Chapter 23 - Freedom

The ground was moving beneath him. He was being jolted painfully along, held over the shoulder of whoever was carrying him. He tried to twist his head around to work out where he was, but the movement sent shards of pain rushing through him, and he had to be content with blindness. It was still dark, and Pippin suspected they were still in the mines. He shuddered. There was a deep, burning heat in his legs and ankles that brought back fresh images of the fiery creature that had tried to drag them into the pit. With a small start he tried again to see around him. Had everyone escaped? Where were Faramir and Merry?

"You squirm like a young serpent!" said a gruff voice close to him. "Be still lest I let you fall."

"Gimli!" Pippin cried. "Let me down, please. I can walk on my own legs." The world flipped as the Dwarf placed him the right way up. Pippin swayed for moment, catching onto the Dwarf's sleeve to steady himself. He realised at once that his limbs had been numbed while slung over the Dwarf's shoulder. As the blood flowed back down to his feet, the true agony of the burns to his ankles and legs took hold, and he gasped, tears starting into his eyes. He felt his knees buckle, and the Dwarf's steadying hold on his upper arm prevent him from falling.

"Take it slow, little Hobbit," Gimli said kindly, and Pippin stood a moment, allowing each fresh throb of the burns wash over him.

Then, as Gimli led him onward, he looked around for the others. He and Gimli were the last of the company, and Pippin was strangely reminded of a tale Bilbo had told him years before - of a Dwarf carrying a Hobbit through Goblin infested tunnels.

But the rest of his companions were not Dwarves, and as Pippin counted, he was relieved to find all eight of them had escaped. Ahead, Frodo and Sam were helping Merry along. Pippin felt such a rush of admiration for his cousin - how would he ever repay the debt he owed to both Merry and Faramir for protecting him?

Ahead was the great gate that opened upon the world. In the harsh light that streamed through it, Pippin could make out the three figures of the taller members of the fellowship. Aragorn and Legolas seemed to be almost carrying Faramir between them. A fresh rush of guilt made Pippin want to curl in upon himself. He had put his friends and the quest in danger.

Pippin's memory was blurry in places, but he remembered the explosion of painful light that had been brought down upon them by the Balrog's whip. He remembered feeling sparks fly in his face, and being thrown off his feet. And worst of all he remembered the weight of Faramir's body above his own as the fire and ash rained down upon them. The man had protected him, and now Pippin was at a loss as to how he could ever repay the debt. Faramir had breathed a name in that moment, and only now did Pippin recall it was the name of his elder brother. He had been calling for his home, as Pippin had been for his.

The light ahead grew brighter, and everyone looked upon it with hope and relief. 

So it was that none saw the Goblins slip out of their positions of guard and fall upon the weary travellers. The first three goblins, with weapons raised, moved to break apart the two men and the Elf who were leading the party. Anduril flashed in the afternoon light, the first Goblin fell. Dark blood splattered on the doorstep of Moria, and with a cry of "Elendil!" Aragorn led them out into the sunlight. The remainder of the Goblins scattered, and fled before the wrath of the heir of Elendil. In his dazed state, the short glimpse of Aragorn's hidden prowess astounded to the small Hobbit.

Once out of sight of the doors, and far away from the echoes of drums beneath the earth, the fellowship allowed themselves a short moment to rest, and reflect on their dark journey through the halls of Durin.

Frodo, Sam and Merry cast themselves upon the ground. In the morning sunlight each one of Pippin's friends seemed pale and frightened. Even Aragorn had resumed his troubled expression and settled back into the role of the Ranger he played so well. Pippin sat alone, and uncharacteristically refused his food when Gimli kindly offered it. The Dwarf stared at him strangely, but did not press him. It would take time, Pippin knew not how long, to recover from the shock. It was not that he could have died - he had accepted that from the beginning - it was that he could have dragged his companions, friends, down with him.

At last Pippin raised his eyes to the pink sky. He would redeem himself the only way he knew how. He would do anything in his power to aid the quest. He would keep his eyes open and alert. For the debt he owed to Faramir, he made a solemn promise that he would bring the man home to his brother and his home. It was no light undertaking, but he did not make idle promises, and the heavy debt of gratitude he felt would only be lightened by the hope of redemption. Pippin took a deep breath. Despite the pain in his legs he felt as one renewed. The blushed light on his face chased away the shadows of the night and the terror they had found in the mines.

Merry came over and sat by him. They did not speak for some time, merely relieved that they were safe.

"I was so afraid, Pippin," Merry admitted quietly.

Pippin smiled. "And you believe I was not?" He reached over and slapped his cousin on the back. "You are a silly Hobbit, Merry! Fancy leaving Frodo to chase after me." Merry raised an eyebrow, and Pippin realised his friend had not thought of it that way.

Pippin suddenly grew solemn. "I want you to promise me something, Merry." His cousin starred at him for a moment, unsure whether the sudden change of mood was due to illness. "I want you to promise that if something happens, and I choose a different path, that you will not follow." Pippin's intense gaze searched Merry's eyes. "I need you to promise me, Merry. Promise you will not try to follow."

Pippin realised he had been gripping Merry's hand tightly enough to make the other wince. He loosened his grip at once, and Merry smiled unsurely. "You should take some rest, Pippin. I will call Aragorn to see to your wounds."

Pippin would not let go of his cousin's hand, and waited for the answer he must hear.

"Alright, I promise. Now come - Aragorn will help." Pippin was far from satisfied with Merry's casual response, but let his grip slacken. If the time came, Merry would remember this moment, but then it would be too late.

Pippin allowed himself to be helped to his feet. In moving slowly towards Aragorn the Hobbit passed Gimli and Legolas who were talking together. Gimli gave Pippin a pat on the head and Legolas smiled. It seemed both were harbouring guilty feelings about not being there when the Hobbits needed them the most.

Aragorn smiled grimly as Pippin was set down beside Faramir. It seemed Aragorn was having just as much trouble coaxing the man of Gondor into recovery as Merry had had with Pippin.

Pippin felt a slight sick feeling rise in his stomach when he looked again at Faramir. The man was bent over forwards, with his head pressed into his hands. The back of his shirt looked much like the lower half of Pippin's cloak and pants. Torn and red with blood. Pippin had not been overly conscious when the Balrog's whip had coiled around his legs. There had been only pain and a smell of burning flesh.

He was grateful that he had not been fully aware of what had been happening to them - that they had been completely helpless, pulled closer and closer to the pit by strands of liquid fire. Pippin shuddered violently, and felt Merry's hand come to rest on his shoulder. Aragorn came up and took his small hand in his own. Pippin felt a kind of warmth flow through him at the touch.

He was handed a cup of something hot and enticed to drink. A sort of numbness came upon him, so that he hardly noticed when Aragorn removed the torn scraps of fabric that still clung to his legs. The wounds were worse than Pippin expected, great wheals of red spiraling up his legs. He looked away from them, nauseated, and turned his attention instead to Aragorn's futile efforts with Faramir.

It seemed as though nothing could raise the man from his silent reverie. Pippin took the task upon himself, and after hesitating, forced himself to reach out and touch the man's hand. Faramir looked up slowly, and Pippin tried not to wince as he saw the red mark of a burn down one cheek.

Pippin tried to smile, but failed. The lines on Faramir's forehead seemed to relax at the Hobbit's attempt. "I am glad to see you well, Pippin. I never thought to see anything again."

Pippin's face crumpled under the kind gaze Faramir had set upon him, and his body began to shake with the tears he had been trying to hold back for so long. "I am sorry. I am so sorry." He closed his eyes and felt the tears squeeze forth and splatter onto the grass beneath his bare feet.

Then Merry's arm was around his shoulders, and Faramir's hand was upon his arm. His friends were around him, shielding him from the shadows that were creeping around his heart.

---

The calming smell of Athelas filled the small glen as Aragorn crushed the dried leaves he had collected at Weathertop into the water Gimli had boiled for that purpose. The smell reminded him painfully of Rivendell and his father, Elrond.

The fellowship gathered closer as the smell reached them, and Aragorn thought how good it was to see them as companions once more. The mines had proved a great test for them, and the bond that held them together. But they had made it through, and if fate were kind, they would come to Lothlorien and the safety commanded by the Lady of the Golden Wood before long.

Aragorn wet a piece of cloth in the hot water and moved over to Pippin. The Hobbit was weak with fatigue and Aragorn was worried he would not be able to make the distance he planned on travelling. There was a great possibility the Orcs would come after them as soon as darkness fell, yet Aragorn hoped it would be possible to reach the Golden Wood before then.

He did what he could for Pippin, despite all the Hobbit's assurances that he was quite alright. Legolas then helped to wrap clean bandages around the worst of the Hobbit's burns.

Faramir's leather tunic had done much to hold back the fire and prevent the man's skin from blistering with the heat, but the burns on his chest and back were flushed an angry red. Aragorn cleaned the burns as well as he could in the short time he had, lending the Athelas, and all his own skill to give his friend the strength enough to reach the safety of Lothlorien. But still he did not know whether it would be enough.

Aragorn felt a lingering guilt within himself as he tended his friends' wounds. He knew in his heart that he should have been the one to protect Pippin, and cringed inwardly whenever he thought how easily his duty had given him the excuse to hand the job to another.

He thought to the future, to the day when perhaps he would come into his birthright as the king of Gondor. Would he so easily send his subjects, as he had done with Faramir, into the fray in his place? He could not believe it was in his nature, as he had lived too long by his own rules. But kings had a responsibility to protect themselves for their country, and however Aragorn hated the idea, Faramir knew and accepted it. His friend had felt it a duty to put down his life for his king, and Aragorn, if he ever came to hold that position, would have to grow to accept it also.

"Would you prefer if I did not bandage it?" Aragorn asked Faramir in a low voice. The man straightened his back and reached out for a spare shirt.

"I will survive," he grimaced, pulling the material over his head. "There is no more time for rest. And I doubt there is much more you can do for me, Aragorn. I feel almost whole again." Aragorn rose, satisfied, and barely caught the quietly murmured words, "The hands of the king are the hands of a healer."