Author's Note:
This was written for two purposes, as part 2 of Marigold's challenge 7, and as a birthday present for Dana. (Happy birthday, Dana!)

Material from "The Uruk-hai" and "Flotsam and Jetsam" from The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien has been incorporated here and shaped into new form.

*** 

Merry looked up at the sky anxiously. There was going to be a change in the weather, he had no doubt, and not for the better. He could hear the grumble of thunder, shaking the air around him, and dark clouds obscured his vision. An eye-blinding flash seared his aching head.

He ought not to be on the River with thunder coming on, but he’d lost his oars trying to grab for the fish he’d caught—someone had removed the pins from the oarlocks, a stupid, thoughtless trick!—and the little boat was carrying him ever farther from Brandy Hall. He looked from one riverbank to the other, trying to gauge which was closer, that he might make a swim for it, to no avail.

 ‘Help!’ he shouted again, hopelessly. ‘Help me!’

He thought he heard a faint reply. ‘Merry!’

 ‘Pippin?’ he cried. He hadn’t told anyone he was sneaking away to do some fishing and thinking. How had Pippin known? It occurred to him then that Pippin might have been the one who removed the pins from the oarlocks, causing the oars to fall out of the boat when Merry let them go to draw the net over the fish he’d caught on his line. Pippin had probably not suspected that his trick would work so magnificently.

 ‘Pippin!’ he cried, but his voice was drowned in the booming of the thunder. The wind came up, rocking the boat violently. He saw the floating log before the boat hit it, but with no way to steer all he could do was look in horror, grabbing hold of the gunwales as he hit, for all the good it did... He shouted as the boat went over, for it scored his forehead with agony, and he struggled to grab hold of the boat or the log or anything, to fend off the burning pain, to hold tight lest he sink in the River and drown.

He was sinking in the water, his head splitting from the knock it had received as the boat went over. He tried to move his arms and legs but they were strangely heavy and unresponsive. He opened his mouth to cry out again, and the River poured into him, but instead of icy cold it was burning in his throat and down into his innards and he felt a hot fierce glow flow through him.

He found himself standing on his feet, surrounded by foul Orcs, and memory returned. He and Pippin had run, shouting for Frodo, into the midst of a group of the horrid creatures. He was sure they were for it then, but the Orcs didn’t strike with sword or club, not even when Merry cut off several of the hands that grabbed at him and at Pippin.

At last an Orc gave an exasperated roar and struck with his club from behind them. Merry saw the blow take Pippin to the ground, and in grief he sprang forward, to stand over his cousin’s body, to take the next blow on himself. The club descended indeed, knocking his small sword to the ground. Before he could regain it, a great Orc scooped it from the ground together with Pippin’s.

How he glared! Merry stood straighter, seeing his death in the creature’s eyes, waiting for the stab to come. Instead the great Orc gave a howl and threw the knives away as if they burned him. ‘Little scum!’ he growled. ‘You’ll pay for that!’ He drew his iron-gloved fist back and struck Merry sharply, rocking the hobbit’s head on his neck, and Merry fell into darkness.

But now he was awake, staring about him. There was no sign of Boromir, whom he’d last seen plucking a black-feathered arrow from his side. They weren’t at Parth Galen at all, he realized, but at the top of a narrow ravine leading down to the misty plain below.

Just then, to his relief and chagrin, he spotted his younger cousin. Pippin stood not far away, pale and defiant, though worry for Merry shone from his eyes. Ah, Pippin, they’ve taken you too, he thought. But it’s nice to know you’re alive, at least. He shook himself mentally, strove to find something cheering and heartening to say.

 ‘Hullo, Pippin!’ he said. ‘So you’ve come on this little expedition, too? Where do we get bed and breakfast?’

 ‘Now then!’ said the ugly Orc that he’d soon learn was called Ugluk. ‘None of that! Hold your tongues. No talk to one another. Any trouble will be reported at the other end, and He’ll know how to pay you. You’ll get bed and breakfast all right: more than you can stomach.’

Merry’s heart sank. He was fairly sure as to the identity of “He”—the Dark Lord himself, he wouldn’t wonder. He wished he could lie down and die then and there, but what good would that do Pippin? Grimly he climbed down the ravine, trying to catch a glimpse of Pippin though more than a dozen Orcs separated them.

Somehow the touch of grass on his feet when he reached the valley heartened him, and he raised his head once more.

There was some shouting amongst the Orcs, and then Merry was prodded forward. He was forced into a run, with three Orcs around him to act as guard and goad. He wondered how long he could keep this pace, having had no food since morning, but the fierce glow still burned in his innards and somehow he made his legs move steadily up-and-down. When he faltered a whip would sing and curl about his back or legs, painfully cutting through his clothes as a knife, leaving his skin burning. And still he ran. He could not see Pippin, so his cousin must be behind him. He hoped Pippin was behind him, at least. He could not spare a moment to look around, for any time his pace faltered the whip sang once more.

Suddenly he heard Ugluk yell, ‘Halt!’

As his orc-guard stopped, he dropped to the ground, panting, then tried to get a look behind him. A great arm cuffed him down, and a voice growled, ‘Lie still, you maggot!’ Merry could not see what was happening, but he heard a stifled cry from Pippin and then Ugluk shouted, ‘Enough! He’s still got to run a long way yet!’

All the way to Mordor, Merry thought gloomily. He didn’t hear anything else, for his guard now pulled him to his feet and prodded him into motion once more.

He ran, and he ran, striving to keep up the pace set by the Orcs, feeling the lash of the whip when he faltered or stumbled. At last he could run no more and he fell. The whip bit twice, a third time, and then an Orc shouted and he was seized by cruel talons and dragged for some distance before he could regain his feet.

At last he fell a last time and lay insensible, welcoming the darkness. Surely they would beat and kick him to death, and this misery would end. He was only dimly aware when the cruel hands seized him once more and lifted him into the air, to settle him against a rock-hard surface that jolted him up and down, making all his arms feel as if they’d be pulled from their sockets. Somehow he was able to pass once more into a swoon, and he was aware of little that passed besides the feeling of being thrown down to the ground, hearing orc-voices arguing, and then being taken up like a sack once more, for more painful pounding.

He wakened when he felt cords being drawn mercilessly tight about his legs, binding them together. He felt rather like a trussed roast about to be suspended over the fire, and wondered if that was to be their fate. Just then he heard Pippin hiss.

 ‘Merry!’

Looking over, he saw Pippin’s face, pale under its smearing of dirt, not far away. The Orcs were making a great deal of noise, shouting and clashing their weapons. Evidently some enemy threatened.

 ‘Merry!’ Pippin hissed again, then cast a wary look about him to see if any Orc had heard. ‘Merry, do you hear me? How are you holding up?’

 ‘I don’t think much of this,’ Merry said. He was too heartsick and bone-weary to try for a cheerful tone. Indeed, if he were about to die, he might as well speak truthfully. ‘I feel nearly done in.’ He looked about at the Orcs, busy about whatever it was concerned them, and paying no mind at all to the hobbits. It would be a perfect opportunity to fade into the high grass, just as he had on sunny days in the meadow near Brandy Hall, waiting for Frodo to find him... But then, he hadn’t been trussed like a fowl at the time.

Looking about them again, Pippin lowered his voice to the merest breath. ‘They’re not watching at the moment! I think we can...’ He broke off as an Orc crossed between them.

He tried to swallow with a mouth as dry as dust, and when the area was clear again, said, ‘Don’t think I could crawl away far, even if I was free.’

 ‘Lembas!’ whispered Pippin. ‘Lembas: I’ve got some. Have you? I don’t think they’ve taken anything but our swords.’

Merry thought of the waybread they’d saved in their pockets, to nibble on during the long, boring hours on the Great River. ‘Yes, I had a packet in my pocket,’ he answered, ‘but it must be battered to crumbs. Anyway I can’t put my mouth in my pocket!’

Pippin smiled, his face young and innocent under the coating of dirt. Merry’s heart shattered within him, to think of the agonising death that surely awaited his young cousin. ‘You won’t have to,’ Pippin breathed. ‘I’ve—’. He stopped speaking as a guard kicked him savagely in the side, but tried to smile for Merry’s sake.

The night was cold and still. Merry almost wished for the storm of his dream, for at least rain would pour down from the sky and he could open his mouth to catch the life-giving water. Thirst was a growing torture, and he fell once more into half-dream of storm and thunder.

The thunder was hoofbeats, he realized in one of his waking moments, sounding in his ear as he lay on the ground, though when he turned his head he heard nothing of the riders, for they made no sound. The enemy circled the Orcs, watch-fires all around the hillock, but too far for the Orcs to shoot with any effect.

There was a sudden outcry on the east side of the knoll and the hobbits’ guards followed Ugluk to beat off the attack.

Merry sat up, for all the good it would do, and blinked at Pippin through the darkness. He opened his mouth to ask what Pippin had meant, earlier, when a long hairy arm took him by the neck, and suddenly he was pressed against Pippin. One of the Orcs, Grishnakh, began to paw the hobbits and feel them with his hard cold fingers, his foul breath hot on their faces.

To his astonishment, Merry heard Pippin speak lightly, as if they were in the middle of a party game back in the Shire. ‘I don’t think you will find it that way,’ he whispered. ‘It isn’t easy to find.’

’Find it?’ the Orc said, and his fingers stilled their raking search. Merry dared to take a breath, but he stopped breathing again when he heard Pippin make a noise deep in his throat: gollum, gollum.

 ‘O ho!’ the Orc hissed, but Merry missed the next few words, for he was thinking furiously. ‘Very ve-ry dangerous, my little ones.’

 ‘Perhaps,’ Merry put in, determined to help Pippin in this game any way he could. ‘Perhaps; and not only for us. Still you know your own business best.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Do you want it, or not? And what would you give for it?’

It was a dangerous game, as the Orc had said, and yet the hobbits played him as delicately as a great fish on a slender line, on the River of a misty morn.

Merry knew by now that they were bound for Isengard; he’d heard some of the arguing and realised that Saruman was behind this abduction, though Sauron’s Orcs would have taken them to Mordor by treachery had they been stronger. Now he said, ‘If we come to Isengard, it won’t be Grishnakh that benefits: Saruman will take all that he can find. If you want anything for yourself, now’s the time to do a deal.’

The Orc’s face twisted with rage and desire. ‘Have you got it—either of you?’ he snarled.

 ‘Gollum, Gollum!’ Pippin said.

 ‘Untie our legs!’ Merry pressed.

He felt the Orc’s arms trembling violently and wondered if he’d pressed too far. Still, death would be another sort of freedom. He steeled himself as the Orc hissed, ‘I’ll cut you both to quivering shreds...’

The Orc seized them, but instead of carrying out his threat at that moment, he tucked one under each unsavoury armpit, crushing them fiercely to his sides so that Merry could not draw breath. Even had he been able to breathe, a great stifling hand clapped over his mouth, ensuring his suffocation. He felt the Orc moving and realised the creature was attempting to escape into the darkness, to escape Ugluk and the riders beyond. He struggled desperately to breathe, but a roaring was in his ears and he felt once more as he had in the River, drowning, though this time there was no Frodo to pluck him from the waters.

Faintly Merry heard the snort of a horse and a man calling out, and then there was a shock as he was flung to the ground, the crushing weight of the Orc atop him. He heard the faint ring of Grishnakh’s sword and thought, ‘Now, at last!’ But the blow never came. Instead he heard a shriek from the throat of the Orc, a quick beat of hoofs, and a hideous shivering cry.

Before Merry could move a horse ran towards them, but as he tensed, awaiting the crushing hoofs, the horse lifted and sprang lightly over the hobbits. Though none came close to them where they lay, they remained still, too crushed for the moment, and too afraid to move.

At last Merry stirred slightly, testing his bonds, to no avail. He was tied securely, hand and foot and legs. He turned his head towards Pippin and whispered, ‘So far so good; but how are we to avoid being spitted?’

Behind them they heard the Orcs shouting and screaming. ‘Ah,’ Pippin whispered. ‘Our hosts have discovered that we’ve left the party.’

 ‘No worry,’ Merry whispered in return as the galloping of horses was heard, and more screams. ‘It seems that more guests are arriving.’ He listened intently, and realised suddenly that they were now outside the circle, with nothing between them and escape.

 ‘Who needs arms and legs?’ Pippin said whimsically. ‘Look at all we’ve accomplished just lying here!’

 ‘But now,’ Merry said, ‘if only we had our arms and legs and hands free, we might get away. But I can’t touch the knots, and I can’t bite them.’ Weak as he was, he’d tried.

 ‘No need to try,’ Pippin said as if he’d seen his cousin’s struggles in the darkness. ‘I was going to tell you: I’ve managed to free my hands. These loops are only left for show. You’d better have a bit of lembas first.’

To Merry’s amazement, Pippin slipped the loops of rope off his wrists and fished out a packet from his pocket. The cakes were broken but still in their leaf-wrappings, still fresh. Pippin fished out a piece and held it to Merry’s mouth.

Merry accepted the bite though he thought his mouth too dry to swallow. Somehow the lembas brought saliva to his mouth as he chewed, and he was able to get the stuff down without trouble, opening his mouth for another bite when Pippin held it ready. ‘Eat some yourself,’ he managed through the mouthful.

 ‘Of course,’ Pippin said, affecting cheer, and proceeded to suit action to promise. Merry chewed his mouthful, thinking of fair faces, and laughter, and wholesome food in quiet days now far away. He saw the strain leave Pippin’s face, and a thoughtful look in his cousin’s eye, even through the darkness that surrounded them, and the cries and sounds of the nearby battle seemed farther away than Lorien for the moment.

Pippin finished chewing and swallowed. ‘We must be off,’ he said. ‘Half a moment!’ With his hands free he could pull himself forward until he found Grishnakh’s body. He fumbled, his lip curled in distaste, until he found a sheath and in it a long sharp knife. Drawing this forth, he cut his legs free, then crawled to Merry and freed hands, feet, and legs.

 ‘Now for it,’ Pippin said. ‘When we’ve warmed up a bit, perhaps we shall be able to stand again, and walk. But in any case we had better start by crawling.’

Though his hands and feet were numb and clumsy, Merry managed to crawl through the deep and yielding turf. What he really wanted was to lie himself in the grass and sleep forever. Pippin would not countenance that, he suspected. His young cousin might even raise a row, enough for the Orcs or the Men to discover them, which would be a disaster. And so the older cousin gathered his courage and forced his numb and tingling limbs to move.

Finally they’d managed to skirt the nearest watch-fire and came to the edge of the river, gurgling away in the black shadows under its deep banks. The sound of the water was torture, and the thought of water drove all other thoughts from Merry’s mind.

Pippin seized his shoulder. ‘Look,’ he hissed. ‘It won’t last much longer.’ The sky was paling in the East, and the Riders were waiting silently, watching the Orcs, ready to attack with the dawn to finish the creatures.

 ‘We must get under cover,’ Pippin said urgently, ‘Or we shall be seen. It will not be any comfort to us, if these riders discover that we are not Orcs after we are dead.’ He got up and stamped his feet. ‘Those cords have cut me like wires; but my feet are getting warm again. I could stagger on now. What about you, Merry?’

Merry’s hands and feet tingled fiercely, burning with the agonies of returning circulation. He fought himself to his feet. ‘Yes,’ he said, attempting a smile. He forced the words out though his tongue felt thick and dry. ‘I can manage it. Lembas does put heart into you! A more wholesome sort of feeling, too, than the heat of that orc-draught. I wonder what it was made of. Better not to know, I expect. Let’s get a drink of water to wash away the thought of it!’ The water was only a step away, really, if one didn’t mind a tumble down the bank.

 ‘Not here,’ Pippin said. ‘The banks are too steep.’ He would brook no contradiction; his head was luckily clearer than his cousin’s. He put on his most commanding air. ‘Forward, now!’

They turned and walked side by side slowly along the line of the river as the light grew in the East behind them. Pippin talked lightly, and Merry found himself answering in a similar vein. He listened with astonishment to Pippin’s account of cutting his bonds and looping the rope around his wrists, of running free of the body of Orcs, to drop his brooch and leave a few clear marks for followers. He felt himself growing stronger with every step farther away from the Orcs and the impending battle. Why, he could almost make believe he was walking into the Old Forest, to show Pippin his latest find, a new fern or flower or herb growing in a sunlit glade.

 ‘A new beginning,’ he murmured. The weather had changed, indeed, the threatening clouds that had covered the moon in the night were no match for the rising sun. Dawn was coming. The bank was growing lower, and it would not be long before they were able to fall on their knees beside the water and scoop handfuls into their parched mouths.

 ‘What was that, cousin?’ Pippin said, taking his hand. ‘Come along now, we’re almost there.’

 Almost where? Merry wanted to ask, though he suspected he knew rather better than Pippin. Instead, he said, ‘You seem to have been doing well, Master Took...’