9. Twinings

The slow pound of his heart seemed to resonate in his aching head, and Pippin reached up to press trembling fingers to his temples.  At least, that’s what he tried to do, but he found his movements trammeled by strangely woody cords that twined about his limbs.  Testing their loose grip he felt them tighten with every gesture.  The darkness that had greeted the opening of his eyes increased his instinctive panic and he thrashed about for a moment, until, squeezed and drawn tight against the sloping surface he lay against, he was completely immobilized.  The sound of his own breath was harsh in his ears so that he didn’t notice the quiet shuffling of an approaching figure, and he was badly startled by the low voice that suddenly issued from the darkness at his shoulder.

“Stop moving before you’re entirely crushed into the walls.”

Pippin started to struggle, vainly trying to back away from the voice, until he felt the bonds press ever deeper and a little dirt fell down across his face.

“Where… am… I…?” he panted.  “Who… in… the… world… are… you…?”

“Stop squirming about…  If you just stop, it will loosen its grip,” the voice muttered, and he now felt rough hands slowly work behind him to create some breathing room behind his back.

“What…?”

“I don’t rightly know, to tell you the truth…  I’ve been here for days; at least I think it’s been days.  These are roots, strong and large, so I’m guessing we are in a chamber below some great tree.”

“A tree…?  Oh, not again…” the hobbit groaned quietly.

“Again?  Not your first time in the Evendims then?” the other said sharply.

“Well, it was the Old Forest the last time actually.  Who did you say you were?” he asked, trying hard not to move as the lash about his middle loosened.

“I didn’t.”

The slight scratching of the other’s fingers and the soft sound of their breathing filled the resulting silence.  Pippin turned his mind to the past a moment, trying to recollect how he had come into this peculiar situation.  The strange old Man…  A wizard, no doubt, for who else could have done what he had?  That flash of light, and the voice, harsh as fingers digging into his mind, snarling, demanding his submission…  Diamond…

“Is there anyone else here?” he asked, dreading the answer, but hoping against hope she had escaped.

“Just one other, like yourself, only he hasn’t woken yet.”

“Dan,” Pippin sighed in relief.  Diamond had escaped then, and though they appeared to be trapped, at least her brother had survived his encounter.  “He’s alive then.  Good.  But tell me, why are you not bound?” Pippin demanded, suddenly suspicious.

“I was.  If you move slowly enough, instead of flailing like a fish, it barely notices you’re gone.”

“Lovely.  Old Man Willow has a stupider brother in the Evendims…” Pippin muttered trying hard to lull his woody captor back to sleep by staying as still as he could.  It was frighteningly difficult.

“Oh blast!” the other snarled, his head thudding softly against the hobbit’s chest.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s got me again…  Are your kind always so damn wriggly or is it just you?” he growled.

“Well I know your kind aren’t always this rude, so I know that must be your own happy burden,” the hobbit snapped back.

They both seethed in uncomfortable silence for a moment, Pippin squashed against the wall and his companion trapped against him by the vine that had clamped upon his arm where he had been digging behind the hobbit’s back.

“Since it looks like we’ll be spending a little time in close proximity, I rather think it might be nice to at least exchange the civilities common between intelligent creatures, don’t you?” Pippin finally said, continuing before his companion could suggest otherwise.  “I am Peregrin Took, a Bounder of the Shire, and I rather suspect you are a Ranger.”

He felt the tension in the other peak and then dissolve into a wary sullenness.

“You can call me River.”

They where quiet again a while, and Pippin could feel the infinitesimal loosening of the coarse tendrils that held him.  Not enough to make him free, or even comfortable, but it was encouraging.  The other’s reticence piqued his curiosity and clearing his throat, he decided to fill the time more usefully than listening to the Ranger’s muffled breath.

“I thought you’d all stopped doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Using another name.  Now that Aragorn is King, I’d have thought you’d go by your own names in the world.”

“The need for caution has not ceased with his ascension.”

“Laerion seems to not share your distrust.”

“Perhaps Lord Laerion has some reason to trust you that I do not possess, little prince,” the Man said, and the derision in his voice was clear.

“Does it really mean nothing to you that we wear the same colors and serve the same King?” he asked, puzzled by the continuing buzz of ill-feeling emanating from this stranger and supposed ally.

“Why should an honorary position change my opinion of you?”

“Honorary.”

Under any other circumstances, such an obvious and deliberate insult would have engendered little more than a cutting jest, but the barb was too well aimed and uneasy quiet filled the damp earthy space they shared.  Pippin chewed over that word and all its implications for some time, until, finding his anger chilled to a tight knot in the pit of his stomach and the taught string of his thoughts twined about in the razor-sharp clarity of understanding, he spoke quietly.

“You think your task a thankless one and no longer vital.  Would you go east to the Wars that remain?  I’ve heard the King takes the battle to the Haradrim next year.”

River did not speak, but Pippin could feel his jaw clench angrily.

“You would join him rather than fulfill the task he set for you?  Then go.  Honorary as the title may be I am still a Knight of Gondor and a Guard of the Citadel, and I give you leave to depart as soon as you may.  We don’t need you.”

His last words fell into the damp dark, clear and sharp as knives.  Head leaning back against the packed earth, swallowing the renewed swell of his own anger and shame, Pippin was glad for the dark that hid the flaming flush he knew shone in his face.  One thing was clear to him now, despite whatever arguments might be brought forth by more generous Men and wiser Hobbits than himself:  his people were a burden and a cause for bitterness, and it was well and truly time they took matters into their own hands.

***   ***   ***

She approached quietly, setting her feet as carefully as she could among the leaves of last fall.  Beyond the screening bushes, the little fire threw a pale light over the six hobbits wearily crouched about its warmth.  One of them bore the feathered cap of a Bounder, probably Pippin’s partner, and all of them were armed.  Throwing back the hood of the elvish cloak that had helped to conceal her, Diamond rose slowly to her feet, taking a deep breath to steady her voice.

“Don’t shoot,” she called, becoming the focus for their startled eyes and the target of a pair of bows.

Hands out to her sides, obviously empty and harmless, she stepped through the shrubbery and into the light.  Five of them relaxed as they saw her more clearly, but the tallest among them held his sword still at the ready.

“Now, Merry, it’s just a lass,” one of them said, his one eye glinting in the semi-darkness, but the tall hobbit shook his head and did not move.

“No common lass I ever heard of wanders the wood at this hour,” he replied.

“I hope you don’t mind if I take that as a compliment.  Diamond Took of Long Cleeve,” she said, shrugging aside the cloak to more freely extend her hand in greeting.

***  ***

Merry’s eyes hardened as the strange hobbitess’s friendly gesture revealed Pippin’s sword strapped to her narrow hip, and he suddenly noticed the gray cloak and worn satchel she carried.  In a movement too swift to follow or counter, he leveled his long blade to rest beneath her chin.

“Not another step until you tell me how that sword came into your hands,” he said, voice low and full of menace.  A tiny part of himself shuddered at the icy violence his tone promised, but the acrid taste of fear was thick on his tongue.

“I…  It’s a rather long story,” she stammered.

“I have all night.  Speak.”

“You would appear to be in need of a friend, Barachiril,” Laerion said, stepping into the light.  “I will vouch for her, Master Brandybuck.  She is who she says she is.”

“I need no Man to vouch for me!” Diamond started angrily, but her voice softened to grudging gratitude.  “Yet, I must thank you, for you have saved me much effort and precious time.”  She nodded stiffly in his direction, still mindful of the sharp blade at her throat, and turned her gaze back to her menacing host.

Merry watched her face another moment, taking in the proud lift of her chin and the hint of fear behind her flashing eyes.  A grim smile lifted the corners of his mouth and he sheathed the sword.

“Barachiril, eh?” he said, glancing at the Ranger.  “It fits well enough, I warrant.”

A slight flush of irritation lit her cheeks again, but she clamped her mouth shut over whatever retort had sprung to mind and accepted the place by the fire that the others offered. ‘Fiery Lady indeed…’ Merry thought to himself, settling down across from her.

***   ***

Tired and hungry, Diamond knew herself to be on the edge of showing just how badly frayed her temper had become.  While she certainly hadn’t expected bed and breakfast here in the Wild, icy menace from a sword-wielding giant of a hobbit who was supposedly an ally wasn’t at all something she was prepared to deal with in a rational manner at that moment.  He thankfully backed off, though not before it had been made silently clear that she still had much to explain.  Ensconced between the one-eyed hobbit and the young Bounder, she gladly accepted the hot tea and thick soup they presented to her.  Quick introductions followed while she ate and she found herself in rather good company.  She knew the names on the Roll of Combatants at the Battle of Bywater, and they were all on it, save the two Bucklanders, whose scars told tales of their own.

“First off,” she finally said, “I think you ought to camp cold tonight.”  She nodded unhappily at the cheery little fire.  “I don’t know that two days’ walk is far enough to conceal us from his eyes.”

“Whose eyes?” the gray Ranger’s voice drifted from across the flames, whose flickering light threw his own clear gaze in and out of shadow.

“The old man…  He…  He bore a twisted staff and he commanded another Man, darkly dressed, like you.”

Narrowed eyes turned to fix the Man in their midst, but none matched the cold suspicion in his own.

“A Ranger aided this…  this person?”

“He was bespelled, as were the others of my pack, all save my brother.  And Pippin.”

“Bespelled?”

“They all just seemed… off somehow.  Their eyes dull, as if asleep, like sheep,” she said, shaking her head. “I simply don’t understand it.”

The gray Ranger traded a meaningful glance with the tall Bucklander sitting stiffly across the fire.  Neither seemed at all pleased with whatever conclusions they had come to, and the hobbit reached to turn over the small kettle that had hung over the flames.  In the last flickers of the dying fire, Diamond saw his features twist in hollow-eyed fear and despair, and her hopes cracked.  What strange peril had she led her kin into?

***    ***

Hidden amid the dark forms of the wood, Diamond stilled her breath, ears straining to catch the words of the two figures she had trailed with every ounce of silent skill she possessed.

“If it is a wizard, and it must be, what can we possibly do?” Merry Brandybuck hissed towards the shadowed silhouette of his companion.

The Ranger Laerion shifted uneasily, but he made no reply.

“A wizard…” the hobbit sighed, leaning wearily against a nearby tree.  “I thought they had all gone…”

“Not all, that is evident.  Yet, history has proved that the Istari are not so desperately great.  They can yet be killed or imprisoned,” the Man suggested, though with somewhat less certainty than the young hobbit lass would have liked to hear.

“Unless you have a Balrog tucked away somewhere about your person, I shouldn’t trust to that reasoning.  What hope have we to affect one with even a little of that kind of power?”

“Saruman was not slain by a power, but only a man, or so I’ve heard.”

“Yes…  I was there that day.  But he was lessened, diminished, already.  Gandalf broke him long before Grima cut his throat, and he is not here to help us now.”

Diamond swallowed a little gasp, finally recognizing a name among the strange words they had been exchanging.  Gandalf she had heard of, the traveling wizard who had befriended the Bagginses and so long bedeviled her southern cousins.  She wondered what they thought he could possibly do to help, as he had been more often responsible for getting hobbits into trouble than out of it.

“No.  This is our problem to solve.  We must choose to act now with what wit and strength we have or go seeking aid,” the Ranger said.

“Aid from whom?  The elves are gone and I can think of no others who might even know where to turn.  Unless…  But no, it is too far…”

“What?”

“No, it is a foolish notion.  Forget it.”

The soft sigh of the night wind rattling through budding branches was all there was to be heard for a long moment, and Diamond stole away on silent feet, wishing more comfort, or at least more knowledge, had come from the overheard conversation.  Bundling herself into their combined cloaks, as close to the cooling embers as she could manage, she closed her eyes and tried to banish the growing dread that crept about her heart.