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

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

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

Chapter 5 - Darkness growing uncertainty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ouch!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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