Chapter 37 - Nowhere to run

Leaves tickled his face as Merry crouched over his cousin's limp form. Sam hovered near by, his eyes showing the helpless Merry himself felt coursing through him.

Frodo's face was pale and streaked with blood and dirt. He looked so thin and drawn, and Merry used a clean edge of his cloak to brush away the worst of the stains, as though it could restore his cousin's health. He wondered at Frodo's bravery, and thought how he himself would not have had the courage to fight with Gollum and still keep the ring safe.

He felt another overwhelming rush of grief drown him with the thought of the last few hours. How could he ever hope to be as brave as his companions when he felt like crying over Pippin's departure?

"I should never have left him," Sam muttered for the twentieth time.

Merry sighed. They all had regrets, but dwelling on them would not right anything. As soon as Frodo woke they would have to move on a little way towards the rocky hills they could see behind them. Gimli had named them Emyn Muin, an impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks. Sounds inviting, Merry thought wryly.

The air seemed unnaturally silent around them, as though the orcs who had been hunting them on the western bank had taken a break in their destruction to eat morning tea. Yet Merry did not like the stillness, there was a sense on impending disaster in it that made his flesh creep.

He did not have long to wait before his supposition proved sound. Noises echoed from the far bank, and as Merry and Sam watched wide-eyed, they saw the stout form of Gimli emerge from the trees, holding aloft his axe.

Hope flowered through Merry at the appearance of a dear friend. The Dwarf's back was to them, and Sam stood to wave him over. All at once a flash of horror shot through Merry and he launched himself at Sam, knocking the other Hobbit to the ground with an exclamation. He shoved his hand over Sam's mouth, and listened.

A cry from Gimli... then the sound of axe hitting sword. The orcs had followed the Dwarf to the shore!

Sam managed to writhe out from Merry's restraining hands. "What are you doing!" he exclaimed, gasping air. Then he caught sight of the orcs and froze. Then glaring at Merry he hissed, "We have to help him!"

Merry buried his hands in the soft earth by his knees, his knuckles white against the dark ground. He was hesitating. His heart raged within him, screaming out the terrible betrayal it would be to abandon Gimli. But what could they, two Hobbits, do against an army of orcs? And they were on the other side of the river! Rowing across now would draw the enemy towards Frodo and the ring. There was no choice.

Sam had seen this too, though he was less willing than Merry to abandon his hope. "Surely," he hissed, "we can't just leave him!"

"We must!" Merry exclaimed, "what possible use could we be to him?" It hurt. Even saying it with so much conviction to Sam did not convince him that it was the right choice.

Sam's shoulders slumped as yet another regret was heaped upon them.

And so they sat and listened and cringed as the battle raged. Every moment Merry felt the guilt and betrayal swell within him, and he wondered whether he would ever forgive himself.

Finally there was silence, and they both dared to peek out over the bushes to the scene of battle.

The orcs had gone, disappearing back into the trees. Gimli was nowhere to be seen, and the two remaining boats had been smashed... Merry felt his heart plummet, for surely there was no way for the others to follow. They were now truly alone. Merry hoped with all his heart that the Dwarf's absence meant he had been taken alive. How could he live with himself if it was not so?

And then Merry seemed to hear the orcs barking orders to each other, yet it was strange, for they could not be seen on the far bank, which was a great distance from the three hobbits, and the wind was not blowing in their direction.

Sam was also glancing around them, trying to determine from whence the sounds originated. And then a groan was heard, and Sam was rushing to Frodo's side.

"Mr Frodo," he murmured, "Mr Frodo."

Merry was about to drop to his knees beside the others when the wind blew suddenly across his face, and a putrid smell reached him. He almost choked as the stench invaded his nostrils, and dropping to his knees he followed the direction of the wind with his eyes.

Grabbing onto Sam's hand he gestured to the rocky path-like area above them. The green bushes surrounding where they sat hid the area somewhat, but the dark shapes approaching were plain to see. These orcs were larger than any he had seen, even the ones from the mines of Moria seemed small in comparison. As Merry peered through a small gap in the branches he saw they they walked almost like men, without the bent, loping stride of those unaccustomed to living in caves. A recollection suddenly swept over him, and he was back in the caves beneath Caradhras with Legolas and Pippin. There had been an Orc there who resembled these creatures. High in stature, and marked on the face with the same white shape, like a hand.

After a moment of hopeless hesitation, Merry pulled at the tie of his cloak, and swept it off. Kneeling by the others he did his best to pull it over all three of them, hoping the orcs would simply pass by without noticing them.

But they were out of luck, for the sounds grew nearer, and Merry heard them speaking in their black language, arguing fiercely. He clenched his jaw, trying to contain the trembling of fear in his body. What would happen if they were found? If the orcs discovered Frodo was carrying the ring?

Merry peeked beneath the fold of the cloak that did not quite cover him, feeling the trembling of Sam's body pressed close to his. He almost jumped when his eyes met with the metal of an Orc's boot, standing not less than a metre away. Shutting his eyes he knew all he could do was hope.

His hearing became acute, and he heard every word spoken by the orcs, every shift of a boot on the rocks, every bird call. Bird call? That was how it had sounded, yet not quite…

The orcs had also quietened down, obviously disturbed by the strange sound, and with relief that made him dizzy Merry heard the Orc's foot move away from them and tread back up to the main group.

Then Frodo groaned before either he or Sam could stifle the sound. Merry held his breath, waiting for the cloak to be ripped off their backs. But the stampeding feet never came, and instead came a great cry from overhead. None of them could see what had made the sound, but the fearful coldness that gripped at their hearts and made them want to sink into the earth upon which they lay was more information than they needed. The Nazgûl had returned!

Frodo was gripping Sam's arm with white knuckles, and Merry knew how vulnerable they were from the air. But Merry remembered that the Wraith had relied rather upon smell than sight, and perhaps with the hoard of orcs so near to them their scent would be disguised.

And so it proved. Merry heard the great beat of wings recede and with it went the echoes of orc voices. After a moment of fearful waiting he dared to peek out from beneath the cloak, and gasped when he saw that the orcs had disappeared. They must have been frightened off by the Wraith's passing. He sighed, nodding to Sam who also breathed out in relief.

Then all at once the cloak was whipped from their body's and they were lying exposed beneath the hooded figure who stood above them

While it was no longer raining, the wind that blew across his body was bitterly cold and chilled Pippin's bones as he slowly awoke from unconsciousness.

His body ached as though he had been stepped upon by an Oliphant, and somewhere inside he felt that something was terribly wrong.

No sensible thought came to him, save a sense that something had crawled inside his body, like an ant in his clothes, yet somehow frighteningly deeper. It scared him more than the pains in his body and the lack of memory of where he was or how he had come here.

The wind swept over him again, slipping beneath his cloak and touching his skin like ice. He realised he was lying on his back on hard earth, and that there were sounds other than the wind. Voices, harsh and loud, grated upon his hearing and he opened his eyes.

The sight that met him was that of a nightmare. Silhouetted against the dark sky were the figures of orcs, their grotesque forms blots on the landscape. As far a Pippin could reckon from their surroundings, they had left the forests of Parth Gallen and were now crossing open plains. Pippin felt a sudden regret that he had not taken the chance to study maps in Rivendell as Frodo had done. Frodo... Had he been captured also? And the ring..?

He groaned as he shifted positions, feeling the aches of his cramped body, and that strange dark feeling inside him come to the fore. His hands were bound together in front of him, and he groaned again as he tried to manoeuvre his hands out of the tight ropes.

"Quietly, little Hobbit," a gruff voice said close to his ear.

Pippin jumped, and it took him a moment to recognise the familiar voice. When he did so he was shocked. "Gimli!"

"Aye," the Dwarf replied quietly. "Slowly now, you've taken a nasty bump on the head."

Pippin was absurdly comforted by the Dwarf's presence. Surely it would have been better if Gimli had been free, but the gruff creature had always shown such affection and protectiveness towards the Hobbits, Merry and himself especially, that it was a comfort to have him near.

He squirmed until he could see Gimli's face. The red beard was caked with dried mud, a fact that in any other situation might have been comical, but the Dwarf's eyes were more dark than Pippin had ever seen them.

"Is Legolas here too? And the others?" he whispered, taking to heart Gimli's warning to remain quiet.

"The Elf went looking for you, young Hobbit, yet it appears I have beaten him to the prize." Gimli tried to smile reassuringly, but failed miserably. "We have only Aragorn for company."

Pippin cringed. That blunder had been his alone. If it had not been for him Aragorn would have been free to fight his way out and would have escaped. The memories were flooding back to him now, and a cold wave of horror immersed him at the recollection of the Nazgul's hand brushing his cheek. Somewhere inside him that dark, cold feeling redoubled in intensity, and he shivered violently.

A moment later, or perhaps longer, for he seemed trapped in a void of fear of which time held no meaning, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He jerked, then remembered that Gimli was beside him. He let out his breath in relief, suddenly feeling cold all over and tired beyond his strength.

"Sleep now," Gimli said. "We will be moving again soon, and you will need all your strength for the journey."

"Where are we going?" Pippin asked, closing his eyes slowly.

"To Isenguard."

The sky seemed to have shed all its tears, and Legolas felt relieved. The memory of the horrific struggle he had played out to bring Faramir's health back to the stage where he felt he could run to the shore for supplies and perhaps aid, was still fresh. The rain had swept over them the entire time, and even Legolas, who rarely felt the elements, had cursed the sky for its cruelty.

Legolas' cloak now flapped raggedly in the wind, the lower regions having been sacrificed in desperation to staunch the flow of blood. He was uneasy in his mind over leaving Faramir alone, but he had needed supplies, and the help of Aragorn, if he could find his friend. Memories of the anger in their parting rushed back to him, and he sorely regretted his selfish actions. He had been right to be cautious, yet dreadfully wrong in the way he had expressed his worries, turning to hate and dark thoughts above logic.

And then he had reached the shore, and found it deserted. He did not know what to think. One boat had gone, and several bundles of belongs gone with it. Surely this was a good sign. Frodo must have been taken to the eastern shore with one companion at the least. The ring was safe.. for now.

The other two boats had been smashed beyond recognition. Wooden shards and remnants of the once elegant Lorien crafts were splinted and strewn across the muddy shore. Bags left abandoned had been carelessly thrown to the earth, and Legolas picked amongst them, searching for food, and something with which he could bind Faramir's wound.

He found Aragorn's pack amongst the others, and cringed as his fears were confirmed. His friend had not returned, or perhaps had been prevented from doing so. He picked up the bag, perhaps more for sentimental value than from what it held. But as he rummaged inside he discovered a small package of healing plants, and thought perhaps they might be useful to ease Faramir's pain.

His own thoughts had turned quickly towards pursuit, and finding a sign of what had befallen the others of the fellowship. But he could do nothing with Faramir injured and weak. The selfishness of his thoughts nagged at him, but he could not help feeling frustrated over his situation.

He turned his back on the shore and plunged back into the trees. Perhaps he would return there later to search for a trail, but now he knew he must return to Faramir. It had been a great risk leaving him to fend for himself, however much the man had assured him he would be well.

Guilt stabbed deeply into him as he saw Faramir's dark pain filled gaze in his mind. The young man had plainly seen the way he itched to search for signs of the others, and he had given him to opportunity to do so. Legolas gritted his teeth together in agitation. Perhaps he should not have left the young man in his pretense to find supplies.

The empty feeling in his boot made him run all the faster, reminding him that his knife would do little to aid Faramir against their enemy. He had found Faramir's bow a few metres away from the Ranger's body, but he knew that with his shoulder barely usable a bow would be no protection.

Manoeuvring the bag to sit higher on his back he moved between the trees, attempting to place himself in relation to the place he had left Faramir. He sighted the precipice from the side long before he came to it. He was approaching from the east, and he could see the place where it began to rise. He remembered his panicked scramble down the steep decline, and winced as a sharp ache in his hip, that he had not known to be there, flared in pain at the memory.

Squinting into the growing darkness he endeavoured to distinguish the shape of the man against the tree by which he had left him. The silhouette of the gnarled trunk seemed almost to jump out at him in its loneliness, and Legolas felt a burning rush of fear flood over him. Where could he have gone! Surely in such a weakened state he could not be far! Unless the Orcs had come...

He thought to call out Faramir's name as he neared the place, but thought twice before doing so. If Orcs had come to take Faramir's body, the young man might have hid himself.

He swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat and considered for a moment. It was dark, and there were many shadowed places in which the man might have hidden.

Then a hand grabbed at his wrist, and he was almost jerked off his feet. He knew well the grasp of those fingers upon his own, for they had held him like a vice all through that long ordeal of removing the arrow head.

He dropped softly to his knees, pressing himself against the small niche in the wall as Faramir has done. He had no opportunity to express his relief at the other's safety, however, for the man pressed his hand over his lips as a gesture of silence.

Legolas was suddenly frightened by the intensity of Faramir's gaze, and by the white knuckles with which the man gripped Legolas' knife.

He opened his mouth in confusion but Faramir waved his good hand to cut him off. "Something draws near," he said, so low that Legolas barely caught the words. "Listen."

Legolas did listen, but heard nothing. He thought that perhaps Faramir was suffering from the effects of his injury, and had simply imagined the orcs returning. But the fact that the man had dragged himself all the way to the lower end of the precipice for an imagined fear seemed unbelievable. So he tried harder, and realised that his mind had been playing such havoc with his thoughts and fears that he had ignored his inner senses. So with a breath he forced himself to focus, and he felt it almost immediately. A dark creeping sensation touched him with such malevolence that he marvelled that he had not felt it sooner.

He looked to Faramir, and saw that the young man's face was white and ashen - as pale as when he had removed the arrow from his shoulder - and the blood upon it seemed dark against the unusual whiteness of the skin. Legolas knew his own face must look similar.

He had instinctively gripped his bow in his hand, though he knew not what hunted them. He only knew that it was no orc or wild creature. Only something with a will as dark as night could exude such evil, and only twice had Legolas felt the like of it before. Once, on a scouting trip to Northern Mirkwood, when he and he companions had passed by Dol Guildor, and once three nights before, when he had shot the Nazgul from the sky onto the western bank...

He heard Faramir gasp at the same instant as himself, and knew they had come to the same conclusion. He felt a fool that he had not understood sooner. He had felt the darkness of the place, and even warned Aragorn, yet had been too preoccupied to realise what it had meant!

And now... What hope was there for them if the Nazgul was hunting them like beasts? He knew now why his fears for Aragorn had been so vivid. In some part of his mind he had known! Yet he had not listened!

Then came the cry of the Nazgul, and it echoed over the whole of Parth Gallen, emanating fear and darkness. Legolas resisted the urge to press his hands over his sensitive ears to block out the foul sound, but he fingered his bow instead. He knew it was unlikely he would receive another chance to bring down the Wraith but he was determined to try.

Again the cry, then the black shape appeared above them, high up in the dark sky. Legolas endeavoured to sight the beast through the canopy of trees above them, but they were so dark against the similarly black sky that it was an impossible task.

And then it crossed the moon.

"There are two of them!" Faramir hissed.

"Nay," Legolas shook his head, his Elvish sight giving him the advantage over the man. "There is but one stead. But there are two Wraiths!"

Legolas resisted the urge to shudder as the beast flew above them. Then he realised something that turned his blood to ice. "The Hobbit's have crossed the river."

Faramir stared at him in horror.

Legolas shook his head, "There is nothing we can do. The Boats are destroyed."

Faramir leaned his head back against the dirt wall behind them, and if it were possible his face became paler still.

"Here," Legolas said, standing, "let me bear some of your weight down to firmer ground." He cringed as he watched Faramir struggling to his feet, stubbornly refusing aid. "Nay, I can manage."

"Why refuse aid when I offer it freely?" Legolas asked, frustration rising within him at the stubborn of the man.

"You once refused my aid..."

With amusement he had not felt at the time, Legolas recalled their first meeting, when Faramir had collided with him on the balcony in Imladris.

"Then 'twas you who had knocked me down, and a matter of principle to refuse aid."

Faramir laughed, and it seemed to Legolas that a great weight lifted from his mind at the sound. Or perhaps it was something that had stood between them for so long beginning to fall away.

"Are all elves so proud?" Faramir countered steadily, but he faltered in his step and Legolas caught his arm before he fell..

Legolas took care where he positioned his feet next as he considered his answer. He smiled suddenly and turned his head away, mumbling, "are all men so clumsy?"

If the light had been stronger Legolas was sure he would have seen Faramir blush. Evidently the son of the Steward had never before been accused of clumsiness. "What was it you said to your Elvish companions when I knocked you down?" Faramir asked as they reached the small clearing below the cliff.

Legolas smiled again. The thought of the question plaguing the man all the way from Rivendell, and of he being too proud or embarrassed to ask, was highly amusing.

Legolas regained a dignified silence, letting the young man stew a little longer as he helped him to sit with his back against the tree.

Then he dug into Aragorn's bag for a spare cloak, and felt a slight pain that he could do nothing for Aragorn until Faramir could travel. But promising himself that the next day he would devote himself to finding what had become of their other companions, he was able to focus again upon making them comfortable for what remained of the night.

"I will have to re-bandage your shoulder," Legolas said, removing the strips of cloth and setting them upon the green cloak.

"Legolas," Faramir muttered darkly, "do not think me a slow witted fool. I am still waiting for an answer!"

Legolas could not resist the smile that tugged at his lips, "I said that your clumsiness could equal that of a dwarf tripping over his own beard."