Chapter Twenty –Alone in a Circle of Many

The smaller orc cried out, staring over Pippin’s head with mouth agape and eyes white-rimmed in fear. Its knife fell from its claws and it cringed, whimpering. Pippin blinked at it in astonishment. What on earth was wrong with it? It was just a little ground-shake. Or not so little. The pebble that had first caught his attention was now bouncing.

Keeping an eye on the terrified orc, Pippin dragged himself to his knees. The other orc, Shunt, was standing with its back to Pippin, its squat body rigid. Pippin looked around in confusion. But for the line of hills in the distance, he and the two orcs were the largest things on the Pelennor Fields. No trees, no boulders, no …then what was causing that cloud of dust behind them?

“Get up! Get up!” Shunt roared again. Pippin realised the creature was shouting at the other orc, not at him. The smaller one just cringed lower, whining and trembling. The shaking of the ground was stronger and now a deep rumbling, as of faraway thunder, could be heard. “Will you stay and die?” Shunt screamed. “Run! Run!”

Exhaustion forgotten, Pippin shot to his feet and obeyed – towards the growing wall of dust. A chance with whatever was coming was better than none at all as a captive. He put his head down, ignored the stabbing pain in his leg, and ran with the last shreds of strength in his body.

“No you don’t!” Shunt screamed as Pippin darted past him, “You’re mine! Come back here!”

It leapt after him. Pippin yelped and redoubled his efforts, but he had no chance of outdistancing the larger, stronger orc. Claws dug into his shoulders, piercing Frodo’s much-abused jacket into flesh. He went down, the orc on top of him. Pippin’s breath went out of him in a whoosh as they slammed into the earth.

Something flew over them too swiftly to be identified. Half-crushed under Shunt, Pippin struggled to raise his head as the other orc lurched into a run. It screamed, a long howling cry like a whipped dog. Then a long, thin branch sprouted between its shoulder blades. Stumbling, it fell. A lance, Pippin thought. The pinned orc scrabbled at the ground, its claws tearing great gouges in the earth. Then it shuddered and died.

“Filthy Whiteskins,” Shunt moaned, lifting himself up on his forearms. The movement allowed Pippin to snatch a breath and he did, choking on the orc’s stench. To his right was a drawn knife, to the left the orc’s almost equally deadly claws. He stayed still as a rabbit in the grass, hoping to be overlooked by the wolf.

A fierce song rose into the air, many voices raised in triumph and blood-lust. The Riders of Rohan were a dark mass of movement before the dust behind them. The ground shook with their coming and the sun flashed on their helms and on their weapons. Pippin closed his eyes; they had come for him at last, at last. Now he must show them he was worth it. Come on, Pip-lad, he thought. Last time pays for all. As Shunt stared in shock, he took a deep, quiet breath, readied himself, and flipped over onto his back. The orc tore its gaze away from the approaching horsemen and looked down at him.

Pippin kicked, his hard hobbit heel catching the orc right on the chin. Its head snapped back on its neck and it fell to the side. Pippin did not wait to see what damage he had caused. The second its weight was off him, he rolled away and stumbled up into a run. “Here I am!” Pippin sobbed, waving his arms. “Here I–”

Claws fastened into his arm. Pippin was pulled off his feet, his momentum swinging him into the air. Another clawed hand clamped down on his shoulder, pulling him back against a coarse, stinking tunic. “Stay back!” Shunt screamed at the men. “Stay back! I will kill him!”

The foremost of the Riders raised his arm and Pippin recognized Éomer King. His riding leathers shone copper over the silver of his breastplate and his mail gleamed bronze. A rider was handing him another spear and Pippin knew it had been Éomer who had killed the other orc, casting his lance to stand it quivering in the orc’s body over enormous distance.

Behind him rode the Lady Éowyn, her beauty only heightened by the fierce anger on her face. The Riders galloped around them in loose formation; some of the men Pippin recognized from Merry’s introductions. As they neared, the orc drew Pippin closer to its body, its arm under his jaw. The hold across his throat was like an iron bar, half-lifting him from the earth so that he had to rise up on his toes or strangle. He dangled from Shunt’s grip like a stuffed toy, with about as much ability to defend himself.

“Let him go!” Éomer shouted.

“And die on your spear?” the orc shouted, derision vying with fear in its harsh voice. “I am not stupid, Whiteskin king. Call off your warriors.” He shook Pippin, wrenching a squeak out of him. “Back up or he dies! Now!”

Éomer raised a gauntleted fist and reined his horse back a step. His Riders obeyed, backing their beasts. Pippin’s heart sank. Above his head, the orc was panting, sending its foul breath down on him. Orc, hostage, and Riders of Rohan stared at each other, stalemated.  

Pippin realised the dust blowing into his eyes no longer troubled him. The wind was changing – instead of blowing towards them, it now seemed to be blowing away. Strangely, the dust was not settling; instead there seemed to be more of it. Pippin could not see over the Éored but there seemed to be a commotion at the back of the Riders. Then Pippin heard, “The King! The King! Gondor!” Like the point of a spear, Aragorn rode through the Riders at the head of a great host of soldiers, Gandalf behind him and then Legolas and Gimli. But Pippin’s eyes were all for Merry, who sat before Aragorn, his eyes locked on his cousin’s and his face white enough to faint.

Pippin tried to draw breath for a cry, but the orc felt his throat quiver. “No you don’t,” it murmured, its low voice almost affectionate. “You made everything go wrong. Not you or I will leave this place alive.”

“Hold!” The King’s command stilled the cries of rage from the infuriated soldiers. Reining his horse aside Éomer, they held a brief conference. Pippin strained his ears but he could make out nothing above the murmurs of the men, and the shift and creak of their tack. Then the conference ended and the King and his companions turned their horses towards them. Silence fell over the watching throng. Pippin felt the orc tense and the arm across his throat tightened painfully.

“Let him go and I give you my word my men will not harm you,” Aragorn called. Turning to his soldiers he said, “Put up your swords.”

Many of the soldiers and Riders cried out in protest. Pippin looked amongst them and saw many he knew, many he counted as friends. Beregond was there, and Terenson and Hartalan, friend and drinking-friends, and he saw anger and fear and desperation on their faces. In that moment some of the King’s men were close to treason, to a disobedience that would have ended their honour and their careers and their lives, then Faramir stood tall in his saddle so all could see him. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his sword and sheathed it. After a few moments, the men followed his lead. Aragorn gave no sign that, for a heartbeat, his authority over his men had faltered, pushed to the limit from love of one young halfling.

Éomer gave the same commands and the Riders sheathed their swords and lowered their lances. Éowyn was staring fiercely at the orc, and Pippin could almost feel her rage, her desire to snatch up a lance and run the creature through. But she could not save him; it was too far a cast for a woman.

Aragorn sheathed his own weapon, then held out his hands to show them empty. The orc stared at the King, not daring to believe this clemency. It shifted from foot to foot, dragging Pippin with it. “It’s a trick,” it growled. Pippin bristled, wanting to tell the creature that Aragorn would never lie, not even to a despicable orc. “A trick! His men…” Then Shunt chuckled and Pippin felt the arm across his throat loosen slightly. Drawing a great breath, Shunt shouted, “The Elves! Order them to throw down their bows!”

“Legolas,” Aragorn said, “Elladan. Elrohir. Do it.”

“Aragorn,” Legolas whispered, “I could–”

“No. I will not endanger Pippin further. Drop your bow.”

“Brother,” Elrohir whispered, and only the utter stillness let the wind bear his quiet voice to Pippin’s ears. Pippin hoped fervently that orcs had hearing as humans did, limited and weak. “It is yrch.” Elrohir’s voice held the fury of millennia spent hunting such creatures, most hated and despised by Elf-kind. “It deserves only death. A true shot–”

“And can you guarantee a true shot? It holds Pippin before it as a shield. Can you guarantee your arrow would fly over his head?”

“Then a throwing axe,” Gimli growled. “If the wind does not shift–”

“And if it does? If it does, Gimli? No. I will not risk Pippin’s life.” The dwarf groaned and fell silent.

Elrohir made a soft, agonized sound. “Brother,” Elladan murmured. When Elrohir did not move, Elladan cast his own bow to the ground. Elrohir’s hand strained white on his weapon, then he cast it down. Legolas’ bow was last.

“Good,” Shunt breathed. Pippin dared a glance up into its face, seeing fierce rejoicing there at having the hated Elves disarmed and helpless. Shunt lowered Pippin to the ground but transferred that agonizing grip to his hair. “One man steps forward,” it called to the silent, angry watchers, “and he dies. I will rip his head off. You understand?”

“Delay it,” Gandalf murmured, his eyes flashing. “Surely some twist of fate will favour us. The Valar could not permit this, not after all we have endured.”

“Merry?” Aragorn asked.

Merry jumped, startled at being addressed. Their discussion seemed to be floating over his head, not his concern or Pippin’s. He realised he was in shock, retreating from an end to this confrontation he could not contemplate. Not looking away from Pippin’s face, he whispered. “No, don’t do anything to hinder it. Pip will escape if he just has a chance. If you attempt to trick it, it will kill him.”

“What say you, King of Men?” The orc shouted. If it could hear them as Pippin could, it gave no sign. Pippin sensed that Shunt was tired, nearly as tired as he was. “Do I kill it now, before your eyes?”

“Aragorn,” Merry groaned, “Aragorn, don’t let it–”
 
“Release him as you gain the shelter of the hills and none of my men will follow. You have my word,” Aragorn called back. The orc snarled, untrusting, the idea of giving one’s word and keeping it alien to its kind. Pippin waited in silent supplication, tears sliding from his eyes from fear and exhaustion. Merry’s face echoed his misery.

“Draw back! Soldiers of Gondor! Draw back!” Aragorn shouted. Faramir took up his words and passed them through the ranks. Éomer nodded and signaled to his Riders with a wave of his lance. Horses and men milled about, shifting their formations as they backed up.

This isn’t happening, Pippin cried silently. They can’t be leaving me. Merry! Merry!

The orc grinned, transferring its hold to his arm. “Come on, little rat. We go to the hills, then I let you go.”

“You will let me go?” Pippin quavered.

“I swear it,” the orc said solemnly, then laughed. Leaning down close to Pippin’s ear, it whispered, “But I never said alive.”

“No!” Pippin threw himself flat, feeling hair rip from his scalp. Shunt growled and reached for him. The Men were too far away, Pippin knew, their swords sheathed, their lances lowered. Then a sound like a stinging wasp flew over his head, and Shunt screamed.

Pippin stared as the orc staggered back, an arrow projecting from its chest. Zzzzziiiiiiiip. Another went directly through its forehead. Shunt clawed jerkily at the air then fell backwards, its body slamming to the earth.

Pippin quivered, too shocked to move. The hoofbeats did not register to his stunned and horrified mind, nor the swift movement of a rider dismounting. A bow was flung to the ground beside him, then someone was holding him, someone soft who smelled sweet, and the loveliest voice he had ever heard was asking, “Pippin? Are you hurt, dear one?”

Warm arms enveloped him, and Pippin burrowed into them instinctively and began to weep. “Shush, shush,” Arwen murmured, rocking him. “It is all over now. It’s all over, Pippin. It’s all over.”

More hoofbeats, and shouts. Men throwing themselves from the saddle, and Merry with them. The soft arms released him to the care of his cousin, and Merry wrapped himself around Pippin and joined him in weeping, hugging each other in disbelief that both their lives had been given back to them.

Soldiers and Riders stared in blank astonishment at the dead orc, then looked at the King. Aragorn walked slowly to his wife, seeming to seek words. Arwen stood, then bent gracefully to retrieve her bow. “I am no man,” she said clearly, “nor of your command. Your word does not apply to me.”

“Arwen, the city–”

“Prince Imrahil commands in my place, husband. He has experience, if you recall.” Arwen smiled, knowing he could not refute her. Aragorn held her eyes for long moments, then nodded acknowledgement of her words. Beside him, Éomer was grinning openly, his white teeth flashing in his beard.

Aragorn sighed, a smile creeping over his mouth. Turning to Éomer, he clasped the other man by the shoulder and said to him, “You have my thanks, my friend. Had you not held them, the orcs would have reached the hills and taken refuge in the caves. Pippin would have been killed shortly after.”

Éomer’s dark eyes crinkled in amusement. “The Éored chose to stay outside the walls when word reached us of the Ring-bearer’s abduction and Pippin’s disappearance, else we would have returned with Elladan and Elrohir. We thought it small chance that the abductors would leave the city, but a chance we could not overlook. So we came upon the orcs and held them, and you held the orc long enough for the Queen to accomplish what all the soldiers of Gondor and the Rohirrim could not. I think you will not have an uneventful married life, my lord.”

Aragorn nodded, seeming somewhat chagrined at the thought. “As you will one day find out, Éomer King.” He smiled again at the look of mock-horror on Éomer’s face, and both men laughed. 

Aragorn’s gaze returned to the hobbits, who were too wrapped up in each other to notice. “I want to get Pippin to Elrond,” he continued, watching as Merry shoved a water bottle and a crumbling, leaf-wrapped bundle into Pippin’s hands. Pippin began devouring both with a quickness that spoke of long denial. Aragorn’s amusement faded. He approached them, keeping before Pippin so as not to startle him. Merry still had his arms around his cousin and was speaking to him, not letting him talk much in return until every last drop and crumb had disappeared. Merry did not release Pippin as Aragorn knelt and cupped the tweenager’s face gently.

“Pippin? Are you hurt? Tell me if you are hurt.”

Pippin shook his head, still safely wrapped in Merry’s arms. “Just sore and bruised and tired. So tired.”

“They hit him. And kicked him.” The quiet rage in Merry’s voice was frightening. Pippin darted a look into his face then tucked his head under Merry’s chin.

Aragorn nodded, outlining a bruise with his fingertips. “Come, my friends. If we ride quickly, we will be in Minas Tirith in time for hot baths and luncheon. And you have a certain cousin who is very anxious to see you.”

New fear sparked in Pippin’s eyes. “Is Frodo all right? Is he all right?”

“He will be, now,” a deep, gravelly voice interjected. Aragorn smiled and stepped aside as long arms caught up Pippin and hugged him. Pippin laughed joyfully and returned the embrace. “And you shall ride with me,” Gandalf told him. “It seems you require constant supervision to keep you out of trouble.”

People were mounting around them, horses tossing their heads and stamping with impatience. Gandalf lowered Pippin to the ground and guided him towards his waiting horse with a hand on his back. Merry followed after, still reluctant to let Pippin out of arm’s reach. But Pippin halted and looked around, licking a last crumb of lembas off his lip.

 “I want to ride with Lady Arwen!”

“Pip!” Merry whispered repressively, “She’s married now!”

“Merry,” Pippin whispered back, “You are my dearest cousin and I love you with all my heart. But if you don’t let me ride with Arwen, I will make you sorry for the rest of your life.”

“Peregrin Took!” Merry drew back, aghast. Gandalf was no help; he was chortling merrily.

Pippin ignored them both and went to the Queen’s horse, holding out his dirty arms and looking up at her hopefully. Arwen laughed and leaned over, sweeping him up to seat him before her. Pippin snuggled back against her with a little sigh of contentment.

Well, two could play at that game and Merry knew a good thing when he saw it. He looked around and hurried between the horses to his chosen objective. “Lady Éowyn,” he asked plaintively, “might I ride with you? The King is in discussion with your brother and I fear he has forgotten me.”

“Men!” Éowyn said with some asperity. “Of course, Merry.” She started to dismount but Legolas was there, offering Merry a lift up.  “Well done!” the elf whispered as he settled the hobbit into Éowyn’s arms. Merry did not deign to reply, but his pleased little smile spoke volumes.  

“Hobbits,” Gandalf muttered, but those near could hear the smile in his voice as he swung into his saddle alone. “There are things they can teach us, Gimli my friend.” The dwarf nodded agreement, his eyes gleaming with amusement, and followed Legolas to their horse.

Merry and Pippin waved at each other from their respective places and nestled into soft, welcoming arms. Éowyn shook her reins and guided her horse alongside Arwen’s to allow easy conversation between all parties. Queen and Princess smiled at each other then each addressed her passenger. “You must tell us immediately if you want anything,” Arwen said to Pippin.

“I will,” Pippin promised.

 “Are you comfortable, Merry?” Éowyn asked. 

“Yes, thank you,” Merry replied politely. “This is very nice.”

Éowyn and Arwen pulled their cloaks forward and wrapped them around the hobbits, tucking them in against any chills. With Faramir and Éomer’s second calling commands, the entire cavalcade began its return to the city, leaving the corpses to the carrion crows. They did not ride alone for long; many Riders and soldiers drew even with them to assure themselves the hobbits were indeed well. Merry and Pippin greeted each graciously and thanked them for Pippin’s rescue, and the men dropped back, charmed and relieved.

Aragorn, Faramir and Éomer rode in silence behind them for some time before Faramir ventured to draw the King’s attention. “Sire?”

“Yes, Faramir?”

“I note, my King, that those two halflings are riding in cushioned proximity with our beloveds, while we trail along behind,” Faramir gestured at the hobbits, who were being fed tidbits Arwen had procured from her saddlebag.  “How did they manage that?”

Before them, Merry coughed. Éowyn bent over him then turned in the saddle, a frown on her lovely face. “Drop back, my lords,” she called to them. “The wind is blowing your dust onto the hobbits.”

Aragorn cast Faramir a sideways glance as they slowed their horses. “If there is one I have learned, it is that hobbits are astonishingly adept at getting their own way. Pippin has long adored Arwen, and I suppose I cannot fault him for seizing the opportunity to ride with her.”

Arwen glanced over her shoulder at them, her beauty not in least diminished by the severe expression she wore. “Lower your voices, my lords. I will not have you disturbing the hobbits.”

Aragorn and Faramir sighed and fell silent. Éomer snickered into his hand, and (safely out of his sister’s hearing) engaged Gimli and Legolas in a discussion of the demanding nature of females and hobbits, all the long leagues back to the city.

* TBC *