Mordor was always blanketed in gloom; gloom from the fumes and smokes of Mount Doom to block the sky, gloom from the Dark Tower to block hope. Now the darkness grew deeper. The orcs and men in the service of the Dark Lord felt on edge and anxious, leaders were hard pressed to keep their troops from fighting amongst themselves.

Not all was well with the Dark Lord. Though the Nazgul had been sent out before He had viewed the Halfling in the Seeing Stone, the report that came back was horrendous. Isengard was destroyed, though Orthanc itself remained undamaged. His messenger had not even bothered to go to the tower, returning to Barad-dur in great haste to make his report to his Master. The episode with the Halfling had been somewhat rewarding yet equally frustrating. The Shire rat had told Him nothing of worth, though feeling its spirit writhe in torment had been moderately entertaining and there was the anticipation of regaining His Ring.

But now; now there was nothing but wrath and all of Mordor trembled. The Great Eye knew now the palantir of Orthanc no longer resided in its tower. He saw the Sword. He saw the Man. He lost control of the Stone.

The darkness grew, spreading its vile fingers out toward Minas Tirith. The city would bear the brunt of His wrath at the Kings of Men, yet like an earthquake, tremors of the Dark Lord’s growing rage were felt throughout Middle-earth.

In a room in the City of Kings sat another troubled being. He and the Dark Lord of Mordor were most likely kindred beings, but not kindred spirits. He of the Black Lands tried to swallow all light, the one within the walls of Minas Tirith sought to bring light to those in the darkness. Mithrandir, Gandalf the White, could feel the building wrath of his adversary and he could feel something else as well. The land of Mordor was so near the people of the city could see the flames and fumes of the mountain with unaided eyes, yet Gandalf sensed something evil stirred within the city itself. He had a theory as to the cause of his unease but he hoped with everything within himself that he was wrong. He read and read again the parchments he had fetched from the archives. They brought him no peace, only further questions, further doubts, further surety. Denethor had never been a kindly or optimistic man, now he seemed driven near to the point of breaking. But driven toward what end, and driven there by whom?

The anger of Sauron moves across the land. Armies march out from the Black Lands. Rohan is invaded yet again. Lorien is attacked. The darkness of Mordor spreads.

Farmer Maggot let the soil run through his fingers, not liking how it felt. Not that it was too dry nor to wet, too sandy nor too mixed with clay. He had farmed these fields his whole life, it wasn’t any of the usual troubles. It just felt . . . wrong.

Farmer Cotton brought his oxen to a halt then rested his weight against the plow. He looked behind him, he looked to the side where the earth lay turned. The rows looked straight, the furrows deep and clear of rocks. The rows felt wrong. Tom shook his head, clucked at the oxen and started back to work. A short, sharp shiver ran through him. Maybe he was coming down sick.

Talley Took gazed out over the south pasture of Thain Paladin’s farm in Whitwell. The spring colts and fillies weren’t kicking up their heels as they should be doing. They ran some but always staying close to the mares who huddled together under the large chestnut tree at the far end of the pasture. It wasn’t that the young ones weren’t nursing, or that the mares weren’t grazing, it was that the herd of ponies seemed anxious. He snapped a small twig and every mare’s head popped up. Talley shrugged his shoulders then walked away from the fence. The stallion in the barn thumped his feed bucket, Talley nearly jumped out of his skin. He was no more calm than the ponies.

There were certain ones of the Took clan who had fallen victim to a growing melancholy. Family members kept a close eye on them, noticing their strange, distant gazes, the anxious look in their green eyes and their tendency to look to the eastern sky as though a storm was moving in.

Brandy Hall continued to acquire new residents. Esmeralda (Took) Brandybuck and others divided the work load of caring for those who needed tending. Not all were infirm, many were only very poor or elderly and unable to work. They took care of themselves for the most part with the able bodied poor helping with the sick ones, glad for the chance to be useful. Many felt it odd that the Mistress of the Hall was carrying trays of food, changing soiled linens and emptying chamber pots. Esme said she above all others needed to be caring for the hurting hobbits of Buckland, as all hobbits would normally be caring for the ones they love. If her husband could find ways around the horrible Rules to care for his people, then so could she. Yet the work was growing more difficult as each day passed. The weak sunshine did nothing to cheer her and something seemed to be sapping her energy. A darkness was at the edges of her vision, anxiety grew in her heart.

An afternoon came when the feelings of dread within Esmeralda grew more intense. Into the evening and into her dreams that night came the growing despair. Day came, but to Esme the dawn was weak and sickly. The smell of burning filled her nose. The pall of a death-watch hung over her, fear clung to her. To her mind’s eye came fleeting visions of a stone chamber, filled with unlit gloom; of a Man with long grey hair and regal robes sitting bowed in grief beside someone who lay unmoving on a bed. Over all she felt a desire to bring aid and comfort that had turned into intense pain for knowing none could be given. None would be accepted.

Night returned. Esmeralda slept. A wee Pippin lad cried because his frog had died. Pippin cried because a puppy died, an aunt died, an uncle, a baby, an aged one. Death. Pippin, a young tween, walking back to The Hall supported by her Merry. They had needed to put Pippin’s pony down after he stepped into a gopher hole, breaking his foreleg.

"He’s not dead," the youthful Pippin said. "They are going to burn him alive. He’s not dead."

The words repeated in time to the pounding of running foot-falls. Over and over. Driving onwards. Horrors and terrors on every side. Feet wet, heavy and sticky.

Esme trembled. Where was Merry? She usually saw Merry nearby, sensed Merry nearby.

"He’s not dead. They are going to burn him alive. He’s not dead."

Esme grew chilled. Who was not dead? Who were they going to burn? Where was Merry?

Another stone chamber, viewed through a door way. The grey-haired man. His eyes wild as a liquid ran in slow drips from his hair, face and robes. Then a blinding light bearing before it the limp body of a Man.

Pippin trembled. Esme’s breath caught in her throat.

Evil permeated the scene before them.

The old Man held a familiar, strangely glowing glass-ball. Madness glowed in his eyes. Madness turned his laugh into a hideous cackle. Madness made him grab a torch, leap upon a pile of wood setting it and himself ablaze. Images of madness now burned forever on the souls of two hobbits.

Cold. Dark. Empty. Pippin’s eyes seeing only the hard stones of the street beneath his heavy, filthy hobbit feet.

Esmeralda awoke with a start. Taking her pillow with her, she went into her sitting room. She stirred up the ashes in the grate, put on a few fresh logs then sat in her rocking chair, hugging her pillow as though it could shield her from the pain in her nephew’s heart, while comforting the fear in her own. Why hadn’t she seen or felt Merry? Suddenly, at the edges of her thoughts, she heard a strange cry. Evil darkened her soul as a numbing chill began to grow in her. Another, louder cry, filled her head only to quickly diminish to a fading whisper. A gladsome feeling flooded through her. Hope had not yet been conquered. Then her heart went cold again. There was hope, but the sense of brooding evil gradually grew stronger within her.

Pale morning crept into Esme’s sitting room. Tenseness crept into Esme. Time moved slowly by. Something was missing, needing urgently to be found.

Suddenly Merry stood before her and her room faded slowly away. Her Merry. Dusty, bedraggled, bloody and stumbling unsteadily along a stony street. Tear tracks ran through the grime on his face, coming down from unfocused eyes that were dark with despair. His left hand was clinging to his right arm, rubbing at it absently as though it were cold. Merry seemed to be in the shadows despite the pale sunlight on the stone buildings around him. He sat clumsily down on a step.

She became aware of Pippin. She could feel his lips were smiling but sorrow and dread were drowning his heart. He was putting as much love and enthusiasm into his voice as he could while his mind was racing, panicked over what he should do.

They helped Merry to his feet. She could feel her son’s ragged, shallow breathing, heard him beginning to mumble instead of speaking clearly. More of Merry’s weight bore down on Pippin until he was stumbling too. Merry’s face was still shadowed. A Man-child came and went after Pippin spoke with him. Esme sank to the street pulling her dear son’s head over to rest in Pippin’s lap. Merry’s right hand was cold in their hands.

Pippin felt a breeze, cool and refreshing. It calmed his mind, as did knowing help would soon be there. He closed his eyes. He did not feel so alone now. He felt loved. He rubbed Merry’s cold hand. "You’re loved, Merry. People care about you. I care about you. You’re loved, Merry." The whispered words continued to flow out of Pippin.

"Hearts bound together. Spirits entwined. Cousins brother-like. Nephews son-like. Love binding all together like the strands of a rope, each strengthens the others." Cullassisul’s voice wound it’s way through Esme’s thoughts. "Child of my child, the Black Breath of the Enemy continues to wrap itself tighter around the heart of your child. Love alone cannot conquer where such despair reigns."

"Then he will . . . he . . . my son will fall to the darkness?"

The air moved gently around the two hobbits on the stone street of the King’s City.

"It is not given me to see his life’s ending." The sound of leaves gently rustling blended with the peaceful calm of the Fairy’s voice. "Despair not, child of my child. Love will give him strength. Love will lend him a glimmer of hope in the Shadow. It cannot drive away the Darkness, but it may bear him up until one arrives who has this gift." Cullassisul’s voice began to fade as Gandalf appeared at the end of the street. "The hands of the King bring healing."

"The King?" Esme questioned, but the presence of the Fairy was gone, as was Esme’s vision of her son.

For both Pippin and Esme the long day stretched on. Each staunchly did their duty; Esme helped the ill and needy at The Hall, Pippin stood guard at Faramir’s door. Both of their hearts and minds were with Meriadoc Brandybuck, loving him, encouraging him, lending him their strength.

It was in the early hours of the night in Buckland, while the Mistress of The Hall was resting on her bed after helping take supper to those in her care, that she was aware of being in a room in the stone city. Merry lay upon a bed. A Man stood beside him, one whom she had seen in other visions. Her son looked gravely ill, she and Pippin rushed to Merry’s side. But the Man gave assurance to them before gently running his hand through Merry’s hair. He softly brushed his fingers over Merry’s eyelids, speaking Merry’s name, as a sweet clean fragrance filled the room. It was unlike when Cullassisul came to Esme with the crispness of autumn, though the effect on her was the same. Hope, joy and the warm scents of a garden in summer filled her. Through Pippin’s eyes she looked in wonder at the Man. Merry awoke. "The hands of the King." Merry’s mother thought before she slept peacefully in her quiet room.