Chapter 39 - Horses and smoke

Days had passed with nothing but the light tread of Legolas and his own heavy footsteps for comfort. Disregarding all weariness, all sense of pain, they had run on, chasing ever the shadow of an enemy who had vanished and left naught but heavily trampled grass as a trail.

A brief respite upon a windswept outcrop of rock left Faramir standing winded and pained behind the steady Elf. They had barely spoken, and the heavy silence was beginning to press down upon him.

In an effort to change the pressures upon his sore body he dropped to a crouch, narrowing his eyes to look outward, over the plains. He shrugged his bow from his shoulder and let it rest upon the rock beneath his feet, allowing the wind to sweep his damp hair away from his face.

Above him he heard the Elf sigh, and Legolas' tone, when he spoke, was more bitter than he had yet heard it to be. "There is no hope to lessen their lead; they are over three days ahead."

The Elf gripped the hilt of Andril with white fingers. "It is as if they have run with the whips of their dark masters at their backs. orcs should take some respite under the light of day, if only to eat, yet these creatures have not done so! They will reach Isenguard while we yet traverse the plains, and once within the stronghold of Saruman there will be no escape."

"There may be some hope in the strength of Rohan," Faramir suggested, rising with difficulty. "The Rohirrim do not suffer Orcs to invade their borders, and perchance our quarry may be delayed, or even destroyed by the men of Rohan."

Legolas sighed, turning to Faramir with almost a defeated glance. "It is a small hope."

"It is all we have."

Pippin awoke to shouts and a foggy head. His first idea was that he and Merry had spent the night in the Green Dragon, and had drank too much ale, and smoked far too much Longbottom Leaf. The pain in his head and the parched nature of his throat
certainly seemed to confirm this supposition, though a stinging pain in his back seemed alien and forced him to wriggle and open his sore eyes.

The expected hazy fog of pipe weed seemed to cloud his vision, but the scene that followed surpassed even the most frightening of dreams. First there was a face above his own, rotting and distorted, its features twisted horribly in something between intense fury and the agony of death. A stench suddenly assailed all his senses, the putrid, acrid smell of death and smoke combined. The smoke was not the sweet pungent odour of Old Toby; it was a dense black cloud. Pippin had never before smelt the stench of burning flesh, but now it smothered him, causing his eyes to sting and his throat to ache.

He felt a sudden all-mastering desire to flee, to escape this nightmarish reality - for, he realised, this was really happening. Somehow the Orcs that had held them captive had been themselves attacked. Pippin realised suddenly that he might be seen as
an Orc, or overlooked altogether, which would perhaps be worse still. He could see it now in his mind; one Hobbit standing alone in a field of rotting orc corpses and burning bodies.

He scrambled for a hold on the earth beneath him, but his hands were tied and he had difficulty rolling onto his stomach to crawl. He managed it at last and mustered all the strength he had to shove the heavy orc body from atop his own. The heat
from flames struck his face, and a horse thundered past with a roar of hooves and flying dust.

He realised it would be wise to remain where his was, lest he be trodden into the earth by a stampeding horse.

He would wait until the Orcs were dead, and the riders were less preoccupied before making his move. He rolled onto his back and let his head rest against the earth while he waited. He only hoped none of the Orcs would recognise him before he had a chance to appeal to the riders. He closed his eyes as he tried to think of what he would say to the riders...

"Captain!"

Pippin groaned at the loud noise so close to him, wondering why someone was shouting.

"Captain. My lord, this is no orc."

"Let me see..."

Pippin opened his eyes slightly as a large hand grasped him behind the shoulder and raised him to a sitting position. He felt as though he would be instantly sick, and indeed the bitter taste of bile rose to the back of his throat, but he swallowed
just in time.

"If it is not an orc..." The sentence was left unfinished as the strong hand searched for signs of life.

Determined to prove himself alive, Pippin managed to say through sore lips and a dry throat, "I'm not an Orc..." He opened his eyes and found himself looking up into the faces of two men. One was wearing a shiny helmet that came down into a horse head-shaped guard to protect his nose.

The other held his helmet under his arm and in Pippin's eyes seemed to be blurry with a layer of gold blowing across his face. Pippin felt a great relief swell within him.

"I'm a Hobbit, not an Orc," he said again to make sure they understood him. "Just smell my breath if you don't believe me!"

The two men looked at each other in surprise, then the one without the helmet laughed. The sound allowed Pippin to relax his taught muscles and lean back against the hand holding his head, until he remembered...

"Aragorn!" Starting back into motion he looked pleadingly up at the golden haired men. "Please, you must find my friends!"

The man holding his head looked at him intensely. "You had companions?"

"Were they... Are they of your kind?" the other man asked hesitatingly.

Pippin saw the worry in their eyes and struggled to conjure a description of Aragorn and Gimli to his mind. "One is a man, like you, only his hair is dark. The other is a Dwarf. He has a red beard." He blurted out all the facts he could think of, realising as he did so that if Aragorn and Gimli were dead it would be his fault. But he knew the first thing to do was to try to find Aragorn.

One of the men shouted orders to the others, and Pippin felt himself lifted in two pairs of strong arms.

"I am Éomer. What is your name?" the man with the golden hair asked him.

"Peregrin Took," he answered, and then added, "but most people just call me Pippin."

"A strange folk indeed," he heard the other man saying as they lowered him to a stretcher next to the wounded of their own company. Pippin felt small among so many tall warriors, though the comfort of rest dimmed this feeling to the merest discomfort.

When he next awoke and turned to the side he was overjoyed to find a stretcher bearing Gimli laid out beside him. The Dwarf seemed very pale, and the bloody gash across his forehead did nothing to change the impression, but nevertheless Pippin was overwhelmingly relieved to find him alive.

He looked around for Aragorn, but could see very little from his low vantage point.

Orders were being shouted across the camp, and Pippin saw that some time must have passed between his last waking moments. The bodies of the orcs had been piled into a great mound, and were now smoking. The wind blew away from the makeshift camp. For that he was glad, as he thought a reminder of the smell of death might cause him to be ill.

He let the sounds wash around him, too exhausted by his recent experiences to rise.
Through bleary eyes he saw a tall man picking his way across the field towards the injured. He recognised the fair hair and bright eyes of Éomer and saw his hope brighten in them.

He swallowed uncomfortably as Éomer came up beside his stretcher, feeling notably smaller in the presence of the great rider.

Éomer knelt heavily down beside Pippin, asking kindly, "How are you feeling now, master Hobbit?"

Pippin felt his eyes widen. "How did you..?"

Éomer glanced behind him. "Let your mind rest easy. Your other friend has returned from the smoke and fire of battle with the orcs. We had thought him dead as we found no body - but from the fray he returned like some spirit, bloodied but still standing!"

Pippin barely registered the words, or the admiration in the man's gaze. His eyes were fixed upon the familiar face with tired but smiling lines about the eyes that appeared above Éomer's broad shoulder, and he gasped with surprise and joy.

"Aragorn!" You're alive!"

Aragorn took his place by Éomer's side and grasped Pippin's hand in his. Pippin heard Éomer's deep hearty laugh at the Hobbit's delight and the sound warmed his blood. Aragorn's hand squeezed his own in a gesture of true affection, and though, Pippin saw, he was bruised and bleeding upon his arm and the side of his head, his grip was strong and his face smiling
with relief.

"Where are we to go now, Aragorn?" Pippin asked, turning to look behind him as Aragorn settled the saddle so they could ride more comfortably.

"To Edoras," Aragorn answered. "There the king of Rohan sits in the hall of Meduseld. He is Éomer's uncle."

"Have you met the king?" the Hobbit asked with a dreamy look on his almost blackened face. "In the Shire we don't have a king; I think I would be frightened to meet such a man."

Aragorn shook his head and smiled inwardly at Pippin's complete ignorance. What had the Hobbit been thinking of all these months not to gather clues enough to see Aragorn's true reason for this quest? He could almost see Gandalf muttering 'fool of a took!' as he shook his wise head, baffled still by the behaviour of hobbits.

Gandalf... What had happened to his dear friend? He sighed. He had thought perhaps that they might have discovered the answer to this long asked question had they been taken to Isenguard, though then they too might have met the same fate.

"I did meet Theoden..." he replied, seeing that Pippin was awaiting an answer, "though it was long ago, when his father was on the throne."

Aragorn saw Pippin's eyebrows rise. "How old exactly are you?"

Aragorn hid a smile, "Older than..." he thought for a moment, "...Faramir."

He noted the puzzled look on Pippin's face and wondered what was going through the young Hobbit's mind.

"And how old is Faramir?"

Aragorn thought for a moment, recalling what he knew of Hobbits, and the age of Faramir when he himself had served Ecthelion in Gondor. He scratched his chin. "Exactly that of Samwise."

Pippin laughed, thinking of the difference in height. "And Legolas?"

Aragorn almost choked, hoping he did not have to calculate the answer to this question. "Older than your uncle Bilbo, at the very least."

"Older than Bilbo?" Pippin sighed. "I couldn't imagine having that long a history. You would become tired of things, and of people. Imagine putting up with in-laws for that long! Bilbo gave up and ran off after eleventy-one years with his relatives knocking on the door of Bag End."

Despite the absurdity of the answer, Aragorn could see a profound truth within the words. Elves did tire of the world and feel an unutterable pull to escape Middle Earth. But Legolas... As of yet he had seen no sign of sea-longing in the heart of his dear friend. He was truly lucky that none of the elves closest to him had felt that desire to leave. Though he sometimes feared that Arwen was simply hiding it from him in her desire not to hurt him. He sighed and wondered how the simple words of a Hobbit could affect him so. He was tired, having not rested since the Orcs' cruel treatment of the night before. He needed healing for the wounds upon his torso, hidden from Pippin beneath his clothes. Gimli, when he woke, would fuss over him if he knew the Dwarf. For the moment, though, he could rest easy in the Hobbit's company as they rode to Rohan with Eomer's men, safe in the fact that Pippin had been still recovering from the touch of the Nazgul and had not seen his pain.

Frodo stared down at the jagged drop below, the noon-day sun lighting the crevices and peaks so that even a simple drop seemed deadly. He felt frustration rise within him. "We must get down today, somehow..."

"Well I can't see how," Sam said with a shrug. "Surely, we'll break our necks if we try climbing down that gully."

Frodo had to agree, though he was too frustrated and angry to admit it. His back ached from his fight with Gollum, and the face of that pale creature haunted him. He was afraid of his own reflection, fearing that day by day he would become closer to that skeletal form destroyed first by the ring and then by the hand of one following in his footsteps.

Frodo feared for his own future; he feared that his abrupt outbursts of anger were due to something darker and more sinister than frustration. But it was out of his control to stop them.

"Perhaps you should rest."

The kind voice of the wizard behind him, instead of calming him as intended, caused his temper to boil over, "What do you care?" He spun around to face them, feeling unnatural anger churn within him yet being unable to prevent it. "You pretend to care, just to gain our trust! Do not think you can take Gandalf's place!"

The red haze faded slowly, and he found himself confronted by the sad, confused gazes of Sam and Merry and the sympathetic expression of Radagast.

All of a sudden an immense weariness took hold of him. He felt ashamed. He had no right to cast such accusations upon one who had come to help them, one who had already shown his worth in healing Frodo's own wounds.

He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the desolate landscape and the wounded faces of his companions. "Forgive me," he whispered, feeling himself sway on his feet as tiredness washed over his senses.

A firm hand took his shoulder, steadying him, and another, smaller and familiar held his arm. "Please Frodo, listen to me."

He opened his eyes and reluctantly met Radagast's brown eyes.

"I do not ask you to replace Gandalf in your heart, nor do I ask even to protect you as he would have done. I have no such power." The sincerity in the soft gaze was impossible to miss, and Frodo sighed, wishing he had recognised it before his outburst. "I only ask that you tolerate my presence and trust me to do all I can to help you."

Sam gently squeezed his arm. "There, Mr Frodo. You can't say it more fairly than that."

In Sam and Merry's eyes Frodo could see a desire for protection, for guidance. And if this man, wizard, was indeed Gandalf's cousin, sent here to aid them in their journey, then surely he would be a fool to refuse it.

"Ah," Radagast said, not waiting for a reply, "it seems I have forgotten my rope. I never was much of a traveller..."

Frodo could not help the glimmer of a smile as Sam's jaw dropped open. A series of muted curses followed as the Hobbit ferreted around in his pack until he pulled out the silver elven rope he had acquired in Lorien.

"I had clean forgotten about it." He sighed. "Made by the Lady herself too, I reckon." He held the silken stuff proudly out to Radagast, as though he was a child seeking admiration.

Radagast took the offering, running the rope between his long fingers with appreciation. "A vine planted to grow upon this would grow well indeed."

Frodo smiled as he saw the heat of passion rise to Sam's face. "Ah, but you see it would have to be a beautiful vine, for it'd be wrong for something from the Golden Wood not to remain beautiful and loved."

"You have the mind of a poet, Samwise." Radagast passed the rope back into Sam's awaiting hands. "But have you also the mind of a sailor? How are you at tying knots?"

Sam grinned. "Not only sailors are good at knots; gardeners must also be good with their hands." With renewed energy Sam looped the end of the rope around a sturdy boulder at the lowest point of the cliff top.

The friendly chatter seemed the warm the atmosphere, and Frodo found himself sharing a knowing smile with Merry.

They started over to where Sam was arguing with Radagast. "Another poetic gardener?" Merry mused, shaking his head. "What ever shall we do?"

Pippin woke to a gentle shaking of his shoulder. He blinked as the ground seemed to sway and move beneath him. His body felt sore and strained. They were still riding and somehow he had managed to fall asleep while still on the horse. He wiggled uncomfortably, wondering how many hours they had been riding.

The gentle shake persisted and Pippin turned his head to meet Aragorn's gaze. The ranger was not looking at him, but ahead and upwards. Night was falling fast, and he had to squint into the blushing sun to make out the object of Aragorn's interest.

A tall mountain rose before them, shadowing the land that lay before it, and backed by other such peaks, tipped with glimmering snow. On the very top of the rise there was a castle, or so it seemed, glinting gold as the dying sun. A flag of a white horse on an emerald banner seemed to beckon to them as they approached the foot of the slope.

The city was surrounded by a large fence of wood and a wall and lower dike formed from the stream that issued down from the snows.

Muted conversations from their fellow riders reached his ears, and it seemed as though the horses gained speed with the love their riders felt for their homeland.

Pippin felt a sudden rush of loneliness, and the harsh wind seemed to seep right through to his bones. He longed for the comfort of his own fireside on a winter evening, of the sunlight that streamed through his window in the morning, and, most of all, he missed Merry.

Behind him Aragorn seemed to sense his dismal thoughts, and the arm holding his tightened in a gesture of comfort.

Pippin looked once again to the great golden hall above them as they were let into the city. The guardsmen at the gate stared curiously at him as they passed, yet Pippin was too tired to care. He leaned back into Aragorn's chest and let the colours of gold and red blur his vision.

He blinked as he saw a white speck of colour pierce the sky before the Golden hall, though when he looked more closely it was gone.