward. “You mean to say you have managed to find a way out?”

“I may have. It’s certainly worth a try. And you’re just the one I need to help me. Come, how do you feel?”

Gimli gave a hoarse laugh. “How do I feel? You rouse me from a stupor on the ground, urge me to my knees, only to demand I crawl towards your voice – a voice I had given up any hope of hearing again – then you tell me we might escape.” Gimli gave a rasp Merry interpreted as a chuckle. “If these shackles were still chained to the wall, they could not keep me!” He nodded then, and Merry saw a glimmer of the proud dwarf he’d known. “Lead the way, Master Merry!”

(o)(o)(o)

Saruman approached the halfling, who once again doted on the man. He had his suspicions regarding the gravity of the wound the man carried. He hoped they would prove well founded, as the man was too important to his plans to allow him die now. “Halfling, tell me, what is the progress on the Dúnadan’s wound?”

The halfling rose as soon as he spied him. Gratified that the little creature was finally learning some manners, Saruman hid his approval. “Eh, the progress is, em, well enough, Mr. Saruman. The infection has gone down. It’s not quite so red and angry now, well on its way to being healed, in fact.”

Saruman turned to the man. “Stand, Dúnadan!” When the Ranger rose to his feet more slowly than he would have him, the wizard turned expectantly to the halfling. As the halfling moved to offer the man a balancing hand, Saruman considered the aid the halfling had provided him. Without the halfling, the man would not have received such care unless he had been able to provide it himself. Mayhap he would have died as he claimed without such tending, if he spoke the truth regarding his wound.

Saruman looked at the Dúnadan. “Walk to me,” he ordered, frowning as the man reluctantly took a few steps, heavily favoring his good leg. His limp was less pronounced than yesterday, though it lingered. Saruman suspected that if need be, the man could find himself without any limp. He must confirm how much the leg truly pained him. When the Dúnadan reached him, Saruman swiftly swung out his staff and struck the injury.

The man howled and fell over, crashing into the wall and sliding to the floor. He glared at Saruman. “Do you yet believe,” he said between panting breaths, “I try to deceive you with this injury? Are you now satisfied that I am truly injured?”

“Hm. That will have to do, I suppose.” He turned to the halfling. “You are to prepare the Dúnadan for travel. He will be riding, so if there is anything you must do for his wound, do that now. We leave in a matter of hours.”

“Hours? So soon?” Saruman smiled to see the halfling so obviously alarmed. He wondered what plans for escape this one had been dreaming.

“Yes.” Saruman thought again of the usefulness the halfling had shown. He might continue to be of service, in addition to improving the wizard’s stature in the eyes of others. “And you should prepare for travel as well. You will accompany us.” Saruman took a moment to enjoy the look of shock on the halfling’s face before leaving to continue his own preparations.

(o)(o)(o)

“Uglúk, make certain that all the Orcs are armed before they set out. You are my assurance that they will be prepared to move out. You must start out tonight to reach Edoras within four days.”

“Yes, Master. It will be done.”

“You will halt your march ten miles outside of the city. Stand ready for my order to attack.”

Seeing the halfling pass through the hall with a pot of water, Saruman called him over. “You will help Uglúk to prepare for the journey. Help him gather supplies.” The halfling gave him a wide-eyed stare but said nothing. “Do you understand? Answer me!”

The halfling nodded blankly. “After I finish with Strider, I will help Uglúk prepare. I understand.”

Saruman narrowed his eyes. “What more must you do for him?”

“I am washing his wound with more hot water. The more often I do that, the faster it heals. Though, I’m not at all certain he’s ready for riding,” the halfling said uncertainly.

“Get him on his feet and walking. He will soon become accustomed to moving about. See that he is ready when the time comes to leave.”

“He would heal faster with some food and water,” the halfling said in a small voice.

Saruman frowned. Was the halfling attempting to create more delays? “Then give him some! But you best be ready when I come for you.”

Hours later, Saruman returned to the main hall. Approaching the Dúnadan, who yet sat in a corner of the alcove in which he had left him, he asked, “Where is the halfling?”

The man looked at him blankly for a long moment. “I know not. I have not seen him in some time.”

“Rise! You best be ready to ride.” Not waiting to see if the man obeyed, Saruman turned from him to the pedestal on which sat the Seeing Stone. Grabbing the Stone from its bed and slipping it into a sack, he turned to the man, who now stood looking not at him but at the bag he carried. He was pleased to see the fear that peeked from behind the stoic expression. “Come,” he commanded. “There is no need to wait any longer. We leave Isengard now.”

(o)(o)(o)

Merry offered the dwarf a faint smile as he sagged against the wall that separated them from the cavern of Orcs. The expression felt strange on his face. Motioning for Gimli to remain where he was, he edged to the corner of the wall. A few Orcs argued on one side. Others carted off yet more weapons. Some finished off the arms they had begun to forge. “It’ll be a close thing, Gimli, but either we make a run for it, or we saunter our way over, hoping to not draw any notice. Either way has a risk.” He looked back at the scene. “I suggest we walk to the tunnel. It seems dangerous, but I don’t think anyone will take notice. They are all quite frantic right now. And the darkness here will help cover us.”

“I will follow your lead as best I can, Merry. Do as you think we should.” Gimli sounded tired, and Merry had his first doubts that the dwarf could follow him. Perhaps Merry should have tried to get food first, but he would not risk losing this opportunity.

Merry stepped out, saw that the Orcs had yet to notice his absence, then leaned back. “After five paces, follow me. Slowly, as if you’re just going about your business. Don’t look at them. Just keep going.”

“Slowly is doubtless all I can manage. And if someone sees us?”

“Leave that to me. Let’s go.” Merry didn’t know what he’d do if someone saw them, but he didn’t want Gimli worrying about anything but moving.

Gimli nodded and Merry turned from him. He stepped out with a deep breath and walked confidently towards the tunnel, still holding the tools he’d pilfered. Grunts and shouts echoed from the cavern, mixed with clangs and bangs of iron as weapons piled up. Sweat dripped from his brow, likely due to more than simply the heat that pulsed around him. Upon reaching the tunnel, darkness enveloped him, and only then did he turn to see Gimli’s progress. The dwarf was only halfway across, lumbering across the open space. Stiff with aches and pains from the last two days of torture, he needed rest – and much more Merry could not give him – not yet.

Finally, Gimli gained the tunnel and Merry pulled him farther into the passageway and its protective darkness. They caught their breath while Merry trained his ear on the ruckus beyond, listening for pursuing Orcs. After a minute, Merry gestured into the dark and continued, putting an arm around Gimli for support.

He did not speak until he reached the point where he had been earlier, where he could no longer see. “What do you think, Gimli? Wouldn’t you say there’s something different about the air here? It feels cooler, doesn’t it?” He knew Gimli best of all of them would understand the implications in the change of air. He hoped to hear the answer he desired from the dwarf.

“A moment, please, Merry.” Gimli panted for a few minutes and Merry regretted pushing him so hard. Finally, Gimli spoke. “You ask me about the air here, if it is cooler. You think that means there is something different here.” He paused, and Merry wondered if he was already tired out. Did Gimli give Merry’s question back to him because he needed time to collect his breath and his wits? Or did Gimli already know he would disappoint Merry with his answer? “The heat is less intense, but that could simply be that we are farther from the ovens now. There is more than that, though. The air is – well, I would not say fresh, but less stale, certainly. You may have found something, Merry!” Gimli clapped him on the back, even as he leaned against the wall in exhaustion.

Merry’s heart leapt and he squeezed Gimli’s arm. With half a smile Gimli couldn’t see, he added thoughtfully, “Gandalf always said when in doubt, follow your nose.”

“You understand that whatever path we find out of here will involve climbing of some sort. How are hobbits at climbing?”

The thought of climbing out of the Tower made Merry’s belly quiver, for a different reason than it had the last few days. “Quite good. At least, with climbing trees. Climbing rock may be something different altogether.” Merry tried thinking back to any time he had climbed rocks, but there was nothing of this sort of rock in the Shire. He truly couldn’t say if he could climb it or not.

“Aye. And for that we will need tools. What have you got there?”

“I just grabbed these so I wouldn’t be walking empty handed.” Merry held up tools Gimli couldn’t see. “I’ve got a hammer. And tongs, I think. And whatever these are.”

Gimli groped and took each item in turn, identified them by touch, and set them aside. After receiving the last, he said, “These will not help us much, though I think I can make these tongs into a tool of some sort. But a hammer can always be put to use. Not a bad pick, Merry.”

“Good. Now, there are other supplies to think of, so I need to go back to the cavern. I’ve been gone too long already. I’ll have to make my return as unnoticeable as any hobbit can be.” Merry was already listing supplies in his head and wondering where he might find them.

“They have likely noticed my absence by now.”

“Perhaps. It was rather chaotic before we entered the passage. But I must be sure not to be seen anywhere they might be searching for you. They’ll surely blame me. That would be …bad.” Merry shuddered at the thought of Uglúk’s punishment.

“You must not get yourself into trouble. Not now!”

“Yes. Now you must stay well back here in the dark. None of them use this passage, so you’ll be safe. Don’t you dare come near the light, Gimli!”

“The light hardly enters the cavern entrance, Merry. From the edge of darkness there, I can see that you are safe, at least.”

Merry began to protest, then gave up with his first drawn breath. He knew Gimli would follow him, needing to reassure himself of Merry’s safety and freedom, so to speak.

“And while you are dodging Orcs, you must also answer the question of how to collect Legolas.”

Merry frowned. That would prove a tricky one, to say the least. “Right.”

Their approach to the tunnel’s entrance differed from their exit in one important respect: they could not hear the Orcs. They crept slower and quieter, uncertain of what they would encounter. Approaching the entrance, clinging to the shadows, they found that the chaos they’d left behind had been transformed into order. Saruman himself stood among them, dispensing instructions to hundreds of Orcs that stood about him. It was quiet, far too quiet. There was no possibility they might enter the cave without being noticed. They slunk back into the darkness.

“Gimli, I’ll be seen if I go back.”

“I agree.” Merry heard the regret in his voice.

“This may be the only chance we get.”

“I must again agree.” With a deep sigh, the dwarf continued. “You cannot chance it. We will have to make do with what tools we have, no supplies…” Gimli sighed heavily again. “And we will have to – we cannot – Legolas must stay behind.”

“And Pippin,” Merry said quietly and squeezed his eyes shut.

Gimli groped for him in the dark and patted his shoulder, the strain in his voice growing. “It is no use anyway, lad. Legolas hangs in chains just as I had. Without tools, we could not break that steel, save if we walked up to an Orc and asked for his aid.”

Merry knew the twist in Gimli’s gut, for his own twisted the same. He was going to leave Pippin behind! His heart tearing in two, he grasped Gimli’s arm. “We must leave them all behind,” and Merry could barely get the words out. “But we will come back for them somehow, won’t we, Gimli?”

“Of course we will! Yes, of course,” Gimli said, and Merry knew he forced the cheer in his voice.

“They’ll know that, won’t they? That we’ll come back for them?” He had to believe Pippin would know. Perhaps he had even meant for this to happen when he delivered his message earlier. Or maybe he had thought he’d be going with Merry. But Pippin had to know that Merry would not abandon him. He had to know that this was the only escape they could manage and that they would return for the others.

Gimli was silent as Merry looked back towards the cavern. “They must,” the dwarf said roughly. And with that, Gimli turned towards the darkness. “Let us find from where this supposed fresh air comes.”

Running one hand along the wall to guide him, Merry thought again of Pippin and remembered his presents. “I wish I had an apple or some bread to give you. Or at least water. You need water, Gimli!”

“Fortune has favored us in that respect. Well, she has not abandoned us entirely, I shall say. For when you found me, the Orcs were returning me to my chains, having just given me my ration of water. I am not so thirsty as I might be at the moment.” Gimli laid his hand on Merry’s shoulder, as guide and support, and thus they traveled.

They moved for some time through the passageway. Merry stopped often to allow Gimli to rest. The dwarf shuffled along, the shackles on his wrist clanking together on occasion. Hoping to ease Gimli’s mind a bit, Merry told Gimli all he knew of Pippin and Strider. But the news of the revelation of Strider’s true name and Saruman’s plans to exploit the discovery may have brought Gimli more despair. Nevertheless, Gimli’s pace gradually increased, and all the while the air cooled to nearly bearable. Merry thought perhaps there were fewer fires where they headed. He dared not hope for freedom at the end of the tunnel. But without realizing it, Merry and Gimli sped up.

The tunnel ended suddenly and Merry felt they stood in a large open space. As their eyes adjusted – for some reason, the darkness was not so thick here – they could see the space was similar to the one they had left behind. Only, no Orcs roamed here, and no fires blazed. It was silent and vacant and nearly cool. Merry almost shouted as he felt the fresher air. Could it be? He entered the cavern at once, no longer hindered by absolute darkness. A cool draft swept by his face, and he breathed deeply, truly smiling for the first time in what felt like an age.

“It looks abandoned,” Merry said, a bit confused nevertheless by how this had come about.

Gimli took a few steps forward, looking about in the dimness. “They must have decided they did not need to use this furnace anymore. It was used once. Look at the fire pits.” Gimli walked silently about one of the forges and Merry waited when he disappeared behind one for some time. When he returned, Gimli’s eyes glowed with suppressed excitement and Merry followed him as he walked over to the hearth. He sniffed deeply, then grinned. “It is fresh, Merry!”

“Yes,” Merry said hesitantly, “if you speak of the air, the air here is fresher. We’ve already noted that. But what are you thinking?” Merry suspected there was some other reason for Gimli’s relief.

“My dear hobbit,” Gimli said with pride. “You have done it! You have found our escape – do you not see?” He frowned as if only now realizing that Merry might not have caught on.

“Eh, no, Gimli. I don’t see. I see a cool hearth with fresh air, as you’ve pointed out, and a big empty room. Maybe one of these branching tunnels leads out, but – you already know how to get out, don’t you?”

“Master Merry, think! We have a forge,” Gimli said, gesturing excitedly. “What must every forge – or any fire – have?”

Merry looked at him, perplexed. They were trying to escape the Tower of Orthanc and Gimli wanted to play a guessing game? “Wood, Gimli,” Merry said flatly, “fire needs wood to burn. Now where’s our escape?”

Gimli simply continued to grin at him. “And when that wood burns, what happens?”

Merry rolled his eyes, but knew there was no stopping the dwarf now. “The room will get warm.” Seeing that Gimli yet waited for an answer, he continued. “The wood will burn –”

“Yes, yes,” Gimli interrupted him impatiently, “and what happens when wood burns?”

“Eh, it makes fire… and… smoke…” Merry’s eyes went wide. “Smoke!” He looked up suddenly at the deep furnace. The stone above it continued unbroken into the darkness above. “It must have a chimney, a vent that goes all the way to the surface!”

“Yes!” Gimli clapped Merry’s shoulder soundly. “Now, all we have to do,” his smile faded a bit as he looked up, “is climb the vent. I hope you are as good at climbing as you have said. We now have to accomplish this escape with naught but our hands and what meager tools we have.”

“Hands and feet, remember.”

Gimli looked at Merry’s hobbit-sized feet and smiled. “Well, may your Brandybuck heritage serve you well. I hope what we propose is even possible. If the vent has been carved well and made smooth, there will be little for us to grasp. It is my hope that the hammer and tongs will aid us.”

Merry looked at him. “Well, then we should have no trouble at all. How well do you think Orcs make vents?”

Gimli laughed heartily then held his waist. “Oh, it has been too long since I have had cause to laugh. You are right, of course, we will likely have no trouble at all. All right, Merry, climb up into the fire pit. I will be right behind you.”

Merry crawled into the pit, an odd feeling despite the coolness of the charred wood and ashes. Above, there was indeed a chimney for the smoke. But how would they reach it?

Gimli followed Merry and pointed ahead. “Not the chimney, Merry. We will use the vent.” Merry could barely make out anything before him. The dark seemed never-ending. “That is the vent, ahead of you. It is the source of ventilation for the forge. They would bring air in through here with a bellows to increase the heat of the forge. Ahead is the vent that must lead to the surface. This is our way out, Merry.”

“But shouldn’t it go up?”

“I expect after a short time it does.” Gimli prodded Merry into the vent and the hobbit plodded along. Small as they were, they were able to walk nearly upright in the confined space. But it was pitch black and so they crept along using hands and feet to guide their way.

Eventually, the channel began to curve upwards. Still afraid to hope, Merry dared not mention that the darkness was abating as well. But after a few feet of steep crawling, Gimli gasped. “Look, Merry!”

Above them, within a field of utter black, Merry saw a window of deep midnight blue, a seeming eternity away. As the end to their journey would be, he realized, understanding then the endeavor they had before them. He took a deep breath. They were truly going to leave this nightmare. Merry thought of those they left behind and prayed they had the strength to last until their return. His thoughts lingered on his cousin, and he hoped Pippin would feel Merry’s strength with him.

“Wait a moment,” Gimli said then. Taking out the tongs he had pocketed, he wrenched them apart, creating two pieces of metal. “Now we have two footholds, if I can manage to get them into the rock with the hammer.” With the makeshift climbing tools, they began their ascent. The tongs proved helpful often enough. But as Merry had predicted, the vent was roughly hewn and there were crevices aplenty to aid their climb. Merry proved as good at climbing as he’d claimed and they made their way to the surface.

After hours that seemed days, arms and legs aching, hands and feet bloody, Merry felt a breeze of pure clean air blow through his hair. A more glorious feeling he could not remember. Then he saw it – a starlit sky fading in the pale blue of early dawn. They had reached the surface.

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 11: Travel

Dwarves had never shared the wonder Elves held for the stars that adorned the sky, but to this dwarf, on this morning, they were truly magical. Having dragged himself over the dome that covered the vent, Gimli now lay on his back on the rocky ground and stared at the pale sky, the stars dim in the pre-dawn. He breathed deeply the clean cool air and smiled languidly. Soon enough, however, his smile faded as he thought of Legolas. The elf would have reveled in these first drops of new air. His heart bled anew, knowing he had left his friend alone with their tormentors. Despite his oath to return, Gimli felt his betrayal of Legolas deeply.

In time, Gimli turned to their barren surroundings. They were still within Isengard, where bushes and brambles dotted the field and the distant air was hazy as if from fire. In the grey light, he could barely distinguish the forest beyond the walls, and even the hobbit beside him, who had led him from their prison, was hardly more than a shadow.

“We did it! I knew we could do it. We made it, Gimli!” Merry had lain in similar fashion on the ground, but now sat up and grinned at him.

Gimli had yet to be overcome with the joy of freedom. He weakly returned the hobbit’s smile, reluctant to break his mood but unable to share his delight. “Good for you, lad. I only hope when we return, we are not too late.”

The comment quieted Merry, and he paused to lay a hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “I hate to leave Isengard without them as well. But we would never have gotten them out with us. We’d have all ended up dead – or worse.”

Gimli nodded and forced himself to look to the coming day. “We must still get beyond the wall! Sitting here will only get us returned below.”

“Yes, good plan. I think we ought to head for that gateway. It is still dark enough that we needn’t worry about being seen, as long as we move in silence. I hope you’re good at being hobbit-quiet, Gimli. Follow me.”

Despite their fatigue, they made their way through the confines of Isengard without a sound. As Merry and Gimli neared the large portal leading out of their prison, they could discern a wide black streak cut into the ground, leading to the gate. They recognized the line as the steps of many shoes making their way out of Isengard. It seemed most of the Orcs had left the Tower, but there remained sentries to avoid. They needed to watch the patrol upon the wall for only a short time before they discovered that the Orcs focused nearly all their attention outward, clearly more concerned for trespassers attempting to enter Isengard than for anyone leaving. Timing their approach to when the sentries’ attention lay beyond the wall, they neared the wall in bursts of movement towards the next vent dome or tree stump that shielded them while an Orc peered over the barren field. It took longer than Gimli expected, but dawn had yet to arrive by the time they reached the gates. Fortunately, the two found that the last Orc to leave had not shut the door behind him, and escaping the last yards of Isengard proved as simple as walking through the streets of Dale.

With the sun cresting the horizon, leaving the gates was more difficult than gaining them, for now they could be easily sighted. But the sentries were Orcs, and so not the most vigilant of sentinels. Their escape merely required careful timing and a close watch on all the sentries upon the wall.

Before the sun had fully risen they found themselves amid fields of long grass where hiding was much easier, as they entered the Wizard’s Vale, if Gimli remembered Aragorn’s words. Finding a small knoll that blocked their view of the Tower rising black against the brightening sky, they took a moment to rest.

“I must say, I had hardly dared to hope this plan would work. We are truly out of Isengard!” Gimli shook his bewildered head.

“That we are. As much as it looks like the Orcs have begun their march to Edoras, someone may still be at home, even Saruman, with a few Orcs left behind for company. If they haven’t yet discovered we’re gone, they will soon enough, and the hunt will start. We want to be long gone by then. No rest for the weary,” the hobbit said, as he stood once more.

Gimli considered rising as well, but his aching feet made him think better of such a move. He knew he would regret sitting soon enough, as it had reminded his body of its weariness and of all its aches and pains. “And so, Master Meriadoc, we turn our feet to Rohan? Is that our plan?”

“As best as I’ve figured. Pippin thought Saruman meant to march to Edoras soon. Those Orcs have set out in the same direction. That is why we had to leave when we did. Pippin was certainly the sneaky hobbit, informing me of Saruman’s plans, as well as supplying me with bits of food, bless him.” Gimli half-smiled, wondering what was now to be Pippin’s fate and whether the hobbit’s cleverness might do aught to change that. For a moment, Gimli missed the younger hobbit greatly. “Pippin made it sound as if Saruman intended to fight against Sauron,” Merry continued, “but I smell a rat there. Saruman wants to take control of Rohan himself, if you ask me. So, you see, Gimli, we are in a race to arrive at Edoras before Saruman does, to warn the people of Rohan. If we can find our way to the king and tell him what we’ve learned, they’ll have a chance. I don’t know if we can win this race, but it’s worth a try. And then, seeing as we’ve warned them of the attack, I’m thinking maybe they wouldn’t mind helping us get our friends out of Isengard.”

Gimli shook his head, letting Merry’s words settle. “Saruman! His desire for power knows no bounds! I agree with you, Merry. He likely seeks to control Rohan. What then? Gondor? Will he march on Minas Tirith, using Aragorn as a deception?” Gimli frowned. “And Pippin said Aragorn was under his spell?”

“Well, Pippin wasn’t quite clear on that. I think he did not tell me everything. Can you imagine, Pippin trying to protect me? But I believe that was what he was doing, dear hobbit. And from what he said and did not say, I gathered that yes, Strider is under Saruman’s spell or something like it.” Merry shook his head, and they silently pondered the admission. “Pippin wanted us to escape for Rohan’s sake, but as I said, I’m hoping that it will benefit us as well. I expect we will need more than a hobbit and a dwarf to free Pippin, Legolas, and Aragorn. Especially as Aragorn is held under Saruman’s watchful eye, while the Orcs always seem to have hold of Legolas. We need help, Gimli. Help of Big Folk. Big Folk with weapons, preferably.”

As Gimli leaned against the hill behind him, the eastern sky growing bright and warm on his face, he indulged himself for a moment in fond thoughts of his lost weapon. He would miss that great axe, which had accompanied him in battle for many years. But the Orcs had taken it from him when he was captured, and an Orc had kept it for his own. He would not now take it back if it were handed to him freely.

Setting aside those useless thoughts, Gimli considered their plans. He was impressed with the hobbit’s ideas, despite the problem he saw. He cleared his throat. “Your plan has merit. I applaud you for your courage as well, my dear hobbit. But I fear that the Rohirrim will question the word of a hobbit – if they know of your people at all – and certainly the word of a dwarf.”

“Well,” Merry offered hesitantly, “you offer more than words, Gimli. You certainly appear to have been held captive.”

Gimli frowned. “Oh.” He had forgotten his appearance. Did he look as badly as he felt? The bruises and other injuries he wore might speak louder than words, it was true. “We still cannot be sure they will help us. Why would they offer aid for a man, an elf, and a hobbit?”

“They must! Aragorn’s not just any man, he’s heir to the throne of Gondor! Surely–”

“I am afraid not everyone will greet such news with welcome, Merry. In fact, I suggest you do not reveal to anyone Aragorn’s heritage unless you must. The knowledge can be used against him, as you have seen.”

“Yes, all right,” Merry said. “But surely they should grant us such a favor in exchange for alerting them of the upcoming battle. Without our warning, they will be ambushed.”

“True, they may do so. And it is likely the only option open to us. It grieves me to leave our friends in the hands of Saruman and his Orcs, but with a favor from fate, they will survive until we return.”

Gimli watched as Merry climbed the hill and looked about, sharp and alert. As sure of himself as Merry seemed, Gimli was glad to have the hobbit at his side. The dwarf’s weariness was beginning to overtake him. He stood, fearing if he remained seated he would never rise again.

Returning after some time, Merry pointed out the dark swath cut into the ground that continued beyond the walls. “The Orcs have indeed left through the front door while we were struggling to leave through the back. I would guess that is the direction to go.”

“Yes, we should begin. And we must consider how to accomplish this task before us. We need food and water, Merry, and we are without even a waterskin. We have not a blanket against the cold of night. In this condition, we need not wonder which way will take us to our destination, but whether we will arrive at all.”

Merry nodded. “You are right, of course. I have been thinking of the same. As far as water is concerned, we must reach the River Isen and follow it as long as we can. I think we’re both resourceful enough to find food in the wild. If we’re lucky, I’ll find something I can fashion into a sling shot. We won’t want for meat long, then.”

“That would be quite a boon.”

“Yes, and as for sleeping, I’m looking forward to a bed of grass myself, with only the stars overhead and only the sound of crickets to be heard.”

Merry quieted suddenly, and Gimli wondered at the sudden turn of his mood. But there was no time for such contemplation. “We will see how you feel about grass in the chill of tonight. I forget I travel with a hobbit. Hobbits truly believe it will all be all right in the end.” He sighed. Despite his words, the hobbit’s way of thinking was a comfort in his growing despair. “Well, let us get on with it then. The Orcs are on their way but they will move slowly on the march. We must travel faster and stay out of sight. Besides, our friends will survive for a time, but not forever,” Gimli said quietly.

And the two began a march of their own.

(o)(o)(o)

“We will camp here for the night,” Saruman declared, easing their horse back and eyeing Strider carefully as he did the same. Pippin drew a sigh of relief and loosened his desperate grip on Saruman. The three had ridden since hours before dawn with few stops. But what had put Pippin most on edge was Strider. He rode beside them freely, his hands neither bound together nor tethered to the horse. Saruman had thought the bindings would slow rider and horse, so the wizard kept Strider to him with a simple threat: If he tried to escape, Saruman would kill Pippin. Strider’s face had not registered a word, and so Pippin was left with the hope that Strider did not see his escape more vital than Pippin’s life.

Pippin slid slowly off the horse, bracing himself for the long drop. In the dark, Strider was a shadow as he tended to the horses as Saruman had ordered, while the wizard started a small fire. Pippin welcomed the reprieve from his seat on the horse, but not so much as that of the doom he had faced in that wretched Tower. How he had longed for release, yet never had he imagined his departure like this. He was still with Strider, and that was good, for the man needed looking after more than ever. But Pippin remained the servant of Saruman and so was still a prisoner.

He had never thought he would leave Merry behind in the Tower. In the end, he had not been able to pay his cousin another visit, and he could only hope Merry would find a way to care for himself. Perhaps he would be taken on the march with Uglúk, and they would meet in Edoras. Somehow, he must see Merry again.

Pippin wandered over to the wizard, carrying the last of his master’s bags as he expected Saruman wanted, and wondered if his true purpose on this journey was as a servant or as leverage over Strider. Or was there some other purpose? “Is there something you would like me to do?”

“Put that bag with the others over there. Then find what food there is and make a meal,” Saruman said curtly and turned from him.

After a miserably light repast, Saruman called to Pippin. “Halfling, bring my bag – the heavy one.” Strider looked up at the command, and behind the flat look that had infused his eyes since leaving Isengard, there seemed to be a flash of alarm. But Pippin’s only choice was to obey the order.

The bags were piled at the border of their camp by leafy hazel bushes that offered the only cover on the open plains. Pippin picked up one sack, but it weighed too little to be the right one. The one beside it was quite heavy and he tried to hoist it over his shoulder. After a failed second attempt, Pippin opened the bag to see what was so heavy. At the sight of the Seeing Stone, he jumped back. Now he understood Strider’s unease. He looked at the rock again. It wasn’t as dark as it had looked the other day. There were colors floating inside. It looked quite fascinating, he thought, even as he remembered Strider’s command to never touch it. Part of him knew he should not, but another part knew he would put his hands upon it.

Before he could think on it overmuch, he grasped the Stone, and the colors sprung to life, flaring in a vivid fire. Horrified by the flames suddenly surrounding him, he tried to release himself but was held to the Stone. He gasped, falling to the ground. The flames made way for something beyond them, and despite his fear he strove to make out the scene. The black fire took the shape of high forbidding mountains. Then there was an old man in luxurious robes, stern of face, twisted in concentration or perhaps anger. The man seemed suddenly to see Pippin and he heard a silent question as to his identity. Pippin, he thought, before he could stop himself.

His burning world went dark all of a sudden, and the questions left with the flames. There was grass below him once more, and the distant sound of crickets, a sound he’d found he’d missed, a sound he’d used to call his cousin. Poor Merry, still at Isengard… The hobbit breathed deeply, suddenly profoundly weary.

“Peregrin Took!” Pippin jolted at once, thinking Gandalf had somehow returned, if only for the chance to reprimand him. But it was Strider who had spoken. “What were you doing?”

Saruman stood beside the man, and Pippin feared his silence more than Strider’s reprimands. The hobbit looked down, hoping to look small and helpless enough that they might not be too angry with him. He hated to anger or disappoint Strider – and Strider had said to never touch the Stone! Then why did he? Why couldn’t he have left it be? And he feared what Saruman might do to him. Might he leave him here in the wild, all alone? Might he leave him for the Orcs that were marching to Edoras? He thought suddenly that the second option was rather likely, since he would still end up where Saruman wanted him. Saruman had said he wanted a servant, but now Pippin had proved untrustworthy.

“Pippin!” Strider asked more urgently, shaking him. “Can you hear me?”

After taking another deep breath, Pippin sat up and looked at Strider. “Eh, yes, Strider, I can hear you. I’m – I’m all right,” he said softly, though he wasn’t entirely certain. His thoughts seemed to be turning by their own will. Just then he felt a hand clamp on his shoulder and he reluctantly faced Saruman.

Dark grey eyes pierced into him. “What did you see?” Saruman said in a tone Pippin would not try to defy.

“Eh, I –” Pippin frowned as he tried to sort out the images. “I saw… great, dark mountains. They were far off… And a window – I saw the mountains through a window. Then I saw a man. He wore something… oh, a cloak. I think it had fur on the inside. And he had grey hair. He – he looked directly at me, as if he saw me. He was… I got the sense he wasn’t happy to see me.”

“Did you say aught to him?”

“Em, well, he asked me who I was, and... I said, Pippin. I told him my name.” Pippin closed his eyes, certain this was not what Saruman wanted to hear. He tried to slump down, but Saruman would not release his hold on him.

“Was there anyone else there?” He asked, as stern as ever.

Pippin thought carefully, knowing he must give the right answers, but not knowing what they were. “No, not anyone that I could see.”

Saruman sat back on his heels, considering the hobbit. Pippin dared a look at Strider. The Ranger was looking at him with what Pippin thought might be worry mixed with a bit of disappointment or anger. Another stolen glance confirmed that he also saw fear in the man’s face. “I – I’m sorry, Strider,” he whispered. “I know you told me not to, but – I don’t know why I did it!”

“You looked into the Stone because it called to you,” said the firm voice of Saruman. “It called to you, and you answered.”

There was a small smile on Saruman’s lips that sent a bolt of fear straight into Pippin’s stomach. The expression seemed worse than his frown and couldn’t mean anything good for the hobbit. He considered the wizard’s words. The Stone had called to him? Why him? Why not Strider? Or maybe it did call to Strider – was that what Strider feared? That he would need to touch the Stone as Pippin had? Would it call to Pippin again? “I won’t do it again, Strider. Promise.” Strider stared back, his expression unreadable.

Saruman stood up suddenly and walked away a few paces. Pippin risked asking Strider, “Who was he? The man I saw. And where was he? Those mountains looked higher than Caradhras. I don’t understand anything I saw, except that I’ve made someone I’ve never met angry with me. I’ve never managed to do that before.”

Strider still held that inscrutable expression. The man’s eyes had regained their wooden look and told Pippin nothing. And neither did Strider.

Pippin searched for words to fill the silence. “How is your leg faring?” He had not been able to tend to Strider’s wound the entire day.

After a moment more of staring at Pippin, Strider answered. “It does not pain me overmuch. The movement has served it well.”

“I’m glad,” Pippin said, forcing cheer into his voice. “I don’t know what we would have done if the hot water didn’t work.”

“You need not have done aught but bury me.”

Pippin’s heart sank at Strider’s frank response and abandoned his conversation attempt. He knew the man was not tangled in the web of visions that often lingered after time with the palantír. But with each visit with the Stone, Strider had become increasingly withdrawn. When he was inclined to speak, he was despondent to a degree Pippin had never seen him. Pippin blamed the Stone and Saruman’s subsequent speeches that had ground down the man’s hope and fortitude, so that he was plunged into despair.

Strider’s eyes flicked to Pippin briefly, and the grief the hobbit saw there pained him. Already Strider mourned for him and for the others, perhaps even for Rohan and Gondor. Saruman’s voice had worked its power on him. After weakening the man’s mind with pain and confusion through the Stone, Saruman had bent Strider’s will toward his own with his voice and his words. All Pippin could do was remain at the man’s side and try to remind him of the Ranger he was.

“Come,” Saruman said suddenly, already preparing to mount his horse. “We must continue to move. We may have gained time by overtaking the marching uruk-hai, but other forces will have felt your intrusion into the palantír. We would do best to avoid them.”

And they were on the move once more.

(o)(o)(o)

“I believe the River is near,” said Merry, as they neared the outcropping that formed an arm of the Wizards’ Vale and offered the first true cover of the day.

“Those are welcome words,” said Gimli. “I fear my strength wanes and I am in need of a moment’s rest. When we reach the river, I would beg one indulgence, if you will, Master Merry.” He hesitated, as they walked with the aid of the full moon’s light. “I desire a simple bath. Forgive me for making the suggestion. I know we must make haste, and I will not take much time.”

“Not to worry, Gimli. We must reach the River Isen regardless as we need more water. We have not crossed a stream in hours. And our injuries need washing again.”

“You are right, but had neither been the case, my need for a river would be just as great. For I fear I smell like an Orc.”

Merry gave him a small smile. “We will spare the few moments to wash the stench of Orc from you.”

Passing through a small grove, they found a suitable clearing close to the banks of the Isen and made their first full stop since leaving the Tower. Merry was glad for the rest, though he fought a strong drive to continue. “Do you think we could risk a fire, Gimli?”

“Are you able to make a smokeless one?”

“Certainly!”

“Very well. I think we can risk it. I will return shortly.”

After a time far longer than shortly, Merry became concerned that Gimli had not returned. The clearing was suitable to camp for the night if Gimli was too tired to go on, but he hadn’t mentioned such a plan. Too insecure in their new-found freedom, Merry went in search of Gimli.

With the moon nearly full, Merry found his way easily, following the sound of gurgling water to the shore of the river. Many large rocks were scattered about in the shallows, and Merry looked among them for his friend. But despite the light of the moon, he could not see him. In fact, it seemed nothing about him moved, save for a branch or two swaying in the breeze.

Merry’s throat tightened and he chose silence rather than calling out the dwarf’s name. Taking a few steps along the beach, Merry soon spied a rock that looked strange – its edges were too soft and round.

Drawing closer, he saw he’d found what he sought. Poor Gimli, exhausted yet ever continuing. But when he had finally stopped moving – he’d fallen asleep! The dwarf snored softly against the rock, fully clothed yet half submerged in the river.

“Gimli,” Merry called softly. He called again when Gimli did not rouse.

The dwarf woke suddenly with much splashing and thrashing. “What? Where?” He looked about for a moment, then everything seemed to come back to him. “Merry.”

“Yes, Gimli. It seems your bath has turned into a nap.”

Gimli looked at the river flowing about him and chuckled. “Indeed. I sunk into the water, and then…”

“It’s all right. I had only gotten worried when so much time had passed.”

“Worried?” Gimli sounded indignant. “Merry, I have been a prisoner of Saruman, a plaything of Orcs, and then climbed out of Orthanc. What could possibly stop me now?”

Merry smiled. “You are right. We are out of Orthanc. I needn’t expect danger to walk up to us on the riverbank. I suppose that while I’m here I will wash my hands and feet. I have some cuts that should be cleaned.”

As Gimli gave himself a dunking, Merry rinsed his hands. “How long do you think it will take us to reach Edoras, Gimli? If I remember the maps in Rivendell well enough, we aren’t nearby, are we?”

After a moment of silence, Gimli answered, “No, we are not. I truly do not know how long it will take, Merry. My own memory of the maps tells me we are not close. Nevertheless, we will walk until we reach our destination or we can walk no more.”

They decided to make camp for the night. The clearing was well hidden among trees but close to water, and they were too exhausted to go on. They dried off by the fire and laid themselves down for the first true respite in days. Grass was far more comfortable than stone as they prepared for a sound rest.

But despite his exhaustion, Merry slept fitfully. Hours after bedding down, he rolled over once again, wondering that after all their hiding, running, and climbing, he could now lay awake. But he could not release his mind from thoughts of what Pippin might be doing, what Saruman planned for them all, and where the end might find them. When his mind paused from those thoughts, they turned to Aragorn and considered if he were truly bespelled by Saruman. Then he’d wonder if he might ever see Legolas again and if that were a wise wish.

There were also their surroundings to distract him. As accustomed as he’d become to living out in the wild, it was strange to be there once again after days – which seemed like years – in the depths of Orthanc. The usual sounds of the night were suddenly unfamiliar, and he had forgotten how pebbles pinched into your back when you slept on rough ground. Merry welcomed even that discomfort, however, reminding himself that each rock meant outside and freedom. He’d accept the rough bed in which he now attempted to sleep over the pallet among Orcs that had been his bed while at Isengard.

And now something else nagged at him, something insistent, seeking to override his other thoughts. It worried at his mind and sent a shiver into his stomach. He almost recognized it, but instead rolled over, much preferring sleep.

He heard Gimli turn in his bed of grass and knew the dwarf was having difficulty finding sleep as well. Perhaps he could ask Gimli if he felt odd. Merry shivered now, though he was not cold, and that too felt familiar. Perhaps Gimli would know. He would probably accuse Merry of hunger, and the hobbit realized he hoped for such assurance from the dwarf.

“Gimli,” he whispered, as the odd feeling turned into something more terrible. Instead of a response, a horrible shriek froze his bones and twisted his stomach into knots. Gimli sat up at once. Merry didn’t ask him what had made the noise. He knew that scream. Only one thing sounded like that.

“I have heard that sound only once before. But I need no reminder to know it is a cursed Nazgûl!” Gimli said fiercely. “It seems we have leapt from the roasting spit into the fire.”

“Is it looking for us? How could it find us here? Does it think Frodo is still with us?” Rather than wait for answers, Merry scurried behind a nearby bush as the Nazgûl’s beast circled somewhere above and then began to descend toward them. The moon had set, and it was impossible to see its black figure. But the sound of the beast’s wings was clear. “It’s coming! Gimli, it’s found us!”

Gimli grunted with a calm that shocked Merry. “Well, there is nothing to be done. We will have to see what it wants.” He stood, and Merry gazed at him as if he had announced he would cut off his beard. “Remain where you are, Merry. The Black Rider will discern you are a hobbit and may deem one hobbit as good as the next.” Merry had no argument with Gimli. He would gladly watch the proceedings from behind the bush, especially as his legs refused to move and allow an alternative. Merry stared as the Nazgûl alit some yards away and slowly approached them, black robes blending with the night. Merry realized the creature knew precisely where they were – could they see in the dark, he wondered? He trembled now as he remembered Weathertop and the Morgul blade that pierced Frodo’s shoulder. Most likely this Nazgûl still searched for the Ring. What would he do when he learned they didn’t have it? Would he kill them? Stab them with his blade and leave them to a slow and tortuous death?

Merry thought of the slow torturous death they had escaped hours ago and suddenly grew angry. All that effort would not go to waste! He peered out a bit further from his hiding spot as the Nazgûl drew up before them.

The creature that was once a man was taller than Merry remembered. And the depths beneath his cloak were as dark as ever. The ghostly figure looked at the dwarf. “You are not a Man.” Gimli frowned in confusion. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn, a Man,” he said slowly, the voice chilling Merry further. “Where is he?”

“Aragorn?” Gimli answered, defiance mixed with his confusion.

“The descendant of Isildur. He is to be delivered to Sauron. Where is he?”

Merry’s eyes widened as his stomach dropped to his feet. His breathing was suddenly short. Saruman truly intended to hand over Aragorn to Sauron! Their journey was all the more urgent now, but would they take another step?

Gimli’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Aragorn is a captive of Saruman. I suppose you know this. Perhaps you should inquire of Saruman for your answers. He is yet in Orthanc, to my knowledge.”

The Nazgûl stared at Gimli for a long moment – at least it seemed so to Merry, though he could see no eyes. Merry dared not breathe. Would the Nazgûl now decide what he would do with them, as they had nothing for him?

Then, the Nazgûl snapped his head about, towards the southeast, the direction in which they traveled. The Nazgûl released another ear-splitting shriek and ran back to his beast, the interrogation apparently forgotten. Merry watched him fly off as he held onto his ears.

When silence returned and the night appeared as any other night once more, he emerged from the bush and looked at Gimli. “What just happened?”

“I do not know,” Gimli said with a deep frown. “I suppose whatever it was, we should be grateful for it. I do not know that the Nazgûl would have let us live otherwise.”

Merry shuddered. “Whatever it was, it must be more important than Aragorn. The only thing I can think of that important would be the …what my cousin carries.”

Gimli looked at him with worry etched into his face. Merry thought of Frodo and Sam, out there somewhere, all alone. What else pursued them besides the Nazgûl? What trials and tortures had they endured? Merry was suddenly overcome with gratitude for the company of Gimli. His own suffering seemed easier to manage.

“So Saruman plans to pass off Aragorn to Sauron, then take over Rohan, it seems, from what Pippin has told you. I doubt the wizard will end his ambitions there. We must make haste to Rohan if we are ever to stop him!”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to sleep again this night. We’ll see signs of the sun in the next hour or two. Shall we start our journey a bit early?”

“A fine idea, Master Merry, if you feel you are up for it. I could not find rest now, either. And the Nazgûl knows where we are, so we are not safe here in any case. We must move.”

And so they dusted themselves off and began another march.

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 12: Strange Sights

The prickling sensation that crept into Legolas’s hands startled him. It had been long since he had felt them. As his fingers awoke, pain followed the tingling. Pain was less alarming. He had grown accustomed to pain. His arms felt strange, as if bent unnaturally. He thought he felt hard stone beneath him. That would mean he was off his chains. It seemed ages since last the Orcs had taken Legolas down for their recreation, but he did not trust his sense of time.

Suddenly, he was swung up in the air as something pressed around his arms. A rancid smell signaled an Orc was near. Cracking open an eyelid confirmed it. Even with bleary sight, he knew an Orc.

Legolas realized the Orc spoke to his companions as he held him up. Or did the Orc speak to him? The Orcs enjoyed offering details of their plans for him. He closed his eyes in an attempt to shut out whatever depravity the beast spewed.

“I’m looking forward to doing what I want, now that Saruman has gone…”

Saruman has gone? Chilled, he heard nothing more. As the shock faded, questions arose. If Saruman had left, then what of the others? Gimli did not seem to be nearby, but Legolas could not be certain. And Aragorn? Merry? Pippin? Were they yet in the Tower, or was he the only one left to the whims of these monsters? Only Saruman’s word had spared his life and kept the Orcs from doing their worst, for why would Saruman need him if he could not talk? Now, if this Orc spoke truly, such restraint was removed and the Orcs could do as they would. And they would. For as long as they wished, as long as he endured. Legolas felt a shiver of the fear he had until now deeply buried.

The Orc sniffed deeply, then chortled loudly as he called to another Orc. “You smell that? Smell him!” Legolas forbade himself to pull away as the second Orc closed in and inhaled. “Hand over your payments, boys! That’s the scent of fear!”

The second Orc looked at the first suspiciously. “What you do to him?”

“Hah! You think I’m gonna give away my secrets!”

The second Orc frowned, but then offered a toothy grin. “All bets are off, now.”

“Except for the one I won!” He called to more Orcs and goblins, all the while holding Legolas up by one arm like a prize he wished to show off. Legolas willed himself still, trying to calm the tendrils of panic rising within him. The Orc barked at him suddenly. “Open your eyes!”

“No! Don’t tell him to do that! I hate it when they look at you.” The second Orc reduced his voice to a whisper. “They give you that evil eye–” now he turned to Legolas “–but soon you’ll have no eyes to look with!”

Legolas shuddered. Now more clear headed, he realized his situation was a truly dangerous one. He ached from the tips of his ears to his toes; his limbs trembled from lack of water and food. Among his many bruises were wounds that still bled; and the pain he felt when he breathed told him he had more injuries than he could see. He was in no state to make an escape, even if he could find one.

And escape he needed. Cuffs yet bound his wrists, so the Orcs could chain him to a wall once more, but that might prove pointless. The Orc that held Legolas was surrounded by enough of his own kind to keep him just where they wanted him. But he remembered there had been more of them. Saruman had truly left and taken his Orcs with him. These must be the remnants of the horde. The wizard had left him to these beasts in this rock of shadows and flame.

The Orcs spoke of no others, and he wondered if Saruman had taken Gimli with him. Legolas could not remember when he last had seen the dwarf and realized he could not say if his friend yet lived. Perhaps Gimli had been pushed beyond his incredible endurance. A new pang of fear clenched Legolas’s heart.

I am alone with these creatures. Filled with dread, he tried to gather his strength and his courage but found he had little of the former, which threatened to deplete what he had of the latter. If only he could know Gimli’s fate. If only Gimli were still here by his side. He had to admit the dwarf’s presence would give him some will to persevere. Now Legolas singly faced an army of Orcs hungry for sport. And he was the game.

The din in the cavern grew deafening and Legolas began to look about, desperate for flight. In every direction, there was an Orc or goblin leering or jeering at him. If he made his way past one, there was another behind. Yet he would not relinquish himself without a fight, no matter how futile. His press for freedom would be a laughable effort. But he knew no other way.

The air rushed out of his chest as he suddenly slammed face down into the ground, pain flooding his torso and greying his vision. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and turned him onto his back, as others grabbed his arms and legs, crushing bruises and wounds. He tried to remain as still as he could bear, shutting his eyes to the scene about him. First were the kicks and punches. Then he felt the first blade pierce his side and then another slice him across the chest.

“I wanna taste elf blood!” The call jolted Legolas from his concentration. Suddenly a leathery hand drew up his shoulder and a gritty tongue dragged across a wound. He shivered as he realized what the Orc was doing. Yells and shrieks focused into a chant: “Elf blood!” Legolas relinquished his attempt at calm and writhed and squirmed in resistance, despite knowing it would only thrill his attackers more.

“I’ve got a hankering for elf meat!” an Orc screamed and for an eternal moment all was still. Then chaos broke out and more hands took hold of Legolas as the creatures pushed each other out of the way to reach the prize.

He felt another mouth on him. Only, instead of a tongue, he felt sharp pricks that could only be teeth as the beast began to gnaw at his leg. Another began to chew on his arm. Legolas could barely comprehend what was happening. The Orcs meant to eat him, as he was, alive. The panic he had earlier quieted blossomed fully. He could possibly endure torture, beatings, starvation. But he would not be food for these creatures.

With all that was left of his will, he forced himself to be still for a moment, then all at once thrashed wildly and threw his remaining strength into breaking the grip of the hands that held him. One hand slipped, then another, and he arched his back, pushing himself up, kicking at faces, throwing his cuffed wrists into noses, then his elbows into bared throats, creating more mayhem.

He was hidden from view of most of the Orcs that stood behind those that had now lost their grip on him. Two that had stood at his head fell into each other and bellowed as their heads knocked together. Their attention turned from Legolas as they now brought their blows upon each other. More Orcs began arguing and fighting with each other, yelling as one lost sight of him, ordering another to grab him. He dove down to the floor as two more Orcs entangled in fisticuffs above him, and slithering beneath them, he pushed and pulled himself through the throng, rolling on occasion to avoid legs and arms that were suddenly everywhere. He was beyond the mass before they realized they had lost him. Without looking back, Legolas crawled then forced himself to his feet. He staggered the first few steps, the pain of standing blinding, but he steadied as he moved along and simply refused to stand still. Moving aimlessly at first, he found himself in a dark passageway. Groping his way as his eyes adjusted, he breathed his gratitude to the Valar when he saw the stairs. Not daring to stop to see if he was pursued, he began the painful upwards trek, knowing to stop would be to end.

He continued up and up, encouraged by the increasing light, diminishing heat, and fresher air. He came suddenly to a landing that opened onto a large round room with light streaming in from small windows above. Unbearably bright, he refused to look away, drinking in the sight. Only when he pulled his eyes away from the windows to the dark niches encircling him did he recognize his surroundings. It was the room they had been brought to upon their arrival. How much time had passed since then? A few passes of the sun? of the moon? or whole seasons? He could not say. A far off cry from the Orcs below ripped his attention away. They had yet to find his trail. Mayhap he could remain here. No one seemed to inhabit this level. Saruman had taken them all with him. He was indeed alone.

His legs began to tremble wildly, then buckled, and so he crawled on his forearms, his fingers throbbing from their injuries. If hiding was the only avenue open to him, then hide he must, mayhap in one of the many dark nooks around the room. Then he saw the balcony. Fresh air called to him and he pushed himself the remaining distance. Throwing himself out onto the balcony, he lay on his back, gasping at the sight of the open blue sky. Hearing sounds that may have been echoes of his pursuers, he dragged himself to the end of the balcony, beyond the doorway. They would find him, but he was outside, and he would not surrender such a prize. Mayhap he would throw himself over the edge rather than face what came for him. He trembled as he thought of it again, still incredulous. He was going to be eaten by Orcs. Yes, he would jump to his death rather than that.

He heard once more the deep echo of footsteps but now thought perhaps it was something else. It sounded as if it came from without the Tower. Squinting in the bright sunlight he had not seen in so long, he looked at the scene below through the balustrade. Stumps of trees dotted the ground and occasional spouts of steam emerged from the many holes in the earth, all continuing to the walls of Isengard where the forest began. He heard the thud again, and although it had the rhythm of steps, they were too heavy even for Orcs. He turned to look beyond the balcony and gaped as he was met with a sight he had not beheld in all his long years.

(o)(o)(o)

A shimmer intruded into Aragorn’s view of the horizon. He recognized the golden roof of Meduseld even now, after so many intervening years, after all he had lately endured. Saruman may have succeeded in muddling his mind, but the sight of the Golden Hall under the broad blue sky brought memories back clearly of the time he had spent in Rohan long ago. For a moment he was wistful of that period in his life, but the present mercilessly intruded on his nostalgia before long.

“Come, Dúnadan, I would be at Edoras by nightfall.” Saruman spurred his horse on, and Aragorn could do naught but follow.

As he rode he tried to order his thoughts. What was their purpose in going to Edoras? He drew bits of memory from his cloudy mind, searching for meaning. The king, Saruman would meet with him, Aragorn recalled. Saruman had a plan of some sort and he wished for the succor of Rohan. Was Aragorn part of that plan? Yes, yes, he and King Thengel ‑ no, Théoden… Aragorn thought for a moment. Sauron. Saruman intended to defy Sauron. But he needed Rohan to do that. Were they to face Sauron with Rohan’s army? That would be madness; it was not the plan, but a portion of it. Saruman had been quite certain of Théoden’s support, but he also desired Aragorn’s presence, that he might speak to the king – or to the people perhaps? What could he do that Saruman could not? How did Saruman expect to… Gondor. He aimed to persuade Gondor to join them. In that case, he needed Denethor, not Aragorn. Aragorn shook his head as his thoughts doubled back over each other.

He did recall giving his consent to this strategy. He wondered at his reasoning at the time, as his horse pounded its way to Edoras. Perhaps his head was clearer and he had understood. Of late, he had been unable to sort out his thoughts after Saruman brought his hands to the palantír. Pippin usually helped him after that, but Pippin had not been given much time with him since they had left Isengard. And so he was left in his own fog, his mind drifting as he struggled vainly with reality and illusion.

Certainly the goal of fighting Sauron was worthy. If those where Saruman’s aims, perhaps they were acceptable after all. The only hope for success against Mordor was in the union of Rohan and Gondor. However that was arranged was of little consequence if the ends were the same, was it not?

Aragorn’s mind merged with the thunder of the horses’ hooves, and for a while his thoughts had no form. The gold colors of the sky deepened, the air cooled, and still the hooves pounded over the grass. As happened more and more often, when his thoughts regained clarity, his mood lingered in deep despair.

A glint of gold reflecting the setting sun reminded Aragorn of their destination if not their purpose. But he did not try to remember. For it did not matter.

They were all gone.

He saw it now.

When he had seen Arwen fall, something in Aragorn had broken. Was it true? He knew not. But he did know – quite suddenly – that Saruman meant to take lordship of Rohan. He would march them to Gondor and bring them before Denethor. Gondor and Rohan would owe fealty to Saruman and thus would he rule.

Gondor’s future was gone. The throne that awaited him – gone. But there was yet more to lose.

Sauron would not tolerate Saruman’s impudence. Saruman thought himself a match for Mordor. But Saruman would learn his errors. Sauron would march on Gondor. Saruman would die.

Then Sauron would pursue the hobbit. For Saruman would have put Pippin to the Stone again. Sauron would learn of Pippin. And Pippin would die. Perhaps before he died, he would reveal Frodo. Aragorn saw all this in the first moments after Pippin had touched the Stone, and Aragorn grieved deeply for the hobbit. He did not deserve such a death as that to which he was now fated. And more terrible, perhaps, it would lead to Frodo’s death as well. Then all would be lost.

Sauron would destroy them all.

They were all gone.

(o)(o)(o)

Not all the trees of Isengard had been cut down. Rather, some had merely been freed, it seemed. For this tree walked toward Legolas as if its roots were feet. He stared, then blinked. His eyes were unused to daylight. And it had been long since he had had water or food. Could this be a creation of his mind?

The tree approached and stopped before him. Bending in half, the top of its trunk came closer to him, so that Legolas saw it had eyes, deep, brown, ageless eyes, and soon proved to have a mouth as well. “Hoom-hoom!” the creature said, and Legolas jumped. His own eyes grew wide as the creature continued to speak in its language. It spoke, for all it looked like a tree. Switching then to the Common tongue, it asked, “Is this another Orc?” It tilted its head and considered Legolas. “It smells like an Orc.”

If the sight were not amazing enough, Legolas saw then two more behind it, busy at work, apparently. They appeared to be dismantling structures across the field. Another was at the far end of Isengard near the dam. Legolas returned his gaze to the creature before him. He gasped as he remembered an old tale – could this be a tree herder? An Ent, that was the word in the Common Tongue. What would they be doing here? He struggled to stand, looking with unconcealed curiosity at him.

The Ent looked at him for a moment. “Hoom… you might be an elf if I did not find you here. But then, this is a wizard’s home. The better question would be: are you a friend of Saruman?”

Legolas laughed, not noticing the edge of hysteria lacing it. Leaning heavily on the balustrade, he answered the Ent in a rasp of a voice he barely recognized: “I am no friend of Saruman. I am indeed an elf and his prisoner, and I have been left to the Orcs.” Legolas held up a grimy arm with an iron manacle still wrapped around his wrist. “I have been held captive for …I do not know how long. It is no wonder that I no longer appear as an elf. But I now seek escape from their torture.”

“Prisoner? Saruman now keeps Elves as prisoners! That wizard becomes more of a traitor with each day.” The bark around the edges of the tree herder’s eyes crumpled into what Legolas realized was a frown, and its voice deepened as he spoke of Saruman. “You say you look for escape from Orcs? You will not go far on that ledge.”

“I have nowhere to go. I can only hide until they find me. And they will.” He had already heard their shrieks grow louder as they approached. “But I will not return to the depths of Orthanc. The beasts thought to make a meal of me. I would rather plunge to my death from this height than return to their hands.”

The Orcs were louder now – they had reached this level. “There he is!” They saw him on the balcony. As they neared, Legolas struggled to swing one leg then the other over the balustrade. Refusing to look down, he clutched the railing as best he could with one hand, his right too injured to be of use, and glared at the Orcs with all he had left in him. The Orcs, in turn, paid him no notice. They instead stared in a stupor at the walking tree before them.

“What is that?”

“You dope! It’s a tree!”

“Trees don’t walk!”

Then the Orc who had first grabbed him in the Pit arrived in the crowd, and he glanced at the Ent. But it was Legolas who held his interest. “There’s the elf! Forget about the tree! Get hold of him!”

The Orcs turned to Legolas as one. It was time. Legolas leaned back, preparing to release himself. But suddenly the tree herder was there.

“There is no need to dash oneself on the rocks below.” The Orcs hesitated as the Ent reached out a limb that ended in a cluster of smaller boughs. “Step onto my branches.” Legolas stared in awe at the escape offered him.

A hand clamped around his arm. There was no more time to hesitate. Another hand. Legolas told himself it would be no different than walking onto one of the hundreds of trees he had climbed in his lifetime. Wrenching his arm free, he stepped unsteadily onto the Ent’s branches, falling gratefully on what he thought to be the palm of a hand. The branches closed protectively around Legolas, lifting him high into the air. The newly freed elf looked over the limbs and watched the Orcs on the balcony shrink behind him. Was he finally safe?

“It’s got our elf!”

“Ai! That’s ours! Give it back!”

The Ent made a sound that seemed like a growl. “Orcs. I grow tired of Orcs, with their slashing and burning.” He reached down with his free hand and scooped up two of the Orcs. But instead of hoisting them up, he tossed them into the field below. The other Orcs froze, then ran back inside. “I grow tired of Orcs,” he said again.

After a moment of speechlessness, Legolas agreed weakly. “Yes, I must say, I am quite weary of Orcs myself. There was much slashing and burning.”

“Mmmm… hoom…” The Ent began an easy stride away from the Tower, holding his hand so that Legolas could sit upon it. From his seat, Legolas could clearly see the Ent’s face, especially his eyes, which were studying Legolas closely. The Ent looked him over from head to toe, and Legolas became conscious of his wretched appearance for the first time.

To draw the Ent’s gaze from him, Legolas asked the first question that came to mind. “You are of the Onodrim, are you not?”

The tree herder looked closely at him, repeating slowly, “Onodrim… You must indeed be an elf. Yet you do not appear as an elf.” The Ent surprised him then by continuing their conversation in Sindarin, reminding Legolas that these ancient beings were taught to speak by the Elves. “You do not look as … bright as I remember Elves to be. It has been long since I have seen an Elf. No one but Saruman and Orcs have walked beneath the boughs of Fangorn for many rounds of the sun.”

“Fangorn – you are from Fangorn Forest, then?”

Another strange noise came from the tree herder. “My young elf, and you are young, are you not? I am Fangorn, or as Men call me, Treebeard, and the forest beyond is my home.” Legolas continued to stare shamelessly at the creature he had only heard of from Elves of old. “You say Saruman has left you to the Orcs. Where is Saruman now? For I would have words with him.”

“He has left…” Legolas said, still distracted. He came to himself finally. “Forgive me. I am Legolas, of the land known as Greenwood the Great in ages past, and in this age of darkness known as Mirkwood.”

“Greenwood the Great! A fine forest indeed. You are far from home, my friend elf.”

“Indeed. As to your question, from what I have seen, Saruman is no longer in Isengard. He may have taken my friends with him, though I cannot be sure.”

“There were other elves taken prisoner with you?”

“Not elves, but friends nevertheless. I know not what has befallen them. They may still be within the Tower among the Orcs.”

“And to where has Saruman gone?”

“I know not. I know of his absence only from what the Orcs say.”

“Hmm… I think we can see to those Orcs. Do not concern yourself with them. Now, this is no place for an elf! Especially one so maltreated. The blood you wear on the outside of you normally is on the inside, no? I will take you to my home in the forest. You can take your rest there.”

“I would learn the fate of my friends first, if you please, Fangorn. I could not bear to think they remained within the Tower, still prisoners of the Orcs.” How could he leave while Gimli might yet remain?

“Do you wish to return to the Tower?”

Legolas contemplated the suggestion for a long moment. He was not certain his friends remained in the Tower. To be sure meant to return to those Orcs… The Orcs had meant to eat him! He shivered. “No,” he said quietly. “I do not. Nor could any save the Valar themselves bring me to do so.” He bowed his head, ashamed that he would leave his friends to their fates.

“Then to Wellinghall we go. It is not far from here, if you walk with the stride of an Ent. As a wood-elf, you will appreciate these woods far more than the Orcs, who have defiled them so recently. Come, I will ask Bregalad if he would finish our work here. If Bregalad finds your friends within the Tower, he will safeguard them.”

“I thank you, Fangorn. What sort of work do Ents have with Isengard?”

Fangorn’s words sounded closer to a growl than speech. “We grow tired of the Orcs’ work in our woods. Now we work here, putting out their fires once and for all. There will be no more cutting in Fangorn Forest.”

(o)(o)(o)

King Théoden faced his sister-son, Éomer, and those warriors who stood behind him. “We have lived long in the shadow of the mountains, always in fear that the greater Shadow would rise to threaten us. That day is come. I have been informed by Saruman, long a friend and wise advisor to Rohan,” he said slowly, gesturing to the wizard who had arrived late the previous night and now stood by the king’s side, “that our Enemy prepares to march across his mountains into the land of Men. It is the time to take up arms against him. You have long cried out for blood, and blood you shall have.”

Éomer narrowed his eyes at his uncle. “Now we fight? Now, after we have lost Théodred? We may have lost Erkenbrand as well. Why is now the time for battle, my lord, but the moment was not right while they yet lived?”

Théoden hesitated, and Saruman stepped into the silence. “The threat to Rohan was yet uncertain. To retaliate without cause would invite needless retribution and greater losses. Now looms sufficient peril to tip the balance.” He took a step to the side and revealed his companions who had accompanied him to Edoras. “Other… circumstances have aided in the tilting of those scales.” He motioned to the man, ignoring entirely the child beside him. “This one is of the Dúnedain of the North. He goes by the name Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Saruman said, according emphasis to the name. The wizard watched as Éomer looked upon this new party with suspicion. “Yes, the heir of Isildur, whom you doubtless know from legend.” With this revelation, Éomer’s eyes widened then narrowed again. “He is well-versed in battle and has agreed to fight for me. With him, you can lead your men across Rohan, face the approaching army, and make way to Gondor. For Gondor will be in greater need of your arms. It is there that Sauron will make his battle. Even the Steward Denethor will not deny his need for you.”

The man Aragorn faced the scrutiny of Éomer impassively. After some time of silence, the young warrior said, “We wish to fight for Rohan, and Rohan alone.”

Aragorn spoke quietly. “Sauron will come, whether you agree or no. Will you wait till Sauron’s army is at your doorstep, and then attempt a defense with your meager army? Or will you begin now the fight, when you can meet the Enemy on the fields of Rohan, far from Edoras.”

“What does it matter where our meager army meets them?” Éomer responded icily.

Aragorn did not offer an answer at once, and Saruman again filled the silence. “I command a vast army of my own …creation. Their fealty is to me alone. They will fight against Sauron because I command them to do so. You will not fight with only your meager army.”

Éomer’s eyes pierced Saruman’s once more. “This army – they are the beasts that have been spoiling the fields of Rohan for months, are they not? You ask us now to fight beside them?”

“These uruk-hai are my army, and they obey me. They will fight against Sauron.” He paused for only a moment. “And in a day’s time, your scouts will report sighting them on the outskirts of Edoras. They await my command.”

Éomer’s eyes widened as understanding came, and he looked from wizard to man and then finally to his king. “My lord, what you wish, will be done.” The scowl never left his face, even as he bowed to Théoden.

Éowyn struggled to silence the gasp that jumped from her throat, and she shut the door to the hall as quietly as possible. She had seen enough. As understanding had come to her brother, it had come to her, and she saw the impossible position in which Rohan now sat. A deceitful wizard she trusted less than Grima on one side and a horde of Orcs on the other. His excuses for Rohan’s previous inaction were flimsy and transparent. That he brought with him a man who claimed the name of a legend counted little to Éowyn. He supported Saruman, and therefore she took no word from him as truth. She briefly wondered on the purpose for the child; perhaps he was a servant to Saruman. Something strange about his appearance nagged at her, but she forcibly returned her thoughts to the king’s court. She would not blame her brother for acquiescing to the king’s wishes. None would want such a decision resting upon them. With Saruman here at Edoras, clearly all choices would be made in his favor.

The men had decided the fate of all. They were to go to war. It was for what they had long pleaded, but never had they dreamt their war cries would ring out before Saruman. Éowyn could not know what tomorrow would bring, but she could only hope Saruman’s deceptions would be revealed.

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 13: Freedom for the Taking

Legolas awoke to wonder why there was so much light. There was no light in Orthanc but from the fires. Then he realized the air lacked the oppressive heat of the Pit. Startled, he sat up, and the sight of Wellinghall brought back the events of the previous day. His ride in the palm of the Ent was a blur, save for the glorious sun high overhead. Now the sun was low in the east and the forest was filled with songs of waking, though he did not feel as though he had slept since Fangorn had left him. Although his aches and pains had eased somewhat after long draughts of the waters of the Entwash, his weariness lingered. But he thought perhaps he at last looked worse than he felt, for his tattered leggings and leather boots, the only garments left to him, still bore stains of blood and grit. Dirt, dried blood, and the ash that had surrounded him in Orthanc covered his skin. Even his hair hung in filthy clumps, coated in the same grime, the braids having long ago undone. As a constant and despicable reminder, the cuffs that had held Legolas to the wall in the Pit still bound his wrists, and the skin beneath was raw and bloody. Despite the Entwash waters, his back still ached with bruises, and he felt the pull of cuts yet healing. He no longer limped so markedly, as his broken ankle and arrow wound had begun to heal, but his hands still throbbed, particularly the right with its mangled fingers. And though he had drunk deeply of the Ent’s waters, he still hungered for food and thirsted for more water.

The elf stretched cautiously, looking about him. After his time in the Pits of Isengard, he had almost forgotten the peace of the forest. He sat on the stone slab that had served as his bed, watching and listening to the green forest full of life. With the shrieks and screams of Orcs still echoing in his mind, he closed his eyes and breathed in the air, the sounds, and the song of the forest. He nearly wept for what his senses had not taken in for – how long? He could not guess how much time had passed, for he had often removed his mind from his surroundings in a vain attempt to escape the torment.

A crackling of dried leaves disturbed his nascent sense of peace and sent his heart into his throat. Too light to be the steps of an Ent, too quiet for an Orc, he wondered who else shared this forest with Fangorn. It was too quiet even for a man, he thought, and his curiosity was aroused as well as his wariness. His thoughts went briefly to his bow as he felt his lack of a weapon, and he mourned the loss of the precious gift of Galadriel. But there had been greater losses on this journey, and surely there were more to come.

The taste of freedom was too fresh, and he could not so quickly shed the constant guardedness in which he had recently lived. Quite aware that he was barely able to defend himself, with no weapon and little strength, he looked swiftly about for a safer position or sheltering nook, but there was only his stone bed and more rock behind him. He would then put the slab between him and what approached. Sliding himself down the six feet to the ground, he leaned heavily on the slab and fixed his eyes in the direction of the sound, waiting anxiously for a revelation.

He saw the white robe before he saw any face, and he gasped in realization. Of all paths for his fate to follow, it had been the same as Saruman’s! He stepped back and looked about him. Where was he to go? Saruman approached the clearing this moment. His anger flared and he vowed he would not return to Isengard, not with Saruman. He turned then to face the wizard.

His knees nearly buckled beneath him and his breath left him entirely when he saw the face above the white garments. He could not draw his eyes away from the visage of his old friend, but in a moment his mind caught up with him, and he saw the deception. The wizard slowed as he entered the clearing but said nothing. Legolas narrowed his eyes. “Stand back! I know who you truly are. I will not return to Isengard, Saruman.” He spat out the name with venom.

The wizard halted his approach, and narrowing his eyes, looked over Legolas thoroughly.

“Show your true face!” Legolas said, hating the desperation that crept into his voice. “You use the face of a friend I cannot recover. You do not deceive me!”

“Why would I wish to deceive you?” the wizard said calmly.

Too calmly, Legolas thought. His manner did not strike him as that of Saruman, from what he had learned of the traitorous wizard. He hesitated, but his despair would not allow him to relinquish his disbelief. “You cannot be Gandalf!”

The wizard’s ample eyebrows rose. “Gandalf.” He drew out the name, as if feeling it for the first time on his tongue. “Yes, that was what they called me. Gandalf the Grey. I am Gandalf the White.”

Legolas was angered by the absurd statement. “You think I do not see your lie? Gandalf fell before my eyes! He is lost to us. You cannot deceive me. Show your face!” he demanded with all the force he could muster. As he spoke, his heart grieved anew for his lost friend, and his loathing for Saruman grew greater for his choice at trickery.

The wizard smiled sadly. “This is the only face I have to show you.”

Noting that the wizard did not draw near and that he appeared to be alone, Legolas’s tension eased somewhat. Perhaps Saruman had another purpose and did not seek to return him to Isengard. If the wizard would not stop Legolas, then he would go into the forest and search for food. Eventually, he might regain the strength and the courage to return to the Tower and learn what had become of his friends. Breathing a bit easier, the elf rounded the end of the slab, no longer using the stone as protection. “You have no power over me. And I will not be prisoner again. I take my leave of you.” He would soon begin his search, at the very least for Gimli. He could not risk that the dwarf remained in Orthanc. And what of the others? “What have you done with Aragorn?” Legolas dared not hope Saruman had brought the man with him, but he would know whether his friend yet lived.

“Aragorn?” The wizard looked thoughtful for a long moment. “Aragorn! Yes, the Dúnadan.” His eyes flew open wide. “Legolas of Mirkwood. Yes.” He looked satisfied though somber now, as if all were now right, if not well. “Yes, you did witness my fall in Moria, and since then I have traveled far, but I am now returned.” He sighed. “My dear friend, what has befallen you?”

Legolas stared at the wizard, his desire to believe his eyes warring with a stubborn refusal to fall prey to the ruse. Looking askance at him, he asked, “You know where Aragorn is this moment?”

“I do not. With the mention of the man’s name my memory has been set in order. I know of him and how important he is to the future of Middle-earth. He lives still?”

Legolas ignored his questions. Despite his determination to not succumb to this illusion, his eyes insisted he looked upon his friend Mithrandir, Gandalf, as the others called him – Gandalf the White now, if he was to be believed. “If you are indeed Gandalf,” he said slowly, “then recite all the names by which you have known Aragorn.”

The wizard laughed. “All of his names? I think we do not have the luxury of so much time. Legolas,” he said, leaning on his staff, while Legolas noted it differed from both Saruman’s and the one Gandalf had once used, “I am Gandalf, who fell in Moria, in battle with the Balrog, and left the completion our Quest to the remainder of the Company.” He shook his head. “I fear it has gone ill for the Fellowship.”

Suspending his disbelief for a moment, Legolas responded quietly. “It has. It has gone ill for all of us.” Gandalf-Saruman looked upon him sadly and kindly, and Legolas shook his head, as if to free himself of the wizard’s spell. “You are a trickster and will take up no more of my time. Orcs will fill the woods soon, fleeing the flood set upon them by Fangorn and his fellow Ents. Your Isengard is destroyed, Saruman. Mayhap I must return there, though I am loath to do so, for I must learn the fate of my friends.”

“Is that where you have spent your recent days? Saruman kept you prisoner in his Tower?”

“Yes,” Legolas said coolly, pleased to tell Saruman of his escape. “The Ent Fangorn freed me and brought me here. But I will linger no longer; I must find the remains of the Company.”

“Yes, the Company – who remains?” the wizard asked slowly.

Oddly, Legolas thought he sounded reluctant to hear the answer. Still, the elf hesitated, unsure of giving Saruman information he would not have him know. “Should you not know the answer to that question, Saruman, better than I?”

The wizard widened his eyes in alarm. “He captured all of you, then? Oh dear.” He paused for a moment. “I do not know the fate of our friends, Legolas. I beg you tell what you know, for I would know something of them.”

His manner was so wholly unlike Saruman, as he seemed to nearly plead for an answer, that Legolas’s disbelief began to crumble. Grudgingly, the elf answered. “I have not seen them for some number of days, how many I truly do not know. But last we were together, just arrived in the Tower of Orthanc, Gimli, Aragorn, Merry and Pippin lived.” He was aware that he spoke to the wizard now as though he were truly Gandalf. His heart longed for it to be true, but he would not hope for such. Too much anguish and misery had passed.

The wizard’s eyes widened and he seemed to force out his next words, his face screwed up with what appeared to be fear. “And Frodo and Sam? Boromir?”

Heartened by the emotion in the wizard’s face, his disbelief continued to falter. But he would be faithful to Frodo and Sam. He said in a hard voice, “I will say that Boromir died on the banks of the Anduin by the hand of your beasts. But never shall I reveal the location of the hobbits! If that is the goal for your pretense you shall fail!”

The wizard sighed heavily and nodded. “True to the end are you, Legolas of Mirkwood. They are the only important ones. More important even than I. But you speak of them as though they live, and I shall be satisfied with that, even as I mourn for the loss of the good Captain of Gondor.”

Legolas looked at the wizard with confusion. His heart begged to accept this apparition as truly his friend and his strength to withstand the deception failed him. “Mithrandir,” he said quietly, “if it be you, prove yourself, I beg. I would be overjoyed with such a gift. Joy has been rare of late.”

Gandalf frowned. “Prove myself? Hmph!” He stomped his staff on the ground. “Once upon a time, Mithrandir’s word was accepted with respect and swiftly so. Prove myself! I did not fight fire and ice to be questioned by such a child as you! I tire of your questions, Legolas. Enough! We have a man, a dwarf, and a pair of hobbits to find while danger grows in Edoras. Time runs short!”

Legolas looked with wide eyes as if seeing the wizard for the first time. “Mithrandir!” he muttered. “It – it is truly you!” He tried to speak, but no more words would come, and he was left panting and speechless. Suddenly weak, he sagged heavily against the stone slab and eased himself to his knees. “You have returned and at the height of need. Mayhap the Valar have not forgotten us!”

Only now did Gandalf approach Legolas and lay his hand gently on Legolas’s bare and bruised shoulder. “No, Legolas, the Valar have not forgotten us. They bade me return, in fact, to finish my task.” He gently pulled Legolas to his feet and the elf grasped his arm tightly.

“Forgive me, Mithrandir. These past days have taken me past hope, past faith. I had – nothing left.”

Gandalf looked at him closely. “Saruman spared you nothing, I see. You are not fit for an hour’s march, much less a search of any sort.”

“But I must. I do not even know if they live, Mithrandir!” The words roused the fear that lay in his heart, and Legolas’s anxiety grew. “I dread the thought of returning to the Tower, but I cannot leave them to their torment if perchance they remain!”

Gandalf frowned but nodded. “We shall make a search, I assure you. You say an Ent brought you here?”

“The Ent Fangorn freed me from Orthanc, just as the Orcs had found me. He left others of his kind to continue their work on Isengard.” Legolas could not hold back half a smile at the memory of the destruction they had begun.

“Their work?”

“Apparently the Ents decided that Saruman’s work was finished. They are destroying Saruman’s defiled Isengard. I only wish Saruman was there to witness it,” he said bitterly.

“So, Saruman has left Isengard.” Gandalf nodded. “Well, I think we first ought to find you some food. When an elf looks hungry, the situation is serious, indeed. When have you last eaten?”

“I have not had food since…” Legolas frowned. “I cannot remember. Certainly not since arriving in Orthanc, and I cannot say how long I was imprisoned there, nor did I eat while we marched there.” Legolas tried to recall what came before, but all was a vague jumble of flame, pain, and Orcs.

“You are nearly starved. Even an elf must eat! I suppose Fangorn has shared his waters with you? That is good, for they are healing as well as nourishing. And when did you arrive in Fangorn?”

“Sometime past midday yesterday, if I have slept only one night. Upon arriving, I partook of the water of Wellinghall then slept till this morning! The waters are truly a wonder, for I am already improved.”

“That is what I feared, for you still look as if many Orcs had far too much time with you.”

“Aye, they did.” Legolas closed his eyes, then looked into the forest to keep the memories of his imprisonment from crowding his mind.

“Forgive me, we need not speak of it. You are free, and you shall remain free. We will search for the others, as soon as you are able. But not before. I will go now and return shortly with food for a hungry elf.”

With that, Gandalf was off into the wood. As Legolas watched the wizard’s back fade into the dimness of the forest, his shock overcame him suddenly. It began in his belly and grew, and he was soon laughing aloud. He sat on the grass of Wellinghall and laughed until tears streamed down his face, leaving pale streaks on his grimy face.

(o)(o)(o)

“Halt, by orders of the King. Halt, trespassers!”

The weary travelers stood under the bright sun, watching the Rohirrim approach. They had spied the three horsemen in the distance and hoped they might at least assure them that they walked in the proper direction. They had not expected a greeting such as they now received.

The horses surrounded them, standing far above their heads. Warriors sat upon them silently, staring at the two as if they had changed from stone to flesh before them. One of them dismounted, removing his helm to reveal long fair braids. Like his fellow warriors, a shield hung from his back; his skirt of mail rustled as he approached them.

The tall man looked at them closely, then focused on Gimli. “You appear as a dwarf to my eyes, though I have never laid eyes upon one. So, I ask, what business has a dwarf walking across Rohan with a child?” he said sternly, yet there was caution in his voice.

Before Gimli could respond, Merry spoke. “Child? Gimli, they think me a child – of a Man!”

“Hush, Merry!” The dwarf turned back to the leader. “My friend here, if I may, is not a child of Men. He is a hobbit, a full-grown hobbit, mind you. You might know his kind as halflings.”

The men about them frowned, looking to one another. “Hobbits?” the captain said, carefully sounding the word. “You do not mean holbytlan? Those folk of legends?” His voice took on a note of astonishment, then promptly lost it. “I assure you this is not a time for jests.” He sternly stepped over to Merry, peering at him closely.

“No one here jests, sir, I assure you,” Merry said to his inspection. “Look! Surely no Men have such feet as this! These are hobbit feet!” Merry raised one hairy foot out of the tall grass for all the Rohirrim to see. “See? Hobbits.”

The Rohan warrior brought his gaze down to Merry’s feet, while Merry wondered if Men had any hair on their feet at all, that he might still think him a child of Men. The man’s expression changed then from suspicion to wonder as he looked upon him again. He said something in his own language, repeating the word holbytla. One of his men behind him responded in what sounded like disbelief. He nodded to them then turned to stare at Merry and Gimli.

“Out of legend walk a holbytla and a dwarf who appears to have seen better days. But now I must advise you that you wander in the land of Rohan where no strangers may walk without permission from the king.”

“Yes!” Merry said, unable to wait any longer. “We’ve come a long way to speak to your king. We have urgent news!”

“Merry! I will tell them, if you please.”

The man scowled at Gimli. “Do you not trust your friend to state your purpose? Or do you not trust him to speak the right words?” The man looked down at Merry with sharp eyes. “The holbytla will speak.”

Merry’s stomach fluttered suddenly under the man’s gaze. He wished to correct him as to what to call him, but he feared angering the warrior. Besides, the word he used for hobbits was unusually familiar sounding, and so, oddly comforting.

“What is your name? And what is your business here?”

“Eh, I’m Meriadoc Brandybuck, or Merry to my friends, of Brandy Hall in the Shire. And this is Gimli, son of Gloín. We’ve come – We’ve a message–” he faltered, suddenly unsure where to start. He knew he must not reveal Aragorn’s heritage, and he was sure they wouldn’t like any mention of Saruman. He looked at Gimli desperately.

“Go ahead, Merry. Tell him where we have been and what befell us. Then tell him what we have learned.”

Merry took a breath and began his story. “Right. We’ve come from Isengard, sir–”

“Isengard?” A look of suspicion returned to the men’s faces.

“Yes, Isengard, as prisoners, sir. You see, my cousin Pippin and I, we were captured by Orcs on the banks of the Anduin. While Orcs marched us across Rohan, our friends, Gimli here one of them, tracked us. They never gave up, for they were going to free us, no matter the danger.” Merry was dismayed to find his throat tightening and sighed to clear his mind. “But they were injured and captured by the Orcs as well. We were all taken to Isengard then for Saruman to decide our fate.” Merry closed his eyes, hating to return to those memories.

“Saruman!” cried the leader of the Rohirrim. “Saruman has claimed the western lands of Rohan, and closed the Gap to us. He would have all of Rohan as his if we did not fight for it.”

“You are right on that account! Pippin, my cousin, overheard as Saruman made his hideous plans when he was forced to be his servant. He made us work if we did not wish to be tortured. Some of us were tortured all along.” Merry looked at Gimli as he thought of those they’d left behind.

The man looked at Gimli for a moment, taking in his appearance and the shackles still about his wrists. “And these others that sought to free you?”

Merry lowered his head, dreading to speak of them. “They remain in Orthanc. Since I was made a servant, too, I could move around. And so I was able to find our escape and take Gimli with me. But… we had to leave behind the others – my cousin, a man, and an elf.”

“A man and an elf? Strange friends you have, Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire,” the tall man said, struggling over the strange name. He paused. “But loyal friends indeed, if they suffered so for you.”

Merry’s eyes welled with tears despite his efforts, knowing these friends suffered still. He nodded, trying to regain his control.

“Yes, we did,” Gimli added quietly, “and we would do it again. These hobbits are dear to us.”

The Rohirric captain turned to the dwarf. “These others, the second holbytla and those who would travel all of Rohan for their friends, you left these loyal friends at Isengard?”

Gimli jumped in with a retort. “By no choice of our own! We could not free them in time on our own. We are in need of aid to free them.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed in suspicion once more and he took a step toward them. “I see! You seek to bring others to Isengard, undoubtedly never to return, to serve your Master or perish. Likely, you had no doubts in accepting him as your Master. I see your trickery now!”

“No!” Merry cried, and the rest came out in a rush. “You do not understand. We did not have time to free our friends because we needed to come to Rohan and warn you. Saruman plans an attack upon Edoras. He has gathered hundreds upon hundreds of Orcs and they march to Edoras even now. He aims to speak to the king and put forth a plan to face Sauron, but it’s all trickery and lies! Three days past they began preparations, and we knew we had to escape to warn the king of Rohan. That’s why we had to leave our friends. We don’t even know if they’ll be alive by the time we can return for them–” Merry stopped, struggling to squash the sob in his throat. Gimli patted him on the back and he buried his face in his friend’s shoulder.

The stern captain was silent. After what seemed a long time, he spoke to his men, and the hobbit and dwarf listened without understanding. Finally, he turned to them. “Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire, and Gimli son of Gloín, I am Ealward, and my men and I shall take to you to Edoras to inform our king as you ask. Do not expect answers there. But we will decide then what to make of your words.”

The other two warriors pulled each of them upon their horses to ride behind them. They were about to begin the journey to Edoras when Gimli cried out.

“What have you there? You,” Gimli pointed with no attempt at courtesy, “where did you get that weapon? By Durin’s beard, that does not belong to you!”

The man looked at Gimli with a frown, disgruntled by his gruff accusation, then behind him to where the dwarf pointed. Merry’s heart leapt as he saw what the captain’s horse carried among his rider’s belongings: a long, elegantly carved bow. “This bow was found discarded in the grass many leagues from here. The quiver and a traveling pack lay not far away, along with a sword made with great care. But none are weapons of Dwarves.”

“Why would they be?” Gimli said, a strange smile growing on his bruised face. “They are the weapons of an elf and a man! My friends have used them in many a battle. The elf would be grateful to you for the rest of his immortal life if he could hold that bow once more, for it was a gift from the Lady of Lothlórien, and it is dear to him, as is that sword to the Man to whom it belongs.”

The captain Ealward narrowed his eyes at Gimli, then looked at the bow. “The Lady of the Golden Wood? What business does this elf have with that sorceress?”

Gimli narrowed his eyes. “I would have a care with the words you use for what is beyond your understanding.”

Ealward looked surprised at Gimli’s reaction. Merry could only think him lucky that Gimli was in no condition to proffer threats. “And you have more understanding of the Lady of the Wood?”

“Aye, though none could likely understand her fully. I do know she has more beauty than your eyes could likely bear to witness and grace to match. I will not hear her maligned.”

The rider looked at Gimli with a strange expression. “Very well, then. Mayhap you will share with me later your knowledge of the Lady of the Wood. For we only know that the wood is bewitched and none who pass through return unchanged, if they return at all.” He looked on Gimli for a moment longer, then he turned his horse. “We return to Meduseld!”

(o)(o)(o)

Gandalf turned the rabbit roasting on a spit over a small fire. Treebeard had been kind enough to indicate wood acceptable for burning. The mundane activities of hunting and cooking were rather soothing, despite Gandalf’s growing sense of urgency. They were needed in Rohan, in Edoras he knew now, but they would go nowhere before Legolas regained his vitality.

And Legolas had much to regain. After bathing in the Entwash, he had fallen asleep beside the fire, curled into himself. Frequently startled awake by noises of the forest, Gandalf mulled over the length of his stay in Orthanc and the depth of his torture that he could become so unaccustomed to the wood.

Thankfully, Fangorn had been generous with his revitalizing waters. After perhaps a day of hearty eating and additional draughts from the Entwash, Legolas might have the strength for the arduous travel ahead. For Gandalf’s instincts demanded they travel to Edoras, not Isengard. Legolas had had no choice but to accept this change of plan. Gandalf hoped the elf trusted that he would remain true to his word and return to Isengard as soon as they were able.

Now Gandalf attended to what wounds needed care. The wizard was only mildly concerned for the many superficial wounds adorning Legolas’s torso and arms that had begun healing with the first ent-draughts. The elf seemed accustomed to the limp he bore, and so it was likely an old wound for which Gandalf could do little. A swelling on Legolas’s side restricted his movements and breathing, hinting at more broken bones to which he could not tend. He hoped something could be done for Legolas’s hands, however. The fingers of the right hand were puffy, red, and bent at odd angles. He held the hand in a cupped fashion close to his body, and used only the back of the hand if he had the need of it. Without the use of his hand, Legolas would be greatly impaired – and possibly never wield a bow again. For that reason alone, Gandalf would do what he could, but what that was, he did not yet know.

“Legolas,” he called gently. “The meat is cooked.” The elf’s eyes blinked as he woke. He looked around him sharply, until he saw Gandalf and Wellinghall behind them and relaxed. Gandalf briefly wondered how long the horrors of Orthanc would haunt him. “You’re safe, Legolas, we are in Fangorn Forest, remember?” Legolas nodded as he rose, shaking sleep from him. His eyes landed on the food immediately and widened greedily. “I am fortunate you are not a hobbit,” he said with a grin. “I would be hunting the entire day!”

Legolas remained somber, tearing his eyes from the food to look at Gandalf. “The last sight I had of a hobbit was in Orthanc, as we were brought before Saruman,” he said quietly. “They soon led me away to wherever they had already taken Gimli. I felt Pippin’s eyes upon me, but I could not look at him.” He sighed. “I wonder if he yet lives.”

Gandalf mutely handed Legolas a piece of meat, having nothing he could say. As Legolas tore into the food, eating with his less damaged hand, Gandalf asked himself whether a day’s rest and care would be enough to ready the elf for riding. “You say you do not know how long you were in Orthanc?”

Legolas shook his head as he chewed. “No, but I do know we marched for four days before arriving in Isengard.”

“And you were not fed then, either?” Legolas shook his head. “Water?” Gandalf asked, his astonishment growing for the perseverance of Elves.

“Once.”

As Legolas ate, Gandalf pondered the circumstances of that single dosage of water. It did not matter. He was now safe with food and water – the waters of the Entwash, no less.

Legolas finished his meat and laid down by the fire to enjoy some blackberries Gandalf had gathered. “Legolas,” he said slowly, reluctant to disturb the elf, “could you tell me something, if you are so inclined?” He waited until he had Legolas’s full attention. “I wonder if there is nothing to be done for your hand. Would you tell me, did they break it?”

Legolas’s eyes grew dark, and he looked away. Turning on his back, he chewed silently until he had finished the fruit. Sitting up then, he drew his right hand out before him.

“One of the uruk leaders,” he began quietly, looking at his hand rather than Gandalf, “who was present when we were captured...” Legolas’s expression grew distant as the memories returned. “He remembered that I used the bow,” he said in a whisper. “He decided I would use the bow no more.”

The tale of cruelty aroused Gandalf’s ire. “So this was done because you were an archer?”

Legolas nodded. “Yes, I was – it was.”

Gandalf closed his eyes briefly. “And the fingers were broken?”

He looked at Gandalf. “Yes. They simply broke my fingers.” He looked away. “Over and over.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose. “Over–?” he sighed deeply and tried to set aside his disgust to think of how to heal such brutality. “Can you move them at all?”

Legolas shook his head vigorously. “Not without great pain.”

Gandalf frowned. “Eh, may I have a look?” he asked, holding out his hand. Legolas gave him a questioning look, then slowly extended his own. The fingers had been broken in many places. Splinting them would be excruciating. He sighed to banish his disappointment. “I fear the most I can do at the moment is to wrap the hand to prevent it from being bumped. I might manage to find something to do that.”

Having reviewed all of Legolas’s injuries, it seemed his most challenging problem now lay before him as he held Legolas’s hand.

Legolas still wore the manacles with which he was restrained in Orthanc. Gandalf cared not to know in what fashion. The question was how to remove them. He would not allow Legolas to continue with such a wretched reminder of his imprisonment attached to his body. But how?

The manacles were of iron, leaving few options for breaking them. When Legolas realized he was examining the cuffs, he attempted to take back his hand. But Gandalf held fast to his arm. “Do you wish to wear these into eternity?” Legolas did not answer. “There must be a way to remove them. I need only a closer look…” He trailed off as he peered at the pin that had been inserted to close it shut and discovered another hindrance. The pieces of iron that made up the pin closure had melted together. “How did they melt the iron? Your hand is not burned….” But upon turning his wrist, Gandalf detected burn marks on the skin beneath the metal. Clearly the iron had gotten hot enough to melt the fastenings while Legolas wore the cuffs.

“They dropped small pieces of melted iron onto it, so that it became as one with the metal beneath. I felt as if my arm would melt as well. It is now essentially one piece of metal.”

Gandalf nodded then in understanding. “All right then. I know how we will remove these. The difficulty will be in protecting you. Bear with me a while longer.”

Legolas looked at Gandalf intensely but said nothing, and Gandalf hoped the elf’s reticence would last only as long as his injuries. He longed for the return of the Legolas he had known.

He removed his cloak and slid an edge of the cloth between a cuff and Legolas’s skin. As Legolas looked on silently, he explained, “I believe the only way to accomplish this is to fight fire with fire.” Legolas looked up sharply. “Do not be alarmed. I attempt now to protect your arm. And I will not use fire that blinds here. With the control I wield over the fire under my power, I believe I can release you without harm. At least that is my hope. Perhaps we should attempt this beside the Entwash? In case we are in need of cold water.” Legolas’s eyes were wide but determined.

As they rose, they heard heavy steps behind them and much rustling among the trees. “Treebeard, perhaps. Let us wait then.”

After some moments, Treebeard appeared in the clearing. “Ah, you have not left. You have decided to not be hasty after all.”

“Precisely,” Gandalf said with a smile. “Legolas must regain his strength, and one cannot be hasty about such things.”

“You are doing a fine job, Gandalf. He is brighter already.”

“I feel better,” Legolas added, “and I must offer my gratitude for the waters of the Entwash. They have done much for me.”

“It is my pleasure to provide them, as it is my pleasure to have an elf among my trees again.”

“Indeed, I thank you, Fangorn, for all you have done for me. Far more than providing water, as much of a blessing as that was, you brought me where I could be safe and rest. But no words can express my gratitude for your arrival at Isengard at the very moment I needed your protective branches to escape the Orcs. Without your presence, I would be no more.”

“Hoom! What fine words, young elf! I accept your gratitude, and I am thankful as well that I was able to provide your escape from the dreadful Orcs. If I had not been so recently awakened, I could not have helped you in the least.”

“Awakened?” Legolas asked.

“You awoke recently?” Gandalf asked. “For how long did you slumber? What disturbed your sleep?”

“One never knows for how long one has slept, and we give it little thought. For then you are awake! We do sleep for longer seasons in this age, for there are few who come to our Forest to speak with us. And that is precisely what awoke me. A greeting came to me in my sleep and I awoke to see who spoke to an Ent. The creature ran through the trees as I pondered who might be in the Forest and if any but Elves knew how to speak to Ents.” Treebeard’s voice deepened. “Then I saw the Orcs and I lost my interest in finding the one who greeted me. I fear I was a bit hasty, for I never learned more of the creature, whether it was Elf or another.”

Legolas broke out in a burst of laughter that soothed Gandalf’s heart. “Dear Fangorn, I was the very creature who offered you such a greeting!” He sobered and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I attempted to escape from the Orcs as they marched us across the plains. I had climbed the trees and thought to travel faster than the Orcs. As I scaled the tree, apparently you, it occurred to me how long it had been since I had been among trees, and I indulged myself in leaving a greeting. I could do no more, for I needed to continue running.”

“Hoom-hoom! So the creature was you! That is quite perfect indeed. I am doubly glad that you awoke me!”

Gandalf looked at Legolas, noting his change in mood with Treebeard’s arrival. “It seems you provided for your own escape, only not the one you attempted.” He hesitated. “Eh, I mean no offense, Legolas, but how is it that you were unable to run faster than Orcs among the trees? Frankly, I find it rather hard to imagine.”

“I agree with you, Gandalf, and so no offense taken. But I was severely hampered by these.” Legolas held up an arm. “They had already cuffed me, albeit in different cuffs, and the cuffs were locked together. I had little mobility, and it also hampered my balance. Thus, I was slowed far more than I expected. Once I was shot with an arrow, the escape attempt was over.”

Gandalf nodded grimly. “I imagine so. And I am quite sure their punishment was brutal.” He shook his head as he understood the scope of all that had befallen them.

Legolas lifted his leg. “It is how I received this.” The swelling of the ankle was plain still, though what injury caused it was not. Gandalf knew enough, and Legolas said no more of it. In fact, perhaps he needed a change in the conversation, as he asked Treebeard, “Have the other Ents finished their work at Isengard?”

“Yes, my friend, they have. And they found no one in the Tower, so I am certain your friends have not been left there. Quickbeam and the others are as weary of Orcs as I am, however, and they now follow the Orcs’ trail. It was quite clear the direction in which they had gone.”

“Well, I must say,” Gandalf said, “The Ents are rather inspired. I dare say the world shall look differently when they are finished.”

Treebeard hoom-hoomed a few words in Entish. “Will you remain here tomorrow?”

“No, I think not. Tomorrow, if all goes well, we will travel.”

“Then I bid you farewell. I do hope you return to Fangorn, especially my young elf friend.”

“I will, Fangorn. That is a promise.”

“Come, Legolas, we have work to do.” Gandalf urged him to continue to the river, and saw the light go out of his eyes.

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 14: Brief Freedom

Gimli gladly suffered being taken down from the horse, anxious to put space between him and the beast and settle his feet on firm ground once more. Recalling Aragorn’s words while in Rivendell on the affection the Rohirrim held for their horses, he withheld any comments revealing his own estimation of the animals.

Stretching his legs a bit, he walked quickly to keep pace with the longer legs of the men who escorted them, though he suspected they might consider it guarding. After all, Merry and he were regarded as trespassers here, and the king might have more interest in an explanation of their presence in Rohan than in a message of warning they could not prove. He questioned if any here would listen at all to a dwarf and a hobbit – a race of people the Rohirrim apparently had not believed truly existed. It did not bode well for the travelers.

They slowly ascended countless stairs to a building roofed in gold; in the twilight, Gimli could discern pillars adorned with elaborate devices. There was a beauty to the structure, one Gimli would rather see committed to stone, and he wondered how long such wooden construction could last.

The guards led them into a large narrow room where fires burned in a center pit as well as in a few sconces to the rear. Faint starlight shone through the windows high above. At the far end, amidst tapestry and color, an empty golden throne sat alone. A figure came through a doorway to the side of the throne, dressed in dark robes that heightened his pallor. The man’s scowl did not ease Gimli’s worries as to whether they would be heard, particularly if this man were the King of Rohan.

“What is this?” the man asked sharply.

“Grima,” Ealward began. “We must bring these two before the king. We found them crossing the land without leave. But theirs is a remarkable tale, with news more noteworthy, if they are to be believed. It warrants a hearing by the king.”

“News? What news is there we have not already heard? Who are these that they would have more knowledge than Saruman himself?” Grima turned to Gimli, his voice chilly. “What dealings need a dwarf with Rohan that he must enter without permission?”

Gimli’s heart sunk. He began with a great disadvantage, and apparently the Rohirrim held no more affection for Dwarves than most Elves held. To make matters worse, it sounded as though the escaped prisoners had lost the race to Edoras. “Saruman! That is precisely of whom we must speak to the king. We were his prisoners in Isengard and now he has plans for Rohan.”

A frightful smile crept over Grima’s face. “Saruman indeed has plans for us, to win in battle against Sauron. Do you have a better cause than defeating Sauron?”

Gimli saw this man’s manipulation but would not play the game. “All his plots are trickery! Orcs march here as we speak, prepared to descend on Edoras. We passed them on our way as we came with all the speed we could muster.”

“The Orcs answer to Saruman. They will fight whomever Saruman orders them to fight,” the pale man said carefully. He looked at them more closely. “You have yet to bring us news, dwarf, and you are still trespassers. Have you no more to say?”

Gimli fought to reign in his impatience. He had never excelled at diplomacy and he struggled now to keep his words civil. He wanted nothing more than to roar at this man, but such behavior would only get them expelled from Rohan – or worse. The Rohirrim had been deceived by Saruman. Gimli would simply have to make them see that. He cleared his throat and forced calm into his voice. “We were prisoners of Saruman for many days. Another prisoner overheard his schemes. He has misled you in some way, you can be certain. He makes arrangements with Sauron even as he plots to wage war on him. He is not to be trusted!”

The pale man’s eyebrows rose. “Arrangements with Sauron? That could be interesting.” The quiet voice suddenly burst. “If it were true! Lies! All of this!” He turned to Ealward. “There is no need to bring them to the king. Take them below to a cell.”

Gimli opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a moment. Then he gave his last effort. “You must listen! Saruman will deceive you. He wishes to rule Rohan! He will do it if you let him!”

Another small smile appeared on Grima’s face. He bent close to Gimli’s face and said quietly. “And perhaps I will.” And he stalked away.

Gaping, Gimli turned to Ealward. The warrior looked resigned, if reluctant, to follow his orders. How had it gone so horribly wrong? They had fled their prison, left their friends behind, for Rohan – only to have Rohan imprison them. Gimli looked to Merry with an apology on his face. Merry simply shook his head. They had no choice but to follow Ealward to their new prison.

(o)(o)(o)

Grima burst through the door, startling Éowyn as she prepared to take her uncle to the hall. “There is no need for the king to appear. The trespassers were full of deceit and trickery. They have been sent to a cell.”

Éowyn stared at Grima for a few moments to discern where the deception lay, for with Grima there was always deception. The desire that crept into the man’s eyes soon forced hers away, and she laid a hand on her uncle’s arm. “Uncle, as Grima has seen to the visitors, would you like to return to bed?” The man nodded tiredly and turned without a word.

Once she saw the king resting comfortably, Éowyn decided a visit to the jails was in order. After witnessing the earlier manipulation of words and people, she was all the more convinced that she could rely on none to act on behalf of Rohan. She must do what she considered true and in Rohan’s best interest.

Éowyn quietly found her way to the gloomy lower levels of Meduseld. Taking paths that assured none saw her other than the guard at the entrance to the jail, she considered the trespassers whom Grima had quickly decided were liars or traitors. Were they simply dangerous to Grima and Saruman? She would learn for herself how treacherous they were.

She sought out the guard Wilhelm. He often supported her endeavors, regardless of whether they abided by a new law of Grima. In truth, she was always certain of his aid, because it was offered not out of love for her, but love for Rohan. After explaining to Wilhelm the need for her visit and obtaining the key, Éowyn followed the dark corridor to the cell the guard had indicated. What she found was wholly unexpected: two small figures huddled in the dark. She thought them both dwarves, or perhaps a dwarf and a child, but then recalled the child in the king’s court. There had been whisperings since Saruman’s arrival of the holbytlan tales come alive. Could this be one? She stared at them both for a moment, as they slowly stood and angled their heads to see her through the barred window in the door. She freed a torch from the sconce on the wall behind her and approached the door with a deep breath. “You are those imprisoned for trespassing, is that so?”

The two looked at each other, clearly familiar enough to speak without words. The dwarf looked to her and nodded sharply. “Yes, that is the charge, though it was not the king who passed the judgment.”

Éowyn met his sharp eyes, taking in his haggard appearance. “No,” she said finally. “You had the pleasure of speaking with Wormtongue.” She glanced at the guard at the end of the passage as she used the name by which some still took offense. “Whence do you hail?”

The two looked at each other again, more words passing she could not hear. “Pardon my directness, Lady,” the dwarf said. “From this side of the door, there are few questions we may put. And yet I am compelled to answer your question with one of my own: Who sends a lady to a jail to interrogate prisoners?”

Éowyn held back a smile, realizing this dwarf would not be cowed by mere bars and guards. Perhaps he would be by status and nobility, as many others were. She would have the answers to her questions through whatever manner she must use. She decided to show a degree of trust and unlocked the door, stepping inside the musty cell. She left the wooden door open to the corridor.

By only the light from her torch, she saw a cell roughly crafted from stone and wood. The grit on the floor crunched under her feet, but the air was cool on her face. The one cot she could see may have been enough for the two to share. She frowned when she looked around the small space and saw not even a water jug.

“My name is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund and sister-daughter to the king. None sent me. I come with questions of my own, and you shall answer.” She paused and eyed the two before her, now standing before the rude cot. Lowering her voice, she continued, “Your answers remain with me.” She paused as they once more shared a look. “What are your names?”

“I am Gimli, son of Gloín, of the Lonely Mountain,” he said, frowning with what appeared to be curiousity at Éowyn. He looked weary and drawn, as if he had been without food for some time. His face was dirty, but some of the smudges might have been bruises in the meager light.

“And I am Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire. But call me Merry, if you please.”

“The Shire and the Lonely Mountain are a long journey from Rohan. What has brought you so far from home?”

The two shared another look, and Éowyn saw the tale of their journey was long and not without grief. Again, Gimli spoke. “We – we have traveled far, that is true. For a noble cause did we embark on our journey. Then, Orcs captured Merry and his cousin Pippin, and I with my two doughty friends raced after them day and night, for we would not rest until we had found them. That was how we came to be in Rohan.”

Surely, that was not the entire tale. “And you rescued them, clearly, as Merry stands here with you, is that so?”

Gimli shook his head slowly as the holbytla named Merry shuffled his feet and looked about oddly. “No,” he said quietly. “We were captured. The Orcs dragged us all to Isengard.”

Éowyn’s eyebrows rose. “To Isengard? I understand your appearance now.” To Éowyn’s dismay, she then spied the cuffs on Gimli’s wrists as he crossed and uncrossed his arms. The tale of these two was undoubtedly great, Éowyn was now certain, and she was more doubtful than ever of Grima’s cause for their imprisonment. “I cannot help but wonder how you escaped Saruman, for surely he held you there, no?”

“He did indeed, and our escape I owe all to Master Merry here. From Pippin he had learned of news we thought would be of great interest to Rohan, and so we made haste in our escape–”

“News of interest to Rohan? You must tell me this now!”

“Apparently, the news arrived ere we could. We made this journey to alert you to Saruman’s plans for Rohan. But we were told Saruman is already here. We advised the pale man who met with us that Orcs were marching to Edoras, and he informed us that Rohan was aware of this. I warned him also of the deceit and trickery that were the mainstay of Saruman’s schemes, but he seemed quite unconcerned.” The dwarf narrowed his eyes. “Is this Grima someone you trust?”

Éowyn looked at the dwarf, then back at the doorway, as she toyed with how much to reveal. She looked at Gimli again and found less to mistrust there than she did above. “Not with a dog’s piece of meat would I trust him,” she said in a harsh whisper.

Gimli nodded, crossing his arms again. “As I gathered – and nearly what he said. When I told him of – eh, of Saruman’s plans,” the dwarf fidgeted again, clearly anxious over something, “he whispered that he might help him. I do not think this Grima has Rohan’s best interests in mind.” Merry again shuffled uncomfortably, and Gimli looked at him, either nervous or distracted. Suddenly narrowing his eyes, the dwarf grasped Merry’s arm, but said nothing aloud.

Setting aside her curiosity over their nervousness, Éowyn decided to reveal a bit more in return for Gimli’s honesty. “Wormtongue, as some call him, has only his own interests in mind. And lately they seem to agree with Saruman overmuch. What do you know of the man who accompanied him? Saruman tells that he is the heir to the throne of Gondor.”

“Aragorn!” Merry spoke up suddenly. “So he did bring him! He is one of our friends we were forced to leave behind when we escaped. But he is under Saruman’s spell, we think. At least, Pippin seemed to think so.”

“Ah, this Pippin, your cousin?” she asked, and suddenly much more made sense to Éowyn. “He would appear much like you?”

“Eh, yes. Why?” A gleam of hope appeared in the round face.

“There was a holbytla with Saruman. I thought perhaps he was his servant.”

“Pippin, dear Pip! He brought him too!” These words seemed to please the holbytla to no end, so that he nearly bounced. Éowyn came close to laughing at the incongruous sight of one so delighted in such a dreary place. She was quite sure such a smile had never graced this cell. To Gimli, Merry said, “That’s good, I suppose. He’s out of the Tower. Oh, Pippin!” He turned to Éowyn then. “Did he seem all right to you?”

Éowyn struggled to hold back a smile. “I suppose. From what I could see, he seemed well, though perhaps a bit taken aback. He looked very small. I think he felt small, too. As the others spoke in the Hall, his eyes darted about, taking everything in.”

“Good ole Pip, still keeping a lookout for an escape.”

“And Aragorn?” Gimli asked anxiously. Now his eyes darted about. The changed in his demeanor made Éowyn nervous as well. “How did he seem to you?”

“The man? Quiet, mostly,” Éowyn said, setting aside her own anxiety that grew with the prisoners’. “In truth I saw little. I was performing other duties, but I found a view of the proceedings. He declared himself willing to fight for the wizard. Never once did he contradict Saruman. In all honesty, I considered him to be trusted as little as Saruman.”

Merry suddenly pulled on Gimli’s ragged sleeve, his eyes wide. “Gimli, I can’t bear it any longer. Don’t you feel it? It’s stronger now. Is that not the same feeling as the other night? Could it be?”

Gimli looked at Merry, worry plain on his face. “Do you suppose one of them comes for Aragorn?”

Éowyn puzzled over who they were as she considered Merry’s words. Of what feeling could he speak? Suddenly the nervousness that had built within her as they spoke came to her attention. More than simple anxiety, it was an urge to flee, to hide, a feeling of terror to which she was wholly unaccustomed. “Of what do you speak? Does some evil approach? Who comes for Aragorn?”

“Have you heard, Lady, tales of the Black Riders, Ringwraiths, the Nine Servants of Sauron?”

“Of course, but…” she trailed off. “One of the Servants of the Enemy has come to Edoras? Is this what you say?”

“I fear that is the case,” Gimli said.

“It certainly feels that way to me,” Merry added. “It’s that roiling feeling in the stomach. There’s nothing like it. We–” Merry glanced at Gimli before continuing, “We had a visit by one of them one night on our way here. For some reason, it didn’t kill us. It got distracted and left.”

Éowyn looked skeptically at Merry over his calm description of his close brush with Death, but before she could say a word, Gimli added, “Pippin told us that one of Saruman’s possible strategies was to hand off Aragorn to Sauron. An army has been sent across Rohan to collect him. This Ringwraith might be part of that army, strange though it seems. I must admit I am uncertain what is happening.”

Ringwraiths in Edoras, Éowyn thought. She wished to discredit the two prisoners, to disbelieve their tale, but they held too much information they freely shared. They knew of the approaching army, as well. With that, Éowyn made her decision. “Well, it is clear we are in danger, regardless of Sauron’s schemes,” Éowyn said.

“But Strider is most in danger!” Merry cried. “The Black Rider comes for him. I don’t know what Saruman has done with him, but if we could ask it of you, Lady Éowyn, please find a safe place for Strider – Aragorn, that is. He may be about to follow Saruman into the trap this moment!”

Éowyn frowned. She had no wish to speak with either the man or the wizard. Aragorn clearly supported Saruman and was prepared to fight for him. Yet these two called Aragorn friend and were sure he was held against his will. Éowyn found herself wanting to trust these two small people, grimy and damaged as they were. “Perhaps I will try to speak with him. I will see then what he has to say.”

“Remember that Saruman has the ears and eyes of a wizard,” Gimli warned.

Éowyn gave a wry smile. “Just as Grima Wormtongue is another set of eyes and ears for him.”

“Would it be possible,” Merry asked, a pleading look on his face, “to find a way to get us out? We weren’t quite fairly imprisoned, if you ask me.” He had the good grace to look sheepish before adding, “And perhaps some food?”

Éowyn looked at him. “It is a hard reward to escape one prison to be thrown into another. But considering what you have told me and what new visitors we may have, you may be safer here than above. But have you not been fed?” When the two shook their heads, Éowyn continued. “Very well. Food and water shall be brought to you. I will see to that directly.”

“I thank you, Lady Éowyn,” Gimli rushed to add, “and if I may beg your indulgence once more, let me inform you that hobbits are voracious creatures. It would do well to bring as much food as you can muster!” Gimli smiled gently, and Éowyn, with raised eyebrow and a sharp nod to them both, left the prison, wondering at the strange creatures populating her world.

(o)(o)(o)

“Oh!” the woman said, startled as she rounded the corner and nearly bumped into Pippin. “Forgive me, I was lost in my thoughts and not attending to my surroundings.” She paused, and seemed to look at him unusually closely. Pippin wondered who she was. “Do you have need of something?”

Pippin’s mouth opened but at first no sound came forth. He tried again. “I – I only wanted some water,” he said, hoping she would point him in the proper direction and continue on her way. Uncomfortable as he was in this strange house, he did not wish to catch anyone’s notice. “Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” he suddenly started in a rush.

“For what is your apology? You have asked for water. There is no crime in that,” the woman said calmly. Pippin’s unease uncoiled a bit. “Is it for drinking or some other need?”

“For cleaning a wound, Lady,” he said quietly.

“Oh, are you injured? I was not informed. We have an infirmary. I can take–”

“There is no need,” he said, seeing her interest sparked as he feared. “It – it is not a new injury. I only wish to wash it to keep it clean.”

She scrutinized the hobbit. “What is your name?”

“Pippin,” he said, reluctantly, and wished he knew what she was thinking. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought she recognized his name.

“I am Lady Éowyn, sister-daughter to the king. Where is your injury?” she said carefully.

She was kin to the king! Of all those for him to meet in a corridor! “It isn’t my injury, Lady Éowyn. I apologize; I didn’t mean to mislead you. I –” he abandoned his attempt to excuse his behavior with a shrug.

“And whose injury is it then?” she asked expectantly.

“The man who traveled with us,” he answered, focusing on avoiding Strider’s name – any of them. “He has an injury to his leg. I have tended to it for days. I only wish to clean it with some fresh hot water one more day, just to be sure.

The woman apparently decided she had interrogated Pippin enough and led him in the direction from which she had come, which turned out to be a kitchen, and provided him with hot water. Then suddenly she said, “I will accompany you to your quarters.”

Pippin’s heart hammered with alarm at the suggestion. He didn’t want her seeing Strider. And what if Saruman returned? He would certainly be angry. For what, Pippin couldn’t say, but he was sure Saruman would find a reason to be cross. And if it wasn’t Saruman, there was something else, something in the back of his mind telling him something worse was coming. “Em, he’s, well, he’s a bit out of sorts at the moment. It’s somewhat hard to explain.”

The Lady Éowyn was quiet, thinking long on Pippin’s words. He realized he wasn’t going to deter this woman from coming with him if she put her mind to it. He remembered seeing that look on his sister on occasion, and more often on his mother. There was no way around it when a hobbit-lass –or a woman, he supposed – got such a look. “Then you will simply have to show me.”

Just as he thought. Pippin simply nodded without argument and led the way to their quarters. Upon entering the small room he shared with Strider, Pippin went to the man’s bedside and lit a few candles. Strider had slipped back into his nightmares, for he jerked when Pippin touched him. Pippin called to him gently and reminded him of who he was and where they were, as he had done before. Receiving a blank stare, he decided to give the man time. Pippin sat Strider up and used the water Éowyn had given the hobbit to wash his wound. Suddenly, Strider spoke. “One of the Nine is come.” Pippin’s hand halted with Strider’s words, and he recognized as soon as it was named what had been lingering in the darkness of his mind. Worse than Saruman indeed.

“Are you sure, Strider?” he asked, more to create conversation than for any doubt of the man’s senses.

Strider raised his head and looked at Pippin as an answer. His clear, focused eyes made Pippin’s heart surge, despite the news he announced. After a long minute, however, he seemed to lose some of the clarity he had gained. He frowned. “We shall surely never leave Orthanc now.”

Disheartened, Pippin tried once more. “No, Strider. We’ve left Isengard. We are in Edoras. Try to remember. The long, long ride on the horses. And we spoke with the King of Rohan – at least, Saruman did.” His voice grew small as his hope faltered. “Do you not remember?”

Strider looked at him, forlorn and hopeless. He closed his eyes, and when they opened, Pippin saw a bit more awareness within. “Forgive me, Pippin. I try to recall but it is all a clutter of memory. I remember… a blue sky, yes, I remember that. I recall seeing the Golden Hall from a distance. Yes, I remember now. It was a swift journey considering.”

Pippin lost some of his sympathy with Strider’s last statement. “Well, perhaps when you’re on your own horse. Try riding while desperately grasping at the one before you so as not to fall off.”

“That was not enjoyable, I take it?” he said, and rewarded Pippin with a ghost of a smile. Pippin shook his head vigorously.

Suddenly there was a voice from behind. Pippin had forgotten Lady Éowyn entirely. “Pippin, I apologize for interrupting, but I must ask a question.”

Pippin looked at Strider, but he would find no counsel there. “Of course, Lady Éowyn. Strider, this is Lady Éowyn, sister-daughter to the king. Lady Éowyn, this is Strider. He is the one with the injury, as you have seen.”

Lady Éowyn nodded to Strider, then turned back to Pippin. “Pippin, are you aware of Saruman’s whereabouts at the moment?”

“I’m afraid not, Lady Éowyn. He left us in this room some hours ago.”

She turned to Strider now, and Pippin could not fathom what she saw. “What do you know of the Nine, whom you say approach Edoras? How do you know of their arrival?”

Strider stared at her for a long time, and his haunted eyes did not scare her away. “I know only that they approach. I sense their presence. As do you.”

Éowyn frowned but Pippin spoke before she could say more. “It’s that sort of cold feeling that makes you forget what it is to be warm. That tells you a Black Rider is near. And it’s possible that Saruman is meeting with whoever has come. He may be planning to pass Strider off to the Black Rider. I heard much of his plans when I served him in his Tower, but it wasn’t clear that he truly meant to go through with this.”

The woman looked as if she were going to say something but decided against it. She seemed less surprised than Pippin thought she ought to, considering what they had just told her. “If this Black Rider comes for Strider, you ought not to sit about waiting for it. I can show you a place safer than here, if you will come with me. Are you able?” she said, turning to Strider for her final question.

“There is no place safe from the Nazgûl,” Strider said placidly, and Pippin thought his eyes looked a bit clearer than when he had arrived.

Strider appeared undecided, despite his statement. Pippin knew it was up to him to keep Strider safe, and so he considered the Lady’s offer. If she took them somewhere Saruman could not find them as well, Strider would be protected from both. And then Pippin might avoid what he had dreaded since arriving in Edoras. He was sure Saruman would put his hands on that Stone again. His stomach turned at the thought. He feared that moment almost as much as the approaching Black Rider. “How do you know this place is safer?”

“It is a place where they will not look,” she answered and went to the door as if that ended the matter. She looked back upon reaching the threshold. Pippin still felt skeptical, but decided it was worth the chance that they might escape both the Black Rider and Saruman. He looked to Strider. The man looked wary, but seemed to wait for Pippin’s decision. It struck Pippin then how upside down the world had turned if the heir to the throne of Gondor looked to a hobbit – and Pippin, no less – for guidance. If only he knew how to put things right, to make Strider the man he was when they had left Rivendell, the man who would be King of Gondor. But of all those Strider could have by his side at such a time, he had only Pippin. Pippin could only do his best and hope it was enough. He held out his arm for Strider to lean on.

They moved slowly through the halls, allowing Strider to walk at his own pace, and eventually Pippin saw that they were descending to the lower levels of the building.

“Lady Éowyn,” Pippin cried with a sense of betrayal when he saw the warden, “you bring us to the jail!”

“Precisely. They will not think to look here. At least not for some time yet. I am well aware that it leaves you with no escape. In the meantime, I can learn exactly what occurs above. If things go afoul, then I will find another place for you, one with a possible means of escape.”

Strider looked at her intensely, then nodded to Pippin. Pippin still harbored suspicions, despite the sense of her plan. She hadn’t tried to trick them in bringing them here, though, and that counted much for Pippin. He would have to trust her for now.

After gaining access to the jails once more, with only a glance askance at her companions from the guard, she told the two to be silent. Finding the cell she intended for them, she opened the door. “This is where you shall hide for now.”

Upon opening the heavy wooden door, Pippin hesitantly led Strider into the darkness. To his surprise, the cell was already occupied. A greater shock came when he recognized the occupants. “Merry!” he cried, after he caught his breath.

“Pippin!” Merry looked just as shocked, but no worse for wear, otherwise.

Pippin ran to his cousin, and the two hobbits clutched each other so firmly, Pippin thought he might never breathe again.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck! How in all of Middle-earth did you end up here?” Pippin asked. “And when? And–”

“O! Pip!” Merry said, cutting off Pippin’s questions. “Gimli and I climbed out of Orthanc. We climbed! Just wait until you hear our tale!”

“Gimli!” Pippin’s attention was drawn to the dwarf and he tackled his friend, ending any response. “I thought never to see you again! I thought – I – well, you’re here, and alive and well, somewhat, at least, by the look of it! Though I do hope they’ve fed you!”

Gimli grinned. “It is wonderful to see you as well, Pippin.”

“I must hear all of this about climbing out of Orthanc.”

“Aragorn!” Gimli cried, and moved to greet his friend. “How do you fare?”

Strider hesitated and glanced at Pippin before answering. “I am all right,” he said stiffly.

“Here, Strider,” Pippin said, and led him to an ancient-looking cot. “You should sit. Your leg still needs rest.” He looked worriedly at Gimli and Merry as Strider sat, and considered how to explain all that had befallen him. “I told you, Merry, that Saruman had him under a spell. Well, it hasn’t entirely worn off. He – well…” Pippin gave up his attempt and returned to Strider. “Strider?” he asked, taking his hand.

Strider looked at him, then at his surroundings. The Lady Éowyn then caught his attention, and he looked at her for a long moment before turning back to Pippin. “We were in Edoras, I recall,” he said carefully. “The Lady Éowyn was to take us to a safe place because a Nazgûl approached.”

Pippin frowned. “We are still in Edoras.”

Strider looked warily at the stone cell walls. “Then where be we now? For this looks like nothing so much as the nightmare of the Stone.”

Pippin’s worry eased a bit, but he hated that Strider thought he was back in that horror. “But this is all quite real, Strider! The safe place turns out to be a jail, of all places,” he added, looking about himself. “It does look a bit ghoulish. But as the Lady said, they won’t think of looking here, not right away.”

Strider nodded slowly. “So, tell me, could it be that the two I see behind you are real?”

Pippin smiled. “Yes, they are truly with us. Gimli and Merry are here!”

Strider looked at the two behind him as if for the first time, and his wary expression gave way to a broad smile. “This is a blessed thing!”

“Of course we are here!” said Merry and ran to Strider, hugging him. “I worried for you, up there in Saruman’s hands.”

Strider gave a wry smile, but said nothing.

Gimli trod over and patted the man’s shoulder. “It is good to see you. Even if it is in a jail.”

Strider sighed, bitterness tingeing his voice. “Yes, we are reduced to cowering underground in hiding from the Nazgûl.” He shook his head. “I long for my sword and the chance to face both the Ringwraith and Saruman.”

Strider’s words alarmed Pippin. “Strider, it’s better you stay here! As you said, you have no sword. And your leg is just healing. Please don’t go up there!”

Strider sighed again. Pippin had to admit he looked better with every minute. “Do not fret, Pippin. I have no choice. I have had little choice in any matter for days…”

Suddenly, they looked above as one. The Black Rider was close. Pippin tried desperately to stand in place, though the urge to cower behind Strider was powerful. “Lady,” Strider said, with more authority in his voice than Pippin had recently heard, “I advise that you see to the king. Make certain he is safe. We know not the true mission of the Enemy.”

Éowyn nodded, and Gimli turned to her. “Lady Éowyn, eh, I should like to remind you, the scouts who brought us did not arrive, eh, alone. Do you know where they went with – them?”

Pippin wondered at the meaning of Gimli’s cryptic words, and clearly so did Éowyn. But understanding soon came over her. “They are in the keeping of the king.”

“Perhaps the king would allow them – or at least one of them – to return to its master.”

The woman’s eyes bore into Gimli’s. “I am not sure that is wise. But I shall think on it.”

(o)(o)(o)

Gandalf and Legolas drew within sight of the guards of the city of Edoras just after the moon had risen, pale and full. Only then did Gandalf slow their pace. Earlier that day, the Chief of the Mearas had answered Gandalf’s call, and Shadowfax had borne them with the greatest speed over the fields of Rohan. Not even Gandalf’s concern for Legolas had allowed the wizard to pause after he had given in to his need to arrive at Edoras. Their only detour had come when Gandalf had sighted a grove of trees he knew should not be, and he had slowed to circle it. Finding the dark path first struck by Orcs then by Ents, and recalling Treebeard’s words on the Ents’ intentions, Gandalf had guessed that the tree-herders had caught their quarry. Saruman no longer had his Orcs to do his work, whatever that might be. Since the marching Orcs had clearly traveled towards Rohan, Gandalf was certain he would find Saruman there. More than Saruman, his senses told him. His urgency flaring anew, he had returned to their path towards Edoras.

“Legolas, I fear I must ask now for my cloak.” He looked at his friend apologetically, knowing it would leave the elf uncomfortably bare. Gandalf had been able to provide the elf with food but not with clothing, and he was forced to wear the tatters in which the Orcs had left him. Bereft of his tunic, Gandalf had offered him his cloak to wear while they rode, for the wind would have been painful to bear. “I feel the need for discretion in revealing my robes unnecessarily. King Théoden has long encountered me as Gandalf the Grey. With so many loyalties in question in this land, it would do me well to appear as he is accustomed to seeing me.” He kept his thoughts on Saruman’s whereabouts to himself, but the sense of another ill presence grew stronger.

Silent and still for a moment, eventually Legolas nodded. As Legolas removed the cloak, the wizard noticed that even in the dark, Legolas’s wounds were evident. “I am certain the Rohirrim will provide you with a tunic.” Legolas nodded but remained silent.

At the gate, the interrogation was particularly demanding, but they were given entrance in the end due to the long memory of the Rohirrim and the long if tumultuous friendship with Gandalf. By now, the ill feelings had blossomed into a Shadow over his mind and Gandalf knew what plagued Edoras. Just then Legolas shivered. “Do you feel a chill, Legolas?”

After a hesitation, he answered, “No, Mithrandir, I am not chilled.”

“Then you feel it as well.”

“Aye, the Shadow is come to Edoras. I fear one of the Nine is here.”

Gandalf sighed. “It may be so. For what reason I cannot say. We shall learn soon enough.”

Few dared the Shadow or the late hour to note their arrival as they approached the great hill of Meduseld. Those who did note them looked longer on their horse than the riders, though if there had been light enough to tell them that Mithrandir rode with an elf, they might have managed to tear their eyes from the horse. The look of fear was in the eyes of all he saw, and Gandalf thought it no coincidence that the Nine had come to Rohan when Saruman had. Gandalf contemplated the tumble Saruman had taken, from a wizard Gandalf had held in high esteem down lower than the basest man. The thought that Saruman might have dealings with the Nazgûl saddened Gandalf’s heart. Had he already aligned himself with the forces of Darkness? Gandalf dearly hoped he was not too late.

As Shadowfax climbed the winding path that led to the Golden Hall, the moonlight allowed Gandalf to see, among the guards standing at the entrance, a young woman, stern of face, her golden hair flowing free, her white dress glowing. The wizard remembered then Éowyn, the sister-daughter of the King, and daughter of Éomund. She had grown into a lovely young lady, but it appeared that life had not been easy on her. Undoubtedly she felt the effect of the Shadow, but it was as if she willed it away, such was the hardness of her countenance. The guards felt the Shadow as well. It appeared that all those on the terrace of Meduseld had rooted themselves to their places to defy the urge to flee and hide.

Alighting from Shadowfax to ascend the stairs on foot, a small gasp from behind him drew Gandalf from his thoughts. Legolas looked upon the same lady Gandalf had been studying, but with a decidedly different glint in his eye.

“Is something wrong, Legolas?” Gandalf asked slowly.

“Are there Elves in Rohan?” Legolas asked as if not hearing Gandalf’s question.

Gandalf frowned. “Not to my knowledge. In fact, I counsel you to tread carefully here. The Rohirrim hold Elves under much suspicion. They have not seen an elf in many a generation and know only what has passed down in legend. But… that was not your question, was it?” He glanced in the direction in which Legolas was staring and thought he understood. “She is a woman, Legolas.” Gandalf said simply.

“A woman,” he said thoughtfully, and Gandalf saw he did not understand. “Of Men. She – It is merely that – no woman –”

Gandalf tried desperately to suppress his laughter, to little success. “Has ever tongue-tied an elf in such a manner before, I am quite certain.”

“You misunderstand me!” Legolas said sharply, to Gandalf’s surprise, and he regretted his laughter. Legolas frowned, then looked up at him suddenly and said simply, “It is her hair.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose. “Her hair?”

“Yes,” Legolas said calmly, as if he had explained everything satisfactorily. He returned his gaze to the woman they now approached. In a low voice only Gandalf and nearby elves could hear, he said, “It looks deserving of an elf-maid’s head. I thought perhaps there were Elves residing in Rohan.”

With Legolas’s last words, they had reached the terrace, and Gandalf turned to the Rohirrim with a smile that was not returned. “Greetings, my Lady Éowyn, men of Rohan. It is difficult to provide proper welcome under the pall of the Shadow, and so I hold not this welcome against you.” Gandalf bowed low to Éowyn.

“Long indeed, Gandalf Greyhame,” Éowyn said sternly. “Many wonder that you make an appearance only in the darkest of times. Some say you bring the darkness with you. Now, perhaps more will say so.”

Gandalf frowned. He hoped the mood of the court was better than this woman’s. “I know you have felt the approach of the Shadow. But I have traveled far by day and night to reach Edoras. In the light of day or dark of the Shadow, I must have speech with the King.”

Éowyn responded, “We felt the approach of the Shadow, and we then witnessed its arrival. The Ringwraith swept in and entered Meduseld not long ago. Never has Edoras been trespassed by one of the Servants of the Enemy.

A guard stepped forward. “I am Hama, Doorward of Meduseld. Never did I leave my post, but I fear we were unable to halt his passage. You know well, Gandalf, the fear he puts in the hearts of Men. We – we could do nothing to stop him.”

“It is well you did not try with all your might, for there is nothing you can do to stop one of the Nine, regardless of the fear or courage in your hearts. It is for that reason you live another day.”

Éowyn stepped forward once more, her expression softened. “We have reason to believe that Saruman has entered the Golden Hall, where the Nazgûl entered, and speaks with him. For neither has left in some time.”

Gandalf nodded sternly, taking in all they had told him and all he had guessed, and saw his path. He ignored the soft gasp he heard from beside him, certain Legolas smoldered with a need for vengeance upon hearing Saruman was in Edoras. “I ask you, Hama, if you can find it within you to remain here at the entrance to the Golden Hall. If by chance anyone attempts to enter, you must keep him out. It will likely save his life.”

“Keeping a man out shall not be difficult, Gandalf.”

“Where is the king?” Gandalf asked Éowyn suddenly.

“I have only now come from his quarters, after stationing guards outside his rooms.”

“Well done. I must now see what sort of debate goes on within the walls of the Golden Hall.”

“The king’s law is that none enter the Hall armed,” said Hama. “But I fear this is not a day for which the law was made.”

Gandalf smiled. “You are wise, Hama.” Only now did Gandalf turn to Legolas. It was then that they noticed. Gandalf saw the double take of the guards, and saw even Éowyn narrow her eyes at Legolas. Gandalf knew that Legolas did not miss their reactions and saw him observe the Lady of Rohan closely. The wizard decided not to wait and learn if they would bar him entrance.

“My Lady, my friend Legolas has been through many trials, as is plain to see. I have done all I can for him, but he is yet in need of proper care. If you would be so kind, your infirmary would be capable of tending to his outstanding hurts. A spare tunic would also be appreciated. Oh, and food as well. Orcs do not feed their prisoners.” He kept his eyes on Éowyn’s widening ones as she took in his words, ignoring Legolas’s that were boring into him with reproach.

“Oh – but, of course, Gandalf, we shall do what we can.” She turned to the elf, only a bit less hesitant than before. “Please, eh, Legolas, if you would follow me.” Éowyn turned and led the way inside.

Only then did Gandalf turn to Legolas, but his eyes were already on the lady as he followed her into the Hall of Meduseld. Before crossing the threshold, however, the elf looked back, his grey eyes dark with so many emotions, Gandalf could read none of them. Inscrutable as ever, the elf was now in the hands of the Rohirrim’s healers, and Gandalf hoped he had done right for him. While Legolas and Éowyn exited the vestibule through a side door, Gandalf left the guards to continue into the Golden Hall.

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 15: Healing

Legolas walked cautiously and a bit reluctantly behind Éowyn as they silently entered Meduseld. He tried to reign in his fury at Gandalf for revealing so much to this woman who was little more than a stranger. Then his eyes fell upon her hair and that distraction did more to calm his anger than all his efforts. He took a moment to wonder that any other than an elf could have such locks. Perhaps his time with this woman would not be so ill-spent after all. They then turned a corner in the corridor, and the ache in his ankle reminded him that she was delivering him to the infirmary. He cared little for infirmaries, even at home in the Greenwood among Elves. What might he find in an infirmary of Men?

As they continued through dim passageways, Legolas pondered whether Gandalf had desired to rid himself of the burden Legolas posed, for it was an otherwise useless act on the wizard’s part to send him here. The Men’s healers could do nothing for him regardless of their skill – except feed him. After their meal that morning, Gandalf and Legolas had eaten only lightly, but the meal had awoken a great hunger in the elf. He felt as if he were a hobbit.

But he could do nothing to aid Gandalf, as the wizard went in search of the Enemy’s servant. Legolas had not the strength to give aid in that fight. And loath though he was to admit it, the terror that paralyzed Men at a Ringwraith’s approach seemed to touch him now. He despised this fear that froze him to his core, threatening to immobilize him with panic. Gandalf had reasoned it was a result of his proximity to the darkness in recent days. Legolas shuddered as the shrieks and punches and slashes of the Orcs came back to him. Then the Orcs’ paws were upon him, and then their teeth… Proximity to the darkness indeed. The sounds and sensations of the Pit echoed within him, and with them came the panic and the fear he had felt in those last hours. The Shadow fed on such consuming horror. It was no wonder it reached him.

Gandalf’s instincts on the need to travel directly to Meduseld had held true, judging from how foul matters had turned in Edoras. Weak and useless as he was, Legolas had left it to Gandalf to set things right; then he would hold the wizard to his word. For though the Ents had reported no one at Isengard, his friends remained unfound and as yet unsearched for. But he would not abandon his friends entirely. His betrayal had been enough. Never would Legolas forget his choice when poised on Fangorn’s branches and offered the opportunity to return for them. If the Ents spoke truly and his friends did not lay lifeless somewhere in the Tower, the truth was they likely had already left when he had made his regrettable decision, but that point was moot. He had turned from his friends in what might have been their time of uttermost need.

Entering the infirmary, Éowyn led him into a large room with several beds and a solitary window that looked out onto the night. A hallway led perhaps to rooms with additional beds. Two healers tended to several patients and tried to calm their terror of the Shadow. The familiar urge to flee the infirmary came over Legolas, compounding the dark need for flight that hovered on the edges of his mind.

“Please come in.” Legolas had not realized he had stopped at the doorway. He walked in slowly, arms wrapped around his bare torso, as Éowyn lit several candles beside an empty bed, seemingly unmoved by the Shadow. The only sign she felt its presence was an occasional glance to the window. Legolas marveled at the strength of will this woman possessed, for the Shadow had grown heavier upon him since he had entered Meduseld. “Please take a seat on the bed there.”

The bed creaked as Legolas did as he was bid, willing himself not to look out the window as well. Instead, he watched as Éowyn rummaged through the usual accessories of an infirmary that filled the shelves lining the room: bottles, boxes, and containers of herbs, oils, and elixirs. Only then did he understand that Éowyn was to tend to his hurts herself. Clearly there was more to this woman than what had first drawn his notice.

Éowyn slowly approached with a heavily laden tray. She smiled. “Do not be startled by the great deal of supplies. I am simply uncertain as to what I shall need.” She spoke slowly, as if uncertain whether he would understand. He realized he had not spoken in her presence. Perhaps she thought him unfamiliar with the Common tongue.

“It is true, my Lady,” Legolas said, attempting to return her smile, “I have many wounds, but I am not mortally wounded.” He hoped to relieve her anxiety. He was possibly the first elf she had ever seen. And likely she harbored great suspicions of him, according to Gandalf. How to put her at ease?

“I am the healer here,” she said tersely with a sharply raised eyebrow. “I will determine the severity of your wounds.”

Or perhaps she needed no comforting. Her stern demeanor reminded Legolas of other healers he had encountered in infirmaries. They forever insisted on treating him when he knew he was in no need of treatment. At the moment, he was not in perfect health, but Fangorn’s waters and Gandalf’s care had assured that his body would eventually heal – though too late to be of aid to Gandalf, who needed him now, he thought bitterly. With that thought, the dark disquiet he battled threatened to unnerve him once more.

“Legolas? I asked when did you last eat?”

“Oh, eh, forgive me, Lady.” Legolas forced himself to concentrate on the Lady Éowyn’s words. The constant weight on his mind seemed to leave him distracted, unable to hold a thought. Did this woman feel none of it? “I was… When I last ate? This morning, Gandalf made a meal of a rabbit,” Legolas said quietly. “We ate little on the ride today.”

Éowyn narrowed her eyes. “And before that?”

Legolas sighed, feeling little patience for the many questions he knew he must answer. He suddenly longed for sleep, despite his hunger. The press of the Shadow seemed to weigh him down, and he felt his weariness keenly. Taking a deep breath, he determined to weather this burden at least as well as this woman appeared to. And yet he had no answers for her; at least none that would satisfy her. “I do not know. I – I am uncertain how long I was a prisoner.” When Éowyn frowned he forced himself to admit, “I seem to have lost track of time while in the hands of the Orcs.”

Éowyn’s eyes widened, but she quickly recovered. “Were you given any water?”

“I drank much of Fangorn’s waters from the Entwash this morning and yesterday. But before that, I cannot tell you when I last partook of water.” These failings of his mind shamed him as intolerable weaknesses. And as with his useless broken hand, they robbed him of the luxury of denial or forgetfulness.

The Shadow pressed down.  

“Fangorn’s water?”

“Fangorn – Treebeard in the Common Tongue, I am told – is the chief of the Ents.” When Éowyn’s frown deepened, Legolas decided to forgo an explanation of tree herders. “The waters of the River Entwash are ancient and revitalizing. They have done much to repair my body. I looked far worse two days ago, I assure you,” he finished, hoping for an end to her questioning.

Éowyn’s eyes widened again. “You have healed since you escaped?” She looked at his wounds, clearly wondering at his state before he drank from the Entwash. Or perhaps she contemplated if such a thing were possible.

“Yes.” He watched as she looked him over closely, resenting the scrutiny. “You should know, Lady, Elves heal more quickly than Men. Many of my wounds under ordinary circumstances would have healed by now.”

Éowyn was silent for a moment as she took this in. “What are ordinary circumstances?”

Surprised by the query, Legolas hesitated in his answer. He had met few females of Men before, and none were as this woman. She took his words in stride. Not even the power of the Shadow seemed to hold sway over her. Legolas looked about the infirmary. It seemed smaller than when he had entered. He shifted uneasily on the bed. “Eh, if I had partaken of food and water, I would have healed. Without nourishment, my body has been unable to heal as it should.” He looked at each patient in a bed. How could Gandalf leave him here, in an infirmary of Men? He felt a surge of anger. This woman knew nothing of Elves – what could she do for him? Was this Gandalf’s way of ridding himself of him? Beside him, the candles seemed to dim.

The Shadow pressed heavier.

“So you say once you eat again, you will heal in your customary fashion once more?” Legolas nodded, not trusting that his voice would not betray his sudden ire. “And what is customary? How fast should these wounds heal? Would all of them heal?”

Irritation building, Legolas was taken aback by the questions. He had never been asked such things. Would this woman never run out of questions? He wondered then where was the suspicion of which Gandalf had warned him, and this proved a distraction from his anger. If it were commonplace for most of the Rohirrim, then this woman was out of the ordinary, for she seemed only to want to know more. Some of the glow of the candles returned; Éowyn’s hair flashed in the light, and he wondered if her husband saw its beauty.

Reigning in his impatience, he managed an answer. “Most wounds would heal within a fortnight, many sooner, others might need more time.”

Éowyn looked at him closely, not at his wounds, but searching his eyes for something he could not fathom. Struck by her grey eyes, he found himself wishing to learn what lay behind them and wondered if elvish blood might run through her veins after all. To his surprise, he did not see the darkness of the Shadow in her eyes. What he saw was steel.

And then Legolas gasped, jerking as a cold fist grasped his heart and throat. His anger surged, but it was washed over by a sudden staggering fear. A fear of what, he knew not. But he knew he had never before felt such dread.

Even Éowyn looked upwards with a start. She stared at Legolas until she dared to speak. “The Shadow?” she whispered.

The cold spread from his heart through his limbs, and to speak was a great effort. “Aye. It grows stronger.” Legolas’s concern for Gandalf grew tenfold. Had Gandalf failed? Could Gandalf fail?

Legolas’s esteem of the lady before him grew as well as she steeled herself against the attack. “We must fortify ourselves and go on the best we are able.” Witnessing her strength, Legolas felt some warmth return to him. “As regards your healing, I feel what you need more than any of what I have to offer is food and water. If you are hungry?”

Legolas was forced to reply honestly, as he attempted to brace himself as well. “I fear I am, Lady. Rather hungry.” He was unsure whether to be dismayed to reveal another weakness, or to be relieved that it appeared she would not try to inflict any of her healing arts upon him.

“Please wait here then. I shall return shortly. You may make yourself comfortable. Lie down if you like.”

The fear evaporated as quickly as it had come, and, having already dissolved his anger, he was left with a restlessness he could scarcely contain. He walked to the window, but even the stars could not soothe him, and soon his weariness drove him back to his bed. Meanwhile, a part of his mind managed to question how suddenly and acutely his anger had arisen and then left him. He thought back to when his anger had first stirred. His thoughts had been on Gandalf, and why he had left him as he went off to fight the Nazgûl. …The Shadow? Could the Shadow arouse such emotions? He shivered as he thought of himself at the mercy of the darkness.

Legolas lay back in bed in one of his least favorite sort of places, and trained his mind on fending off the encroaching Shadow. Now giving it his full attention, he felt the weight about him like a wet blanket. It seemed to gather round him, pulling tighter until he felt smothered. He did not know if he could not abide this much longer. Legolas shivered and closed his eyes, trusting in Gandalf to free him from this oppressive darkness, and in the Lady Éowyn to fulfill her promise of food.

(o)(o)(o)

Gandalf stepped into the Golden Hall of Meduseld, where all was dark but a sconce at the far end, guttering in some movement of air.

Saruman stood before the throne, silhouetted by the torch. Turning to Gandalf, he noted his staff at once, and the wayward wizard’s eyes faltered for the smallest of moments.

Saruman’s attention had been to the side of the hall, in the deep shadows, where hovered a Shadow of substance. The cloaked Servant of Sauron turned to Gandalf, and after a moment of silence, released the cold hiss of a cornered animal. “You are an intruder here.”

Gandalf waited calmly. In time, the Nazgûl took a step, then two, but not directly towards Gandalf. He kept his distance as he seemed to size up the newcomer. Gandalf turned in time with the creature to avoid turning his back to either the Nazgûl or Saruman, whom he trusted nearly equally. The wraith continued to walk the length of the Hall and only paused when he was directly left of Gandalf.

“Gandalf the Grey,” Saruman said evenly, stepping off the dais and slowly advancing towards him. Gandalf reluctantly drew his attention from the wraith. For a brief moment, Saruman looked warily at the Nazgûl. Then he turned to Gandalf and was sure of himself once more. “It seems your followers have underestimated you. You do not appear quite as dead as they believed. What brings you to Rohan?”

The Nazgûl began to move again. Though the wizard’s eyes were on Saruman, all other senses were trained on the wraith as he allowed it to pass behind him. As it rounded his opposite side, Gandalf slowly turned so that he once again had the Nazgûl in his peripheral view.

Gandalf’s mouth tightened grimly as the other wizard approached. “I might ask you the same question, Saruman. Considering our last conversation and news that has reached me of late regarding of Isengard, that you have come to Rohan is of great interest to me. That you appear to have dealings with one of the Nine is of even greater interest.”

“Of interest to you? What interest have you with Rohan? You seem to show a great deal of concern for these people. Ever you come, only to leave once more, claiming business elsewhere. Perhaps you have greater designs for all of Middle-earth, of which Rohan is only a part?”

The Ringwraith continued stalking his circle round Gandalf, now making his way up the right side of the Hall.

“Is that perhaps your aim, Saruman? You have been overcome with greed, which has brought you to do business with a Nazgûl. It is but a step from dealings with Sauron himself.” Gandalf stopped when he saw the knowing look in the corrupt wizard’s eye. “I see.”

“It is quite easy for you to stride proudly into Edoras,” Saruman said with a stomp of his staff, “question our plans, and decide who is just and who is unjust. But you stand alone. I stand before the throne of Rohan with the support of the king and his people. And – I have the support of the heir to the throne of Gondor.”

The wraith’s head snapped suddenly to Saruman. With no expression from which to discern the creature’s thoughts, Gandalf could only use his instincts. And they told him the comment was unexpected. Had Saruman inadvertently revealed plans unknown to the Nazgûl? Plans in contradiction with those he had shared with the wraith? That would mean betrayal. Now Gandalf understood Saruman better. He never meant to follow through with whatever schemes he had made with the Enemy. How did he make an agreement with a Nazgûl – or Sauron – and expect not to see it through? Saruman was walking a fine line, indeed. Gandalf thought of the wariness in Saruman’s eye. Perhaps the appearance of this wraith had been unexpected as well. Had Sauron sensed his potential betrayal? Sauron would not take duplicity kindly.

Gandalf returned his thoughts to the words Saruman had spoken and looked for the truth among the wizard’s lies. For Gandalf needed no instincts to know Aragorn would never support such designs of which he suspected Saruman, but what did Saruman gain by claiming the man’s loyalty? A better question might be: whom was he trying to deceive? “You stand before the throne of Rohan and treat with one of the Nine Servants of Sauron. You do so with the support of the king?”

“I do so for the good of Rohan,” Saruman said confidently. “You would do well to work on their behalf for once, rather than always to your own ends. If you joined me in my efforts, we would accomplish much for these people, indeed for the world of Men. For this pact will save more than Rohan. All of Gondor and Middle-earth shall benefit.”

Gandalf cocked a brow. “Gondor, is it? You seek now to save Middle-earth? And you turn to Sauron to do so?”

“If you have sufficient wisdom and power, you can treat with whomever need demands.”

“And what do you need from Sauron, Saruman?”

Saruman only glared at Gandalf and kept his thoughts to himself.

There was another hiss from the shadows. “You have no business here.”

Gandalf turned to the creature, but not before seeing Saruman’s glare turn to a scowl. “Oh, but I do,” he said sharply, wondering how far the wraith would push his threats.

“Saruman will fulfill his bargain with the Lord Sauron.”

“And what bargain might that be?”

“Deliver the son of Arathorn.”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow at the Nazgûl, then at Saruman. So that was the prize for which this creature crossed the Anduin and entered Meduseld. What would be Saruman’s price? Would Saruman hand over the hope of all Men?

Saruman scowl deepened, his words laced with contempt. “Do not feign the naiveté you use so deftly with those who would call you friend. I am not so easily deceived. You have considered treating with Sauron yourself. It is in fact inevitable.”

Ire sparked in Gandalf’s heart when he heard no denial of the Nazgûl’s claim. “You plan to pass off Aragorn to Sauron? You claim his fealty while you plan his betrayal! This is how you treat with Sauron?”

While Saruman offered no rejection of Gandalf’s accusations, Gandalf sensed reluctance in Saruman for this arrangement with Sauron. Saruman had thought to continue with his own plans and set aside the pact with Sauron. This wraith that had come to collect on the agreement – mayhap unexpectedly – was merely a complication. Saruman’s eyes were already on a greater prize.

“The agreement was made,” the wraith rasped. “It shall be seen through.” He slowly stepped forward, the threat clear.

Gandalf looked at the wraith. So he would not back down. What drove him here with such urgency? Did he doubt Saruman would honor the agreement? Had Sauron doubted Saruman and sent him? Gandalf suppressed a sigh. He cared not for the answers. He had had enough of talk.

“I beg to differ.” He faced the Nazgûl and drew Glamdring from its scabbard with a ring of steel.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gandalf saw movement and knew Saruman made to leave, now that his attention was drawn away. He thought to hold back Saruman with a portion of his own power but would rather his attentions were on the Nazgûl. Gandalf allowed Saruman to go where he would. He would find the wizard easily enough.

The Ringwraith let out a screech that rang out through the night, and through Gandalf’s ears, as the creature drew his own sword, glowing faintly in the dark. Glamdring glowed brighter, reflecting Gandalf’s inner strength and power. Gandalf knew the creature could see that inner light and would know the extent of his power more fully than even Saruman did. Even so, the Nazgûl apparently judged himself an equal match for the wizard-returned. Beneath the wraith’s dark mantle was visible a glimpse of the ghost-like image his body had left behind an age ago. Gandalf felt the power of the Nazgûl, but it was more of a semblance of power, a pretense supported by Sauron. Without the Dark Lord, the wraith would fade to naught.

The creature took a step forward, then another. Only then did Gandalf advance, eager to rid them all of one of the Nine, and swiftly brought up his sword to block the wraith’s first strike. The swords met in a blaze of fire.

As the wraith’s pale blade fell upon Gandalf once more, Glamdring blocked the blow with a sharp clang. Another strike came from the side. But Gandalf’s eyes were swifter. He twisted and easily blocked it, his sword vibrating in his hands. Perhaps the wraith thought to outwit the wizard, and Gandalf’s ire stirred as the wraith feinted and brought a strike unexpected from the left. Gandalf’s hands were as swift as his eyes and he met strike after strike, sharp and hard. Refusing to give the creature an inch, he dug his heels into the unyielding stone beneath him. One strike rapidly followed another as their swords sang with the sound of battle.

The Nazgûl gave another screech that went through Gandalf’s body. He wished it would not do that. In what seemed a second attack, the wraith brought down a rain of blows with speed beyond the ability of most creatures. Now Gandalf was forced back. Though he met each sword strike with one of his own, he relinquished one step, then two. Indignant over the loss, he would not allow this wraith to gain the upper hand. On the third lost step, Gandalf let out a roar and pushed the Nazgûl from him with his sword. Regaining some ground, Gandalf brought to his hands all of the power within him.

Glamdring glowed brighter as Gandalf moved faster. Matching the Nazgûl’s speed strike for strike, their swords blurred in the dim light, and Gandalf’s anger grew for this creature’s audacity. As he thought of Saruman, of Aragorn, and the others the wizard had imprisoned, his fury ignited.

In the end, one of the Nine was no match for Gandalf the White. When one lucky strike slashed through his sleeve and drew blood, Gandalf’s patience was spent. He turned on the wraith with speed few had seen from him. With each strike of Glamdring, now glowing enough to illuminate the entire hall, he pushed the Nazgûl back until he was up against the wall. Gandalf took the advantage and pinned the wraith to the wall with his sword, claiming his victory. If any had witnessed the battle, none would mistake Gandalf for an old man again.

The Nazgûl cornered, Gandalf plunged his sword through what was once its heart and ended its existence. Releasing a final screech, the Nazgûl collapsed into a pile a black cloth, its sword falling uselessly to the ground beside it with a final clang.

Gandalf stepped back and took a breath. Though satisfied, he would enjoy no revelry for this victory as long Saruman yet remained. The Nazgûl might have been a Servant of Sauron, but the confrontation with Saruman he knew must come perhaps daunted Gandalf more. To lay low one he had once held in such high esteem brought him great grief and nearly caused him to despair.

As Gandalf stepped away from the Ringwraith’s remains, the shadow of terror that had hung like a damp rag over Edoras dissipated, freeing all who had been imprisoned in its grasp.

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 16: Breaking

Aragorn climbed the narrow stone steps that led from the jail, silent as only a Ranger could be in the darkness. He felt the presence of the Nazgûl and knew Saruman should be near. Where he found one, he was sure to find the other. With sword in hand, he felt as if he were emerging from quicksand. The cold steel of his sword had been like a gasp of fresh air and he grasped it as if it were drawing him out of the muck. Rather than question the fortune of finding Andúril in Edoras, Aragorn determined to use his weapon at once.

After returning the Dúnadan’s sword, Hama had announced that at first light he would request an audience with the king to decide the fate of Merry and Gimli, for their imprisonment was in dispute. For the remaining dark hours before dawn, they were to remain in Hama’s custody. Hama felt they were safer by his side than in a cell with no avenue of escape.

Pippin had followed Merry and Gimli, and the three had tried to convince Aragorn to do the same. But Aragorn would hear nothing of safety. Perhaps due to the growing span of time since he last had been forced to lay his hands on the palantír, his will and reason had begun to return to him. And since laying hands upon his sword, much of the fog had cleared from his mind. While his strength had not suddenly returned, his determination had. The result was a rash resolve to face an Enemy he could not kill and the wizard who had arranged to deliver him to that Enemy.

That was what he most desired: to face Saruman with a clear, if reckless, mind, and deny him obeisance, even if it were his last act. He knew his mood was dangerous, and that he cared little was perhaps the greatest testimony of such.

He slowed as the stairwell brightened with light from above and listened for a break in the silence. At first, only the guttering of a distant torch came back to him. Then there was a new sound, faint, whispering. Then again: footsteps. Light steps, not that of a man or woman. He pressed himself against the curved inner wall. The one approaching carried no torch, yet advanced rapidly. Before he could think more on it, the person rounded the corner.

Without knowing what he did, Aragorn drew his sword on Saruman. “You!” he said hoarsely, accusation heavy in his voice.

Saruman narrowed his eyes from a few steps above, in one sweep taking in Aragorn’s weapon and his disposition. Another sweep brought Saruman’s staff across his body at the sword.

Aragorn had lost much, but to his relief, not all. Without a thought, he swung at the staff with all he had. Saruman must have underestimated how much that was, or else, Aragorn looked far worse than he felt. For Saruman’s staff jumped from his hands, clattering down the steps behind Aragorn. Saruman’s eyes widened momentarily. “You waste your strength, Dúnadan.”

“You waste your words. I hear them no more.” Aragorn looked up at the wizard with clearer eyes than he had had in days. But though the compulsion to answer had greatly diminished, it had not entirely left him. As Saruman had spoken, the muddy waters had threatened to gather round his ankles and draw him down once more. If he listened further, he feared he would feel the tug of coercion once more.

“How came you by that sword?” Saruman said curtly.

“Silence!” Aragorn cried, reveling in the opportunity to bark orders at Saruman. He pushed the tip of the blade close to Saruman’s neck. The wizard leaned back, but did not take his eyes off of the man. Aragorn was sorely tempted to follow through with his sword’s threat. “I should slay you where you stand,” he muttered. So tempted…

Saruman chuckled. “Yes, you should, really. After all I have done, you have the right, truth be told–”

“I said silence!” Aragorn shouted, pressing the blade into Saruman’s throat. The ground had begun to soften, the stone beneath him turning to quicksand once more. He was not free. What must he do? His fey mood intensified. He stared at the wizard, watching as blood trickled down his throat. What to do with him? Where had he been headed? “From where have you come?”

Saruman was silent for a long minute, unreadable as ever. “The Golden Hall. A rather dangerous place for you right now, I dare say.”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. Did Saruman not want him in the king’s Hall? Or was this a lure to bait him there? “Then why did you leave? Is not the Nazgûl there? I know you treat with the Nazgûl. I know your bargain with him. Did your negotiations go poorly?” he said bitterly.

Saruman offered a small, private smile that worried Aragorn. He still sensed the wraith’s presence, so could not explain Saruman’s exit. Had Saruman come for him? Had he known where Aragorn was all along? The anger that had simmered near the surface boiled over. He pressed his blade into Saruman so hard it pushed him into the wall. “You thought to hand me over to Sauron – and I would have done as you bid!” The latter was the truth that burned in him and that he could not alter. He had been as Saruman’s vassal. And so close to being turned over to Sauron, it chilled him. Oh, to strike down this wizard.

A thought came to him, as clear as his own, yet plainly from another. Not this way. Aragorn closed his eyes, kept his sword pressed to Saruman. The voice was appealing, comforting, and not wholly unfamiliar. It was strangely unimportant that he knew not whose voice it was. He breathed deeply and opened his eyes to find Saruman smiling once more. The anger threatened again, but he took another breath to reign it in. “We shall return to the negotiation table you have deserted. I shall see the parties who bargain for me.”

Saruman raised his eyebrows. “You are so foolish as to think to kill the wraith yourself?”

Aragorn’s eyes smoldered. “I know I cannot kill the wraith. Perhaps it is not he who shall die tonight.”

Saruman’s lips puckered, then he smiled again. But he said nothing.

His hate shining in his eyes, Aragorn ordered the wizard, “Up!” still enjoying the role reversal.

Slowly, Saruman turned on the tip of the sword, with a glance to his staff, and began up the stairs.

Reminded of the staff, Aragorn commanded Saruman to stop while he descended the few steps to retrieve it. His leg burned with the strain, and he could not suppress a limp.

He wondered, as he picked up the staff, if he violated any rules of the Valar. He had never held a wizard’s staff before. But he could not bring himself to care overmuch as he turned to his former captor. “Now, go.” Not one to mistake the wizard for an old man, he trained his sword on him every step.

They made their way slowly up the stairs. They were in the rear of the building, giving Aragorn the thought that perhaps Saruman had been trying to slip out. But how would he have accomplished that before a wraith? Had the wraith allowed his departure? Had there been some distraction? Unlikely.

After a short time, a high-pitched screech reached Aragorn’s ears, and his grasp on his sword tightened. He knew that sound. Did someone attempt to battle the Nazgûl? Suddenly, Aragorn felt the fetters of the Enemy’s hold fall away. His mind was clearer, and his surroundings brighter. He felt stronger, more capable in facing Saruman or whatever foe lay ahead of him. The darkness of the Shadow had left with the Enemy, for this could only mean that the Nazgûl had departed. Would a Nazgûl simply leave? Saruman’s step faltered. So he had not expected the departure of the Nazgûl. What did this mean for Saruman’s plans?

When finally they reached the main level, he ordered Saruman to open the door that led to rear of the Hall. Looking into the dim room, he saw the most unexpected: a vision of a dead friend.

Aragorn remained where he was, his feet rooted to the spot by the sight of his lost friend, as Saruman continued indifferently into the hall. He had thought he was nearly free of Saruman’s spell. Yet the morass still clouded his eyes, for before him in the Hall of Meduseld stood Gandalf. The impossible sight of his dear friend seized his heart, but Gandalf merely looked back at him. His grief for the wizard awoke anew, and he recalled all that had gone ill for the Company since the loss. All of Aragorn’s decisions made in the wizard’s stead had gone awry. How disappointed Gandalf would be. He must turn from this creation of his mind; perhaps then it would haunt him no more.

Beyond the image of the wizard, a mass of black cloth lay on the floor. In a moment Aragorn realized he looked upon the remnants of the Nazgûl. The Nazgûl had been destroyed. Was this why Saruman had left? But he had left before this had occurred, Aragorn was certain–  

“Lord Théoden, I am surprised to see you at this hour.” Saruman said smoothly, breaking the silence. He threw a glance to the shadows.

“I was awoken by a queer sensation. I knew the Enemy had come to Edoras. I believe what I felt in my slumber was its sudden absence. Very curious. I came to investigate – against the wisdom of my guards.” He scowled at the guards who clearly had followed him into the Hall and now remained at attention in the wings, awaiting the call of their king.

Aragorn had not seen the king in the room. Was the king the one who had dispensed with the Nazgûl? Impossible. More questions crowded his mind, a mind still regaining itself, and yet the sight of his friend stayed his feet. He knew the wizard could not be there in truth. But Aragorn had never seen Gandalf during any of his nightmares. Why would he see him now, when he had begun to reclaim his mind?

“Your guards only wish the best for you, my Lord. Their duty is your safety.”

“I need no wet nurse to look after me! I feel better than I can remember.” Saruman scowled. Théoden shook his head as if waking from an unpleasant dream. “I dare say my mind is clearer than it has been of late.”

The king’s words roused Aragorn, and the man decided to awaken from his own nightmare. He stepped into the Golden Hall, bedraggled and thin, but with weapon in hand and determination in his eye. “And not only for the Lord of the Mark.”

(o)(o)(o)

Gandalf was taken aback by the vision of Aragorn striding into the dimly lit Hall. Despite the poor state in which he appeared, Gandalf judged from the triumph in his eyes that he had been in far worse. His words told Gandalf his clarity of mind was not to be taken for granted either. He too had been through much since Gandalf had parted ways with the Company.

Gandalf nearly smiled to see that Aragorn had returned with Saruman. He had thought he would find the wizard easily enough, but he had not known how easy it would prove to be.

“Who are you to come charging into my court with drawn sword?” the king said, stomping a cane he leaned upon heavily as he stood before his throne. His frown deepened as he looked upon the weapon. “It is a fine sword, I will say, one of extraordinary make. And yet it is not enough, for you hold also a wizard’s staff.” Aragorn looked upon the king with uncertainty. Gandalf knew Aragorn had served under Lord Thengel, and wondered if Aragorn was familiar with his son. Théoden looked frailer than he should these days, and if Aragorn had met him years ago, there might be no recognition.

“Lord of the Mark,” Aragorn bowed after sheathing his sword. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I beg apology for the intrusion. I have not found what I expected.”

The king gave him a measuring look, not speaking for some time. It was clear to Gandalf that the king was gaining more possession of his faculties by the moment, and that it was to Saruman’s great displeasure, confirming Gandalf’s suspicions as to the manner in which Saruman had controlled Rohan. Théoden’s sharp eyes encouraged Gandalf that whatever spell Saruman had surely placed on Théoden had lapsed in recent hours, perhaps as a result of his distraction with the Nazgûl. “Please return the staff to the wizard. It is not for your hands. Then you will tell me how you come to be in my court.”

“Lord Théoden,” Aragorn answered, suddenly more confident, “you request a long tale. But in brief, I was brought to Edoras by the wizard Saruman, who had imprisoned me with my companions in Isengard, then brought here, for what reasons I am yet unsure. For this, I am reluctant to return his staff.”

Saruman interrupted. “You agreed to fight beside King Théoden. You swore fealty to me!”

Gandalf easily saw Aragorn warring with anger within him as he turned his gaze to Saruman. The man rarely had so little control over his emotions. Now they were just below the surface, as if his strength was spent elsewhere, and there was none left for such unimportant things.

“I have no recollection of such a promise!” He turned once more to the king, leaving Gandalf to muse over the revelation. He could now name the unusual note in Aragorn’s voice as shame. “You must understand, lord,” Aragorn continued, with a bitterness Gandalf had seldom heard from the Ranger, “Saruman bespelled me while I was in his hands. Once here, weaponless and still befuddled, I was forced into hiding when the Nazgûl approached, for others were convinced it came for me. With the departure of the Nazgûl, I wondered what new agreement Saruman had crafted.” He looked to the cape piled in the corner. “I see it went in Saruman’s favor.”

Théoden looked at Saruman with narrowed eyes, then back to Aragorn, attempting to put together the pieces of the story as Gandalf had. “Despite your tale, a wizard’s staff belongs with a wizard. You are no longer weaponless. For such reasons, I must insist you return the staff.”

He looked at Théoden for a long moment, his uncertainty plain. When the man looked not once for counsel to his friend, Gandalf was certain Aragorn believed him not truly there. He probably doubted his mind because of Gandalf’s presence. But Gandalf remained silent. Aragorn must regain trust in himself, and he could only do that himself. 

Aragorn handed the staff to Saruman with great reluctance. The wizard’s eyes grew smug as he grasped the symbol of his power. Aragorn continued. “I am not weaponless, thanks to the wisdom of the Rohirrim. This sword was lost on the fields of Rohan when we were first captured by Saruman’s Orcs. I am told your scouts discovered the weapon and brought it to your court. Perhaps recognizing my need, the wise lady Éowyn and your equally wise doorwarden Hama sought to return the sword to its master.” He drew the sword once more and held it up, looking upon its brilliance with admiration that surely never faded. “I would be that master, for this sword was remade from the blade forged in ages past and used by Isildur to cut the One Ring from Sauron’s hand.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose as the tale became more interesting. He wondered what power had brought the sword to this place. It was unfortunate Aragorn had returned the staff to Saruman, but the power that had brought Andúril to Edoras was the power he would now trust.

“You claim the title of the heir of Isildur, long thought lost to Gondor?” King Théoden said, looking closely at the man. “And then you say this wizard, long a friend of Rohan, clouded your mind?”

Aragorn looked at Théoden resolutely. “I do.” He turned to Saruman then, eyes smoldering. Saruman’s arrogance only deepened. Aragorn’s hate and bitterness concerned Gandalf, for they would not serve him. “Aye, and though laying my hand upon my sword has done much to free me, the spell remains, I fear. For I see another wizard in this room, one dear to me, but lost now beyond the circles of the world after his fall in Moria.”

“You speak of Gandalf?” Théoden asked, with a glance to the wizard. Aragorn nodded. “I will admit not all is clear to my mind, but it is clearer than in recent days. I know your eyes see clearly,” Théoden assured Aragorn. “Gandalf stands before you.”

Aragorn gaped and allowed himself to look once more at Gandalf. Uncertainty and hope warred with each other in his face. “But… you fell. I saw you fall.” His voice trailed off. “This must all be a creation of my mind. I am not free.”

Gandalf scowled and finally spoke. “You indeed saw me fall. And I have returned. It is not a creation of your mind, Aragorn.”

For a moment, Aragorn only stared at Gandalf, as if to be sure of what he saw. “Truly?” he whispered.

Gandalf smiled and nodded. “Indeed. It appears that while Saruman has been occupied with greater powers, his own has focused elsewhere, releasing your minds from their hold,” said Gandalf. Saruman frowned at Gandalf, apparently not having considered such a consequence of his meeting with the Enemy.

“Our minds?” Aragorn asked, looking at Théoden. “The king was bespelled as well?”

“Under a spell?” Théoden asked gruffly. He thought for a moment. “Saruman has long advised Rohan in all matters. He would not betray Rohan so!”

“My friend, lord,” Saruman said smoothly. “Gandalf comes, as always, with words of doom. He overstates matters now because he wishes to displace me here.”

Gandalf ignored Saruman. “Saruman has held you under his spell for some time now, I would imagine. Through you, and his advice, he has controlled Rohan.”

The king looked to Saruman for a long moment. He turned to Gandalf, with a frown of confusion and disbelief. Then he looked at no one in particular. “Dark have been my dreams of late. And my waking seemed more like a dream.”

“May your dreams now be bright with the light of Lórien, where the feet of mortals have seldom tread.” Gandalf then stepped toward the king and placed his hand on the side of the man’s head. “You have now awakened, my friend.”

The king jerked back and looked about, blinking. “You draw away the last of the cob’s webs.” He stared at Saruman, his confusion turning over to anger. “So much is but a faint memory. Even our last meeting.” Théoden walked to his throne and sat heavily upon it, tossing his cane aside. “Could Saruman’s deceptions have been so great, Rohan and I merely pawns on his board?”

“My lord, I assure you, I have not deceived you–”

“Much has Saruman planned for Rohan, even Gondor,” Gandalf interrupted, overriding Saruman’s defense.

“Planned?” Théoden asked warily. “What more could have escaped my notice?”

“Many designs had this wizard. I am quite sure he did not share them all with you. They began with Rohan and included all, even Sauron himself.”

“I plan to fight Sauron, as will Gondor, once we have apprised Denethor of the situation. The king knows this,” Saruman said tightly.

“No, I do not truly know what you have planned. Because I cannot recall our conversations, Saruman.” The king frowned. “Whether or not he shared such strategies with me, I believe it is true that we were to fight against Sauron.” He stood again, approaching Saruman with anger in every step. Steps taken unaided by a cane, Gandalf noted. “If Gandalf overstates matters, then why do I not recall more of your line of attack?”

Gandalf answered for Saruman. “Saruman held you under his spell much as he had Aragorn, I would imagine. But it seems he had other designs for Aragorn, indeed the heir of Isildur, for the wraith who descended upon Edoras tonight came to retrieve the Dúnadan, as had been agreed with Saruman.” Gandalf emphasized his last words, staring at the wayward wizard.

Théoden nodded slowly. “If Gandalf accepts your claim, then I must do the same. Pardon my disbelief, Lord Aragorn,” Théoden said with a bow of his head to the man. Then, eyeing Saruman with skepticism, he said, “You speak of deception, of power, of battles yet to be fought. Did you indeed plan such deception as Gandalf claims, Saruman? Did you intend to hand off this man to Sauron?”

Aragorn remained silent as Saruman glowered at Gandalf. Gandalf wondered how much the king or Aragorn knew. “Saruman now treats with the Enemy and the man is what they barter. But I suspect that was not Saruman’s true intention.” Théoden’s eyes narrowed, but Aragorn merely glared at Saruman, who in turn glared at Gandalf.

Saruman’s silence only confirmed for Gandalf what he had surmised. He shook his head. “I see your designs as plainly as if written. You seek to deceive all, even Sauron. I wager you never meant to send off Aragorn at all. He would be of greater use to you in Gondor. In eliminating the Ringwraith, I did you quite a favor, did I not? And yet, you must appease Sauron, while you work your lies. I only wonder how you would have played Denethor into your hands. For you knew you would bring down the wrath of Mordor upon Gondor, and that mayhap has already been set in motion.”

“This is how you explain your intrusion into my plans? Perhaps I have upset your plans. You never explain your sudden appearances–”

“It is past the time for talk and double talk,” Gandalf said sternly. “Have you described for Théoden how you would proceed to deceive the Rohirrim? For you will not stand beside any overlong. You wish to be at the head, alone, absolute in your power. And you would not be satisfied with rule over Rohan. Your designs are grander than that.” Gandalf sighed deeply, suddenly weary of argument. “You forget your purpose, Saruman. We are caretakers here and nothing more. Those who are needed will be alerted and informed; we must allow them to lead their own people.”

“Even into death? I fight to give them a chance! Leave it to them and all will be lost!”

“You underestimate them, Saruman!”

“You hope in them overmuch!”

Gandalf smiled wearily. “Or is it simply that I ask nothing in return?”

Saruman barked a laugh, but it was bitter. “You stand there and act the humble servant. If any were to defy you they would learn the cost and it would be dear. If I seek any position of power it is more a responsibility than reward. I am, after all, a caretaker.”

Gandalf’s patience grew thin for Saruman’s speech that forgot the king was in his presence. The wizard no longer attempted to hide his aims for an outright ousting of the Lord of the Mark, and his army was the threat under which he would carry out his plans. Gandalf thought then of the new grove of trees north of Edoras on the plains. Without such intentions, the Ents had done a great service to Rohan. “Saruman, what are your intentions for those Orcs that marched to Rohan’s doorstep, clearly at their master’s call?”

Saruman’s face darkened. “Those are my uruk-hai. They fight for me. They are not a threat to Rohan.”

“Your uruk-hai?” Théoden asked, struggling with his returning memories. He seated himself once more in his throne, now expectant rather than weary.

Gandalf went on, hoping his words would make all clear for the king. “You should say, they are no threat to Rohan as long as Rohan obeys you, should you not? No matter. They threaten Rohan and others no longer. For the Ents of the Forest have awoken and decided they were finished with Orcs and their destruction. Your uruk-hai are dead, Saruman.”

Saruman stilled, for a moment more as a statue than a living being. Then he erupted, pounding his staff into the tile floor. “You, Gandalf! You try to overthrow me ere I realize my intentions! You cannot bear to see me ascend to a power to which you can only aspire. You wish to take my place here, after all my labors. After all I have done for the people of Rohan! I know what is best for them! Out! Out with you!”

“I think not, Saruman.”

Saruman laughed. “And what will you do, Gandalf Stormcrow?” As he continued, his voice grew louder, till he sounded truly mad. “I am Saruman the White. I say that Rohan will fight the Orcs on the plains. I say the heir of Isildur will fight for me along side Théoden, and neither shall Denethor refuse me. For I am Saruman the White! You sought to defy me once. Do you wish to attempt such foolishness again?”

“It need not progress in this way, Saruman,” Gandalf said quietly. “There is no need for defiance, for foolishness, nor for any of this madness. Allow Rohan to decide the course of their future. We have no place in their history.”

“And when Sauron lays claim to this land, what will you say, Gandalf? What will you say then to the people of Rohan? That it is part of their history?”

“Oh, come now, Saruman! You play the protector but you do not name your price! You have no intentions of leaving Rohan be! You shall take command of Rohan and then move on to Gondor. Was that your true plan for Aragorn? To place him on the throne as King in name only? As you wait for Théoden here to live out his years?”

“Enough! I will hear no more! Take him out!” Saruman gestured to the guards standing in the wings.

Gandalf looked to Saruman with a somber look, a trace of grief in his voice for those who knew him well enough. Facing Saruman before the throne of Lord Théoden, Gandalf declared, “You will hear all that I have to say, Saruman.” And with that, he held out his arms, spreading his simple grey cloak to reveal the white robes beneath. Gandalf heard a gasp from Saruman as he revealed his power. “My friends were not wrong in their estimation of my health,” he said quietly. “But I was returned. I am not, however, as I was. I am now Gandalf the White.” This drew another gasp from the wizard. Gandalf’s voice did not rise in volume as he went on, but rose in power. “You, Saruman, have no color.” Gandalf held out his staff toward Saruman, and as Saruman’s eyes widened in disbelief, his staff burst into pieces that tumbled to the floor like useless twigs.

Saruman stared at the bits of his staff strewn on the floor. His mouth opened, but no sound came forth. He turned to Gandalf, his face red with fury.

Gandalf raised a hand, halting any words Saruman might say. “No more, Saruman. It is over. No more.”

“Over?” the defrocked wizard whispered. “Over?” He began to laugh then, quietly first, then it grew boisterous. “You think this finished, now that you have deposed me as you have long wished?”

“Finished, no, but perhaps a change in course long due.”

“It is too late to change course! Sauron’s army of Orcs marches across Rohan as we speak. The Rohirrim prepare to meet them on the plains. And you have destroyed the uruk-hai that were the only means of their survival in that battle. Now they will die in battle against Sauron. And they have Gandalf Stormcrow to thank for it!”

“I have heard quite enough,” Théoden said suddenly. “I see now Saruman’s deceptions and lies and what was my part in this. None stood as obstacles to you as you strove for your goals. You have controlled Rohan through me, Lord of the Mark. You have kept the heir of Isildur as prisoner. You, Saruman, are now prisoner of Edoras,” and the king gestured to his guards. “Take him to a cell.”

“You think you have finished me, Gandalf!” Saruman said, ignoring King Théoden. “My plans are already in motion. It is too late to stop them. This one of the Nine came in advance, but the army yet comes. It comes for him. He comes for them all – Rohan, Gondor, the World of Men. What will you do then, in the face of the entire force of Mordor?”

Gandalf lowered his head without response and waited for the shouting to fade as Saruman was led away. He turned to Aragorn, who had kept to the shadows throughout the confrontation. Despite a heavy sigh, Gandalf managed a weak smile. “It seems events bring us to Edoras one by one. It is good to see you hale, Aragorn.”

“One by one by one,” the man said with a smile that held more than he said.

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 17: Reunions and Returns

Legolas tensed when Éowyn entered the infirmary some time before dawn. After eating his fill, he had pondered the lifting of the Shadow he had felt keenly in the night, and wondered how Gandalf fared. Relieved to have the burden lifted from his mind, he found his thoughts drifting to the lady who had raised his curiosity, dozing as he awaited her return.

Once she sat beside his bed and prepared her supplies, he wished he had not been so eager. It seemed he would not be spared her therapeutic efforts after all, but he made one last attempt. “There are not many wounds that truly need tending, Lady Éowyn,” he said, looking down at his torso and longing for a tunic. He looked up suddenly when he heard the startling sound of Éowyn’s soft laughter. The clear, light tinkle soothed frayed senses within him, but for what could she be laughing? He frowned and decided it was rather inappropriate. “I have said nothing humorous.”

Éowyn finally suppressed her laughter and had the good grace to look abashed. “Forgive me, Legolas. I am truly sorry. I do not demean your injuries in any way, truly. It is only that…” She had to pause as her mouth quirked again. “After so many legends have passed on to us of the unfathomable nature of Elves, you sit here in my infirmary and behave as any of the warriors who come through here. Perhaps they bleed from three places, but they insist they are in need of no aid from the infirmary. They are quite ready to return to their homes, or worse yet, to the battlefield!” Éowyn laughed again, but then became somber. “You have been held prisoner by Orcs for uncounted days, and yet you sit here and tell me that your wounds need no tending.” Her expression dared him to contradict her. Legolas had no wish to do such a thing. But he was curious to know the result were the Lady Éowyn contradicted – by someone else, naturally.

But did he really wish to learn what Men considered healing? He sighed. If only he were strong and hale, he would have stood beside Gandalf as the wizard faced the Ringwraith. “It is only that most of my wounds will heal, now that I am able to eat. And I thank you for the meal; it was most appreciated,” he said quietly.

Éowyn cocked an eyebrow. “You are most welcome, but food alone will not heal all your wounds, unless you have kept something from me on the healing of Elves. Will your broken bones heal themselves?”

Legolas looked down to his hand. He was forced to ask. “How – what is the customary manner – in which you heal broken bones?”

Éowyn looked at him keenly for a long time. “Have you been treated in an infirmary before?” Legolas nodded. “An infirmary of Men?”

Legolas realized the shrewdness of this woman, who had deftly struck at his source of unease. “No,” he said with some force.

Éowyn only nodded. Finally she said stiffly, “Perhaps we seem uncivilized to you. Perhaps what we do makes no sense. But I am here to heal you, Legolas. If there is something I must do differently, then you need merely tell me.”

Legolas looked at her mutely, surprised by her forthrightness, and nodded.

“Then I shall begin.” She lit more candles and began to bathe the many injuries that covered Legolas’s torso and arms. All the while, he tolerated the attention, sitting stiff with discomfort from the tenderness of the wounds, the bareness of his body, and the proximity of this peculiar woman. After too long and too many bandages, she also rebound his ankle and his wrists, where Gandalf had created a makeshift dressing after freeing him of his cuffs. The removal had not been as terrible as he had anticipated, and to be free of the cuffs was still a joy.

Then she began to examine his fingers. They were swollen and purple, bent in various unnatural positions. Éowyn sighed. “How many days have passed since you received this injury?”

Legolas frowned. The moments were lost in the jumble of pain that was his imprisonment. He shivered and shook his head. “I apologize, but I cannot say.”

“Might you suppose one day? Two? Three? More?”

“I have been free from Orthanc for two days. So I can say it was more than that.” He thought a bit more. “It did not happen on the last day, I think.”

“At least three days, then. Would the bones have begun to heal?” Legolas frowned again in thought, then slowly nodded, sensing that Éowyn’s expression did not bode well for him. “I must examine your fingers more closely, with my fingers. It will not feel comfortable, I fear. I apologize.”

Legolas nodded, sighed deeply, and closed his eyes. He could not see Éowyn look at him in curiosity before she began her prodding of his broken bones. He gasped as she began, and he breathed deeply, trying to concentrate his mind on the Forest of Fangorn, where he had recently found his peace again.

“I apologize. If there is another way you know…”

Legolas shook his head, but tried to remain in Fangorn. While in Orthanc, he had trained his mind on his homeland forest. After a time, it no longer removed his mind from his torment. Now, when he thought of the Greenwood, he found he was reminded of Orthanc. Would he never find peace in his homeland again?

Éowyn was quiet after she finished probing the broken fingers. “The bones have begun to set,” she said quietly. “There is only one way we know to straighten the bones once more. Perhaps you know another way that is …less painful.”

Legolas opened his eyes and looked at his misshapen fingers. As they were, he would never wield a bow again. He had lost Galadriel’s bow to the Orcs. He could not lose his archery skill to them as well. He might never excel with the bow as he once did. But he would not give the Orcs his bow hand. He looked at Éowyn. “There is only one way we know to straighten these bones as well. You must do it.” He tried to sound sure of himself, and prayed she did not take the tremor in his voice as fear.

“Are you certain?” Éowyn looked distraught. Perhaps she had hoped for superior elven healing.

“I am an archer. It is why the Orcs broke my fingers. As thus, I shall never wield a bow again. It is what they desired. I will not give them that.”

Éowyn’s eyes widened, but then a light came into her eyes, fierce and cold. “No, we must not give them that. I pray this will not be as terrible as what you have lately endured.”

Fascinated by the change in her, Legolas thought he could imagine a sword in Éowyn’s hand while she faced a spawn of Mordor. He suddenly had more confidence in her leechcraft and relaxed as she held his hand. Legolas looked at her. “It will not.”

After time and pain he could not measure, Legolas heard a voice. “Your fingers are straight. They will heal properly. You shall wield a bow again, Legolas.”

He gasped. Who was this? Such a voice did not belong in Orthanc. Nor did the softness he felt beneath him. Where was he? What was the meaning behind the woman’s words? Were they the reason his fingers throbbed? His fingers… He gasped again as memory flooded back to him. He lay on a bed… He turned suddenly to the voice, opening his eyes. Shockingly, he found himself a hand’s width from Lady Éowyn’s face. He nearly laughed. “You are not an Orc!”

She gasped, pulling back, and looked at him with confusion. “No, I am not an Orc,” she said slowly.

Legolas breathed heavily as if he had just escaped Orthanc once more. He looked about him. “This is the infirmary at Edoras.”

“Yes,” Éowyn said with a frown.

Legolas looked back at Éowyn and saw her bewilderment. “Forgive me, Lady Éowyn, I thought – I thought I was in Orthanc once more.”

Éowyn looked at him, her eyes widening, and to his surprise, her eyes glistened with tears. “I regret to have returned you to your nightmare. I attempted to be gentle, but the task required more, I fear.”

Slowly, he sat up and stared at his hand. Wrapped in thin linen and splinted, he could feel the heat and throbbing beneath. “You shall wield a bow again,” she repeated as he continued to look at his fingers. He hoped his face showed his gratitude, for he could not imagine how to express it.

“How is the pain? I can make a tea that will dull the ache and help you sleep–”

“No, please! I will only return to those nightmares. I only wish to rest. Unless you have athelas in your stores?”

“Athelas? We know not that medicine.” Legolas nodded and closed his eyes as a great weariness came over him. He would not sleep. He began to pull back his blanket.

Éowyn stayed him with a hand. “Where do you believe you are going?” The scolding tone of her voice nearly sent Legolas back to his childhood.

“I merely wish to walk to the window. Is that permitted?” He raised his brow in a mockery of her habit.

“You will do no such thing. Not just yet. Besides, I have not yet completed my inspection of your injuries. You must remove your leggings so that I may treat the wounds you surely received to your legs.”

Legolas looked at her incredulously and clutched his blanket with his free hand. “I will do no such thing. I know not what your husband feels for you disrobing strange men, but Elves do not remove their clothes before a lady. It is poor enough to not have a tunic. But my leggings remain on my body. Not the entire army of Rohan could remove them.”

Éowyn looked at him, several emotions passing through her eyes. “Well, I shall have to inform the storytellers that they were quite wrong about Elves in many respects. I must admit, I never expected you to be so … modest,” she said with a smirk that sparked Legolas’s indignation. “You are so much like men, in certain respects, I can hardly note a difference.

“As for your assumptions,” she continued, her voice sharp, “I have no husband to decide what I am permitted to do. As for our thoughts on disrobing in the infirmary, it is assumed the healers must observe the body. It is not considered improper here. As for your stubbornness, if it equals that of some of the men who have come through here, then I will not fight you, for I do not need to win that fight. Let your wounds fester. When they trouble you sufficiently, you will strip off those leggings gladly. But you should also know that my own stubbornness is accepted as the match for any man in Edoras. I said you shall not get out of bed, and so you shall not. Do not test me in this.” Her tone suddenly softened. “Besides, another meal is ready for you. I thought you might be hungry again. I only have to call the cook’s girl and she will bring it.”

At the mention of food, Legolas was drawn out of his shock at Éowyn’s lecture. He would ponder her words while he ate. Perhaps he would ponder the woman as well. But he would remain in bed if it meant food. By the stars, he had become a hobbit. He nodded to the Lady.

“Very well. If I find you out of bed on my return, the food will return to the kitchen. Am I clear?”

Legolas’s jaw dropped. What kind of woman was this to even conceive of such cruelty? “I understand.”

He ate heartily, hardly tasting the food. He knew, in fact, he would not have enjoyed the meal otherwise, but he would rid himself of this consuming hunger. Éowyn had made certain he also had a supply of water and he drank deeply.

Once the threat of food removal was moot, he indeed walked slowly to the window and enjoyed the simple view of the stars for what was left of the night.

(o)(o)(o)

Aragorn saw and felt Gandalf’s discerning eyes rake over him quickly from across the Golden Hall and noticed the wizard’s smile harden a bit. “Well met, Aragorn. I am certain yours is a worthy tale, and I long to hear it.”

“Indeed, it is, and I long to tell you,” Aragorn replied.

“I am quite certain,” Théoden broke in, “that Aragorn’s tale of his journey to Edoras is impressive, but I seem to remember that Orcs from Mordor march to Rohan as we stand here. We ought to first discuss battle strategy. The time for long tales will come soon enough.”

“Of course, lord,” Gandalf replied.

“But more important,” Théoden continued from his throne, “you have labored long and hard all this night, Gandalf, and Lord Aragorn has not taken rest as well. Now the sun forewarns of a new day. I suggest we close the night and begin the day with a meal. Thus fortified, we can speak long on all things of war.”

“Sound reasoning, Lord Théoden. I agree wholeheartedly,” Gandalf said. “My friend here appears in need of more than one meal.” Aragorn smiled ruefully, regretting that his appearance told so much of the tale of his hard journey.

As Théoden directed a guard to call for a meal to be prepared, the door to the Hall of Meduseld opened and Aragorn turned to see Hama walk in, then stop short as he saw the king. “My lord, I did not expect to find you here at this hour. I thought to alert a guard that I wished an audience as soon as you had risen. There are two new prisoners I wish to bring to your attention.”

“Prisoners? I heard nothing of new prisoners,” Lord Théoden said with a scowl. “Well, I have already risen. You may as well bring them now.”

“Eh, yes, my lord,” Hama said hesitantly. His eyes narrowed and he took a few steps more to the king.

The king smiled. “Yes, Hama, I am your king once more.”

A hesitant smile broke out on his face as he struggled to understand. Then he smiled broadly. “I shall return shortly, my lord.”

Théoden sighed and looked at Gandalf. “I suppose you shall hear your tales now. The meal shall have to wait for a short time. And likewise must talk of battle wait. It is early – the sun has not yet risen.”

Aragorn understood the king’s concern. The sky was beginning to brighten with the approach of dawn. With that light came Mordor.

“The sun shall begin stealing what time we have soon enough,” Gandalf said. “Once you have seen to the prisoners, we might have our meal and our discussion at the same time. Then will we address how to meet Sauron’s Orcs, and decide whether we wait for them to meet us here in Edoras, or go out to greet them in the fields of Anórien. Without Saruman’s army of uruk-hai to fight them, strategy will be critical. We must also consider the role Saruman was crafting for Gondor and how we might respond. They may be in more need of aid than we.” Théoden nodded his agreement, deep in thought.

Instead of two, three came through the door to the Golden Hall behind the doorwarden. Pippin followed closely behind his cousin and Gimli. Perhaps Pippin wished not to leave his cousin’s side, now that they had been reunited. The three surveyed the scene in an instant, and the hobbits promptly forgot they stood before a king.

“Gandalf? Gandalf!” said Merry, then Pippin. “It is Gandalf!” Merry ran the length of the Hall to him and hugged him fiercely. Aragorn was briefly amazed at how easily the hobbits accepted the return of the wizard.

Gimli was not far behind the hobbits. “I never thought to see you again, my good wizard.” Gandalf let out a boisterous laugh as the three members of the Company surrounded him.

“How? When? How?” Pippin said in a rush. “Actually, I don’t truly care for the answers. Only that you’re here – you are really here?”

Gandalf nodded. “Yes, Pippin, I am. It warms my heart to see you all. Remember, Gimli, we never know who or what we are going to see around the next bend. Are you the prisoners of whom Hama speaks?”

“They are. Now come. We must approach the king,” Hama said to the two.

“My lord,” the doorwarden said upon reaching the throne, “these two arrived last night, they say with news for Rohan. It was Grima who judged they should be imprisoned. I thought rather that you might wish to hear their tale and decide for yourself their fate.”

“And the other?” Théoden said with a frown.

“That is the cousin of the holbytla. He was brought with Saruman, as was Aragorn.” Aragorn looked at Pippin, who hung back with Gandalf. He had missed that smile on the hobbit’s face.

King Théoden sat back on his throne and looked at the two for a long time. “What cause did Grima claim for their imprisonment?”

“They were found in Rohan without permission, my lord, and so were trespassers. But I believe he did so to keep them from you.”

Théoden looked at Hama thoughtfully. “You have already been called wise once today. Mayhap for the second time are you deemed wise, and before the rising of the sun. I will hear their tale.”

Merry and Gimli stepped forward to stand before the king. Merry spoke immediately. “I would like to apologize for trespassing, sir.”

Théoden looked intently at Merry. “What is your name?”

“I am Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire, lord. And if I may, we call ourselves hobbits, sir.”

“Hobbits?”

“They are holbytlan, my lord,” Hama offered.

“Yes, yes, I see,” Théoden grumbled. “But they prefer to be called hobbits, and hobbits they are, then.”

Gimli spoke up. “I am Gimli, son of Gloín, lord, from the Lonely Mountain. I was imprisoned with my friend Merry by Saruman in Isengard before being imprisoned here by Grima.”

“Isengard? You were imprisoned by Saruman as well? It seems Saruman has had far greater schemes than we knew.” Aragorn wondered how much of their tale Gandalf knew. He had not had time to share all of Saruman’s plots and so the fates of the others were likely unknown to him. But then, he was Gandalf.

Gandalf turned to the king. “Lord Théoden, these stout people are some of the characters of this tale you have had to piece together belatedly. They are part of a Company that set out from Rivendell on a Quest given to them by Elrond himself.”

“Indeed,” Théoden began. “You are an impressive group, and I see you at the end of many pains. You were certainly more formidable as you stood before Elrond, and I have no doubt in his choices of you for this Quest.

“But trespassing is against our laws. Such a decree seems to have been necessary in this dangerous time.” So the two were in fact guilty, then. Aragorn worried over what the king would decide for them. “But I would know what news it is you have for Rohan that you would come from Isengard on foot to bring it.”

Merry and Gimli look downcast. Aragorn ached to know the whole of their tale. While in the jail below, they had not been forthcoming with great detail of their ordeal and journey. Or rather, they had shared much of the story to a point, then had grown silent. “We had planned to warn you of Saruman’s plans,” Gimli said, regret roughening his voice. “But we were too late.”

King Théoden nodded and was silent. At length, he spoke again. “Yes, you were late. We learned for ourselves of Saruman’s treachery, and we have seen to him. Regarding the law against trespassing, it is also true that it was of Grima’s making, not my own.” The king went silent again for what seemed long. “You came onto Rohan’s lands without permission – but for honorable purposes. I see no reason to continue your imprisonment.”

As Aragorn released a breath he had not known he held, there was a collective sigh as the others did the same. “We thank you for your mercy, lord,” Gimli said.

Théoden nodded in acknowledgement. “You have traveled far from your homelands. I must say, all hobbits must live in the Shire and nowhere else, for none here knew of your people save from children’s tales.”

“Well, tell all your children that we are certainly no tale. We are true and alive.”

Pippin, having clung to Gandalf while Lord Théoden made his decision, now drew away from the wizard’s side to return to Aragorn. He grasped the man by his arms, forcing him to bend down to the hobbit. “Are you well now?” It seemed Pippin had not relinquished his role as his caretaker. “Was there a Black Rider?”

“Gandalf has rid us of the Ringwraith. For myself, I improve every moment. All about me seems clearer,” he said quietly, as the king continued to speak with Merry and Gimli.

With a knowing smile, Pippin went on to test him. “You know where we are, then?”

Aragorn smiled at the hobbit and was grateful for his attentions. “We are in Edoras, in the Hall of Meduseld. I have spoken with Théoden and Gandalf on Saruman’s deceptions and now the king discusses Merry and Gimli’s imprisonment. I have had to explain myself to the king. I believe I did a passable job.” Aragorn smiled at Pippin, but felt the eye of Gandalf on him.

“Have you told them all of Saruman’s plans for Rohan? The Orcs that are coming to Edoras? And the Orcs from Mordor coming – coming for you?”

He sobered as he thought of the Orcs’ mission, and the Nazgûl’s likely reason for coming to Edoras. But then he looked at Pippin and his heart lightened a small bit. “It seems that Gandalf has taken care of it, Pippin. I believe, in fact, that he already knew all of it. Gandalf has changed, as you will learn, but in some ways, Gandalf is still Gandalf.”

Once Lord Théoden had finished speaking with Merry and Gimli, they turned again to Gandalf, Aragorn, and Pippin, while Hama remained to speak more with the king. When Gandalf assured them that Saruman was no longer a threat, Pippin looked immeasurably relieved to hear the news. Aragorn briefly worried over the cost to Pippin for his time serving the errant wizard.

While Pippin interrogated his two small friends further, the Ranger saw Gandalf’s attention focus on Gimli – on his wrists. Gimli still wore the shackles the Orcs had used to imprison him. Made of iron from the looks of them, Aragorn knew not how they would remove them. Gandalf’s interest puzzled him. Suddenly the wizard’s expression changed to one of surprise, as if he had suddenly remembered something. Did he know how to remove the cuffs? Aragorn hoped so, for Gimli’s sake.

Gandalf turned to the king. “Lord Théoden, pardon the interruption, may I request that you call for the Lady Éowyn?” Gandalf stepped closer to the king to speak with him once more, with an urgency that puzzled Aragorn.

“Had the Nazgûl already departed when you arrived, Aragorn?” Gimli asked quietly, unable to wait until Gandalf finished his conversation with the king. “For we sensed its leaving as we ascended from the jail.”

“Yes, it had, but not in the way you might think.” Aragorn gestured behind him, revealing the black robes left behind by the Ringwraith. In their distraction, they never saw Gandalf meet Lady Éowyn at the door and speak with her for a few moments.

On his return to the four of them, Gandalf said, “It is a wonder to see you all here. The Valar are indeed wise.”

“Yes, we are nearly all here,” Gimli said quietly. Then his eyes lit up and he looked at Merry. “Come, Merry. There is one thing we must do. Gandalf, would it be possible to approach the king once more?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Gandalf responded, his brows furrowed in a question, but he simply led them to Lord Théoden.

Gandalf returned a moment later to the line of pillars to which Aragorn had withdrawn with Pippin. When Gandalf rested a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, the touch was a balm to his mind and body. “Your mind is clear, I take it?”

“It is …clearer than it has been for many days. My will is my own again. But much that Saruman clouded for me remains in a fog. Pippin has been informing me of the events of past days, but some I hear as if for the first time. Those days may be lost to me.”

Gandalf scowled. “How did Saruman cloud your mind?”

Aragorn was momentarily chilled to remember. He could only whisper, “I believe Saruman obtained a Seeing Stone, a palantír, Gandalf. He put my hands onto the Stone again and again.” He closed his eyes with the memory. “It wearied me beyond telling. Then his voice…” Aragorn sighed and gave up his attempt at describing his torment.

Gandalf frowned deeply. “I want to see this Stone. But I begin to understand. I do not know if I can restore all that you have lost. But mayhap this shall help.” Gandalf then brushed his hand across Aragorn’s brow.

Aragorn was still. The caress of Gandalf’s hand was a waterfall as refreshing as Nimrodel’s waters. He breathed deeply and felt strong for the first time in days. Opening his eyes, he smiled and felt at last to be the man he once was. The Ranger had returned.

Gandalf smiled. “Better.”

Aragorn nodded. “Not all memories have returned, but you have dispersed the fog,” he breathed deeply. “I can see my way again.”

“Thank you, Gandalf!” said a voice from below. Pippin looked up at the wizard, brimming with gratitude. “I tried to keep him abreast of all that had occurred lately, but I couldn’t make him remember, not like you could. I couldn’t make him Strider again!” Pippin beamed at Aragorn for a moment, then sobered. “Don’t worry about giving him back all of his memories. I’ve told him, there are some things you just don’t wish to remember.”

Aragorn grinned. “To be a hobbit.” He crouched down and put his hands on Pippin’s shoulders. The young hobbit’s smile was as soothing to his heart as Gandalf’s touch had been to his spirit. “I cannot thank you enough, Peregrin Took, for all that you have done for me. You tended to my arrow wound, which would have killed me. And you did your best to keep me from madness in a place of only madness. I have you to thank for my very life. I shall never forget it.”

But as Aragorn spoke, the smile slipped from Pippin’s face, and Aragorn saw the guilt that still plagued the hobbit.

“There is no need to thank me, Strider,” Pippin said somberly. “Perhaps now I have repaid the debt I owed you, though I shall never feel I have done enough to make up for what I did.” Pippin’s head hung low, his voice small. Peregrin Took, though much changed by his ordeal, was still Pippin.

Aragorn opened his mouth, then closed it and eyed Pippin. He had already said what he could to rid Pippin of his notion of debt. He took his hands from the hobbit’s shoulders. “Pippin, do you mean to say that all the tending you did for me was only as payment for the debt you feel you owe me?” Pippin looked up at him, confusion mingling with the misery in his eyes. “So had you not owed me that debt, you would have left my wound to fester and kill me? You would have left me to Saruman’s nightmares and madness?” Aragorn cocked his head in question.

Pippin opened and closed his mouth. Then the words burst from him. “If I had owed you nothing, Saruman would have never known who you were!”

Aragorn sighed and bowed his head. “I arrived at Isengard with that wound. It was not your doing. And we have discussed my thoughts on Saruman’s discovery of my identity. I hold to what I said that day. He would have learned my true name eventually. But he would have been much angrier with me had he felt I had tried to keep the knowledge from him. And I would have paid dearly for his anger.” Pippin looked up at Aragorn, apparently unconvinced and still miserable. Aragorn sighed. “Pippin, I said there was nothing for which to forgive you, but if you have need of it, you already have my forgiveness. Now, you must forgive yourself.”

Pippin’s eyes welled as the final straw was laid. Before he could protest, Aragorn gathered Pippin in his arms and Pippin grasped him for all his worth as his tears flowed.

In a few moments, Théoden spoke again. “A meal awaits us, so that we may break the fast of this long night. And there remains much to discuss of battle. But I first ask that you all approach the throne.” They drew near to where Théoden stood, one of his guards close by. Gimli and Merry stood beside him, each wearing oddly excited expressions. The king looked to each of them, appearing far stronger than when Aragorn had first entered the Hall. “Warriors have few needs on such missions so vital as a Quest appointed by Elrond. But every warrior must have his weapon. Upon your capture by the Orcs, all of your weapons were taken from you by the beasts, were they not? They would be missed dearly by each of you, I am certain.”

“Indeed, lord,” Aragorn answered quietly, his hand moving to the pommel of his sword. “In truth, even during the torments I have suffered of late, I cannot say I had not given thought to my lost weapon. It is an heirloom of my house, and they are fewer for our recent trials. The Sword Andúril cannot be replaced, and it has proved its worth once more in what it has done for me.”

“I am pleased it aided in restoring you. It happens that your sword was not all that was discovered on the fields of Rohan. With it was a traveling pack filled with rather interesting items.” Aragorn’s eyes widened as the guard brought forth his old pack. He had forgotten the bag, though not what had once been within. What had been left after the Orcs’ had ransacked it, he dared not think.

The king drew out of the pack two small daggers, one a match for the other, amazingly still in their scabbards. Any more he had to say was cut off by the cries of Merry and Pippin.

“My knife!” they said as one.

“I thought we might quickly learn to whom these belonged.” Smiling, he handed the hobbits their daggers.

“Gimli, they found our knives!” Merry said, looking at his weapon in wonder. Pippin had already strapped his on.

Aragorn smiled. He should have realized the Orcs would want nothing of these knives of old. They had been bound with spells by the Men of Westernesse, and the Orcs would spurn them, as they had his and Legolas’s weapons.

Pippin asked, “Was not Gimli’s axe among the weapons?”

Théoden looked to Gimli without the smile he had borne for the hobbits. “I fear no axe was found.”

“You will not find it,” the dwarf said darkly. “The Orcs took the axe for their own. I have no wish to hold that weapon after it has been used by an Orc.”

Lord Théoden nodded solemnly, then reached into the pack once more. Aragorn noted that Gimli, Merry, and Pippin looked on with equal curiosity. This was not part of the scheme Gimli and Merry had plotted with Théoden, he decided. Then all consideration halted when he saw what the king held in his hand.

“My ring,” he whispered. “The Ring of Barahir.” He looked upon it in awe. More ancient than all they held, it had been created by the Elves, and so an Orc could not bear its touch. “It is the heirloom of which I had spoken as lost.” Aragorn’s throat tightened unwillingly, and he quickly reached for the ring and returned it to his finger. “I cannot thank you enough, Lord Théoden.”

“I am not finished!” Théoden said gruffly, then smiled. “There is one other item the scouts found on the fields of Rohan.” The king nodded to the guard, who went obediently to the side door. Aragorn hardly dared to hope for what would be brought out next. And indeed, the guard walked in with Legolas’s bow and handed it to Gandalf.

The five reunited friends fell silent.

Gimli said in a strangled voice, “He held that bow more dear than anything I know. Would that I could return it to him. I wish to hold it for him if he cannot.”

Merry put a hand on his shoulder and then turned to Gandalf, face twisted in misery. “When we made our escape, we could not go back for Legolas. We had to leave him…” He trailed off, unable to continue.

Gimli finished for him, his voice rough and forceful. “We left him hanging in chains in the depths of Orthanc, days ago. I swore I would return for him and I shall.” Aragorn shuddered to hear what they had not shared earlier. It was clear at last why they had not gone on with their tale.

Gandalf rested the bow on its end. “Perhaps you yet shall be granted your wish.” He turned to the rear of the hall and nodded, and a guard opened the door behind them.

(o)(o)(o)

“Legolas,” Éowyn said, as she entered the infirmary and the elf scurried back to his bed. “Yes, do jump into bed before I arrive. I shall never know you were out of bed again.” She sighed, sounding weary before a smile found its way onto her lips. Legolas briefly regretted that he was such a difficult patient. “Gandalf would like to see you.”

Legolas nodded. After sensing the departure of the Enemy, he had thought Gandalf might come to the Infirmary to free him. “Has he spoken with the king?”

“Gandalf has done much in recent hours,” she said, her smile growing more cryptic, and she gestured to the doorway.

Legolas rose from the bed, eager to leave. He had already considered sneaking out, but had stopped at the thought of Lady Éowyn’s wrath. He tugged on his borrowed tunic. It felt odd and was too small for him, but he was grateful for it just the same. As he moved to the door, the woman stopped him.

“Here.” She began wrapping a cloth around his neck and arm.

“What is this?”

“This will rest your hand while you are standing. Else, while the fingers are so swollen, the blood will not flow properly. It will become uncomfortable.”

He stared at the contraption into which she had tied him. His protest was halted by the easing of the pressure that had already grown in his fingers. Reluctantly, he accepted the sling. Éowyn led him to the king’s Hall through corridors wan in the morning’s light.

The woman slowed before the doors to the Hall. She peered at Legolas curiously, then looked him over as if judging his appearance. She tugged on a sleeve, but it was simply too short. His leggings just reached his ankles, but at least they were without holes. Apparently deeming him acceptable, she wore a strange hint of a smile as the doors opened.

The hall was dim, but Legolas clearly saw a group of people at the opposite end of the hall. They turned to him as one and his breath caught in his throat.

“Legolas!” The hobbits ran for him, and after a moment of shock that froze him still, Legolas grabbed the hobbits and hugged them both with his free arm.

As they grabbed at Legolas, he winced though he laughed as well. “Merry! Pippin! What a wonder to see you! I knew not if you lived or what fate Saruman had left for you,” he said in a voice he was dismayed to hear so rough. “It is a joy to know you are well and whole and together.”

“Actually, we weren’t together until a few hours ago,” Merry said, concern mixing with the joy in his eyes, “but that’s a very long story. You’d best have a seat and a drink were we to begin it.” Legolas smiled, overjoyed to hear hobbits speaking of food and drink.

Aragorn approached with a smile on his face. “It seems the Valar have seen fit to bring us all to Edoras.” He threw a knowing a glance to Gandalf.

“When did you arrive, Legolas?” Merry asked. “How?”

“I arrived with Gandalf last night, many hours after sunset. How that came to be is another long tale.”

“I assure you all,” Gandalf interjected, “I did not keep his presence from you deliberately. I fear I was a bit preoccupied with a Ringwraith and a corrupt wizard.”

Legolas’s brow darkened as he scrutinized Gandalf and his words. “Do you mean to say Saruman is here in Edoras?” he said sharply.

“He is. Our encounter concluded …as it must.”

Legolas was surprised to hear the note of regret in Gandalf’s voice. The elf’s brow furrowed, but he had no interest in deciphering the wizard’s words. “You have seen to them both, then?”

“Yes, yes. Théoden has imprisoned Saruman. He will keep for the moment. The Nazgûl is no more.” Legolas thought it peculiar to imprison a wizard, but for now trusted Gandalf’s judgment. There was clearly more to the story. As the hobbits barraged Legolas with more questions, he kept an ear on Gandalf’s conversation with Éowyn. “He is greatly improved since I left him in your capable hands. I was right to trust you.”

“I am pleased you think so. At times I felt I could do little for him but cover him in bandages.” As he clutched his torso surreptitiously, she added, “I told him that rib was broken, but he would not allow me to wrap it!”

“You have wrapped my entire body in gauze,” Legolas answered, turning from the hobbits. “I beg you leave some part for me to see my skin!”

Éowyn looked at Gandalf with an impatient look. “He may have survived the torment of Orcs, but he will not live much longer if he must remain in the infirmary.”

Gandalf grinned. “I would expect nothing less. Had he been compliant and obedient, I would have feared the elf was near death.” Legolas shot Gandalf a scowl, but the wizard avoided his eyes. “And if I may ask, where did you find a tunic and leggings that would fit an elf?”

She smiled. “My brother was gracious enough to lend them. His raiment does quite fine, I think, for his is rather tall. Now, after clothing, feeding, and tending to Legolas’s wounds as best as I am able, I fear I can do nothing more for him.”

“You may bring me food, Lady Éowyn,” the elf interrupted again with a smile. “As you have done. I told you, food is all I truly need to heal.”

Pippin looked to Merry. “He has become a hobbit.” Legolas laughed, and it seemed an age had passed since he had last felt such joy.

“It is a wonder to know you are alive and well, nearly well, that is,” Merry added.

“I am nearly well, Merry. I am most greatly improved by seeing all of you.” And with that he rose to greet his taller friends.

Gimli and Aragorn approached him more cautiously than the hobbits. Their critical eyes raked over Legolas, and he knew his many wounds, his pallor, and gaunt appearance would not go unnoticed. But, unbeknownst to Legolas, the deepest wound was plain to see for those who looked in his haunted eyes.

Gimli stood, mouth opening then closing, hands fiddling with his beard nervously, a strange expression on his face. Legolas was curious, for he had never seen the dwarf in such a state. Nevertheless, relief flooded him at the sight of his friend. “Bless the Valar, you survived.” But Gimli remained silent, and something in his nervousness stayed Legolas’s feet, for he could not go to him.

Aragorn stepped into the awkwardness. “My friend, my heart is greatly eased to know you live, though it is pained to see proof of all that you suffered.” Legolas regretted that so many bandages were so easily visible. “But you have improved, I hear, under the Lady Éowyn’s care.” Legolas’s expression softened and Aragorn smiled. “I only hope you did not drive her from her role as healer forever.”

Now Legolas grinned. “I did my best.” He did not look at Éowyn, but thought he might pay for the comment later.

Aragorn took a step closer and touched a hand to Legolas’s loose hair, a smile quirking at his lips. “And what is this? No braids?”

Legolas’s grey eyes grew dark. He raised his right hand, displaying his splinted his fingers. “I cannot braid my hair,” he said flatly. “I am simply satisfied my hair is clean.” Aragorn nodded silently, looking abashed.

Whispering beside him irked Legolas, but he turned to see Merry and Gimli smiling, clearly scheming. Then Gandalf smiled and nodded to a guard, who went to the king sitting at his throne. Legolas frowned.

“Come, Legolas, ought you not pay your respects to the king?” Gandalf said.

“Of course, Gandalf.” Legolas walked as smoothly as he was able, under the eye of all, the length of the hall to the throne.

“Greetings, King Théoden of Rohan,” he said with a low bow. “I apologize for tarrying to the throne. Truly, I am honored by this audience, and by the hospitality of the Rohirrim, as well as the care your healers have shown. The Rohirrim are a fine people.”

The King smiled. “I thank you for your noble words. No harm done in your tarrying. Such a reunion of friends is a rare sight. It warms the heart. I was informed there was an elf in our midst, but I fear that is all I know of you.”

“Forgive me, lord. I am Legolas Greenleaf, of the realm of Greenwood the Great, known to many as Mirkwood, ruled by King Thranduil.”

“Like your friends, you have traveled far from home.”

“Yes, we all have.”

“I am pleased to say I – we – have something for you, as I understand it.” He glanced at Gimli, who with Gandalf had come to stand beside the king. Aragorn, the hobbits, and Éowyn stood quietly behind Legolas, who turned to Gimli.

Gimli grinned mischievously then sobered suddenly as he stepped forward, clearing his throat and grasping his hands. “Legolas,” he began, with great weight in the name. He was silent a moment before starting again. “Some losses are unrecoverable, and some are returned as gifts.” With that, the guard turned from the throne holding what Legolas had never dreamed of seeing again.

Legolas stood as still as stone. As the guard passed the bow to Gandalf, Legolas’s eyes followed the weapon, growing wider as it neared. When he did not take it from Gandalf, Gimli prompted, “It is yours, Legolas, and it is real, you have my word.”

Legolas’s left hand drew out slowly to grasp the bow. He then freed his right hand from the sling to run his splinted fingers along the weapon. His mouth hung open as he peered at the bow, inspecting every inch and every rune. “My bow,” he whispered. “I thought it lost.” He caressed it reverently and felt a part of himself no healer could touch begin to heal.

“It is truly by chance that this weapon has returned to you,” Merry said. “While Gimli and I made our way to Edoras, we came across scouts returning from far across the land of Rohan. Actually, they came across us, and it was good, for without them, I don’t know if we would have made it here at all. But as they were about to return to Edoras with us on their horses’ backs as new baggage, Gimli spied the bow poking out from one of the scout’s packs. There is no bow such as this, I know you’ll agree, and as soon as Gimli saw it, he questioned the scout. The man said he found the weapon in a field, where there seemed to have been a scuffle, leagues and leagues away. Aragorn’s sword was close by. They must have lain just where you had been captured all this time. And to think, those who found them were the very scouts of Rohan who would return them to Edoras where you would soon arrive!” Merry finished with a smile.

“And bless the Valar for it! This gift brings me more joy than I can express, Meriadoc Brandybuck. But I will say I feel still more joy to see you.”

Gimli came forth then, playing nervously with his beard again. Then he looked up at Legolas intensely, clearing his throat. “I am more gratified and gladdened than you can ever know,” he said quietly, “to see you here in Edoras, free of the Orcs. But, I – I must beg your forgiveness.” At his words, Merry came to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder. Gimli looked at Merry, something passed between them unfathomable even to Legolas. The elf’s senses prickled. Gimli continued. “Merry found me in Orthanc, by chance loose from my chains after they had given me water, and so we were able to find our way out of the Tower, climbing up a vent, of all things!” His left hand gripped tightly around his bow, Legolas was motionless, unable to take his eyes from Gimli as he spoke, his face suddenly taut, heedless of the rising tension in the room. “Once we knew we had found a passage that might lead out, we began to go back to retrieve you, but Saruman had come down to the Pits. He was speaking to the Orcs. We could not return! We had to go on–” Gimli swallowed, “– without you. I – I pray that one day you can forgive me for that.” Gimli looked up then, eyes pleading.

Legolas listened to Gimli’s words, but found himself drawn back to the Tower, envisioning their escape. With his broken hand, Legolas could not have climbed out of the vent. It was possible that by that time, he was also too weak, he had to admit. How Gimli had accomplished the same he knew not – perhaps dwarves were indeed the superior race. But Legolas had been chained to a wall. There had been no way to free him without losing their chance at freedom. Nevertheless, however long he mused over it, he could not shake the sense of having been left behind. Though he had prayed for Gimli’s freedom and well being, once out of his chains and making his own escape, he had longed for his friend’s presence, if only for the comfort he might provide. Legolas’s feeling of abandonment had nothing to do with his reason or wits. His heart longed for assurance that his friends would have done anything to free him. Without explanation he could fathom, Gimli’s words were not enough.

Legolas had not realized Gimli had finished speaking, and silence filled the room. His expression did not change, his posture moved not a hair. All seemed to wait for his response. Only, he had none. A long silence followed, in which was heard only Gimli’s shuffling.

Finally, Legolas managed, “I understand,” but he was unable to put any sincerity into the words.

Gimli stood before him, eyes clasped shut, denied the forgiveness he sought. Merry’s hand grasped one friend’s shoulder as the hobbit looked bewildered at the other. Legolas tried to find within him what Gimli asked of him, but he found nothing.

“Legolas, you should return to the infirmary to rest,” Éowyn said suddenly. Legolas had forgotten her presence, but was suddenly glad for it. “You have been out of bed quite long enough. And I will see about having another meal brought for you.”

Still ill at ease, Legolas felt himself began to relax as he looked at her. He nodded. “I am yet weary.” He turned from his friends, clutching his recovered bow, and left the Golden Hall with Lady Éowyn.

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 18: Going Forth

“Now that much business has been seen to,” King Théoden said, “perhaps we may now move on to our morning meal and eventually to the minor business of preparing for war?” He sat once more at his throne, which shone dully in the morning’s light streaming in from the high windows. Gimli wished to get to the business of war as well and hoped it would provide distraction from his misery.

“My lord,” a guard announced as he entered the hall. “We have visitors.”

“Visitors?” Lord Théoden said testily.

“Aye, my lord,” the guard said hesitantly. “A small group awaits speech with the king.” Gimli was irked by the additional delay. The king might decide to send the rest of them to the meal, while he and Gandalf discussed the approach of Mordor. Gimli would then hear nothing of battle plans.

Lord Théoden cast an accusatory look at the wizard beside him. “Are you quite sure, Gandalf, that you have woken me from Saruman’s spell, or have you put me under a spell of your own? Hobbits, dwarves, and Elves reside under my roof, as well as the fabled heir of Isildur. What legend shall walk forth next?”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Be wary with your words, lord. All legends need not be pleasant ones.”

The guard returned to the hall, prepared to announce the visitors. Lord Théoden glanced again at Gandalf, who held up a hand. “I harbor no other legends, my lord.”

Théoden turned to the guard. “Do our most recent visitors have names?”

“They call themselves the sons of Elrond, my lord, and they ride with Rangers from the North under one named Halbarad.”

Gimli was startled when beside him Aragorn let out a roaring laugh. “Halbarad!” Clearly the Rangers were well known to each other. But Gimli could only wonder what would bring the sons of Elrond to Rohan. Could fortune be returning to them? Or did they come bearing ill news?

The king gave Gandalf a pointed look. “Send them in.”

Aragorn was already at the door and grasped Halbarad fiercely in his arms as he entered. “I cannot express the joy the sight of you brings me!” He hugged the man again, and Gimli could see the man was somewhat surprised at the eagerness of Aragorn’s welcome.

Aragorn did the same with the two who followed, whom Aragorn referred to as Elrohir and Elladan. Gimli had met Elrond’s sons once while in Rivendell. They looked so like elves, as their father did, that Gimli did not quite believe Aragorn’s explanation that they were only half elven. By the emotion Aragorn showed upon seeing the three, Gimli reasoned they must be dear friends to him.

The warmth among them twisted Gimli’s gut, and only served to remind him of the cold departure of Legolas. He could not remove his thoughts far from the elf, who had turned from him after he had begged for forgiveness. Despite what he had done, he had come to know Legolas as a merciful creature, and he had not truly expected rejection. He had been foolish in that. He had betrayed his friend greatly; he had seen the betrayal in the elf’s eyes. He should have expected no more.

“I would know what brings you here, though you are not unwanted.” Aragorn’s voice broke into Gimli’s thoughts.

“Brother, did we not teach you better manners?” one of the elves said to Aragorn, and Gimli wondered how an elf would come to consider a man as family. “Should we not first greet the Lord of Rohan before having speech with you?”

Aragorn had the good grace to look sheepish. “Come, come,” he said, and led the way to Lord Théoden. The three bowed before him and introduced themselves.

“We have traveled in haste on the summons of our chief,” said Halbarad, glancing at Aragorn, who in turn looked confused. “Signs pointed to Rohan when we sought him out, and I am gratified to find him here. The sons of Elrond carry a message for him as well.”

Lord Théoden looked to Aragorn, but Aragorn clearly had no explanation. “I never summoned you,” he said hesitantly, “though your aid would have been a boon in recent days. I – I could not have summoned you,” Aragorn added quietly, and Gimli saw him steal a look at Pippin, who stood with his cousin and Gimli to the side of the newcomers.

The Dúnadan Halbarad frowned, but whatever thoughts went with the expression passed. “We are here now, thirty that I could muster, ready to give our aid.”

“Thirty?” Aragorn looked to the king. “As I said, you are not unwanted.” He looked then to the sons of Elrond. “We will speak of our need for you soon, but first I would hear this message you carry for me.”

The two looked exactly the same, so Gimli knew not who spoke. “My father has sent us to give this message: Bid Aragorn remember the words of the seer, and the Paths of the Dead.”

“The Paths of the Dead!” cried King Théoden. “None speaks of them save in utter need. And none passes through them and sees the light of day again. In truth, no living man may pass through the Gate of Dunharrow. Your recent days have been trying, I am certain, Aragorn. But the Paths of the Dead are for no man.”

Aragorn looked silently from his messengers to the king and back, clearly contemplating the tidings. “Perhaps it is for me to cross the Gate, for thus were the words of the seer.”

“I know not any who sees past the Gate of Dunharrow. What were the words of this one with such sight?”

Aragorn turned to the king now. “Thus spoke Malbeth the Seer, in the days of Arvedui, last king at Fornost:

Over the land there lies a long shadow,

westward reaching wings of darkness.

The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings

doom approaches. The Dead awaken;

for the hour is come for the oathbreakers:

at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again

and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.

Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them

from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?

The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.

From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:

he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.”

All were silent as they pondered the words.

“Kings, heirs, and broken oaths,” Lord Théoden said slowly. “These oaths were made to the Kings of old, your ancestors, yes?”

“Aye.”

“You speak of waking the Men of Dunharrow, the Sleepless Dead, do you not?”

“I do.”

Théoden sat back, silent as he considered all this implied. “Dark is the doom of the heir of Isildur,” declared Lord Théoden. Aragorn bowed and was silent.

Gimli ached for Aragorn, for he knew that his ordeal was not over. But he grew impatient with how Aragorn seemed to follow the smoke whichever way it blew. Did he not realize where there was smoke, there was fire? What Gimli could make out of the recited staves declared that the oathbreakers – were they these Sleepless Dead? – would be awoken to fulfill an oath. What were clear were the references to Aragorn, for who else could be the heir from the North? But what purpose did this serve?

Halbarad spoke, his voice full of warning. “Aragorn, the Shadow spreads. Time grows short.”

“Aye, it does. Sauron has sent soldiers into Rohan, and soon he turns to Gondor, if he has not already. Saruman aimed not only to deceive Théoden, but Sauron as well. His fury will be great. Mayhap it is the hour of which the seer spoke, and I must awaken this army and demand it fulfill its oath. Long enough have they waited to find their peace.” Aragorn’s words answered one question for Gimli. These Dead he would awaken were an army. Aragorn turned to Théoden. “Though I would regret not fighting beside the Rohirrim, I must consider the words of Elrond and the seer.”

Théoden looked intently at him. “If it is your path, Lord Aragorn, I will regret your absence as well.” Then he looked once more at the newcomers. “It seems the discussion that awaits us grows ever longer and heavier. Yet I would not have our visitors question our hospitality. I would be remiss if I did not invite you to join us at our morning meal.”

“I thank you, lord. Your hospitality is much appreciated and shall not be forgotten,” one of the elves answered, and the three bowed their heads in thanks.

“Yes, we should not delay the meal much longer,” Aragorn said, a smile playing on his lips. “The hobbits no doubt grow hungry.”

A guard led Aragorn, the sons of Elrond, and Halbarad from the Hall, Gimli and the hobbits trailing, while Gandalf remained to speak with the king.

Gimli forced himself to wait until they had left the hall before speaking his mind with Aragorn, but Halbarad spoke first. “There are grave matters to attend to, Aragorn. Should we not see to them before indulging in a meal?” He glanced at the hobbits behind them. “Ah, yes, the hobbits – there will be no forgoing of meals with hobbits in tow,” he said with a grin.

Aragorn smiled wanly. “Food has been scarce of late for all. Such dearth would have proved a great hardship for a people so accustomed to frequent repasts. I doubt they have yet had their fill.”

Halbarad frowned at Aragorn as he took in the meaning behind his words. Gimli saw new questions forming on the man’s mouth, which he doubted Aragorn yet cared to answer. The dwarf had just the distraction. “Aragorn, I must say, I cannot claim to know the meaning behind all the words of the seer, but it was said that need would drive you on this task – I speak of you, for the seer spoke of an heir from the North. If there is another, I have not heard the tale. The question that is plain to me is: what need have you for the Dead? Unless they can hold a sword and wield it, what help can they be to you?”

Aragorn gave a small smile as they followed the guard through the halls of Meduseld. “Gimli, I know not the aid they will provide, but Elrond has sent this message. His foresight reaches far. Perhaps in the doing, I shall see the reason and the aid. I trust him, and so mayhap I shall follow his counsel.”

Gimli was frustrated by the man’s impracticality. He was reluctant to raise the question of his health, but it was the only weapon left in his arsenal. “Are – are you certain you are well enough to strike this path? After the last fortnight–”

Aragorn’s smile grew rueful. “I best be well enough, Gimli, for time waits not for us.”

“Well enough?” one of the twins said, from the other side of Aragorn, as they entered a small hall set for dining. “What has befallen you? Does it explain your haggard appearance?”

Aragorn looked at him with an expression Gimli could not fathom. “Our recent days have been… trying,” he said evenly, then took a deep breath, as if deciding how much to say. “We have …battled Orcs, and …contended with Saruman–”

“Great struggles, to be sure, but nothing you have not before accomplished. You have dealt death to many an Orc, brother. You have faced any number of powerful foes and dispensed your judgment.”

“What he means to say,” the other elf finished for his brother, “is that you do not yet explain why you appear as meat that has been pounded by a troll.” The elf, or half-elf, had the nerve to smirk, and Gimli looked at Aragorn to see if he would allow such insolence.

But Aragorn was silent. Gimli soon saw that he was fiercely attempting to reign in his impatience, or anger, or both, as his eyes widened and his mouth tightened. Slowly, as if the words were drawn from him, he said quietly, “We were captured by Orcs–”

“You were captured by Orcs?” the first twin asked, incredulous, as Gimli seated himself between the hobbits across the table, and kept a close eye on the Big Folk.

The twins looked at one another, and Gimli did not miss the concern behind the disapproval. One of them sought to hide his unease behind false levity, but the grin faded from his face as he asked, “Was not the burden of the Ringbearer’s safety enough for you? Did you seek more excitement on the road?”

The other twin’s countenance grew dark, his brows deeply furrowed. He stood taught and still before his chair. Quietly, he asked, “Have all the lessons we took such pains to impart while on patrol fled your mind? Such as not teasing the Orcs before you kill them?”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the sons of Elrond. In a scorn-laden voice, he gave each word its emphasis, “They shot an arrow into my leg,” and gestured to the wound. “We were marched across Rohan to Isengard. From there, Saruman brought Pippin and myself to Edoras.”

“You simply went with Saruman–” Halbarad joined in the questioning, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“This is the shortened version of a long tale!” Aragorn said through clenched teeth.

“We were forced here under threat of death!” Pippin said suddenly, rising to his knees on his chair next to Gimli. Indignation plain in the scowl on his face, he had clearly taken offense to the implications made of Aragorn’s weakness. “Strider did his best in the hands of Saruman. Any other man would not have survived!”

Halbarad looked at Pippin with an expression Gimli could not decipher, then returned his gaze to Aragorn. “I see there are long tales to be told by all.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, averting his eyes from the other Ranger.

“There are indeed,” said Gandalf as he entered the room with King Théoden. The wizard took a seat next to the head of the table, where the king sat. “I yet await the full telling of Merry and Gimli’s climb out of Orthanc.”

“Climb out of Orthanc?” Halbarad said, eyebrows rising as he looked again at the three already seated. He clearly knew not to whom Gandalf referred, but his eyes showed the high esteem he held for the claimers of this deed. Gimli carefully held his expression neutral; he would give no answers yet.

“What of Legolas? And Boromir? And the other two hobbits?” one of the twins asked.

Aragorn’s indecision was clear as he looked at Gimli, then the hobbits, and then Gandalf. How could he tell briefly all that had passed? “As hobbits say, this tale is best told over a meal. Too much has come to pass to give a brief accounting.”

“Will you not tell us if they live?” he asked, losing his humorous demeanor.

Aragorn sighed. “For now let me say that Legolas is here in Edoras. He returned to the Infirmary shortly before you met with the king. Boromir,” he continued before they could ask more questions, “was slain on the banks of the Anduin, where the Orcs first attacked us,” he said quietly.

After a moment of silence for the man, the other twin asked quietly, fear tingeing his voice, “and the other hobbits, Frodo, and his servant Sam?”

“It appears they went on to Mordor. They slipped away in the melee of the attack.”

The three sighed in relief, obviously aware of Frodo’s importance. “You clearly have much more to tell us, young brother. And the table is set, so we now have the meal and drink hobbits demand while telling tales.” He turned to Pippin and smiled, but the hobbit remained wary.

“But I understand Gimli’s concern better now,” the other son of Elrond said. “I hope you are well enough for the dangers ahead.”

“Do not fear, Elladan,” Aragorn insisted.

Merry looked at Gimli with new concern, as Aragorn continued to assert his well being, and said quietly, “Perhaps you should visit the infirmary, Gimli. You were captive right beside Legolas, after all. Even Strider has had his wounds tended.”

“I am not in need of the infirmary, Merry,” Gimli said tiredly, having warded off the hobbit’s concerns while they sat below in the jail. He was aware that the sharp ears round the table had not missed Merry’s quiet prodding. “The truth is the Orcs were given orders not to kill us. They knew little regarding dwarves and treated me as they would a man, that is, easily killed. Therefore, I was not as terribly injured as I expected to be. Even so, I was not fed, and received water only that once before you found me. So, in the main, I need to eat!

“But they knew much of Elves. Most important to them was that Elves are difficult to kill. They did not concern themselves overmuch with their treatment of Legolas, because they knew he would live, as long as they did not injure him too grievously. There was much they could do to him. And he was given neither food nor water. So his body is in poor state as well. I can only hope the Lady Éowyn feeds him well.”

After a moment of silence in contemplation of Orcs, Merry apparently decided he would rather think of food. “Well then, if you need to eat, let’s feed you then. Talking won’t fill your stomach!”

(o)(o)(o)

King Théoden rose from his chair at the head of the great dining table, until moments ago laden with such heapings of food, Pippin had barely contained himself. The meal had begun once the king had joined them in the dining hall, a room smaller than the Golden Hall, and plainer, with less tapestry and carvings on the walls. But what designs they had were no less fine than that which graced the King’s Hall.

They were at last to have their talk of battle now that the meal was eaten. “Lord Aragorn has his path to decide. We, the Rohirrim, have ours. For though the Ents have seen to the Orcs that marched from Isengard, we yet have Orcs from Mordor to fight. Although my mind was bespelled by Saruman, I do recall giving orders to Éomer to prepare for battle.” He glanced at Gandalf on his right, and Pippin thought he looked uncertain.

“I fear I was not present at the time, lord. I cannot tell you what plans you have made.”

“I was present,” Strider said from Gandalf’s other side, but he hesitated. “I believe you ordered Éomer to prepare to fight beside the uruk-hai of Saruman. But I cannot say for certain.” Pippin wished to assure Aragorn that he remembered rightly, but he would not interrupt the king.

“With those orders, they would prepare for a battle to be fought with an army larger than our own. Now we face Mordor alone.”

“Your men should know as well that they fight for you, not for Saruman,” Gandalf said.

“Rohan’s army is no match for the forces of Mordor,” King Théoden said with a scowl. “But there is no time to call to Gondor for aid. And we have good reason to believe Sauron will soon send a force upon them as well. They may not be in a position to come to our aid if there were time.” Lord Théoden stopped then and closed his eyes, as if at a loss for ideas.

Pippin realized there was a misunderstanding among the Big Folk. They misjudged the plans Saruman had made. With so many formidable people present, he hesitated to speak, but he knew this was important. He sat up straighter in his chair and looked to the front of the table. “Gandalf?”

The wizard, sitting beside the king, turned at the hobbit’s question. “Pippin, now is not the time–”

“But, Gandalf–”

“Pippin, we can discuss it later, I assure you,” he said sternly.

Pippin frowned. Gandalf dismissed him as if he had nothing useful to say, as he had done many times before. But before was… different. So much had changed. He had changed. And he knew when his words were worth interrupting the king. He took a deep breath. “No, Gandalf, we cannot discuss it later,” he answered with a sternness that surprised even himself.

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose to new heights. Pippin raised himself on his knees and tried to ignore all who watched him, especially the newcomers. He bowed his head to the king. “King Théoden, I am Peregrin Took of the Shire and cousin to Merry. I apologize for my interruption. But there is something you ought to know. It is not all of Mordor that comes to Edoras.”

There was silence around the table.

“How do you know this, Pippin?” Gandalf said warily.

Suddenly, the attention, and especially the scrutiny, of the Big Folk was too much for him. Why did he think he should speak in the first place? “I – I heard Saruman…”

“You heard him? When?”

Strider spoke up, to Pippin’s relief. “Gandalf, Pippin is perhaps our best source of information at the moment.” Before offering a brief, private smile of assurance to Pippin, he turned to the king. “He was kept as Saruman’s vassal while we were imprisoned. I imagine he heard most of his plans,” he said, turning to Pippin for confirmation.

“Yes, I have. All of them, or nearly so.” Now they all looked at Pippin with new interest. He focused on King Théoden, whose attention seemed least intimidating.

“My apologies, Pippin,” Gandalf said. “You have a great deal to tell us.”

“Yes, beginning with the army from Mordor,” King Théoden insisted. “You say it is not all of Mordor?”

“Well, that was not my impression. Saruman used a word… contingent? I though it meant a part of the army, the way he used it.”

“Precisely,” Gandalf said, smiling. “So, then only a contingent of Mordor’s army approaches. We have no way of knowing the size of this contingent – eh, do we, Pippin?” The hobbit shrugged. “So we will have to make a battle plan–”

“With one meager army,” Théoden finished, looking at Strider. Pippin remembered Strider using the phrase when they had first met with the king. The king’s memories must have fully returned. King Théoden turned to one of the guards who had accompanied him. “I must speak with Éomer at once.” He narrowed his eyes. “Tell him nothing more.”

The guard smiled. “As you wish, my lord King,” he said loudly.

“Pippin,” Gandalf said, “Is there any more regarding the force from Mordor that you feel we ought to know now? We will talk on all the rest soon, but now we must plan for Rohan to meet this army. Is there aught else you recall of Saruman’s plans?”

Pippin closed his eyes. “Well,” he said reluctantly, “only that this army is coming…” he glanced at Strider, “to collect Strider.” All eyes were on Pippin – including Strider’s. “I can’t be sure Saruman was going to go through with it, Gandalf. He was trying to double-cross everyone. Even Sauron, it seems. Sauron had demanded that Saruman bring Strider to him. That is why Sauron sent this force in the first place. But then Saruman began talking of fighting the army, so he might not have planned to hand him over. Perhaps he thought to do so if he could not put Strider under his spell completely.”

Strider’s face grew hard, and Pippin wished he did not have to say these things.

“Sauron sent this army to collect Strider,” Gandalf said thoughtfully. “Do you remember any of the precise words Saruman might have used? We are trying to grasp a sense of the size of this army. What you say now makes me think it might be quite small.”

Pippin frowned, but shook his head. “I am sorry, Gandalf. I don’t remember anything else, not about the size.”

“Then, with what little information we have,” Gandalf said, turning to the king, “I believe that we have a chance with your army.”

King Théoden nodded. “The news that the men fight unaided will be welcome to some, as they were loath to fight beside Orcs, but their numbers will be smaller nonetheless, and that is never welcome news. Despite this, knowing that Saruman no longer has final word in Rohan may strengthen their resolve.”

“Pippin,” Strider suddenly asked. “Why did you say that: ‘not about the size’? Is there something we have overlooked?”

Pippin frowned. “I meant I hadn’t heard mention of anything about the size.” He looked at Strider with confusion.

“But you have heard mention of much more, I am sure. Is there aught that struck you as odd or significant, or a word perhaps niggling at the back of your mind?”

“I was only thinking about Saruman’s plans. And Sauron, frankly. Saruman had talked of taking you and King Théoden to lead an army to Gondor. It seems he thought to make the Steward of Gondor feel he could not refuse him, when Mordor was on its way.” Pippin frowned. “He always said Sauron was coming to Gondor, but never why. I think he knew he was going to make Sauron angry with whatever he did in Rohan, and Sauron would really be coming for him. I think he was going to try to double-cross Sauron. I am not sure that helps you at all.”

Ranger, wizard, and king looked at Pippin for a long moment, a gleam of high esteem in their eyes, and Pippin finally felt relieved for having spoken. “At the very least, this confirms much of what we already suspected. And that is a great help.” Gandalf said. “You have done very well, Pippin. There is more to eat, if you like. You have certainly earned it.” Pippin grinned broadly as he grabbed another piece of bread.

Strider turned to Pippin. “Well done, Peregrin.” The hobbit didn’t know what to say in return, though he welcomed the words, so he offered only a small smile.

On Pippin’s right, a hand patted his. “Nicely done.” Gimli looked at him proudly. “It is gratifying to see the Big Folk reminded that the little folk have words worthy to hear.” Beyond the dwarf, Merry looked on proudly with a wide grin.

As Pippin chewed, he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching. In a moment, the king’s nephew – why the Rohirrim said ‘sister-son’ instead Pippin couldn’t fathom – Éomer strode into the hall wearing a stern expression Pippin thought was meant to hide curiosity and worry. The man slowed as he neared the king at the head of the table, clearly sensing a difference from the man he had seen at their last meeting. His eyebrows rose and his lips parted as he saw the clarity in his uncle’s eyes. Speechless for a moment, he finally whispered, “Uncle.” The stern expression fell away and hope and wonder took its place for a rare moment. The familiarity must have been improper even for the king’s kin, for he quickly added, “my lord,” and bowed, but even then he could not tear his eyes from his restored uncle.

Théoden rose slowly, smiling. “Éomer, sister-son, yes. Saruman has been dispelled from my court and my mind. I am once more your uncle and your King.” He strode to him and clasped his shoulders while Éomer beamed. Pippin shared the man’s glee, for he was immeasurably pleased to be rid of the wizard himself.

“How?”

“Ah, there will be time for that. There is much you should know, but I feel the story belongs to Gandalf.” He looked back to the wizard who had remained at the table.

Gandalf came forth, nodding to King Théoden. “Éomer, it is gratifying to see your joy in seeing your King returned. Long had he been held under a spell of Saruman and so you may be gratified as well to learn that Saruman shall wield spells no more.”

“That is indeed great tidings, Gandalf. No longer can they say you are only the bearer of ill news.” Éomer sobered. “What of his army of Orcs? When they do not receive his command, might they not attack?”

“Saruman’s Orcs will be attacking no one. That tale is longer than the time we have. But be wary of the new woods you will find to the northwest of Edoras. It would be safer not to enter it.”

“New woods? To the …northwest?” Pippin saw his confusion and wondered what he would think of the story of Ents Gandalf had quickly related to them. He contemplated what a forest striding across the plains would look like.

“Éomer,” Théoden interrupted, “as Gandalf has said, it is too long a story, one you will have difficulty believing regardless. There are more pressing concerns.”

“Yes, my lord,” Éomer said reluctantly. “The Orcs are gone then. The army from Mordor – it yet approaches, does it not?”

Gandalf nodded. “That problem has not been eliminated, I fear. But what our dear friend, Pippin, has told us has made an important difference: he has the impression from Saruman’s words that the army is merely a contingent. We have concluded that Sauron has not sent the whole of his forces against you. It may be possible to defeat them with what forces you have.” Pippin sat up straighter at the mention of his name and hoped he would not be questioned as he was before.

Éomer looked from Gandalf to Pippin. “You say this servant that came trailing in with Saruman is your friend?” Pippin realized the man had not seen him since they had first arrived, when he was still tied to Saruman’s side. What must he think of him?

“Pippin was forced in to the service of Saruman when he was taken prisoner by Orcs. In that position he learned a great deal of Saruman’s plans for Rohan and I imagine beyond,” Gandalf assured Éomer. “He will share with us as much as he can remember of what he learned. For now, we have focused on the Orcs that approach Edoras.”

Éomer looked closely at Pippin, and the hobbit tried not to squirm beneath his scrutiny. The man looked as if he wished to ask a question, but kept it to himself.

“Éomer?” Éomer tore his eyes from Pippin to turn to Gandalf. “Have you not met a hobbit before?”

“A hobbit?” Éomer’s brow wrinkled with further confusion.

“Yes, a hobbit. Others might refer to them as halflings, and the Rohirrim seem to have for them the name holbytlan.”

“A holbytla? The folk from the children’s tales? Gandalf, surely this is no time for jest.”

“No, no time for jesting, but time for Rohan to awaken to the outer world around them, perhaps. Pippin is not a child, as you might have assumed. He is a hobbit, as is his cousin, Merry.”

Pippin appreciated Gandalf’s efforts at clearing up the misunderstanding, but thought Éomer needed further explanation as to who he was. “Yes, we call ourselves hobbits, and I’m nearly a fully grown hobbit, thank you. My coming of age is in less than five years time, when I’ll turn thirty-three.”

Éomer looked upon him with wonder and then laughed. “And from this little one comes such important news as to change our battle plans. And more of it you have, you say?”

“Yes, sir. I was always near Saruman, but he often paid me no heed, so he did not hide from me his plans.”

“Well, may I never make the same mistake. Hobbits are small, I see, but wise as well.”

“You already learn the first lesson on hobbits,” Gandalf said with a smile. “There is much to learn of hobbits – and from them,” he added, “but that is for another time. Most important now is relaying to you that the Orcs are no more, and so only the Rohirrim will fight the force from Mordor.”

“But you now believe the approaching force to be smaller than previously thought; is this correct, my lord?”

“Precisely,” King Théoden said. “You must now adjust your plans for battle accordingly.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Éomer looked about the room then, taking in the two hobbits across the table. Pippin noted the flicker of emotions that passed through his eyes as they fell upon the dwarf among them. Much more filled his eyes as he saw the sons of Elrond and the Rangers. Pippin wondered if he would also assume Strider was a servant of Saruman, as he was when he had last seen him.

“It must be said, Gandalf, your friends are many and varied,” the man finally said.

“Indeed they are, and for that I am blessed. We have with us, in addition to the hobbits Merry and Pippin, Gimli, son of Gloín, from the Lonely Mountain. Halbarad, who brought thirty Rangers from the North, arrived this very morning with Elrohir and Elladan, who rode from Rivendell with a message from their father Elrond for none other than Aragorn.”

Éomer took all this in with another sweep of the table before his eyes came to rest on Strider. “You stood with Saruman when you arrived in Edoras, and met with Lord Théoden, did you not?” His voice barely held back the accusation in the question.

“I did,” Strider said, and nothing more.

“You said you would fight for Saruman, and that we had no choice but to do the same. Are you now of a different mind?”

“Aye.” A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “I am indeed of a different mind,” he said quietly. He looked up then to face Éomer. “I do not fight for Saruman.” When Éomer’s eyes narrowed in doubt, he added, “With Gandalf’s aid, I am free from the spell under which Saruman held me.”

“You were under his spell as well, then?” Éomer said hesitantly, clearly still harboring distrust of this man whom he saw tied to Saruman.

Strider looked away from Éomer for a moment. “I was. Pippin tried valiantly to keep me from falling to it, but in the end… I was not strong enough.”

“There is no shame in it. Even our King Théoden fell under his spell. If a king cannot best him, what can ordinary men do?”

Pippin glanced at Gandalf, who stepped forward. “Not all Saruman said were lies, Éomer. Aragorn is indeed this man’s name, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and as such, the heir of Isildur and to the throne of Gondor. I suspect this is what made him such a prize in Saruman’s eyes. He is no ordinary man, Éomer. There were likely special circumstances that led him to succumb to Saruman’s spell, or else, Saruman was particularly ruthless and relentless, or possibly both.”

“There were, Gandalf! There were!” Pippin cried out, unable to contain himself. “Saruman would never have gotten Strider, but he was wounded and starved. He – he wasn’t at his strongest.”

“I believe you entirely, Peregrin,” Gandalf said indulgently. He turned again to Éomer. “You no longer have a horde of Orcs to fight for you. But you have many sturdy folk to lend their swords to your cause. All is not lost.”

Before leaving, Éomer took one last look at Strider. Clearly struggling with what he had seen and what he had been told, Pippin recognized the doubt warring with hope on Éomer’s face. As he returned to his warriors, he took his struggle with him.

Once talk of battle had concluded, Gandalf leaned closely to the man beside him. “Aragorn, I would hear more of your story, but before any of it, I would hear of this Stone that you believe is a palantír. I must know this for sure, and I wish to see it, if possible.”

Pippin shivered as his eyes grew wide. He wanted to hear nothing more of that Stone. Strider sighed, wearing a familiar look of dread. “Gandalf, maybe he would rather not speak of it!” Pippin said. “It’s a terrible, awful thing that takes you to frightful places you wish never to return to. But Saruman made him return and return. Don’t make him return once more.”

Gandalf’s eyes bored into him and Pippin’s heart jumped. He hated when Gandalf got that look. It rarely turned out for the good. For him, at least. He glanced at Strider, and the man wore a rather strange expression as well. What had he said? His stomach tightened, chasing away his hunger. The last time he had wondered what he had said wrong, disaster had followed.

Gandalf turned to Strider, and the man looked almost apologetic, though Pippin could hardly imagine why. Gandalf addressed Pippin slowly, using his full name, ever an ill omen for the hobbit. “Peregrin, what do you know of the frightful places to which this Stone takes you?”

Pippin’s mouth dropped. How did Gandalf know? He looked at Strider, who wore a resigned expression. If Strider had not intended to tell Gandalf, he now saw no choice in the matter. Well, Pippin did. “Strider told me every nightmare he saw when Saruman put him on the Stone–”

“Pippin, tell him. It will be all right.”

All right? How could Strider think it would be all right? Gandalf was certain to be angry with him – again. He looked down at his empty plate. Could he ever manage to do – or say – the right thing? Could he ever manage to keep Gandalf from being angry with him? When would he stop making horrid mistakes? “I – I touched the Stone,” he mumbled, but then an urge to defend himself pushed his words out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened! And Strider and Saruman both said that I was drawn to it. So I really didn’t have much say in the matter. Before I knew what had happened, I had done it…” He trailed off, confused when Gandalf hadn’t started to yell at him right off.

Gandalf surprised Pippin by rising and coming round to him, crouching down, and putting a hand on his shoulder. Pippin couldn’t explain the almost sad expression on Gandalf’s face. It wasn’t at all what he had expected. “Do not fret so, Peregrin. No, I am not angry with you, for Aragorn and Saruman were correct. If you touched it without understanding why, rather than for the curiosity of it, then you were indeed drawn to the Stone. And that is cause more for worry than anger.”

“I would never have touched that horrid rock. Strider warned me about it, said never to touch it. But he didn’t have to. I saw – I saw what it did to him. If it could do that to such a man as Strider, then a hobbit has no business with such things.” He shivered again and, to his dismay, felt his throat constrict.

“No, a hobbit has no business with such things. Which is why you had no chance to stop yourself. The Stone was far stronger than you.”

“Tell him what you saw, Pippin.” Strider’s voice was gentle.

Pippin swallowed. He closed his eyes, hating to return to that fiery world inside the Stone. He felt his chest tighten and struggled to take a deep breath. “I saw a man. A man before a window. He didn’t look at all pleasant. And then – he looked at me, as if he saw me!”

“What did this man look like? It is very important to tell us anything you remember.”

“It was dark, so I couldn’t see much. He was not a very old man, but not young. I think he wore a cloak. Em, the cloak might have had some fur around the edge.”

“You said you saw high mountains behind him, through the window, did you not?” Pippin nodded. “I believe those to be the hills of the Ephel Dúath,” Strider said to Gandalf. “And Denethor wears such a cloak.”

Gandalf nodded and stood. “Denethor has taken it upon himself to use the Stone of the White Tower. This complicates matters greatly. Did you say aught to him?”

Pippin mumbled then forced himself to speak up. “I – I told him my name.”

“So, the Steward of Gondor Lord Denethor has laid eyes upon you.”

“Is he – is he evil?”

“No, Peregrin. Denethor is not evil. But he is a force to be reckoned with. And he will know you are a hobbit. I must consider how to attend to this matter. Our next moves must be taken with great care.”

(o)(o)(o)

Chapter 19: Farewell

“Walking trees?”

“Sounds a bit like Old Man Willow, if he remembered he could walk.”

“Imagine such a cranky old fellow walking about.”

“I would rather not.”

“I would not describe Treebeard as ill-natured in the least. It is a pity you could not have met him. I am certain you would have enjoyed each others’ company.”

Seated atop the steps to Meduseld, the hobbits mulled over all that they had learned from Legolas as they digested their second breakfast, which they had been served after a few well-placed hints. The following meal had turned into a veritable feast. Once more in their element, the hobbits had held court, regaling all present with their tales. Now sitting with Legolas, newly released from the infirmary, the hobbits had attempted to draw out every detail of his time in Orthanc and in Fangorn, though he had not been forthcoming enough for their tastes. Gandalf had listened nonchalantly but closely, finding even he knew little of the elf’s tale. The hobbits were no match for Legolas’s cleverness and stubbornness, however, and had learned only what he had cared to share.

Except on the subject of Ents, on which he had endeavored to answer all of the hobbits’ questions patiently and fully. Gandalf had almost admonished Pippin for his rigorous inquiry, but saw that the hobbits had done much to bring Legolas out of his reticence.

However, it seemed some deeper wounds had yet to heal. Gandalf was grieved by the lack of conversation between Legolas and Gimli. Since freeing Gimli of his cuffs and joining the others on the terrace, dwarf had sat beside wizard on the steps, silently observing the sunny plains of Rohan and the approaching dark from the East, while the elf had paid him no heed. The rift made the hobbits nervous, but they were likely at a loss as to what to do, and simply strove to ignore it. Gandalf still had faith the two would approach each other before long. But he would leave this to the two of them – unless they made no move. The loss of their friendship would be a severe blow to the entire Fellowship, fragile as it now was.

The doors to the Great Hall opened then and released Aragorn out onto the terrace. Looking a bit less weary, if not less hungry, the Ranger had opted for sleep over food and had not joined them at their second meal. Now standing at the top of the broad steps, Aragorn stared out into the distance. What he saw he did not share, but the morning surely weighed heavily on his mind. Gandalf wondered whether the last weeks weighed heavier.

“Strider!” Pippin rose to greet the man.

“Strider, you missed a wonderful meal. Aren’t you hungry?”

“You really ought to eat, Strider,” Pippin said with concern, ever the man’s caretaker.

“I found I was more weary than hungry. It was good to sleep and not dream,” he said, with a glance at Pippin.

“I am told you have much to consider regarding your coming days,” Legolas said, rising to join them. “Have you made your decision? Or did you leave that to your dreams?”

Aragorn grew quiet and looked out to the plains once more. “I have made my decision.”

Gandalf was not surprised to hear it. Aragorn was not one to take long to choose his course. That he had not announced his judgment upon hearing the words of the seer might have been of concern in other circumstances. Gandalf reasoned it to be another measure of the man’s weariness. When Gandalf sought Aragorn’s eye, however, he saw more than fatigue. What he found he had not seen there in many years: doubt. If Aragorn harbored doubts over his choice, why proclaim it made?

“You take the Paths of the Dead, do you not?” Gimli said, speaking for the first time. He sounded resigned. He knew full well once Aragorn made his decision he would not be swayed.

“Aye. I will pass through the Gate of Dunharrow with the morrow’s dawn. It was Elrond’s intention that I remember the words of Malbeth, and so there is a reason, even if I cannot see it.

“I believe the time is come to strike a new path from Edoras,” he said, looking at them in turn. “Tomorrow, I call the Sleepless Dead to fulfill their oaths and fight against Sauron. A treacherous path, I agree, but one I must take. We have the need of which the seer spoke.” He looked at his each of his companions. “It is a path of death and fear and so I ask few to accompany me and only if they be willing. But those who be willing, I welcome to ride with me.”

Gimli grumbled. “We do not have the uruk-hai of Saruman to fight for us, so Aragorn turns to the cursed dead.” He looked to Gandalf as he stood and climbed to the top step.

“He follows the wisdom of Elrond. It is not a poor choice,” Gandalf said, wondering what this decision would do to the Company. Gimli clearly disapproved, but Gandalf suspected the dwarf would follow Aragorn in the end. He could not say, however, who of the others might do likewise, though Pippin would be loath to be parted from the Ranger.

“Strider,” Pippin said suddenly, as if hearing the wizard’s thoughts, “I don’t understand all this about Sleeping Dead needing to be woken up, but if it’s so dangerous, can’t you find another way?”

Aragorn smiled ruefully. “Pippin, I cannot say your concern is unwarranted. But I now follow the counsel of Elrond that this is the best way. We may not yet see the path, and so I go by my trust in him.”

Pippin’s mouth puckered. “Well, then, if you insist on going on such a preposterous journey, I will have to go with you. You will not look after yourself properly, I am sure, so I will have to do it for you.”

Gandalf gaped at Pippin, as did Aragorn. The wizard had not expected Pippin’s protective nature to extend so far. The hobbit would not take kindly to Gandalf’s news then.

“Pippin,” Aragorn started, “I am no longer in need of a caretaker. Truly. I am grateful for your concern, but you need not look after me any longer. And this road I take is fraught with peril and death. I would not wish such for you, so soon after the horrors that you have suffered.”

Gandalf cleared his throat as Pippin began his new protest. “It is good that you feel no need of a caretaker, Aragorn, for you will have none on this journey. Pippin cannot travel with you.”

“Gandalf! How can you say such a thing!” Pippin’s shock turned to indignation. “I know best what Strider has suffered. I know better than the healers whether he is fit–”

“Peace, Pippin,” Gandalf said. “I mean no offense. I merely mean to say that you have another journey ahead of you.”

Pippin made to continue his objections, but clearly stopped when his mind caught up with his mouth. “I do? What do you mean, Gandalf?” he asked warily.

“I mean that my new path for the morrow will take me to the city of Minas Tirith,” Gandalf said, glancing at the others. “I must speak with the Lord Denethor immediately, for he is a volatile piece on this board. He will have concerns regarding Rohan and I must assure that he looks to Mordor. I must also assure him that what he saw in the palantír is not a cause for concern. I do not wish him to think we are hiding Pippin’s identity. For he knows of the words read at the Council that speak of a halfling and the Ring.” He took a step toward the hobbit. “He will begin to think more of you, Pippin, than there is to know. And so, you will accompany me to Minas Tirith. Denethor is far more likely to trust me if he sees you as no threat.”

Pippin looked at Gandalf, then Aragorn, then again at Gandalf, for a moment speechless. “Minas Tirith? Is… that very far?”

“It will require a few days journey to reach the city.”

“Couldn’t I meet this Lord Denethor later? I could accompany Strider, then go to Minas Tirith.”

“There is no time, Pippin,” said Gandalf crossly, trying to squelch his impatience with Pippin’s stubbornness. “Besides, the Paths of the Dead are not fit even for Men. I cannot say I would consider it wise for a hobbit to walk that road.”

“Why not?” Merry spoke up now. “We have fought and bested Orcs and goblins, Gandalf. And if Pippin cannot look after Strider, perhaps I can do the looking after for him. That is, if Gimli comes along. I must keep an eye on him, too.” Merry glanced at his cousin before turning back to Gandalf. “But truthfully, my first choice is always at my cousin’s side. If you must take Pippin, might I ride with you as well? It matters not where I go if he and I are together.”

Gandalf scowled. “And where would you ride – on your cousin’s shoulders? Or perhaps in the saddlebags?” He saw then Merry’s sincerity and hope, and his pity softened his face. “You cannot ride with us, Merry. There is only room for two on Shadowfax.” As the hobbit’s hope transformed into a scowl of his own, Gandalf sighed deeply. Hobbits.

While Gandalf sighed, Gimli’s frown, which had appeared with Aragorn’s announcement, now deepened with Merry’s comments. “Merry, I need no looking after! And there is certainly no need for you throw yourself into a new peril, when you have just gotten out of one.”

“And why should you? But if you do go, why should not I go as well?”

Gimli looked exasperated with Merry and grumbled under his breath. Perhaps the dwarf intended to follow Aragorn, as Gandalf had thought he would. He wondered now if Gimli sought a way to discourage Merry from following him, or if he was uncertain in his intentions.

“I yet would counsel an alternative to such a desperate course. But whether I agree with his reasoning or not, should not Aragorn have my axe by his side?”

“Why do you wish to put yourself back in danger so quickly?” Merry frowned deeply. “Did I free you so you could walk into a place no one’s ever come out of?” Gandalf was astonished by the bold comment, but he knew that, as Pippin had with Aragorn, Merry felt a need to protect Gimli.

To Gandalf’s surprise, Gimli laughed, but it was without humor. “Merry, I sincerely appreciate your concern. But we have never truly been out of danger. I am simply deciding what sort of danger I face next. That does not require that you face the same, especially such a path of death.”

“My friends,” Aragorn said, interrupting their argument, “please, you must think of your own fate as well as others. For I would have no one accompany me for misplaced motives.” Aragorn looked to Merry and Pippin. “When I enter the Gate of Dunharrow with the morrow’s dawn, I know not what I shall face nor if I shall see the other side. Were any to follow me, I would have them do so because they believe it is their path, not for the sake of another.” He looked then to Gimli. “I welcome your axe, Gimli, but you must be sure of your choice. We know not what we shall meet on the road.” After a short pause, he added more firmly, “And there shall be no alternative course.” Gimli sighed and frowned in thought.

Merry turned his protest to Aragorn. “You think I should not go. You believe I am too small, that I cannot wield a weapon.”

Aragorn looked at Merry sadly. “No, Merry. I do not doubt your skill. You have proved yourself with the Orcs of Isengard. And you have served the Company well, especially in freeing Gimli. To best serve the Company now, you must consider yourself.” Merry’s brow furrowed, and Aragorn crouched before him. “We each have our part to play, in the Company, in the Quest, in the war that is to come. Think on what should be your part, Merry. What will be your part. You must take the step that is of your path, not that of another.”

A stormy look gathered on Merry’s brow. “And what is my part on this Quest, Aragorn? As extra baggage?”

Aragorn stood, sighing deeply. Gandalf understood that sigh. It was the sound of one trying to win an argument with a hobbit. “You have never been extra baggage, Meriadoc Brandybuck. You must know that. Where would Gimli be without you? But remember this: if my fate is to walk through the Gate of Dunharrow but not to emerge from the mountain, I shall be lost to the Company. Any who walk beside me shall be lost with me. If all those not riding to Minas Tirith walk with me, and are lost to the Paths of the Dead, only Gandalf and Pippin shall remain of the Company, to aid Frodo and Sam in whatever way they may. If you take another path, a path of your own, you shall also remain, for the Company and for Frodo.” Aragorn looked at the lost expression on Merry’s face, but perhaps his patience had reached its limit, for his resolve seemed to harden rather than crumble.

“Merry, in truth, on the morrow I see myself walking through the Gate of Dunharrow, if my foresight has returned to me.” Gandalf frowned at the notion that Aragorn had ever lost his foresight. The Company had indeed suffered much while he was away. The wizard’s heart ached for Frodo and Sam and whatever sufferings they might have encountered. “That is my path,” Aragorn continued, “and I shall trust it. But Merry, I do not see you by my side. I do not believe that is your path.”

Pippin shot a sharp glance to Aragorn, and then to Merry. “You don’t see him with you? Where do you see him?”

“I know not, Pippin.” He returned to Merry. “You have a path and a purpose on this Quest. You may have yet to accomplish your greatest act, Merry. But you must allow the path to unfold, and not dictate your next step by the paths of others, whose fate you may not share.” Merry’s expression became more thoughtful, but he had clearly not yet given up the fight.

Gandalf admired Aragorn’s efforts to help Merry make his own decision, but he felt it took no foresight to see the error in allowing Merry to walk through the Gate at Dunharrow. It was terribly wrong. He wished he could simply say that hobbits did not walk such paths. But Gandalf knew better than to underestimate hobbits. And yet, he could not shake the feeling of wrongness in the notion of a hobbit walking that haunted road. The Ranger might mistrust his foresight, but Gandalf would always trust his own.  

“Don’t you see yourself coming out the other side?” Pippin asked hesitantly, as if urging the man to give him the answer he desired.

“That far I cannot see.”

Then Aragorn turned to Legolas. Gandalf saw doubt return to the Ranger, but likely for new reasons. “I would have you by my side on my journey. But only by your choice can you go.”

The wizard watched Legolas and found another surprise as the elf turned in silence to face the view of Rohan once more. Before Legolas had turned from the man, Gandalf caught a glimpse of fear in his eyes.

In all his long life, Gandalf never thought to see an elf shrink from such a plea. Least of all, Legolas, a proud and seasoned warrior of Greenwood the Great. Gandalf had to admit, while Legolas had healed much, he had yet to regain his former proud and self-assured posture. He thought suddenly of Pippin, nearly standing in his chair as he had stood up to Gandalf at the morning meal. It was one of the most courageous acts he had seen from the hobbit. No, that was unfair. In the past weeks, Pippin, like the others, no doubt had found courage and strength he had not known he had had. The ordeal had changed him, that was clear to Gandalf already. Gone was much of the trepidation he was accustomed to seeing in the young hobbit. And with it likely much of the innocence, he thought, remembering the boldness and determination Pippin had shown in the dining hall. If it had not been entirely impossible, Gandalf would have said that the hobbit had grown. His stature was taller, larger, somehow. Mayhap he had been surrounded by the Big Folk for so long… yes, he held himself as one of the Big Folk. The wizard wondered what sort of welcome the hobbits of the Shire would offer him upon his return. He shook his head. What the elf seemed to have lost, this hobbit seemed to have gained. What sort of days were these when hobbits grew and elves shrunk?

This would not do. Legolas and Gimli would not speak to one another. Such a cleft was devastating enough. Now, as Aragorn declared he would take a course from which no man had emerged in all the history of the Rohirrim, the others argued over accepting the decision. Gimli disagreed with the wisdom of such a path. The hobbits found it an unnecessary risk. Yet these three appeared ready to follow Aragorn in the end. Difficult as it was to believe, it seemed Legolas feared to follow such a path. Not for meeting the dead, Gandalf was certain, for elves had no such fear, so surely Legolas’s fear stemmed from his trials of recent days. He had certainly had had enough of Orcs. And he could not yet wield a bow. Mayhap he feared to meet the Enemy while unable to defend himself.

Far worse than the fear and reluctance among the Fellowship, however, was the doubt he had seen in Aragorn. If the Ranger doubted his own decision, all that followed could go awry.

Gandalf climbed from the steps onto the terrace. Looking over the Company, he found other signs of danger. Fatigue – bone-deep fatigue – in every face, better hidden in some than others. It was an exhaustion of more than the body, from which the doubt and fear grew that was replacing their determination and bravery. Could they have forgotten their first steps from Rivendell and their oaths to see the Quest through to the end, no matter the cost? No, their courage was not lost. It remained within, Gandalf was sure, buried beneath doubt and pain.

Scowling, Gandalf put one hand on his hip, his ever-present staff in the other. Something must be done. The Company was collapsing before him. It was time for some wizard meddling.

As he took another look at each of them in the growing silence, they turned to him one by one. That was better. “In recent days, our feet have traveled different paths in the grass. Each path has had its own rocks and rabbit holes with which to contend–”

Merry scowled. “Rabbit hole? We fell into an Orc-sized hole!”

Gandalf looked at him sternly, but he received only defiance in return. Ah, neither hobbit had been unchanged. “Yes, indeed,” he murmured. “…and with them a measure of suffering for body, mind, and spirit. Yet the paths have led all of us here to Edoras. Because of this, I believe we are meant to continue the task assigned to us in Rivendell.”

Elven eyes darted away. Dwarven hands fumbled with a beard. Hobbit feet shuffled, while the man before him seemed weighed downed by his words. The wizard continued undaunted. “We left Rivendell with the will to see this Quest through, despite any obstacles we might face. There were indeed tremendous obstacles, which Boromir did not survive: capture, imprisonment, and torture by Orcs, and by Saruman as well,” he said with a glance to Aragorn. “But you have survived. Even the smallest among us have shown their strength and valor.

“I see in your faces your weariness and your doubt. You must now find that will within you once more. You must remember not merely your trials but that you have survived them, and you will know you have the strength to go on.” Gandalf looked upon their faces and saw more doubt rather than less. They doubted even him. He sighed, flexing the fingers that gripped his staff. “If those words do not restore you, then think upon this: these trials we have suffered, even Boromir’s death, are for Frodo and Samwise. And all that Aragorn has told me leads me to believe that they yet live. Aragorn and Pippin tell me that Saruman negotiated with Sauron. Hence, Sauron’s attention has been on Isengard. Frodo and Sam make their way to Mordor, passing east of the Anduin, perhaps through the marsh lands that lie between the river and the Black Gate. Sauron has not been looking to the North but rather to the West. All the while you were imprisoned, you ensured Frodo and Sam’s safety a while longer. Not the manner in which you had intended to safeguard the hobbits, but you have nonetheless.

“Sauron sends an army into Rohan, and soon sends more into Gondor. We prepare now to face these. You must go on, by one path or many, but you must go on, for Frodo and Sam’s task likewise is not accomplished. I ask you to find your courage beneath the doubt that has overcome you, and let it feed your will. For we have much to do.” He was silent then, letting the sound of the wind replace his voice.

After a time of silence, Aragorn spoke. “I thank you for your words, Gandalf. Ever has your wisdom served us. I fear its loss led us to our dire straits of the last fortnight.” He paused. “There must come a time when we rely on our own wisdom. Therefore, I must overcome the doubt that plagues me. Such indecision goes against my nature, and so I have faith I shall conquer it. As I draw comfort from this knowledge, my will draws strength.” He offered Gandalf a hint of a smile. “I shall continue.”

Encouraged, Gandalf then peered at Legolas. The elf was unmoving as he looked out on the plains. He turned to Aragorn, and Gandalf longed to know his thoughts. He felt sure Legolas ought to accompany Aragorn, but for the impossible sight of the fear in his eyes. If he refused, Gandalf doubted he could convince them to continue as a Company.

Legolas looked again at Gandalf, still mulling over the wizard’s words. Doubt still warred within, as he strove to come to a decision Gandalf could not discern. The elf attempted a smile, but failed. He continued to look out from the terrace as he began to speak. “While in Orthanc, Orcs did all they could to break me, much that I will not speak of and much that I need not.” Gandalf was careful not to reveal his surprise, for those few words revealed more than all the elf had said to the hobbits. The elf stepped toward them. “Your wisdom might have served me in that pit, Gandalf, but it does not serve me now.” He sighed deeply, turning away as if drawn to the sight of hills and far-off trees. “As you say, I have survived. All of it. And through that, you say, we must find the will to continue. That is where I say you have it wrong.”

Gandalf’s heart sunk. There was an unconscious gasp of breath as the others hung on Legolas’s words. The elf turned to Aragorn. “Gandalf spoke his words because he sensed little will within us to continue this journey. He was not wrong. I have found it difficult to find within myself the strength and more important the surety of will that I may go on. Never before have I doubted myself so,” Legolas murmured, as if to himself, then shook his head as if to shake off the words. He smiled broadly then, as he turned to the hobbits. “Until this morning. Seeing you all hale and whole has been the boon to my heart no healer could offer. Gathering together here on this terrace has made clear what I have lacked and sorely missed in recent days. Even the contentious words shared among us this hour have soothed me and shown me my errors. You see, Gandalf,” he said, facing the wizard now, “I have found the will to continue with the Company not in my survival, where I survived alone, and perhaps despite myself, but because of the Company, in their friendship and love and faithfulness. These continue to heal me more than all the bandages in which Éowyn has wrapped me. Nearly as well as food,” he said with a wink to the hobbits.

He turned then to Gimli, who leaned against the opposite balustrade of the stairs. Gimli stared back with a stiff mouth that could not hide the emotion in his eyes. “Gimli, please forgive me.” Legolas closed his eyes for a moment. “So much to forgive,” he said quietly. “I apologize for my words, or lack of them, when you told the tale of your escape. It was a tale of wonder, but all I could think on was the escape I did not have.” Gimli closed his eyes in regret, and Legolas rushed on. “I could not have come with you, Gimli, even had I been free, do you not see that? I was far too – too weak by then to climb out of such a passage as you did – surely a feat worthy of song. And there was also the matter of my hand.” He held up his splinted hand. “I could not have used this hand to climb. I would have slowed your progress–”

“We would have found a way!” Gimli cried roughly.

“And perhaps lost your chance altogether. Do not begrudge yourself your choices. As events unfolded, I was afforded a meeting with an Ent for the first time. A new sight for an elf is a rare thing.” He became sober once more. “And in that escape by Treebeard, there was a moment for which I must beg your forgiveness. All of you, in truth. Indeed, it was my shame that held my tongue today, even as I saw the folly of my actions. When Treebeard plucked me from the Tower, I told him that I did not know where my friends were. They might have yet been within the Tower, though it seemed that Saruman had taken them when he left. But I could not be certain. Treebeard asked if I wished to return to the Tower, to learn if any of my friends remained. I thought of the Orcs I had only just escaped at Saruman’s balcony, stepping onto Treebeard’s branches.” Legolas swallowed hard, the regret heavy in his voice and his eyes cast to the floor. “I could not bear to return. Even had you remained in the Tower, Gimli, I chose not to return for you. That is a greater betrayal than your escape, for you had no choice. I had the choice, and chose not to.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose. It was indeed a greater betrayal and spoke deeply of what Legolas had run from that he would not return to the Tower even for his friends. But he spoke of it now, and Gandalf could only pray his fear would follow his words upon the wind.

Gimli’s expression had softened considerably, despite Legolas’s revelation. Slowly, he shook his head. “All the words I can say to you, Legolas, are as useless as flash on the anvil, for I can see you feel as I did.” He sighed heavily, his own thoughts turning. “Shall we consider all debts paid, then?” He smiled, hope in his face once more.

Slowly, as if reluctantly releasing the guilt he had held onto, Legolas smiled as well. “Paid.”

With that hint of a smile and the words exchanged between the two, Gandalf felt the skies brighten a small measure against the encroaching Shadow. The happiness on the dwarf’s face heartened him; the elf’s relief revealed the lifting of a weight Gandalf had not realized he had carried.

Gimli turned then to Aragorn. Scowling as he looked at him, the expression softened as he began to speak.“I swore to fight by your side, no matter the danger or fear. I know not what the end may bring, but as you trust in Elrond, I trust you, Aragorn. I am able and willing, and I stand by your side. Whatever the cost, I go with you. For my oath. For the hobbits.”

Aragorn smiled and bowed his head in acceptance of Gimli’s offer. But as he turned to Legolas, his smile faded, and his eye wandered to the visible bandages and splinted fingers.

Legolas’s eyes narrowed. “You see my wounds and fear I am not fit for the journey. You forget with whom you speak, Aragorn. I am no man. This splint will be removed in a matter of days. Because of Lady Éowyn’s courage, I shall wield a bow again, and I am eager to do so.”

“I dearly hope you speak truly, for the ride ahead is perilous, full of dangers unforeseen. But you are improved since we first arrived, and I have no doubt you are eager to do battle with the Enemy.”

The fierce expression that settled in Legolas’s eyes might have been disturbing had it not been directed to some outside party. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Aragorn nodded and turned to Merry. “What say you, Merry?”

Merry was silent for a moment. He looked about at the others, lingering on Pippin, and Gandalf felt for him for a moment. No matter his next journey, it would not be beside his cousin. All before him knew the direction of their next journey, and they now awaited for Merry to announce his. And while Pippin would ride beside Gandalf to Minas Tirith, and Gimli and Legolas had thrown their lot with Aragorn and the Paths of the Dead, Gandalf knew Merry would not want a role any less than the rest. He would wish for an honorable role, at least more so than luggage. Staying behind with the Rohirrim women and children would not satisfy the hobbit.

Merry looked up at Aragorn, and for a brief moment looked younger than his years. “I will follow the path meant for me, Aragorn. I believe you are right in this, only… how do I know what is right for me?”

“It will come to you, Merry, if you let it. There is no need to decide this moment.” Merry nodded, and he was once again the hobbit who had faced Orcs, uruk-hai, and a Ringwraith on the plains.

“Be not too troubled, Master Merry,” Legolas said suddenly, a sly smile creeping onto his lips. “I wager your answer will arrive before long. There are others here who look for their next journey, as they are none too satisfied with the path given to them.” Merry looked at him for an explanation, but Legolas merely said, “I would inquire after the Lady Éowyn. I believe she may have some suggestions for you.” Strangely, though the elf would say no more, Gandalf’s anxiety over Merry’s fate seemed to ease with his words.

“Well, that is better,” Gandalf said, with a small stomp of his staff, gratified that his words had had such immediate effect. “Legolas and Gimli shall join Aragorn and his kin through the Gate of Dunharrow. Pippin shall join me as I set out for Minas Tirith. Merry shall strike his own path, and he will apprise us of such path as soon as he learns it.” He raised a brow at Merry to be sure his message was received. He would know what plans Merry made.

“Then it looks as though we shall all part ways tomorrow,” Pippin said to his cousin, surprising Gandalf with his composure.

“Yes, Pippin. But as we met each other in Edoras, we may meet again unexpected along our paths. And I shall find my way to Minas Tirith.”

“Well, then I suppose this is as good a time as any.” Pippin’s eyes twinkled as all brows creased in question. He dug into his pockets, rooting around as if they were bottomless. His face brightened when he apparently found his prize. He pulled out a small sack.

“What is that, Pippin?” Gandalf asked warily. He hardly dared to hope it was what it resembled.

“It’s pipeweed, of course!”

“Pipeweed!” said Merry and Gimli at once.

“You mean to tell us you have carried that sack all the way from the Shire, through all your trials?”

“No, Strider. The truth is, well, I stole it.” He looked sheepish for only a moment. “It comes from Saruman’s pantry! He often sent me there on errands, and well, there’s only so much a hobbit can resist.”

“Pip! If he had caught you plundering his pantry, who knows what he would have done to you!”

“I know it, Merry. Which is why I never took food except to feed you. But once I saw the pipeweed, well, I couldn’t help myself.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf said. “I am rather impressed you did resist taking food, for it must have been sorely tempting. But knowing that it is from Saruman’s store of pipeweed, I can hardly begrudge you the pilfering.”

Aragorn frowned. “How did Saruman come by the pipeweed? The weed must have been brought from the Shire.” Aragorn pondered this for a moment. “Strange.”

“Yes, well, something to ponder later, Strider, or perhaps over some pipeweed!” Merry said.

“Eh, do we have any pipes in which to smoke it?” Gimli looked at Pippin hopefully.

Pippin smiled tentatively. “I – eh, also took two pipes,” he said quietly.

Aragorn laughed. Legolas looked at Gandalf. “I will suffer through it today, to sit with you.”

They sat themselves down on the steps of Meduseld. Legolas seated himself lower than the others, and gifted them with a song, one of a mixture of sorrow and joy such as Gandalf had not heard in many years. The rest of the Fellowship gathered close and shared their last smoke together.

 (o)(o)(o)

  A/N: One more chapter left! An epilogue follows to wrap up loose ends. Thank you for reading!

Epilogue

“Pippin, don’t be silly. They’re your spoils. Besides, if you and Gandalf can smoke on the way, I imagine he’ll be a bit less grim.”

“We’ve gone all this way without pipeweed. I imagine Gandalf and I can live a few more days without a smoke. Minas Tirith is a big city! They’ve got to have pipes. How can you have a proper city without pipes?

“Pip, Big Folk don’t smoke. Except for the Rangers, and I think they learned the custom from hobbits. I don’t expect that you’ll find pipeweed in Minas Tirith.

Instead of looking disappointed, as Merry expected, Pippin looked annoyed. “Well, that’s just, just uncivilized, it is. When my pipeweed runs out, then– ”

“Runs out! Here, I thought you were giving me your pipeweed. So, you give me a pipe and nothing to smoke, is that it?”

“Of course not, Merry! What do you think of me! I’m giving you half my pipeweed. That way we both will have something to smoke. Not much, mind you. In fact, it’s only a few smokes worth, but it’ll do for those moments, you know, when the Shire feels so far away, it seems we’ll never get back?”

Merry sobered suddenly and looked appreciatively at his cousin. Indeed, he knew those moments; he’d had many in Orthanc. Their smoke the night before had brought the Shire closer than it had felt in weeks.

What truly struck Merry was Pippin’s acceptance of the coming separation. He had indeed grown into a great and brave hobbit. Merry was proud to be his cousin. He promised himself he would make Pippin as proud of him as he felt now.

“Merry? Are you going to just stand there with that silly grin and think about pipeweed? Or are you going to take it?” Merry’s grin grew as he accepted Pippin’s gifts.

Pippin’s smile faded and Merry’s followed, sensing their parting was near. His stomach flipped and he tightened his lips, refusing to waver in his composure.

“You will find your way to Minas Tirith, won’t you, Merry?”

“You can be certain of it, Pippin. The Rohirrim plan to continue to Gondor after they do combat with Sauron’s Orcs. I shall be with them. Even Gandalf thought it fitting that I accompany Rohan as they ride to war. He knew I was ready and fit to do battle against those Orcs. And this way, he says I might find my way to Minas Tirith. Lady Éowyn said it’s very big. So I imagine the city will be easy to find.”

“Yes, Gandalf said the same. I only hope it is not so big you cannot find one small hobbit within it.”

Though a bit forlorn, Pippin did not look frightened, to Merry’s amazement. His affection and pride swelled in his chest.

When Gandalf picked his cousin up and deposited him on his horse before him, Merry forced himself to remember Orthanc. Pippin was not in the hands of Orcs. He was with Gandalf. He could be no safer. It eased the pain in Merry’s heart a small bit.

Éowyn soon arrived to take Gandalf’s place before him and told him he must prepare to ride with the Rohirrim. He looked behind him at the bustle of activity and wondered if he should be more worried for his own safety. He turned back to Éowyn as she prodded him on, and noticed a sharp look of determination in her eye. Merry decided it must be the look of war.

(o)(o)(o)

As dawn approached, the Rohirrim prepared to set out to meet an army from Mordor, while the three from the Fellowship, with the sons of Elrond and the Dúnedain, prepared to take a road untraveled.

His hand finally free of the sling, Legolas carried his pack to Arod, the horse the Rohirrim had provided for him. He turned at the sound of someone approaching.

Éowyn’s white raiment glowed faintly in the dark. The tension and worry were clear in her eyes. Legolas left the horses to meet her, and Éowyn granted him a brief smile. “My lady, you should smile more often. The dim halls of Meduseld would be brighter with it.”

Éowyn looked at him but did not respond. He found he could not discern her thoughts, and his curiosity and concern for this woman grew.

“You leave with Lord Aragorn by the way of Dunharrow?” As he nodded, she looked as if she held back great emotion. “It is a Path of Death,” she said, grief heavy in her voice. She mourned them already.

“I am not a man. I do not fear the dead.”

“That you do not fear them does not mean the dead cannot take you. And what of those who go with you?”

“It is their choice to make.”

She looked intently at him, as if reading him. “Why would an elf fight beside men?”

“I swore an oath to the Company I will not abandon. This battle is only part of a war to come. It will spread throughout Middle-earth if we do not fight here. I fight for my people and your people.”

“You are hardly healed. You cannot yet wield a bow.”

“For a short time more. Until then, I shall yet serve Aragorn. I am more than my weapon.” He continued over her look of disapproval and doubt. “Furthermore, I use a short blade as well as a bow. And it will not be long before I shall wield a bow again, thanks to you.” She rewarded him with another small smile. “Your healing hand has done all it could. I now do what I must.” The smile faded from her face.

Éowyn looked at him inscrutably, then looked off into the distance. “Have you not ever wanted to change your destiny, shrug off the weight of duty?” she said in a whisper. Legolas thought of his years in his father’s court and thought perhaps he knew of what she spoke. “Have you not ever wished to do what your heart tells you instead?”

Legolas saw in Éowyn’s face a desperation that spoke of more than his leaving. He could only speak of himself, though it might not serve her. “Indeed, Lady Éowyn, it is what I do now. For my heart tells me, despite the advice of healers and that of even my own body, that I should accompany Aragorn on his new path.”

“But none have ever returned from that path!”

“Perhaps our path shall lead elsewhere. And perhaps you shall see us again. We cannot say. But Aragorn believes this is his path. And I believe my path is by his side. My heart tells me this is so, and I must follow it.”

Éowyn looked at him long, and slowly a deep sadness came over her. Finally she nodded. “So you go to battle then,” she said quietly, and turned from him, and her voice turned bitter. “While I remain to tend the hearth.”

He realized his estimation of her had not been far from the mark. Legolas reached out and grasped her arm. “You would rather hold a sword than a ladle, would you not, Lady?”

Her expression was fierce. “Would you not wish the same?”

Silenced by her retort, he looked at her in admiration. He wished to assure her once more they might meet again, but the words sounded empty. She pulled from him, and with one more glance to him, she left.

Then Aragorn appeared at his side, as Rangers are wont to do, watching silently as Éowyn retreated. Legolas had only a word for him. “Formidable.” He walked away into the night to contemplate destiny and duty.

(o)(o)(o)

They soon began the ascent to the Gate at Dunharrow, Aragorn on Roheryn, a gift from the Rohirrim. Behind him followed the Dúnedain, led by Halbarad, then Elrohir, Legolas and Gimli on the horse Arod, gifted to them by the Rohirrim, and finally Elladan in the rear.

As they climbed, Aragorn mused over their two small friends for whom they had come so far, but who would not now accompany them. He would never ask the hobbits to suffer this path, and while they were in safe hands for the moment, he missed them, plain and simple. Regret yet gnawed at him for his inability to spare them the ordeal they had suffered at the hands of the Orcs and Saruman. No doubt much time would pass before he no longer rued his poor decision. That is, if he had much time left to him.

His thoughts ran away from him to the Company and their Quest. Was the Fellowship broken? Could they consider themselves a Company as they strode off in different directions? Merry rode with the Rohirrim to war, as Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli did by a far different path, a path from which none expected them to emerge. Pippin accompanied Gandalf to meet the Steward Denethor of Gondor, and Aragorn prayed the Steward would not be too harsh with the hobbit. But then he smiled as he remembered Pippin’s refusal to be brushed aside by Gandalf at yesterday’s morning meal. The hobbit had grown much. Besides, he was with Gandalf now. Aragorn would not concern himself overmuch.

His thoughts went unbidden to the other hobbits, for whom they had all suffered. Their paths as well were their own. He wondered where they might be and how they fared. As an unfamiliar ache began to grow in his chest, he drew his mind from those whom he was forced to admit held a special place in his heart.

When they set out from Rivendell, he had never imagined they would not finish this Quest as one. Surely he knew there were dangers, lethal ones in fact. But for all who survived, he had envisioned them together, supporting Frodo.

Was Gandalf right, then? Had they yet aided Frodo, though not in the manner they had expected? Had all their suffering served? And would their future suffering, sure to come, likewise serve Frodo?

Aragorn sighed. He could not manage to resist the creeping doubt that yet haunted him. He prayed he had chosen rightly once more. He would have felt more at ease had his prayer not been so akin to that which he had made when they had set out from Parth Galen. Once again, he – and the lives of his friends – relied on his judgment.

He must learn to trust his judgment again – the judgment of a king. At the moment, this Ranger felt no more competent than a child. Must he learn the lesson at the expense of friends’ lives? Though Gandalf had returned, Boromir would never rejoin the living. Perhaps this was a lesson only the Dead could teach him.

THE END

Author's note: I must thank all my readers and reviewers who stuck through this till the end! Thank you for all your support. But most of all, I must thank Thundera Tiger! Without her fantastic beta work and unending support, this story would not be what it is. And likely would never have been completed!