2. The Dark Places

For Lindelea, who cheered the loudest as this story staggered across the finish line. Many, many thanks.

"Pippin! Take my hand," Merry whispered.

"But then I would have three," Pippin said lightly, keeping his own hands at his sides. "And you would be left with only one, and then we'd both be in a pickle."

They were walking in single file through the long darkness of Moria, Gandalf leading the way. The path beneath the Fellowship's feet was once smooth and paved, well-crafted by the fathers of the fathers of the Dwarves of Moria, but time and the damp had done their worst, and now it was cracked and buckled, and strewn with lumps of upheaved stone. The heaps of rubble were no great obstacle to the taller members of the party, but for the sake of speed the hobbits had often been lifted over them. Pippin had at first rather enjoyed the sensation of being lifted up and swung from one pair of arms to another, but it had quickly worn thin. He was tired of being pinched and poked, (however unintentionally,) and of being passed from hand to hand like a bag of sugared walnuts at a Yule party. He was very nearly a grown hobbit. He had missed meals and slept on the ground, and faced Black Riders, and wargs, and the Watcher, and he had nearly frozen solid on Caradhras, and he did not need to be led by the hand, thank you very much.

Merry gave an exasperated sigh that meant humor me, won't you? "Well then, take my sleeve." Hungry shadows lay on every side, kept at bay only by the faint illumination of Gandalf's staff. It would be all too easy for a curious Took to get himself lost if he paused to woolgather. "We have a long way to go and we mustn’t stray too far apart, any of us."

"Little chance of that," Pippin said. The Big Folk kept the hobbits bunched together like hens-and-chicks. But as a compromise he grasped the edge of Merry's cloak and gave it a little tug, so that Merry could feel it. "There, mammy dear, now I shan't get parted from you. Do I get cider and biscuits in the nursery later?"

"No, you shan't," Frodo said, having overheard. "Cheeky faunts don't get treats, they get a thrashing from their elders." He looked back at Sam, who was walking close behind him. Sam's face was grimy, and sweat and tears had made tracks through the dust. It had been a dreadful blow to him, leaving poor Bill behind. "How are you holding up, Sam?"

"Well as can be expected, sir," Sam said, but Frodo thought that his voice sounded strained. "But I already feel near to going blind, what with looking at naught but shadows and stone. How far did Mr. Gandalf say it was again?"

"Forty miles or so, as the crow flies," Frodo said. "But when you think about, Sam, it really is less than a walking-trip from Hobbiton to Brandy Hall, and Bilbo and I have done that for a lark." He was trying to lift Sam's spirits, and refrained from mentioning that he had been quite young then, and he and Bilbo had been well-rested and at ease, walking in the bright sunshine on a good road through safe and settled country. "If we keep up a good pace, and don't stop too often-"

"And if we do not meet up with any trouble in this forsaken place," Boromir said, quietly and uneasily, almost as if he were talking to himself.

But his words came clearly to Frodo's ears, and to Sam's ears as well. Frodo saw Sam gulp and look around miserably at the impenetrable darkness beyond their small Fellowship.

Frodo gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "We'll be all right, Sam."

Sam swallowed hard and nodded, but he didn't look very convinced. Frodo sighed, then took a step and pretended to stumble.

Sam was instantly filled with concern, forgetting his own fears for his master's sake. "Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?” His voice dropped. “Is It very heavy? We could ask for a rest, if you're tired."

"No, no, I believe I can go on quite a long way yet," Frodo said, but he rubbed his shoulder, as if it pained him. "It’s just that the darkness makes my eyes feel tired. Would you mind if leaned against you for a while?"

"Not at all," Sam said. He lifted Frodo's hand and patted it, then tucked it into the bend of his elbow. "There now, sir, you just lean on me as long as you like."

Frodo sighed heavily again, in mock-weariness. "Thank you, Sam."

Good old Frodo, Merry smiled to himself. He tucked his head down and concentrated on placing one foot before the other-a harder task than it seemed, considering that he could scarcely tell where he was putting them-until there was an unexpected halt up ahead.

Merry stopped so quickly that Pippin walked on his heels. "What is it now?" Pippin asked in a loud whisper. "More rocks?"

"I don't think so," Merry said, craning his neck in an attempt to see around Boromir's broad back. Gimli had been walking quietly behind Gandalf, and kept his hand on the hilt of his axe-Moria had not been his home, and his knowledge of the place came secondhand, in tales told to him by his father and kin. He would have been little help as a guide, but now Merry saw that he and Gandalf were standing together, talking in low voices and looking at something on the path before them.

Aragorn and Legolas said a few quiet words to each other in Elvish, then Aragorn went on to join Gandalf and Gimli. Pippin tugged on Merry's cloak again. "Let's get a closer look."

Legolas put his long hands on the hobbit's shoulders and held them back. "Wait, my friends, do not be so eager to rush ahead in dark places; let your guides lead the way, if you have them."

But Aragorn motioned them forward. "Let them come, Legolas," Aragorn said. "Frodo and Sam, as well. There is no danger here now-whatever evil things were done here happened long ago. Let us hope that they see no worse than this before we reach the end of our journey."

Merry and Pippin went on, less eagerly now, until they stood beside Frodo and Sam. Gandalf lifted his staff, and a pale light glittered on the tarnished helm and coat of mail that lay before them. The corpse lay face down on the dusty floor. It had been dreadfully mutilated by the dark creatures of Moria, and ill-used by time. Little of it remained whole, except for head and helm and ragged cloak, and one hand clutching an axe with a notched blade. Scattered Goblin-bones lay here and there around it, like drifts of brittle snow. Pippin felt them crunch under his feet, and shuddered.

"Did you...did you know him, Gimli?" Merry asked.

"It is hard to say," Gimli said. "But I do not recognize his axe or helm; I do not believe he is any kin to me, and for that much I am glad. But I am grieved to see him here, forgotten in the dark, unknown and unmourned, while time has crept on outside, sunrise and sunset, rain and cloud, sun and snow." His voice faltered and he bowed his head.

They stood in silent sympathy for a few moments, then Gandalf touched Gimli's shoulder. "We must go on, my friend."

"Aye," Gimli nodded. But he bent down, pulling up the rotten cloth to cover the corpse, and rested his fingers lightly on the shrouded bones. "Here you have done deeds worthy of song, Nameless One, though perhaps none were left to sing of you. Sleep well!"

They turned away, but Pippin stood still, wide-eyed, feeling chilled and a little sick. Forgotten in the dark. He was very nearly a grown hobbit, yes, but he suddenly felt horribly, horribly young, defenseless, and small. This could be Frodo, or Merry, or Sam, or himself, or any one of the Fellowship, these sad, dry bones, forgotten and lost, no more green grass and sunshine, or bright Yule days, no more pints or pipes or pretty lasses-

"Steady there, Mr. Pippin," Sam said. "Poor lad's got the shivers, and no wonder."

"He does look a bit pale," Frodo said. "Take his arm, Merry."

"Ah, but then I'd have three, wouldn't I, Pippin?" Merry said, and though Pippin could barely see him he could hear the smile in his voice. "And you would have only one-"

Pippin had gone cold to his very bones, but he felt Merry close on his right, and Frodo on his left, and their nearness warmed him and gave him comfort. He managed to dredge up a sickly grin.  "-Then we'd b-both be in a p-pickle.”

"There's a good lad," Frodo said, clapping him on the back and giving him a little push forward, away from fear. "Come along now."

Pippin reached forward blindly as they walked away, reaching for Merry's cloak, but found his hand instead and held on tight. He didn’t look back, but Frodo‘s hand was on his shoulder, and he knew that Sam was holding on to Frodo, and so they were all linked together that way, like a chain, and if the links held fast it would see them safely through all the dark places of the journey still to come.

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The end (of this, but more ficlets on the way.)

Author's Note: Another Story Challenge ficlet, written for Marigold and her 12th story challenge at her website. Gratitude also to Sulriel and the helpful folks at the Stories of Arda Yahoo Group for technical help.