Under the Gloom of the Dark Lands

They had marched long. Perhaps not so long in time nor distance as it seemed. It seemed an endless age. It was but the sixth day since they had marched away from the White City. They had marched away with the hope of the people and the strength of the horns of Rohan and Gondor emboldening their hearts. There was concern as well, as they seemed headed off on little more than a fools errand . . . but still there had been hope. Hope dearly gleaned from battle won. Hope from the rising of the sun glinting upon the Horns of the Rohirrim, raised in battle cry. Hope from the healing brought by one who could be King.

Now hope seemed gone.

With every step they had taken away from Minas Tirith and closer to the Black Land hope waned as despair waxed. It had started as a quiet gloom that spread throughout the ranks despite the blare of trumpets and the cries of the heralds proclaiming the arrival in this realm of the King Elessar. A growing heaviness of heart, foot and leg while on the march. No songs, nor jests were heard in their nightly encampments. Talk there was little and that subdued.

Then, on that sixth day, they had come to this place.

Lifeless were the lands lying before the gates. Haunted were the lands that lay before the Pass of Cirith Gorgor. Lifeless and haunted felt the heart of many a young soldier in the small vanguard that was the army of the West. Young men from fair vales and pristine mountains of the realm of Gondor that were not as near to the Mountains of Shadow and the Dark Lands as was Minas Tirith. Riders of Rohan for whom these lands had all their lives been an evil place existing only in tales told by firesides, not a place of substance. And now the dark tales and dark dreams of childhood stood real before them and they were run through with terror.

And he who would be King looked on them with compassion, these who had shown strength enough to come this far, and he said to them, *"Go! But keep what honour you may, and do not run! And there is a task which you may attempt and so be not wholly shamed. Take your way south-west till you come to Cair Andros, and if that is still held by enemies, as I think, then re-take it, if you can; and hold it to the last in defence of Gondor and Rohan!"*

Many were strengthened by his mercy and remained. Others took heart at a task within their reach and, forming an orderly company, marched off to the south-west. Within the army of less than six thousand that now marched through the desolation toward the Black Gate were Beregond of Gondor and Peregrin Took of the Shire.

Finally word came back through the ranks that a halt had been called for the night and camp was to be made. Bedrolls were spread around small fires. Coffee was made, the night’s rations eaten and there was quiet talk of the day’s events; of the men who had left.

"I nearly left it myself," said Derufin. "If I’d not long been a soldier of the city . . ." He paused as he stared into their small fire. "I come from the Stonewain Valley, as did a few of those who left, and I can well say that I understood their fears."

The men in the small group all nodded their heads.

"I hale from Lossarnach and am cousin to our company’s leader." Here Hirgon nodded to Beregond who nodded in return. "If not for that I would have gone. But I will not leave a kinsman to fend for himself."

"But what of that one?" Derufin asked shifting his gaze to a small cloak-draped lump that lay a short ways from the fire. "I thought surely he would take his leave of this with the others. I know he is a halfling and while in the city I heard much of their bravery in the Battle of The Pelennor. Or at least of the bravery of the one who rode with the Rohirrim, but I know this is not that halfling. Truly, he seems more a child than ought else and greatly wearied from this march. Surely it is some folly of this lord they are calling King Elessar to bring such a one to this place?" Derufin looked toward Beregond who was obviously unsettled by his remarks. "What say you, Beregond? It is obvious you know each other somewhat as the halfling has stuck close by you."

Beregond looked to his left where his small friend lay in an exhausted slumber. The march had been hard on the hobbit, with his short stride and the unaccustomed weight of his mail, though he had complained little. "Yes, I know him as well as can be for the short time he has been in the city. Were it not for the fact that he was most talkative that first day, I would not know him well at all. After he was given duties I did not see him as often." Beregond's thoughts went to the night of the siege and the horrors that unfolded in a tomb on the Silent Street. Yes, they had each had their duties. He drew his gaze from Pippin to look into Derufin’s eyes. "His name is Peregrin Took, as I know you’ve heard, though he prefers Pippin, as I also know you’ve heard. He is usually a cheery sort, though this march . . . this place, would take the cheer from anyone." He looked again at the small mound that was Pippin. "I will admit that I had my doubts over some of the tales he told." Beregond looked back to the men around the fire and grinned weakly. "A wanderer’s tales oft get enlarged with each telling. But they all, all the lords that is, treat him with fair respect and it was his cousin who helped . . ." he lowered his voice and glanced about, "kill the Witch king. And Pippin himself showed much courage the night of Lord Denethor’s passing. I find myself more given to believing his tales than I once was."

The cloak covered hobbit twitched a few times and small noises, like a whimpering child, could barely be heard coming from him.

"That may well be, Beregond." Derufin said. "Yet, as I said, he is rather childlike. Do you hear how he is whimpering?"

"Yes, I hea . . ."

A low moan came from Pippin and for a few moments he thrashed about. The cloak slipped from his torso and the emblem of the tree glinted in the fire light as he struggled with his unseen foe. He ceased to move, his back now to the men sitting by the fire, and the whimpers began again. The men listening who had children found their stomachs knotting up within them as the sounds were clearly like those of a child in great pain.

"The fear is taking him," Derufin whispered. "He should have left when he had the chance. The lords had no business to bring a child to this place."

Beregond glared at Derufin. "He has seen twenty-nine years," he sharply stated before rising and walking around Pippin so the hobbit would be facing him when he awoke. Beregond knelt and shook Pippin’s shoulder as he called his name. At first the hobbit merely twitched while the sounds coming from him grew louder. Finally, Pippin jerked hard enough to break free of Beregond’s hold on his shoulder, his eyes flew widely open and he panted for breath. Pippin’s eyes then quickly took in his surroundings.

"Beregond." Pippin spoke his friend’s name with an unsteady voice.

"Yes, it is me, Pippin. You . . . you appeared to be having a bad dream, my friend. Will you be all right?" Beregond again placed his hand on Pippin’s shoulder. The hobbit’s face was pale in the dim light of another nearby campfire and he was trembling beneath Beregond’s hand.

"Dream," Pippin said absently and he stared blankly into his friend’s eyes. "Dream. Yes. It . . . had to be a dream. Nothing was . . ." His eyes slowly lost their glazed look. "Nothing was quite the way it happened so it . . . yes, it had to be a dream."

Beregond heard a soft "hrumphing" noise from over by their fire. He knew it was Derufin. He could imagine the look on the man’s face, the roll of his eyes belittling Pippin. "What did you dream, Pippin?" He asked loudly enough for those by the fire to hear. "Tell me." Beregond heard the shushing sounds, he was aware of the men quietly moving closer.

Pippin licked his lips. He closed his eyes "It was the orcs. You remember I told you?" He opened his eyes to search Beregond’s for any sign of rememberance. "I told you about the orcs that captured me and Merry?"

"From Parth Galen?"

"Yes, when . . ." the hobbit’s eyes squeezed shut as the painful memories ran through his mind. "When Boromir died trying to save us."

Beregond hoped the others caught that Pippin spoke of Captain Boromir without use of rank or title, that he spoke of him as one would a friend using only his name.

"In the dream we were with them. Merry and I, I mean, not . . . not Boromir. And they had . . ." Pippin paused and his eyes opened once more. "This is one of the parts that wasn’t right. It wasn’t what actually happened, Beregond, so it had to be a dream. Such a real dream though." Pippin’s eyes took on the look of one seeing things that were distant. For a few long moments he said nothing before taking in a deep breath and sighing . His eyes returned to the present. "Do you remember, Beregond, remember the . . ." again the hobbit’s eyes clenched shut in a grimace of pain. "The palantir Denethor had?" he whispered, but the men had drawn near enough to hear him.

"Yes. One of the Seeing Stones of old."

Pippin nodded but his eyes remained tightly closed. "There was another. There was one at Orthanc." A shiver ran through him and Beregond squeezed his shoulder to reassure the lad. Pippin’s eyes slowly opened. He was once more seeing the events of the past instead of the face of his friend with the soft glow of the fire’s light upon it. His voice sounded stiff and without emotion. "I touched it. I picked it up. Gandalf took it from me. He was gruff about it. But it called to me. It and my own curiosity. I’m curious . . . always curious . . . too curious. I took it. Took it from Gandalf." Pippin gave out a strange humorless chuckle. "So proud of myself. Oh yes, so proud of myself for managing that. So frightened at what I had managed to do. It burned within. I saw . . . His tower. I saw . . . nazgul. I saw . . .Him."

The tremor Beregond now felt was his own. He had not heard this before, Pippin had not shared this story when they had spoken together of his travels. Beregond did not take his eyes from Pippin’s face but he could feel the tenseness and fear in the others as they listened. Pippin’s odd sounding voice continued his tale.

"He questioned me. He . . . He hurt me. Hurt me." Suddenly he grasped at Beregond’s arm, his expression desperate. "But I didn’t tell Him anything. I . . . I told him that I’m a hobbit . . . that . . .that was all . . . all I told Him."

Then the tension went out of the lad and he lay there breathing raggedly. When he spoke again his voice was more his own, though it still quavered, his eyes were no longer wild. "That was why I ended up in Minas Tirith with Gandalf. Why I had to leave Merry behind." Pippin sighed and looked at Beregond. "But the dream you see, the dream was different because the orcs had the palantir and they were forcing Merry to look into it, and it was driving me mad. I didn’t want . . . you-know-who, to hurt Merry. But then it was like we were both inside the stone and there was no escape, and He was hurting both of us." He once again took hold of his friend’s arm and looked deeply into his eyes. "We can’t let Him win, Beregond. We just can’t. There will be nothing left . . . nothing. Just darkness and . . . pain."

"You seem to have these soldiers spellbound, Pippin."

The men and the hobbit all jumped a bit at the sound the voice. A man had come up behind them while they had listened to Pippin’s recounting of both memories and dream. Beregond looked over the heads of his soldiers at the newcomer. Pippin looked back over his shoulder and now saw the men who had been listening.

"It would appear so, Strider, though I hadn’t realized it." The hobbit’s voice was still shaky.

Beregond lept to his feet. He knew "Strider" was the name Pippin used to address Aragorn son of Arathorn, whom the heralds had been announcing as King Elessar. The others stood as well. Only Pippin remained as he was.

"Thank you, gentlemen, but you may be as you were." Aragorn said as he walked over to kneel where Beregond had knelt a moment ago. "You should get your rest while you can, Pippin. I fear this dread that hangs over us will only worsen and by evening tomorrow I’m not sure any will find rest.

Aragorn had laid his hand upon the hobbit’s head and was lightly rubbing his fingers in the lad’s hair. His healer’s touch did its work and Pippin soon became drowsy.

"I am tired . . . Strider," he mumbled. "But I will be . . . ready . . . as I can be." Pippin yawned. "To help . . . to not let . . . Him . . . . . . win."

Aragorn stayed where he was, running his fingers through Pippin’s hair. Pippin wasn’t the only one who had taken comfort from the gesture.

Hirgon spoke quietly. "My lord. Is it true? What the half . . . what Pippin was telling us. Of being captured and of looking into one of the Stones of Seeing?"

"It is."

"Then I owe him my apology come the morning," said Derufin. "For I scoffed at his being here, thinking him too childlike to endure the Dark Lands."

Aragorn rose and went to Derufin, placing a hand upon the man’s shoulder. "No need. It would only embarrass him. Just treat him as you would any other soldier. I’m sure that will be what he will most treasure." He looked around the small group. "My thanks to you all for remaining with us and continuing on. Good night to you all . . . well, as good a one as can be had."

The next day would be a long and difficult one. The men slowly went, each to his own bedroll, and sought what rest they could get.

*Quote from "The Black Gate Opens", "The Return of the King"