A/N: Fair warning: updates will be very slow.  I've been debating whether to start publishing when I still have so much left to write, but I figured... what the heck.  I hope you enjoy the story.

Chapter 1: The Lost City

It was late in the afternoon of a cold, blustery day, and Merry was tired.  He and the rest of the Fellowship of the Ring were traveling through the Misty Mountains, heading for a passage to the east.  According to Gandalf they were still in the foothills and not the mountains proper.  Merry did not find this heartening.  Hills they might be, but they were still high and steep, and it was only at some arbitrary point that they would be high and steep enough to be called mountains.  Merry cast his eyes over the snow-capped vista before him and shivered.  He was not looking forward to ascending Caradhras.  The monstrous peak was waiting for them in the distance - tall, white, and forbidding.

An icy wind gusted through the company, and Merry bent his head to avoid taking the blast in the face.  The wind caught his hood despite his efforts and tossed it back, and Merry was soon snatching for it with both hands.  His hood had been blowing off all day, and he had learned to be quick in pulling it back into place.  The weather was growing more aggressive as the terrain rose, and the air was getting colder, too.  Merry’s hood was the only protection he had for his ears, and they began to ache if he left them exposed to the wind.

The Fellowship was traveling in daylight now, for traversing the foothills at night was perilous.  Their path was rough and it would be all too easy to take a spill in the dark.  They could not afford delays to broken bones, but neither could they allow themselves to be seen by spies.  Many black birds were circling over the land and the company had been forced to hide whenever the flocks drew near.  The need for stealth had drastically slowed their progress.  Merry thought of how long it had been since lunch and sighed.  Would this day never end?

A loud sniff from Pippin drew Merry’s attention.  His cousin was huddled into his cloak, not looking any happier than Merry felt, but when Pippin saw Merry looking, the two of them shared a smile of commiseration.  Merry’s spirits lifted a little.  He was not enjoying this phase of the journey, but it was heartening to remember that he was among friends and kin.

Friends and kin.  Merry glanced around at the rest of the silent company, surreptitiously gauging the collective mood.  He sensed weariness in nearly everyone, particularly in Frodo and Sam, but neither hobbit voiced a complaint.  Merry knew they would not; Frodo trusted Gandalf to call a halt when the time was right, and Sam trusted Frodo.  Boromir and Gimli were tired, too, but they were hardy folk and could walk for some distance yet.  Both of them wore grim expressions, likely due to having to endure the wind all day.  Gandalf also showed signs of fatigue, but Merry recognized the look of determination on the wizard’s face.  When he set his mind to something Gandalf seemed quite capable of ignoring any obstacles in his path - including his own body.  Aragorn and Legolas were probably ready to walk forever as usual.  They did not seem to take as much notice of the disagreeable wind as the others did, perhaps because they were constantly scanning their surroundings.  They traded the position of rearguard between them, but neither of them seemed to cease watching even when they were ‘off duty’.

Merry squared his shoulders and tried to forget his weariness.  Comparing himself to the others was a habit he had fallen into.  He hadn’t forgotten that Lord Elrond had not chosen him to be a part of the Fellowship.  Merry had been selected in the end, but that was only because he had argued for the right to come, and he was determined to be thought worthy by the others.  Weighing himself against them was often discouraging to him; the Big Folk were all seasoned by traveling or fighting, and the journey did not strain them as much as it did Merry or the other hobbits.  Merry often felt himself to be terribly soft in comparison with them - particularly Aragorn.

Merry started in surprise at the feel of another hand closing around his.  He looked sideways and found Pippin smiling sympathetically at him.  Merry squeezed his hand and smiled back, wondering if his cousin could read his mind.  It was not the first time they had shared such a moment.  They had not spoken of it since leaving Rivendell, but each knew they were in the same boat; Pippin had not been chosen by Elrond, either, and he seemed to know when Merry was dwelling on dark thoughts.

Merry knew why Pippin had lobbied for a place in the Fellowship.  Pippin’s reasons had been the same as Merry’s: they had both come for love of Frodo.  They - and Sam too - had always intended to accompany Frodo for as far as he needed to go, regardless of the destination.  Frodo needed warriors to protect him, and he had them in the five Big Folk, but none of them had ties to Frodo’s heart the way the hobbits did.  Merry was convinced that Frodo would need help of their sort as much as he would need strength of arms.  If he had not believed it he would not have pressed his case to Elrond, not when someone as mighty as Glorfindel might have had his place.

“It is time to halt,” Gandalf said, breaking into Merry’s thoughts.  “The day is growing late.”

“Making camp and preparing a meal are not easily done in the dark,” Aragorn called from the back of the line.  Merry was surprised to hear a slight strain in the Ranger’s voice.  If Aragorn was weary, then perhaps Merry wasn’t quite as soft as he had thought himself to be.  “Have you found a suitable place to stop?”

“See for yourself,” said Gandalf, gesturing before him.  “I think this will do.”

Merry promptly forgot his chilled body and clustered around Gandalf with the rest of the Fellowship.  They stood at the lip of a small vale that nestled like a bowl between the slopes of two foothills.  The rock provided sufficient protection against the wind for scrubby pines to have grown around the edges.  Merry was familiar with the sight of such trees by now, for little else seemed to grow at those heights.  The vale was large - at least five hundred hobbit-paces across by Merry’s estimation - and strewn with boulders.  A small stream trickled down the eastern edge of the clearing.  The landscape was sparse in comparison with the thick forests far below, but it was positively lush for mountainous terrain.

Frodo and Sam huddled close to Merry and Pippin.  Both of them looked as eager to halt as Merry was.  “It has water,” Frodo said approvingly, looking at the stream.

“And shelter,” Boromir put in.  “We can make camp among the trees.”

“The trees will also fuel a fire,” said Gimli.  “Our rabbits will go to waste if we don’t cook them soon, and we’ll see little more game at this altitude.”  He tugged at the line on his pack for emphasis, and the four slain rabbits on the other end twitched.

“I think we could all do with one more hot meal before we reach the snows,” said Gandalf.  “We have made good time today, and we will start the true ascent in the morning.  What say you, Aragorn?”

“A fire would be heaven,” Pippin sighed.

“You’ll have ample opportunity to sit close to it, seeing as it’s your turn to cook,” Merry jested.

Pippin made a face, but Aragorn spoke before he could make a vocal retort.  “It looks well to me,” the man said.  “The trees will help conceal our smoke, and we need not fear the birds after dark.”  He looked sideways at Legolas when the elf murmured something.  “You disagree?” he asked.

“Not about the fire,” said Legolas, “but there is more to this place than your eyes have seen.”  He raised one hand and pointed into the distance.  “Look there - back where the two hills meet.”

Everyone looked.  At first Merry saw nothing beyond the rock and the trees, but then something tugged at his eye.  He gasped softly when he realized what it was.

“It’s a hole!” exclaimed Sam.

“Not a hole,” Gimli said excitedly.  “A doorway!  Look at the edges.  Do you see the decoration of the stone?”

“It is a doorway,” said Gandalf in mild consternation.  He did not seem pleased by the discovery, and Merry thought he knew why.  Gandalf made no secret of his dislike for surprises, particularly when they could interrupt one of his errands.

“The designs look dwarvish to my eye,” said Gimli, squinting at the dark, distant rectangle.

“They must be,” said Gandalf.  “None but Dwarves have ever lived in this rough country, but that was long ago.”

“Very long ago,” Gimli agreed.  “My people have not dwelt in this region for many a year - save for Balin and the dwarves he brought back to Moria.”

“Moria,” Boromir muttered darkly.  “It lies below these mountains, does it not?”

“It does,” said Gimli.  His eyes suddenly widened, catching the late afternoon light.  “Durin’s beard!  Could this be a second entrance?”

Merry shivered involuntarily.  He did not know much about Moria beyond what he had heard in tales, and those had been filled with darkness and danger.  Even Bilbo hadn’t known much about the place.  Bilbo might be called ‘cracked’ by most hobbits, but he was still acknowledged as one of the most reliable sources of lore in the Shire, especially regarding the outside world.

Nobody reacted to Gimli’s speculation with overt pleasure; Moria, it seemed, was a name that was known to all.  Gandalf did not seem concerned, but Aragorn’s eyes had narrowed and Legolas was grimacing.

“I highly doubt that this doorway leads to Moria,” Gandalf said.  “The Mines had but two entrances that I knew of: one in and one out.  The doors of the western entrance were some miles from here and far below us.  Still, the Dwarves have ever been a secretive race.  I suppose it is possible that they might have constructed exits known only to them.”  He harrumphed as if to say that he did not think much of people keeping secrets from wizards.  “Still, there is no door here.  It is only an empty portal.  I cannot imagine the Dwarves leaving an entrance to Moria so unguarded, even a secret one.  They would have fashioned stone gates as they did for the other two.”

“Wherever that doorway leads, we must investigate the interior if we are to stay here,” said Aragorn.  “The servants of the Enemy are everywhere these days - even in the most remote places.  Who can say what secrets the heart of a mountain may hide?”

“It may hide Balin and my kinfolk,” Gimli said stoutly.  “They have been at work in Moria for many years now.”

“Yet there has been no communication from Moria in some time,” said Aragorn.  “Am I not correct?”

“It is not uncommon for dwarves to spend years at a time unheard from,” returned Gimli.  “We are an industrious race.  If we are truly engrossed in a project, we heed not the passage of time.”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I hope this is not a secret entrance to Moria.  I would like to be wrong, but I doubt that Balin’s expedition met with success.”

A long moment of silence followed Aragorn’s words.  Gimli’s mouth had closed in a thin line.  Gandalf’s brow was furrowed in thought.  “Well,” the wizard said at length, “this discovery has not changed my mind about camping here tonight - not yet, at any rate.  I don’t expect that we will find anything of note on the other side of this doorway.”

“I agree that this entrance likely does not lead to Moria,” said Aragorn.  “It is too far from the main gate and too exposed, but we may still find something beyond it that we do not like.”

“Let us cross that bridge when we come to it,” Gandalf said calmly.  “Agents of the enemy are just as likely to be here in the open as within the mountain.”  Aragorn nodded, accepting this logic, but it did not appear to relax him.  Gandalf strode forward again, and the company fell in behind him.

Pippin made a noise that sounded like a suppressed giggle.  Merry knew how his cousin felt; excitement was building inside him, too.  Gandalf’s lack of concern had banished fears of Moria from Merry’s mind.  And even if the wizard was wrong, they were many miles from the heart of the Mines.  Knowing this, Merry felt a keen desire to explore the hole in the rock.  At the very least it was something new and different.  There had been precious little in the way of curiosities out in the wilderness.  Still, Merry fought to keep the full magnitude of his interest from showing on his face.  Aragorn hadn’t been satisfied by Gandalf’s words, and Merry had too much respect for Aragorn to show excitement openly when the Ranger was uncomfortable.  Looking around, Merry saw that Frodo, Sam, and Boromir seemed to feel as he did; such was their trust in Gandalf that they were no longer worried about Moria, either.  Smiles tugged at the corners of their mouths and were quickly suppressed.  Gimli’s eagerness was unrestrained, and Gandalf seemed calm, but his eyes betrayed a mind hard at work.  Aragorn and Legolas were grim-faced.

As they drew nearer to the doorway, Merry could see that the carvings around the edge were geometric in nature, all straight lines and angles, and very intricate.  Merry eyed the detailing on Gimli’s cloak, helm and axe-blade and decided that Gimli had been right.  The designs were indeed Dwarf-like.  Merry supposed they could reflect the taste of Men as well, but he had seen little of their style except in Bree.  Whoever had done the work, Merry felt sure that they had not been Elves.  Rivendell’s architecture had taught him that Elves could not do without curving lines.

They halted in front of the hole in the mountain.  The sun was setting behind the peaks, casting everything in shadow, and they could not see more than a few feet into the interior.  The hobbits squinted intently but glimpsed only a flat, dusty floor.  Merry could not find any evidence that doors had ever hung within the stone frame.

“Legolas?” asked Gandalf.

The elf peered into the gloom within.  “It is not a very large a chamber.  I see nothing inside except dust and shadows.  There are more doorways leading out of it, all carved around the edges as this one is.  Beyond that I cannot see; the darkness is too deep.”

“And sound?”

Legolas shook his head.  “I hear only the echo of our voices.  If anything is lurking in there, it is not near the entrance.”

Gimli had wandered near enough to the doorway to touch it.  Gently, almost reverently, he ran his fingers across the carved stone.  Merry had never seen the dwarf so transfixed.  “Dwarves lived here,” he said softly.  “These carvings are very old.  See how they have weathered?  And the designs themselves are ancient; these patterns haven’t been used for generations.  Patterns go in and out of fashion,” he explained, seeing the quizzical looks on the others’ faces, “and some are unique to particular families.”

“In that case, we can safely assume that an extensive network of rooms lies beyond this doorway,” said Gandalf.  “Dwarves don’t go to the trouble of carving into a mountain unless they mean to stay there along with their extended families.”

“Rather like hobbits, then,” said Frodo, flashing Gimli a smile.

“I suppose so!” laughed Gimli.  “You hobbits have ears that are as pointy as an elf’s, but your dwellings are very nearly Dwarvish.”

Merry glanced at Legolas.  The elf rolled his eyes skyward at the mention of ‘pointy ears’, but he held his tongue.  Pippin caught Merry’s eye, and the two of them shared a knowing smirk.

“Let’s make camp quickly then,” said Aragorn.  “I want a look inside before the hour grows too late.”

A flurry of activity followed this directive.  Aragorn wasn’t the only person who wanted to see what lay beyond the doorway.  A campsite was chosen in the shelter of the craggy hills, just outside the hole in the rock.  Gimli, Sam and Boromir began constructing a firepit from loose stones while the others gathered wood and water or unburdened the pony.

A discussion surrounding who was to enter the ruins began, and it was soon apparent that Boromir and the hobbits were every bit as interested in exploring as Gimli was.  Legolas did not want to go, but Aragorn desired the elf’s company as a watchman.  “I will feel much easier if I have your eyes and ears with me,” he said, and Legolas reluctantly capitulated.

Aragorn wasn’t keen on the hobbits going until he had confirmed that the underground halls were clear, but Frodo argued convincingly for the right to come.  “There is no reason to exclude us,” he said.  “The chance of meeting danger there is as great as it is here, really.  I know you disagree,” he added, seeing the look on Aragorn’s face, “but the fact of the matter is, we all want to come.  You taught us how to use our weapons yourself; trust us now to take care of ourselves, if it comes to that.”

“We’ll keep our wits about us, and that’s a promise,” Sam put in.

Aragorn unenthusiastically agreed, much to the hobbits’ pleasure, but then he reminded them of something they had all forgotten.  “Whose turn is it to cook?” he asked, looking straight at Pippin.

The hobbits had been grinning triumphantly at each other; now they froze.  Merry’s eyes slid sideways to his cousin.  He could see that Pippin was looking for a way out, but he knew the effort would be fruitless.  Not ten minutes ago, Merry had pointed out that it was Pippin who was on the hook.

“Oh, fine,” sighed Pippin.  “It’s my turn.  But I’ll need help,” he added brightly, “seeing as Strider wants to start off so soon.”

“I must leave at once before what little light we have left fails,” Aragorn said gently.  “If there are enemies within, I want to encounter them while we can retreat back here - and still be able to see them.”

Pippin blinked at Aragorn.  For a moment his mouth worked silently, but then he exclaimed, “You mean you’re going without me?”

Aragorn sighed.  “I know you want to go.  But the meal must be started, and I cannot wait.  I will go back with you after supper if you wish.”

“But you’ll have made all the discoveries by then!” cried Pippin.  He looked wildly around the group.  “Legolas doesn’t want to go.  Maybe he could take my place and -”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I am sorry, Pippin.”

“Gandalf?” Pippin pleaded, turning to what was surely his last resort.

“Don’t fret,” said the wizard, laying his hand on Pippin’s shoulder in what was likely meant as a comforting gesture.  “You will still get your chance.  I will go with you after dinner; I want to see the place myself, but not yet.  Right now I want a pipe and a chance to think.”

Pippin exhaled in a slow, defeated way.  “But….”

“Prepare yourselves if you are coming,” said Aragorn, with one more apologetic look at Pippin.

Gimli and Boromir exchanged excited smiles.  “I thought we might have need of torches at some point,” said Boromir.  “I have oiled cloth in my pack.”

“Excellent!” said Gimli.  “Now all we need are a few sturdy branches.”  They moved off, talking animatedly between themselves.

Pippin turned to the other hobbits, and Merry braced himself.  He knew what was coming: Pippin was going to ask them to stay behind, too.  Yet the truth was that Merry was itching to go.  He didn’t want to stay and cook.  He dreaded telling Pippin that he was not going to wait for him - but Pippin’s words surprised him.

“It’s all right,” Pippin said resignedly.  “You three go, and I’ll go later with Gandalf or Strider.  I’ll get my chance, like they said.”

Merry exchanged stunned glances with Frodo and Sam.  That was all?  He had expected his cousin to plead his case to them, or at the very least to tell them that it wasn’t fair.

“I know you’re disappointed,” Frodo began carefully, but Pippin forestalled him.

“It’s all right,” he repeated, still glum-faced.  Lowering his voice, he added, “It feels awfully hard, and that’s the truth; but what’s the point of arguing?  Dinner does have to be started now; it’s just bad luck that it’s my turn.  Besides, I don’t want the others to think I was too young to come.”

Like Lord Elrond did, Merry finished mentally.

“Oh, Pippin,” Frodo said gently.  “Are you really worried about that?”

“Yes,” Pippin allowed.  “Sometimes I am.”

“Don’t be worrying over nothing, now,” said Sam in bracing tones.  “No one else thinks you shouldn’t be here.  And don’t forget that Gandalf vouched for you back in Rivendell.”

“That’s true,” said Pippin.

“Sam’s right,” said Frodo.  “I’m proud of you, cousin.  It’s a shame that it’s your turn to cook, but I didn’t know you would react this way.  It’s quite grown-up of you.”

Pippin sighed.  “Pity me, Frodo.  It’s a cruel, cruel sentence to have to cook tonight.”

Frodo patted his cousin’s arm.  “Don’t worry.  I really don’t think we’re going to find any lost treasure or the like.  You’ll see exactly what we do, only a few hours later.”

Pippin proffered a wan smile.  “I suppose.  Still, I rather hope you do find something even if I can’t discover it with you.  It would be so much more interesting than finding nothing.”

Despite Pippin’s show of maturity, Merry, Frodo and Sam felt compelled to soften the blow as best they could, and they did it by helping Pippin get started.  They completed the firepit and kindled a blaze while Gimli and Boromir fashioned torches, Aragorn conferred with Gandalf, and Legolas scouted the vale.  They had collected water and skinned two rabbits by the time everyone had regrouped.  Three torches were lit and passed around - one to Aragorn, one to Legolas, and one to Boromir.

“We won’t be gone long,” Aragorn promised.  “And we won’t pass out of calling distance, though we may skirt the edge of it.”  He looked at Pippin.  “How long until the meal is prepared?”

“An hour, I’d say,” said Pippin.

Aragorn nodded.  “Then expect us back within an hour.  We can return later if need be,” he added when Gimli started to protest.

“We will be waiting,” said Gandalf.

With this, the group was off.  The hobbits each hugged Pippin before leaving the camp, wanting him to know that they were not forgetting him.  Pippin’s smile grew a little with each embrace, and when Merry whispered a few parting words in his ear, Pippin actually laughed.  He gave the startled group a wave and turned his back on them as he fixed his attention on the stew.  It seemed that he did not mean to watch them actually pass through the doorway.  For himself, Merry thought this a wise idea; Pippin was feeling better, but he was still disappointed.

“What did you say to him?” Sam whispered as the party approached the door.

“I told him that if something like this ever happened again, I’d take his turn at cooking dinner,” Merry replied, and Frodo and Sam chuckled.

Merry, Frodo and Sam clustered together excitedly as they stepped across the threshold.  The torches seemed to flare more brightly in the sudden gloom, illuminating a chamber that Aragorn could have crossed in ten paces.  The walls were thickly carved and perfectly flat, but they leaned inward slightly as they rose to the ceiling.  Three doorways led out of the room and into a dark corridor.  There was nothing to see in the room beyond the stonework and the other doorways, but the seven companions looked around with great interest.

“This is the anteroom,” murmured Gimli, peering closely at the carvings.  “The designs are the same as those around the doorway.”

“The floor is so dusty!” said Sam, rubbing at his nose to keep back a sneeze.

Aragorn lowered his torch for a better look.  “That is well for us.  It means that nothing else has passed this way for some time - except a few animals.”  He pointed, and Merry saw the tracks of a wolf.  The prints were dusty, and it did not look like the creature had ventured any farther than the first room.

“Don’t let your guard down just yet,” Gimli warned.  “There may be other entrances to these halls that we have no knowledge of.”

“Have no fear,” Aragorn said dryly.  “My guard is most assuredly up.”

“Does anyone else feel that draft?” asked Boromir.

“I do,” said Frodo.  “It makes my skin feel clammy.”

“Cave air feels warm in winter and cool in summer,” said Gimli.  “In fact, the temperature of a cave is near-constant all year; they only feel warm or cool in comparison to conditions outside.”

On his left, Merry could see Legolas nodding.  Merry understood why: the stronghold of the Elves of Mirkwood was itself a series of caves.

“You will not feel the full effect until we progress farther in,” Gimli continued.  His eyes roved ceaselessly over the carvings as he spoke.  “Here at the entrance, the air is mixed and not as warm as it will be elsewhere.  But still… it smells right.”  He drew a deep breath and sighed.  “Ahhh.  Long has it been since I breathed the scent of earth and stone.”

“We only have one hour,” Aragorn reminded them.  “We must choose a path.  If you have any insight to offer, Gimli…?”

“The middle way will lead to large common rooms,” Gimli said confidently.  “Left and right will lead to living and working quarters.  If you take one of those paths, you will eventually find corridors that lead back to the middle way.  You may also find paths that lead away from the common rooms and deeper into the mountain.”

“Then it may be easy to lose ourselves in here,” said Aragorn.  “Are there signs or carvings to direct inhabitants, or does one need to know the paths by heart?”

“Most rooms will contain markers for guiding,” said Gimli.  “They will tell you which way is north, south, east, or west.”

“Well, we are facing east now,” said Aragorn.  “West will lead us out.  I will keep to the central path as much as possible.”

Boromir scraped one boot against the floor with deliberate force.  “If everything is as dusty as it is here, we will be able to follow our own tracks back,” he observed.

“Perhaps,” said Aragorn, “but I will be glad for the markers, if they exist.”

The company formed a progression with Aragorn in the front and Legolas at the rear.  Eager to see what was ahead, Gimli kept close to Aragorn, and the hobbits kept to the middle with Boromir and his torch.  The tall folk lifted their torches as they stepped through the second doorway and into the passage.  The ceiling was lower than it had been in the anteroom, but the walls were just as heavily decorated.

“Is everything going to be carved like this?” Sam whispered.

“Some rooms will bear more stonework than others,” Gimli replied.  “It is normal for chambers near the entrances to be quite ornate, for those are places that visitors see.”

“Yes, but still,” muttered Boromir.  “It must have taken your craftsmen….”

Gimli chuckled.  “Perhaps not quite as long as you are thinking.  Many dwarves would have labored here.”

“Sssh,” said Aragorn.  “The passageway is ending.”

The company fell silent.  Aragorn thrust his torch through a new doorway, looked around, and stepped through.  The others followed and found themselves in a room even larger than the first had been.  Its edges were lined with carved doorways.  A quick examination showed that they led to small side rooms with no exits.  Only the doorway at the far end of the room led out.  Carved stone pillars on either side of each doorway mystified Merry until Gimli explained that they were torches for lighting the room.  “Oil and wicks were set upon them,” he said.  “See how they are curved, like bowls?  But they have been empty for some time.”

“It is so… vacant,” said Boromir.  “There are no furnishings or possessions to be seen.  I would have expected that at least the remains of furniture would be here.”

“Maybe the dwarves carried everything off when they left,” said Sam.

“Through these hills?” said Frodo.  “I can’t see that.”

“It is possible,” said Gimli.  “We dwarves are hardy, remember.  But some furniture was undoubtedly left behind, and if it was wood, it has rotted away.  We have ways of controlling the humidity in our dwellings, but much time has passed since anyone lived here.  Age would have destroyed any wood as surely as moisture would.  And in the centuries since dwarves were last here, raiders may have entered to remove what was left.”

“Where is the directional marker?” asked Aragorn.

Gimli searched the walls for a moment before pointing to the top of the entryway.  “Raise your torch and look there.  Do you see that rune in the middle?  The one surrounded by the square?”

“Aye.”

“That is ‘west’.  I cannot see the far door from here, but it should bear a rune in a similar location that reads ‘east’.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.  “You are sharing Dwarven secrets with us.”

“Not many,” said Gimli, sounding slightly defensive to Merry’s ear.  “I can see the need for you to know these four signs in this place,  but I will not teach you how to say ‘north’, ‘south’, ‘east’, or ‘west’ in my tongue.”

The three hobbits exchanged a knowing glance.  From Bilbo’s tales, they knew that the Dwarves were a secretive race that did not readily share knowledge with others.  The Dwarven language was one of their most closely guarded mysteries.

“What is the penalty for revealing your secrets to outsiders?” asked Boromir.  “I have heard that your punishments can be severe.”

“For teaching you those four runes?  Nothing,” said Gimli.  “But if I were to teach you our language, I could be cast out of society - or worse, in an extreme case.”

Sam blinked.  “Really?  For teaching us words?”

“That, or the secrets of building and structure,” said Gimli.  “It has happened before, though such cases are rare.  If I taught you forbidden knowledge and other Dwarves learned of it, I would be judged by the Elders.  My fate would be entirely within their hands.  Nay, we do not teach others our tongue.  Not even Gandalf knows it, and he is better at winkling secrets out of people than anyone I ever saw.”

“It is difficult to keep secrets from wizards,” Legolas observed quietly.

“Aye, it is,” said Gimli, uncharacteristically agreeing with the elf.  “Fortunately for us, he works for the good of all the free peoples and not for himself.  I think that if he were to discover our language, he would not pass the knowledge on to others, but still, I cannot teach him.  It is not permitted.”

“Onward,” said Aragorn.  “Time does not stop with us.”

They pressed on, and this time Aragorn set a quick pace.  He only allowed them to stop and look around when he himself wished to investigate a dark corner or shadowed doorway.  By the time they had passed through three rooms and corridors, all vestiges of daylight were completely gone.  The passages sometimes contained sharp bends, and the door to the outside could not be seen.  Fascinating as the place was, Merry found the dark to be oppressive, and he kept close to one of the torchbearers at all times.  The lack of light had never felt so heavy in a smial.  Frodo and Sam seemed to feel it, too; they grouped with Boromir or Legolas whenever Aragorn went off to scrutinize something.  Only Gimli was able to drift away from the light on his own, and he did not seem at all perturbed by the darkness.  Still, Merry did not feel frightened, not when he had the others with him and there was so much to see.

Room after room passed by, all of them decorated with carvings but devoid of almost anything else.  They occasionally found stone tables and benches, but no furniture of any other kind was visible.  Nearly everything was constructed in straight lines.  Even the connecting corridors did not curve but rather changed direction at a clean angle.  Some rooms were small and some were large, and one was very large indeed - bigger than the great ball-room in Brandy Hall, which itself could hold a few hundred hobbits.  The ceiling soared overhead, supported by two rows of columns that seemed to grow out of the floor.  Boromir wondered aloud how such architecture had been managed, but Gimli only smiled pleasantly and referred again to “the secrets of the Dwarves.”  Gimli claimed that far greater wonders lay within Moria, but Merry could scarcely imagine what the dwarf described - a ceiling that was too far overhead for the light of their torches to penetrate, with supporting columns stretching away into the darkness.

“What a place this is!” said Boromir as they strode through yet another cavernous space.  He raised his torch, trying to cast light into the dim corners.  “How many more rooms can there be?”

“More than we will have time to see,” Gimli answered.  “I think several hundred dwarves lived here.  The great hall alone is proof of that.”

“How much farther, Strider?” asked Frodo.  “I am getting hungry, and I think we might be reaching the edge of that calling distance you were talking about.”

Aragorn stopped walking and turned.  “Legolas?” he asked.

Legolas nodded.  “Frodo is right.  If Pippin or Gandalf were to shout for us now, I would still be able to hear them, but the echo would make their words difficult to interpret.  Besides, we should be turning back soon if we wish to return within an hour of leaving.  Are you satisfied that there are no enemies to be found in here?”  There was a slight edge to Legolas’ voice; it was obvious to Merry that the elf did not want to be in the cavern any longer than was necessary.

“Nearly,” said Aragorn, who was already heading into the next passage.  “Only one or two rooms more, and we will go.”

The company followed Aragorn into the corridor, and Merry immediately felt that something was different.  The way was narrow, scarcely wide enough for two people to walk alongside each other.   The ceiling seemed strange, too, and with a start, Merry realized that it was arched - not flat or peaked as the others had been.  What was more, the corridor was curvingin a gentle arc.  These were the first curved lines that Merry had seen in the entire place.

“This is new,” Frodo observed curiously.

“Aye!” said Gimli.  “The style here is unlike anything we have seen before.”

“I was beginning to think that dwarves did not use curves in their architecture at all,” said Boromir.

“Oh, we do,” said Gimli.  “Geometric designs always dominate, but it is unusual to see straight lines alone.  For whatever reason, the builders of these halls elected not to use curves - until now.  I cannot imagine why, except that the room at the other end of this must be....”  He exited the corridor with Aragorn and trailed off.  The others crowded in behind him and stared in wonder as men and elf raised their torches.

Special, thought Merry.  That’s what Gimli was about to say.  It was obvious that this room had been intended for some particular purpose.  Intricately carved walls leapt out of the shadows, every last square inch of them adorned.  The domed ceiling stretched up and up, its apex far above their heads, and not a column to be seen.  There was no other doorway leading out of the room.  There were no furnishings in the chamber, no benches; but in the very center stood a marble plinth heavily wrought with runes and gems.  Lumps of dusty stone were scattered around its base.

“What is this place?” asked Boromir, his voice hushed.  No one replied; no one seemed to know.  They walked slowly into the room, spreading out a little, looking around at the walls and up at the ceiling.  The crunch of their feet on the gritty floor was loud in the quiet.

“The thing that stood on the column – it’s broken,” Sam observed, pointing to the bits of stone on the floor.

“What do you think it was?” Merry whispered.  “One of those missing lamps, maybe?”  Sam only shook his head; he did not know the answer.

“What do you make of this room, Gimli?” said Aragorn.

“It had some ceremonial purpose, I deem,” Gimli said in a hushed voice.

“But what?” wondered Frodo.  “It’s not large enough to hold many people, and there’s nothing here but dust and this broken… thing.”

“And them,” said Legolas.

Everyone turned to look.  Boromir and Aragorn stretched out their torches to illuminate the back half of the room, and Merry saw three skeletons lying on the floor, covered in dust.  A chill rippled down his spine, and he unconsciously moved closer to the other hobbits.

“Dwarves,” said Aragorn after a long pause.

Merry glanced at Gimli.  The dwarf was frowning in concern.

“They’ve been here a long time,” said Frodo.  “They’re just as dusty as everything else!”

“I do not like this place,” Legolas said flatly.  “There is a wrongness in the air.  Something is not what it ought to be.”

“You’re letting the shadows get to you, lad,” Gimli rumbled.  Legolas’ glare was sharp enough to cut, but Gimli had bent over to peer at the chunks of rubble and did not notice.  “Would you lend me that torch?” he asked Boromir.  The man nodded and handed it over.  Frodo crouched down to study a piece that rested near his own feet.

“What happened to them, I wonder?” said Sam.

“Maybe they were hurt,” said Frodo, “or attacked.”

“I see no signs of a struggle,” said Aragorn.  “The dwarves bear no weapons but small throwing axes, and those were still hanging at their belts when they died.  Look – the leather is nearly gone, but the metal tooling and links are still there.”

Like Gimli and Frodo, Boromir had squatted down for a closer look at the debris on the floor.  “If they were already injured, why would they come here to die?” he mused.  “There are no beds, no chairs, nothing to rest on.”

Legolas whispered something to Aragorn in Elvish.  Merry did not understand the language, but he thought he knew what the elf wanted.  Legolas sounded anxious.  Aragorn made no reply, but Merry thought he looked uneasy, too.

“I don’t think this is stone,” said Frodo, stretching out one tentative finger toward a dusty sliver.

“Nor do I,” said Gimli.  “There is a shine to it.  It looks like….”

“Like glass,” said Frodo.

“Yes,” agreed Boromir, curiously turning over a piece of the object.

Gimli reached down and picked up the fragment he had been studying.  He brushed some of the grime away with his thumb as he straightened, revealing a black, glossy surface beneath.  “Like obsidian,” he said.  “Like….”

Everything seemed to happen at once.  Gimli’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, striking his head on the floor.  Aragorn leapt to his aid just as Sam cried out in fear: Frodo had dropped to the ground, too.  Legolas let go of his torch and pressed his hands against his temples.  The branch tumbled away, and the room grew darker as the flames were extinguished.  Boromir wobbled in his squatting position, startled by the others’ sudden fall; his hand came down on the floor, and his body pitched forward as if he had no control over it.  Sam crouched beside Frodo, calling his master’s name.  When he seized Frodo’s shoulders, Sam’s tongue was stilled in mid-cry and he fell limply over Frodo’s body.  Before Merry could utter a single word of warning, Aragorn had grasped one of Gimli’s arms.  The man crumpled when he touched the dwarf, falling as if his bones had melted.  His torch bounced and rolled on the stone.  Legolas had already gone to his knees, but he was still moving under his own power.  In seeming dizziness or pain, he reached out to steady himself with one hand; the other was still pressed against his head.  But an instant later his body slumped to the floor as the others had, and he did not rise again.

The room was still except for Merry, who stood staring in horror.  His eyes flitted to each of his companions in turn while his mind tried to make sense of what had just happened.  His shock and alarm were so great that he could scarcely hold his thoughts together.

“Frodo?” Merry gasped.  “Sam?  Strider?”  He had to fight for each breath.  He called weakly to the others as well, but none of them stirred.  A sudden, terrible thought struck him.  What if they were dead?  He could not tell whether they breathed.

Gandalf! Merry thought desperately.  I’ve got to find Gandalf!  He reached down, picked up Aragorn’s fallen torch, and turned to run.

Merry’s foot came down on something sharp.  He felt the pain of the cut and instantly forgot it as a crushing blackness descended on his mind.  He didn’t notice when he dropped the torch, didn’t feel his body’s impact with the floor.  Darkness closed in on him and consciousness fled.   

Chapter 2: A Broken Stone

Pippin stood beside his simmering stew, stirring idly and cursing his luck.  Why did the Fellowship have to stumble upon mysterious ruins when it was his night to cook?  Everyone except Gandalf had gone off exploring.  Even Sam had left, and Sam always volunteered to help with supper regardless of whether it was his turn.  Gandalf was sitting out among the trees, breathing pipe-smoke and thinking, leaving Pippin all alone with the stewpot.

Pippin scooped out a spoonful of sliced carrots and let them drop back to the bubbling surface.  Plop, plop, plop went the chunks as they fell, echoing his mood.  Pippin was not angry with the rest of the company for going, but at the moment he was keenly aware of how unfair life could be.  Knowing that Gandalf would accompany him to the ruins after the meal was small consolation.  The others would have made all the exciting discoveries by then!

Despite Frodo’s guess that there wouldn’t be any treasure, Pippin hoped there was something in the place other than dust and spiders.  Cooking alone had given him ample of time for woolgathering and his imagination had come up with some intriguing possibilities.  The underground halls were surely very grand if Dwarves had made them - nothing like smials, Pippin was sure.  He imagined vast, columned rooms with walls of doorways, each portal leading into more rooms of mystery and wonder.  Inside one he might find cobwebbed bookshelves filled with crumbling scrolls and leather-bound tomes, perhaps written in languages he’d never heard of.  In another there would be suits of armor and strange weapons on display.  Yet another would be lined with iron-bound chests.  In his mind’s eye, Pippin could easily see himself pushing open one of the lids to reveal a sparkling sea of gold and jewels….

A bubble burst in the stewpot and splattered Pippin’s hand with hot liquid.  He hissed and jerked away, bringing his hand to his lips to soothe the injured skin.  That’s what you get for daydreaming, he thought irritably.  Fortunately, the burns appeared to be small, and Pippin resolved to soak them in the stream at the first opportunity.  He gave the pot a careful stir with his undamaged hand and wondered - again - when the others would return.  Pippin felt sure that the Fellowship’s hour was nearly up.  The setting sun was streaking the sky behind Caradhras’ bulk with red and gold, and the stew was ready, too.  Any hobbit worth his salt knew how long it took to make a stew.

The odor of pipe-weed and the clack of a wooden staff against stone announced Gandalf’s return to the fire.  “My, but that smells good, Peregrin,” he said.  “Is it finished?”

“Yes,” said Pippin.  “I suppose it might not be accounted much back in the Shire, but I think it will be tasty enough for a meal in the middle of nowhere.”

“It will be just the thing,” said Gandalf.  He sat down on a large rock, stretched his back, and exhaled wearily.  “Camp-food is better after a long day’s march than any delicacy.”

Pippin felt a little less grouchy upon hearing this.  Every hobbit liked to have his cooking praised.

“What is keeping Aragorn?” Gandalf mused.  “His hour is up, and I am famished.”

Pippin shook his head.  “I’ve been listening for voices, but I haven’t heard any.”

“Well, let us give them a few minutes more,” said the wizard.  “But if they take too long, I will not wait on them to eat, and to Mordor with good manners.”

Gandalf sat down to wait.  Pippin fetched some water from the stream, soaked a piece of cloth, and tended to his hand.  After ten minutes Gandalf declared himself too hungry to delay any longer, and he and Pippin dished out generous plates of stew for themselves.  They engaged in idle conversation and ate slowly, expecting the return of seven companions at any moment.  But the sky turned to magenta, and then to violet, and still the Fellowship did not appear.

Gandalf’s irritation was clear.  “Call them, would you?” he said, putting down his empty plate with a sharp clink.

“Are you sure?” said Pippin.  “If anyone else is in there, they’ll hear.”

“I am sure,” said Gandalf.  “They have been gone for well over an hour, and it is not like Aragorn to be so tardy.  Don’t worry overmuch yet,” he added quickly, seeing the look on Pippin’s face.  “They should be on their way back, at least.”

Pippin walked to the stone doorframe and leaned into the dim interior.  “Everyone!  Supper is ready!”  His voice echoed through the unseen rooms.  He waited for a moment, and when he heard no answering call, he shouted again.  “Come on, you lot!  Supper!”

More echoes followed by more silence.

Gandalf frowned.  “Give it a moment.  The echoes may be confusing them.”

Pippin threw the wizard a disbelieving look.  Gimli had said that the tunnels could be extensive, but surely Aragorn would have kept the group within calling distance; Pippin had never known the Ranger to be careless.  Gandalf grimaced in acknowledgement of Pippin’s disagreement but said nothing.

Pippin waited for a long minute before trying again.  This time he shouted as loudly as he could manage in case the party really had gone to the edge of hearing.  The reverberations of his voice mocked him as they faded away into silence.  Pippin was confused and afraid.  Had something happened to the others?  Had the Fellowship been hoping for a rescue while he and Gandalf sat there waiting?

Gandalf’s face had grown very long.  He joined Pippin at the door, leaned in, and bellowed, “Strider!  Answer me at once!”

Nothing.

Pippin’s pulse fluttered in his breast.  “Why don’t they answer?” he wondered, wrapping his hand around Gandalf’s gnarled staff.

Gandalf glowered at the door.

“They shouldn’t have gotten so far away that they couldn’t hear us calling for them,” Pippin continued.  “They ought to have more sense than that.”

“Ought to, indeed,” Gandalf muttered darkly.

“Gandalf, I’m worried.”

The wizard looked down at Pippin.  “I think we have little choice but to go and look for them.  Let go of my staff, if you please; I have need of it.”  Pippin complied, and the wizard began poking among the nearby pile of travelers’ packs.  “If they have simply passed out of earshot, then I will flay them all,” he said.  “I hope that is the case.  But if it is not, we may need supplies.  You gather food and water while I find Aragorn’s herbs.”

Concern lent speed to Pippin’s hands, and before Gandalf found the medicines he had managed to stuff his knapsack full of provisions and hobble the pony.  This being done, Pippin and Gandalf swiftly fashioned a torch and tucked the remaining supply of Boromir’s oiled cloth into Pippin’s satchel.  Without speaking they lit the brand, shouldered their burdens, covered the stewpot, and smothered the campfire.  The sudden reduction in light made the twilight seem deeper.  Pippin held his torch out before him to illuminate the ground, and he and Gandalf carefully picked out their path until they stood before the ancient door.  It yawned before them, dark, silent, and still.  Like the door of a crypt, Pippin thought.  He was glad that Gandalf was by his side as he walked through it.  It was remarkable how quickly the ruins had turned from a source of fascination to a threat.

They had not gone three paces into the stone room before a soft light began shining from the end of Gandalf’s staff.  Pippin looked up at it in wonder and Gandalf smiled down at him.  Pippin smiled back.  Having a wizard with him was a great comfort indeed.

Pippin quickly saw that it would not be difficult to track the Fellowship.  Though three doorways led out of the empty room, the floor was very dusty, and the group had left footprints everywhere they stepped.  They had walked all around the chamber, examining it, and eventually they had chosen a single path out.  The dust in two of the three doorways was undisturbed.

Pippin and Gandalf silently followed the footprints, passing through the middle door and a corridor into a second room that looked much like the first, only larger.  This was followed by another corridor, and another room, and another and another.  Pippin looked around curiously as they went, but he felt no desire to linger; what had earlier seemed a grand place to explore now made his skin crawl.  Besides, the rooms were completely empty.  There were no chests of treasure, no suits of armor, no shelves of books, and not a stick of furniture.  It seemed as if there were eyes watching him from the shadowed corners of the rooms and the warm air made him feel clammy.  He wanted nothing more than to find the others quickly and get back out under the open sky.

Pippin and Gandalf did not shout for the Fellowship as they went along; they only spoke to one another occasionally and kept their voices low.  Down they went through square rooms with vaulted ceilings, around angular stairwells and passages, all of them decorated with carvings.  The Fellowship seemed to have chosen a single path and held to it.  Though there were often multiple doorways in the chambers, the footprints only ever led out through a single one.  Aragorn had clearly held to the middle way whenever possible.

Room after room passed by and Pippin began to wonder how far they were going to have to walk.  Was it possible that the others really had lost track of time and distance and wandered off?  He turned his head, gazing around the vast chamber he stood in.  Suddenly he froze and jerked his eyes forward again.  What was that?

Gandalf stopped walking.  “Peregrin?” he asked softly.

Pippin stared hard into the darkness for a moment, considering.  He shook his head.  “It’s nothing.  For a moment I thought I saw… but it’s gone now.”

“Saw what?”

Pippin opened his mouth to reply, but just then a flash of gold glinted off the wall in the next corridor.  Excited as he was, he did not forget to whisper, not in such an oppressive place.  The looming walls seemed to forbid speech.  “There it is again!  There’s a light up ahead!”

Gandalf dimmed his staff and peered into the gloom.  The golden flicker came again.  Like far-off torchlight, thought Pippin, clutching his own brand tightly.

“Yes,” Gandalf whispered, his eyes wide and intent.  “Yes, you are right.”  He held a finger to his lips to signal for silence.  Pippin nodded his understanding.  Listening might tell them whether friends or foes awaited them at the end of the hall.

Pippin stood very still, trying not to breathe.  He listened as hard as he could, straining to hear speech, footsteps, or anything at all besides his own heartbeat.  After a minute or two Gandalf looked at Pippin questioningly, but Pippin only shook his head.

Gandalf let out a long breath.  “Your ears are sharper than mine,” he whispered.  “If something was moving nearby, you would have heard it.  But we must be cautious; just because all is still does not mean we are safe.  You must leave your torch here lest its light give warning of our approach.”  His staff’s light diminished until it went out completely.

Pippin wanted nothing less than to let go of his torch, but he saw the necessity of doing so.  He could not stop his heart from beating a little faster as he propped it in a corner.

“Come – take my hand,” said Gandalf.  “We’ll know what lies at the end of this hall soon enough.”

Pippin reached up and let the wizard’s gnarled fingers close around his smaller hand.  Together they stepped into the dark of the corridor.  There was just enough light for them to make out a wall some distance ahead where the hall curved in a new direction.  With no light of their own they could not see what lay before their feet, and they took each step forward with great caution.  Gandalf held up his staff so it would not knock against the floor.

The faint light grew as they crept on, and Pippin’s sense of dread grew with every step.  His pulse was racing by the time they finally rounded the corner.  Now he could see an arched doorway some twenty feet away, its stone edges heavily worked with severe designs.  The room beyond was lit from within by a dim, flickering glow.  Pippin realized that this was the first arched door he had seen since entering those deserted halls, but he quickly pushed the thought aside.  Architectural oddities were inconsequential next to whatever awaited them at the end of the passage.

They paused to listen again.  Once more Gandalf looked to Pippin, and once more Pippin shook his head.  Gandalf’s lips thinned.  He squeezed Pippin’s hand, not noticing Pippin’s wince at the pressure on his small burns.  Gandalf raised his staff before him as he stepped forward.  Pippin was unaware of his free hand straying to the hilt of his leaf-shaped dagger.

And then, when they were still several paces from the end of the corridor, Pippin saw that there was a dark shape lying on the floor of the lighted room.  An instant later he realized what it was and he let out a gasp of terror.  Merry!  His eyes were closed and there was blood on his face.  And beyond him there were more shapes – more bodies on the ground!  Now that he knew what he was looking at, Pippin could clearly distinguish the rest of the missing Fellowship.

Gandalf fairly leapt into the doorway, pulling Pippin with him.  A brilliant light burst from his staff and illuminated the entire chamber.  The sudden brightness was so intense that Pippin threw up his arm to shield his eyes.  For a moment Gandalf’s staff shone like a star come down to Middle-earth; then, swiftly, the light dimmed to what it had been before.  Afterimages of the flare drifted before Pippin’s eyes, but he scarcely noticed them.  His attention was wholly on the crumpled figures before him.

Pippin lunged toward the Fellowship, but Gandalf’s hand closed around his arm.  “No, Pippin!  Don’t touch them!”

Pippin struggled against the wizard’s grip.  “Merry!” he cried, feeling the sting of gathering tears.  “Merry, wake up!  Frodo!  Sam!  Strider!”

“Pippin, stop!  You must not touch them!  You must not enter that room!”

Pippin looked up at the wizard.  “Why, Gandalf?” he demanded.  “Why?  What if they’re hurt?  What if they’re dead?”  He whirled again, his eyes on Merry, and tried to twist away from Gandalf.  “I can’t see them breathing!  Let me go!”

“Stop!  Stop and listen, Peregrin Took!” Gandalf ordered, seizing Pippin’s shoulder and spinning him around.  The roughness in his voice and eyes shocked Pippin into silence.  For a moment they stared at each other while the air grew thick with tension; but then the thunder faded from Gandalf’s brow and his grip loosened.  “Forgive me,” he said quietly.  “Did I hurt you?”

Pippin shook his head.

“Good,” said Gandalf, his expression softening.  Pippin thought he seemed relieved.  “Good.  I had to stop you.  We dare not set foot in that chamber until we know what felled our companions.”

“Are they alive?” Pippin pleaded, not caring that his voice cracked with emotion.

“They are,” Gandalf replied.

“How can you tell?  I can’t tell!”

“Watch them for a moment, and you will see that they breathe,” said Gandalf, turning Pippin around.

Pippin gazed at Merry, who lay nearest to the doorway.  His throat was tight with hope and dread.  Gandalf stood behind him, one hand still carefully closed around Pippin’s right arm, guarding against the possibility that Pippin’s heart might override his head again.  Pippin felt the stirrings of panic when he saw no movement, but Gandalf murmured to him to watch, and he calmed slightly, trusting that Gandalf would not lie to him.  After what seemed an eternity, Pippin saw Merry’s shoulder move.  His cousin had breathed in… and out again.  He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and the tears that had been gathering in his eyes spilled free.

“There, now,” said Gandalf, in a tone far more kindly than Pippin usually heard from him.

Pippin sniffed hard and scrubbed at his cheeks.  They had to puzzle out what to do now, and tears would not solve anything.  “Thank you,” he said huskily.  “I’m glad you were right.”

“So am I, Pippin.”  Pippin looked up at Gandalf with red, wet eyes and was surprised to see a soft expression on the wizard’s face.  Knowing that Gandalf was truly concerned for the others made him feel a little better.

“I sense that they live in the same way I sense your own vitality, Pippin,” Gandalf continued.  “They do not have the stillness of the dead – the absence of their souls, Saruman would have said.”  Pippin felt Gandalf stiffen when he mentioned the White Wizard.  “But enough of that; it is neither here nor there.  Our companions live, but something is wrong.  It is as if they are not wholly present.”

Pippin silently agreed.  Something was wrong.  There was an eeriness in the way they all lay so still, alive yet unresponsive to the shouting and light that had filled the chamber just moments before.  “They look like they’re sleeping,” he said.

“Yes, they do,” Gandalf agreed pensively.  “As if they are sleeping very, very deeply.”

“Can you wake them up?”

Gandalf surveyed the fallen Fellowship, considering, and stretched out a wrinkled hand toward Frodo.  Pippin’s eyes flickered between his cousin and Gandalf, who glowered commandingly.  Many long moments passed before Gandalf dropped his arm and exhaled slowly.  “I cannot,” he said.  “His spirit does not respond to my call.”

Pippin shivered.

“This is a riddle,” Gandalf muttered, “and I think the clues are in this room.  At least, I hope that they are.”

“What clues?” said Pippin.

“Hmm.  You have missed them because your eyes are full of your friends.  Look around again and tell me what you see.”

“You mean something besides the dome overhead, I suppose,” said Pippin.  “I haven’t seen anything else like it down here.”  He cast his eyes around the chamber.  “The walls are curved too, and they were straight everywhere else, but I don’t see as that matters….”  He trailed off abruptly.  “A stone column!” he exclaimed.  It seemed to stand in the very center of the chamber.  How could he have missed seeing that?  It had four flat sides and tapered slightly between the floor and its top – like a candle, but considerably thicker and larger.  A shallow, curved bowl rested at its apex.  Then Pippin’s eyes traveled to the floor.  “And there’s something broken, too.  It’s… stone?  Pottery?  I can’t tell – it’s too dusty.”

“Good!” said Gandalf.  “What else?”

“I suppose it used to sit on that column,” Pippin mused.  “The pieces are thickest near its base.”  His eyes roved among the bodies of the Fellowship.  “Do you think they might have fallen on some of them?  They were standing right in the middle of them, and….  Good gracious!”  Pippin took a step backwards and bumped into Gandalf.  There were three skeletons in the corner.

 “Dwarves,” Gandalf said solemnly.  “They have been dead for a very long time.  Their presence is all the more reason for us not to go in.  Whatever felled our company probably killed them, too.”

“But they’ve been dead for decades at the very least!  How can we know what killed them?  There’s nothing left of them but bones and crumbling cloth.”

“There is a bit more left of them than that.  They still have their weapons.”  Gandalf pointed at the bodies.  “And look how that one lies there, on its side, with its hand resting near the skull.  Meriadoc lies in nearly the same position.”

Pippin flinched, thinking of Merry wasting away, an eternal companion for the skeletons behind the plinth.

“As if they just collapsed where they stood,” Gandalf mused.  “And the dwarves never drew their axes.  They were not fighting.”

Pippin looked at the skeletons.  The wizard was right; the dwarves’ axes were still secured to the metal links of rotted leather belts.  Pippin’s eyes swung to the Fellowship.  Not a one among them had drawn their weapons, either.

Despite his impatience to be doing something, Pippin tried to apply his mind to Gandalf’s riddle.  Not only were swords, knives and axes still sheathed, but the only injuries to be seen were head wounds, and those seemed to have been inflicted by falling to the floor.  The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Gandalf was right – if they hadn’t just crumpled like puppets with their strings cut.  But it made no sense!  How could such a thing have happened?

Gandalf was thumbing the hilt of his sword and muttering to himself.  “Oddly shaped.  Very oddly shaped.  It could be that.  But why would I find one here?  And how was it broken?”

“What’s oddly shaped?” asked Pippin.

Gandalf gave a start and looked down at the hobbit.  “What?  Oh – the pieces on the floor.  Some of them have a curved edge.  See that one there, and there?”

Pippin nodded.  “You think you know what this thing was before it broke.”

“I have a guess,” the wizard rumbled darkly, “but I do not like it, and if I am correct, then we dare not touch the pieces to be sure.”

Pippin eyed the shattered object.  “You think that’s what did this to them?”

“This room is unlike any other room in these halls; it is special, and it must have had a special purpose.  We saw almost nothing until we came here, where we found our entire party unconscious along with three dead dwarves and a broken object.  Unless this place is cursed – and I do not think it is – then that object is almost certainly the key to all this.”  Gandalf’s eyes narrowed.  “Yes, it truly might be that.  I have never heard of one being damaged before, yet I can believe it might have this effect if it were broken.  Moving the pieces could prove me right… yet I would rather be sure….”

Pippin was listening attentively, for Gandalf seldom thought out loud, and never in front of him; but then Gandalf shifted his staff and Pippin forgot all about what the wizard was saying.  A glint had caught his eye when the light moved, and it had come from something in Gimli’s hand.  Pippin squinted, trying to decide what it was.  It looked like a chunk of black glass.  He had never seen anything like it in Gimli’s possession before.

“Gandalf,” Pippin interrupted excitedly, “Gimli is holding something.  I think it’s a piece of that broken thing.”

The wizard trailed off and peered at Gimli.  His eyebrows rose as he gazed at the object in the dwarf’s hand.

“It looks like glass,” said Pippin.

“It is not glass,” Gandalf said softly.  “It is crystal.  Well spotted, Pippin!  I am certain of what this thing is now.”  He lifted his staff off the floor and its light flared brighter.  “Watch closely.  You are about to see how our Fellowship was ensnared.”

A grimy shard scraped across the floor and soared into the air.  Another rose from where it lay near Frodo.  Still another wriggled out from beneath the corner of Legolas’s cloak.  Then bits of glass were rising everywhere, floating up to mix with those that hovered in the air.  Pippin watched, mouth agape, as the shards arranged themselves like the pieces of a puzzle.  Then Gandalf waved one hand, the dust fell away, and the pieces slid together to form a dark, glossy sphere.  Yet it was not quite whole; Pippin could see that a few pieces were missing from the surface.  As he watched, a dark fire kindled itself within the sphere.  Its light reflected off the faces of each individual shard and spiderwebbed the whole object with red, jagged lines.  Pippin had the vague notion that the thing was somehow alive.  The light waxed and waned gently, like the intake and exhalation of breath.

“You are possibly the first hobbit to ever lay eyes on one of these,” Gandalf said.

“What is it?” Pippin breathed.

“It is a palantír.”

“What’s a palantír?”

“It is a seeing-stone of elder days.  Very few were made, and the knowledge of their making was lost long ago.  Through them one can see other people, other places – and other minds, under the right conditions.”

“But this one’s broken,” said Pippin.

“Yes,” said Gandalf, “and that is why our companions lie senseless.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The palantíri are activated by touch, Peregrin, and our friends touched the shards.  Though broken, this sphere remains an object of great power; yet because it is broken, it cannot function as it was meant to.”  The wizard’s brows drew down.  “I have never heard of a shattered palantír before.  I do not know where the other Stones may be found or how this one came to be in this place.  Yet here one is, along with the proof that touching its pieces produces a devastating effect.  Our companions are alive, but they are unconscious – so much so that they will not wake naturally.  And if they do not wake, they will eventually die for want of food and water.  I expect that is what happened to the dwarves.”

Pippin felt as though his middle had become a ball of ice.  “And you can’t wake them up?”

“No.  I have already tried.”

“But… maybe that’s because you didn’t get all the pieces.  Some are missing.”  Pippin looked back at the Fellowship.  “Look!  Gimli still has his.”

“I know,” said Gandalf.  “So does Frodo.”  Pippin looked up quizzically.  Gandalf gestured to Frodo and flared the light of his staff again.  Pippin turned his eyes to Frodo and saw the light glint off of something in his cousin’s hand.  He hadn’t realized that Frodo was holding a piece, too.

“Did they all touch the pieces?” Pippin wondered aloud.  “Did you get some of them?  Maybe if they’re not touching them anymore….”

“I could not move the shards that our companions are touching,” said Gandalf.  “But perhaps some of them might have dropped anything they picked up.  I will try again.  If we are lucky….”  He trailed off as he stretched out a hand toward Strider.

Whatever commands Gandalf was issuing were still beyond Pippin’s senses.  Pippin waited, hopeful, but no matter how far Gandalf’s brows drew down or how commandingly he glared, Strider did not stir.  Gandalf muttered to himself and turned his attention to each of the others in turn.  None of them so much as twitched.

Gandalf  lowered his arm.  “It was worth a try,” he said.  His stern expression had melted into weariness.  “There are many pieces unaccounted for.  I think our companions may have fallen upon them.”

Pippin was feeling distinctly sick with worry by now.  “What do we do, Gandalf?  What do we do if we can’t touch them and your magic doesn’t work?”

“Perhaps we should say that that magic did not work.  There may be other ways to wake them.  I have thought of one possibility, but it would be risky to try.”

“Well, we have to try something!” said Pippin, throwing his arms wide.  “They’ll all die if we don’t!  And we’d never finish our Quest, either,” he added reluctantly, knowing that this had to be considered even if it was not foremost in his heart.  “Tell me your idea.”

Gandalf paused before replying; he seemed to be choosing his words carefully.  “The palantíri touch the mind, Pippin, and our companions are in thrall to this one.  This palantír  has pulled them far from the waking world.  They are healthy and whole – bodies, minds, and spirits – yet I cannot reach them.  It is impossible to say exactly what has happened, but I think they are imprisoned within their own heads, and I doubt that they are aware of it.  I suppose you could call it dreaming.”  Gandalf thumbed his beard.  “If I could take away the pieces they are touching, perhaps they would be able to hear me, but I cannot move them; I think they must let them go of their own free will.”

“But if they’re trapped in their own minds, how can they do that?” asked Pippin.

“They can if we spring the trap,” said Gandalf.  “The only way I can think to do this is to… well, to converse with them in thought.  And this is what you must do.”

Pippin stared at Gandalf.  “How… how is that even possible?  I can’t do that.  No hobbit can.  Maybe you could, but that’s because you’re Gandalf.”  A horrible thought suddenly came to him.  Could a wizard read minds?  Had Gandalf been looking at Pippin’s thoughts ever since leaving Rivendell?  Pippin did not like this notion at all.  He had thought so many things he had chosen not to say.  His own head should be a place where he was alone!  What would Gandalf think of him if he knew everything that went on there?

Something of Pippin’s anxiety must have shown on his face.  “Be easy,” Gandalf said hastily.  “I have not prying into your mind.”

“But you can do it?”

“It is not what you think, and we do not have time for me to explain it to you.  But if I did attempt to touch your thoughts, you would know it.  Does that make you feel better?”

Pippin threw up his hands.  “Oh, I… it doesn’t matter what I think.  You’re right; there’s no time for that now, and even if there was, I suppose I’d never really understand a wizard.  I just don’t see how I can look at anyone’s mind, especially if you can’t.”

“This was all caused by touching the broken palantír,” said Gandalf.  “If you touch it, you will fall to it, too.  But here is the difference between you and our companions.”  He held up one gnarled finger.  “I can place a spell of protection on you first.  If all works as I plan, you will ‘dream’ as the others do, but you will know that you are dreaming, and you should be able to wake yourself at will.”

“If all works as you plan?” Pippin stammered, instantly regretting his choice of words.  Gandalf never took kindly to those who doubted his abilities.

But to Pippin’s surprise, the wizard did not seem to take offense.  “A palantír is nothing to toy with whether it is broken or whole,” he admitted.  “There is always a chance that something is in play here that I cannot see.  Yet we are not feeling blindly in the dark; I have some knowledge of the palantíri, and even more knowledge of the mortal mind and my own gifts.  I think my logic is sound.”

“But wouldn’t you be a better choice to go than me?  Your magic wouldn’t protect you?”

Gandalf shook his head.  “If something were to go amiss and you could not wake yourself, the spell of protection should enable me to call you back.  I cannot do that if I am with you, or if I go alone.”  He looked keenly at Pippin.  “I cannot command you to do this.  The best-laid plans often go awry, and a mistake here could cost you your life.  If you think we should take the Ring and go on, I will not think less of you.”

Pippin’s head snapped up.  “Take the Ring?  Take the Ring and leave them all here to die?”

Gandalf looked at Frodo’s still form.  The weathered planes of his face hardened, but Pippin thought his eyes grew sadder.  “This Fellowship exists for one purpose: to bring the Ring to Mordor and destroy it.  If one of us falls, the other eight will go on; if eight of us fall, one will go on.  If we fail, Middle-earth will be plunged into a darkness from which it will never recover.  We must give that more weight than the fates of our companions, however much we love them.”

“You think we have a chance if we try,” Pippin said softly.  He didn’t mean it for a question, but Gandalf answered him.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then we have to try.  I can’t leave them here without doing that.”

“I cannot be certain that this will work,” Gandalf said gravely.  “You could be trapped just as the others are.”

Fear quivered in the pit of Pippin’s stomach, but he knew he could not abandon Merry to this – or the others, for that matter.  “If I am, then you will be the one of us who goes on.  What do I have to do?”

Gandalf smiled.  “Few are they who appreciate the worth of Hobbits.  I already think much of your race, Peregrin, but you raise it still further in my estimation.”

Pippin flushed and dropped his eyes.  He was not at all used to praise from Gandalf.

“You must take each person one at a time,” said the wizard.  “The order must be chosen carefully.”   His eyes roamed over the company, considering.

Pippin’s gaze followed the wizard’s.  He hoped Gandalf had a hobbit in mind for the first – preferably Merry.  Pippin knew Merry almost as well as he knew himself.  He hardly knew what he was getting himself into, but surely things would go better if he could try with Merry instead of a Man, Dwarf, or Elf.  Were the dreams of Big Folk like hobbit dreams at all?

“Merry first,” said Gandalf.

“Really?” Pippin exclaimed, profoundly relieved.

“Indeed,” said Gandalf.  “You are more familiar with him than anyone else here, except perhaps Frodo.  That may make things easier for you.  Best to find your feet under the most favorable conditions.”

Pippin beamed at Gandalf, delighted with the wizard’s reasoning - and with his own.  It was heartening to know that Gandalf agreed with him.  “And after that?” he asked.

“I will think on it while you collect Merry,” said Gandalf.  He waved his hand, and the palantír sank to the floor and collapsed into pieces, its inner light extinguished.  Gandalf pointed to Merry.  “Lie down close to your cousin, but be careful not to touch him, and be especially careful of where you step.  Your way should be quite clear - every untouched shard should be gathered in that pile - but extra caution will not go amiss.  Compose your mind while I prepare myself.  I will have more to say to you in a moment.”

Pippin complied, stepping over the threshold and slowly making his way to Merry’s side.  He knew Merry would not stir at his approach, but his cousin’s perfect stillness was no less disquieting for it.  When he was only two feet away, he sat down, removed his cloak, and folded it up.  A soft murmuring from Gandalf turned his head.  The wizard was standing in the doorway, eyes closed, both hands gripping his staff.  His lips moved as he muttered words that Pippin could not understand.

Pippin placed the folded cloak on the ground and carefully stretched himself out flat, using the garment as a pillow.  Gandalf was still talking to himself, so Pippin stared up at the thickly carved ceiling and tried to do as the wizard had asked.  He felt keenly conscious of the others in the room – both the living and the dead.  Calm eluded him.  How could he compose himself when he was about to step into the complete unknown?  He could scarcely wrap his mind around what was going to happen.  He didn’t even know what he had to do yet.

“It is done,” said Gandalf.

“What?” said Pippin, surprised.  “Are you talking about your spell?  I don’t feel any different.”

Gandalf smiled wryly.  “Not all magic is accompanied by flashes of light.”

Pippin exhaled slowly and looked back up at the ceiling.  He felt unable to return the smile.  “If you say so, Gandalf; I wouldn’t know.  Well, what did you want to tell me?”

“When I give the word, take Merry’s hand.  Then take up a shard of the palantír; I will bring one to you.  When you pick it up, you should succumb quickly.”

“What will it feel like?”

“I do not know,” said Gandalf, “but when two people touch a palantír it enables them to speak mind to mind; I think it will be the same for a broken one.  You will be touching both Merry and the palantír.  That should join you together.”

Pippin nodded.

“There is something else, Pippin, and this is very important.  If we are right about this and you find yourself in a dream, the things you see may be very strange indeed – as strange as any dream you have ever had.  And because this palantír is broken, it may be that are companions’ thoughts have been twisted.  Their dreams may tend toward nightmare.”

Pippin nodded again, not trusting his voice.  This was becoming quite frightening, but he wasn’t about to change his mind.

“I hardly know what advice to give you,” Gandalf said apologetically.  “All I can tell you is to remember your goal: find Merry and make him understand that he is dreaming.  If he does not become aware of this fact, I do not think he will regain consciousness.  I cannot tell you how to accomplish this.  You must trust to your own judgment and do the best that you can.  Use what you know about him to your advantage.  Use what you know to convince him.”  Gandalf paused and looked Pippin over carefully.  “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Pippin replied, his voice cracking.

“Then take Merry’s hand, and open your other palm.”

Pippin turned his head toward Merry; then he reached out and took up his cousin’s hand.  It was limp but warm.  Wait for me, Merry, he thought.  I’m coming.  Without looking back, he opened the fingers of his other hand, leaving his palm pointing toward the ceiling.  He did not want to see the piece of black glass floating toward him.

“I will see you soon,” said Gandalf.  “Both of you.”

Pippin felt something cool touch his empty hand and the light winked out.