5. Tookish Luck

What could Merry see and hear of Pippin running off to drop his brooch, and of the orcs reactions and retribution?

Night had fallen. Now Pippin was far behind with his guard of three Orcs, and a dozen or so more were between them. Merry wanted very badly to see how Pippin was faring, and had tried once or twice to slow a bit and look over his shoulder as he ran, but each attempt had been met with a brutal cuff or kick, or flick of the whip. Even when he and Pippin had briefly been side by side they had been forbidden to talk, and so he had not even heard Pippin squeak since they had descended to the plain, only snarls and curses, the rapid, tireless thud of iron-shod feet and the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. A cold voice inside him was whispering that perhaps he hadn't heard Pippin because he hadn't been able to keep up, and the Orcs had tired of dragging him and clubbed him into the earth for sport while Merry had been lost in a haze of his own misery. After all, it was really only necessary that one small prisoner be brought alive to Isengard, wasn't it? One small prisoner, grieving and broken, to tell all that he knew and bring the world to ruin.

"No," Merry croaked. Dread rose up to choke him and he stumbled blindly, heedless of the Orcs around him, raising his bound hands in a desperate attempt to turn back. He had to see. "Pip-"

"No talking!" There was the long hiss of the lash descending and the crack as it struck, once, and again for good measure. Merry cried out and fell on his knees, and a clawed hand grabbed his hair and dragged him upright again. "Eyes front!"

"Stop it!" shouted a small voice, breathless and pained, but fearless for Merry's sake. "Leave him alone!"

Good lad, Pippin! Merry thought, torn between joy that Pippin was still on his feet and in one piece, pride at his courage, and fear of what his protest might cost him. Whistle and crack and a muffled cry of pain, and Merry winced with tears in his eyes, as if each blow had fallen on his own shoulders, knowing that Pippin had got a taste of the whip. It was some cold comfort to him that Pippin's portion, at least, had been smaller than his own.

The butt-end of the whip handle thumped him sharply and they were off again, Merry trying to keep up with the greater strides of his captors. His parched throat burned still with the oily taste of Orc-draught, but the heat of it was fading and he felt cold and dizzy, and his head throbbed. He fell into a dazed, half-sleep as he ran, into a dreadful dream of pursuit through a dark wood, where the very trees themselves were in motion all around him. He called for Frodo, and Sam, and especially Pippin, but cruel echoes made a mockery of his frightened cries, and a cold wind carried his small hobbit's voice away into nothing.

Merry was brought back to wakefulness by the feel of soft, sodden ground that squelched under his bruised feet. He had no idea how far they had come, but from what he could see they had gone down into a shallow bowl of land, filled with cool mist. The moon was out, a bright, thin crescent of silver over the blue-shadowed plains of Rohan, but Merry, despairing and sick at heart, had no eyes for the beauty of it. He only wondered wearily if it was rising or setting, and what time it was in civilized places.

The moonlight and open space seemed to disturb the Orcs around him, and they slowed nearly to a halt, muttering uneasily among themselves. Their attention was away from Merry, and he took the opportunity to take a good, long look back without fear of reprisal. To his great relief he caught a glimpse of Pippin at last, his small, white face nearly hidden among the darker, shadowy figures of the Orcs. He looked grubby and weary and the worse for wear, but seemingly unharmed.

Pippin saw Merry, too, and his face brightened. Hullo, Merry.

From the rear of the group, Merry heard one of the big Orcs (Ugluk, he thought it was,) bark an order. Pippin's gaze slid away from Merry, toward the Orcs around him, and he tensed, digging his toes into the earth.

Merry's heart jumped into his throat. He knew that look, that pose, having seen it more than once in happier times, under kinder circumstances: It meant flight. Oh, Pippin, no, no, what are you playing at? They'll kill you!

Many times over the years Pippin had looked into Merry's eyes and known what he was thinking without his saying a word, but he was not looking at him now. Merry held his breath as he saw Pippin dash away from the reaching arm of the nearest guard, landing on his stomach on the wet ground. Then he gathered his legs under him and jumped to his feet (as well as any tired hobbit with bound hands could jump,) and ran. The Orcs were taken by surprise, but not for long, and they were after him in an instant, baying and snarling like a pack of hounds after the hare.

Merry's heart pounded till he thought it would burst, and the Orcs were milling around in front of him again, and he couldn't see, he couldn't see, and he wasn't sure he wanted to see anything anymore anyway, because Pippin's mad attempt to escape (and that had to be what it was,) was surely going to get him torn to pieces before his eyes, and oh, oh how would he ever tell Frodo?

Hard hands pushed him down, suddenly, a sour stench was in his nostrils and something painfully heavy landed on his bruised back, crushing him to the ground: Perhaps fearful of the potential escape of their remaining prisoner, one of the Northern Orcs had sat on him.

Good thing it's one of the little ones, Merry thought, feeling the crazed urge to laugh, and he might have laughed if he had had enough breath left to do so, and if the situation hadn't been so terribly grim, and his terror for Pippin so overwhelming. One of those big, beastly-looking fellows would have squashed me like a rotten gourd!

Breathless and half-smothered as he was under the weight of the Orc, Merry could still hear, dim and far away, the sound of the whip as it rose and fell. He shivered in misery, face pressed against the earth. Even here, far from the home he reckoned he would never see again, the earth smelled sweet, and the crushed grass was soft and green under his cheek. Poor Pippin!

Sight and sound faded away from Merry for a while, he wasn't sure for how long. He faintly felt the burden on his back lift away, but remained still until he was stirred by the heavy thud of something landing on the ground beside him. It was Pippin, his face streaked with sweat and tears, but alight with hope. Merry thought he must be dreaming again, but for the briefest instant Pippin's familiar hand, warm and real and alive, clasped his own.

Merry choked a little with relief, but no more tears would come to his dry and stinging eyes. They would no doubt perish on this journey, or shortly after, and he felt horribly sorry that his younger cousin would come to such a cruel end, but at least now they might perish together. He squeezed Pippin's fingers. Fool of a Took again.

Tookish luck. Pippin smiled. Hang on, Merry!

And they were wrenched apart. Merry was driven to his feet with kicks and savage oaths, orders were shouted, and the dreadful race began again. The Orcs moved forward, driving their exhausted prisoners toward torment at Isengard.

It was only much, much later that Merry truly understood what Pippin's look and touch had meant and he felt a spark of real hope return, like a candle flame in the dark, when he realized that Pippin's brooch had been missing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tbc, sort of...

(That is, more short fics to be posted soon, including the companion piece to this one, also written for the challenge.)