The Singer

It was the year in which, according to their ways, the son of the Ernil i Pheriannath came into his majority. To honor this milestone, the Ernil brought his son to the city of King Elessar, to Minas Tirith, to have his son formally brought into the service of the King and instructed in the ways of the kingdom. The young Hobbit Princeling, for that was how the people of the city saw him, would be learning the skills of a soldier as well as the history, geography, customs and traditions of Gondor. There had been much celebration before their days settled into a routine of Faramir of the Tooks attending his training and the Ernil, as he had of old, serving at the King’s side.

It was while serving in this capacity that it came about the Ernil i Pheriannath heard of strange rumors coming from citizens of Gondor in certain lands of the King.

“It is truth, sire. For I saw this with my own eyes. Every calf in Argaith’s herd had been beheaded and the body left behind,” Gerung testified.

The Ernil stood, pale of countenance, beside his lord and friend, who was clearly concerned.

“And the heads of the beasts?” the King queried.

“Were not to be found, sire.” Gerung trembled a bit before continuing. “Nor was there trace to be found of a hole, or holes, in which they may have been buried, sire. They appeared to have been . . . taken, sire.”

“Indeed,” King Elessar said as though he spoke only to himself.

For long moments there was no speech heard in the council room, for it was there the King had decided to hear out this strange affair, rather in the more public area of the throne room. Here were only himself, Gerung and the Ernil.

“Peregrin?”

“My lord.” The hobbit moved so as to be in the King’s line of sight.

“Have you ever heard the like of this?”

“No, milord. I’ve not heard of any . . . how to say it . . . natural attack being brought upon a heard in such a fashion. In the Shire we have both cattle and sheep that range upon our open fields. Never have I heard of wolf nor bear nor wildcat which hunts in such a manner.”

“In all my wide travels, my friend, neither have I.” The King turned his eyes upon Gerung. “Return to your region, Gerung. Gather together the herdsmen there and tell them the King has heard of their concerns and that this matter will be attended to.”

Gerung, from his fear, grew bold. “With speed, sire? You will see that it is looked into with speed?”

King Elessar looked into the eyes of the herdsman before him. He could sense the deep fear, the dread, that clung to the man like a cold damp cloak. He smiled as he rose to take Gerung by both shoulders. “Yes, Gerung. It shall be looked into with all possible speed.”

The King took away his hands from the man’s shoulders. Gerung stepped back, bowed, and left the room. The King and the Ernil were alone.

“Well, that’s strange and spooky,” said Sir Peregrin, shivering a bit as he spoke.

“Spooky indeed, my friend, and I would have you know this is not the first such tale to reach my ears. They began shortly before you arrived. Though at first, I heard them third hand from Citadel Guardsmen who thought they were only passing along the latest strange tale heard in the tavern.”

“But now?”

The King sat again in his chair at the head of the empty table. He leaned back, resting his head atop the chair’s back, staring at the ceiling. “But now, indeed, things have changed,” he replied. “Before the stories seemed like ones told to children to give a delightfully creepy shiver up the spine. A white sheep that disappeared only to be suddenly and mysteriously returned with red hand prints upon it’s fleece. But hand prints that could not be cleaned off, and shearing revealed that the prints were upon the sheep’s skin and appeared again in the fleece as it grew back. Several litters of barn cats that went missing from the barns of neighboring farms on one night, returned the next with all the black ones missing. And other such relatively harmless tales. Then, just the week before you began having duty, it became more grim. Ewes who had borne twin lambs were found slaughtered with their hungry young ones nudging their empty udders. Goats dismembered with the limbs missing.”

Strider sighed heavily, for Strider he seemed to be. Pippin sensed again the loneliness in the man, there was the disheveled look of the Ranger lying upon the King as though he wore his old ragged, well worn clothes in place of his courtly garb. His voice when he spoke again was laden with weariness.

“Now this . . . atrocity. This atrocity that, like the ewes and goats, pushes the matter past the realm of fireside tales for telling in taverns. Gerung has been the first seeking to bring the matter before me rather than the crowd at a tavern. This needs looking into.”

“I’d like to go.”

The King’s eyes widened. “You? Why?”

The hobbit blushed a bit. “Firstly, to get me away from the city, well, away from my Faramir to be more precise. I’ve a terrible time not going and watching him train whenever I’m not with you, Strider. I know he’s caught me at it a few times and I think it embarrasses him. “ The King grinned a bit at this. He could well imagine young Faramir Took not wanting his parent watching over him. “Secondly,” Pippin continued, “I would like to feel I’m of some use.” He quickly waved aside any questions or protests of his lord’s. “I know, I know. ‘Tis this great honor to be at your side as you deal with matters of importance to the realm, but I chafe under it none the less. I chafed under it with Denethor. I chafed under it after the war, and it chafes me still. I’m not so old that I’m content with standing about.”

“No, I’m certain that you are not, Peregrin Took.” Aragorn had often felt the undercurrent of energy in his half-height knight. That even though Pippin did not fidget while on duty, he fully knew the impropriety of that, it was only by concentration of will that he did not. “Yet, I am hesitant to send you out. Faramir’s training can get rough, if he should be injured . . .”

“You have a house full of healers, including yourself.” Pippin interrupted.

“Yes, that is true. But then there is the matter of your wife should you be injured . . . or worse. I would not bring sorrow to your dear Diamond.”

“Oh really, Strider,” Pippin said as he rolled his eyes. “Shall I begin a listing of the number of ways I could injure or accidentally kill myself? How many days do you have to sit here and listen to me?”

The King held up his hand as he laughed. “Spare me! I dare say it would be days indeed and I have not such time.”

“You know you really have no sound reason to deny me. I’m one of your knights and no different from any of the others.” Aragorn wasn’t so sure of that but said nothing. “I am volunteering to go to . . .” Pippin’s expression went blank a moment before he charged ahead. “To where these troubles are occurring for the purpose of discovering the truth behind these tales and deal with the person or persons responsible for these atrocities, if there is indeed someone doing all of this.”

Aragorn sighed. This impertinent hobbit had him cornered. There was no reason he could give to deny Pippin’s volunteering that would not be taken as an affront by the hobbit. Making the matter worse was that Pippin knew this and wore a gloating expression on his pleasant features. The hobbit knew he had won.

And so early upon the very next day, the Ernil i Pheriannath and Bergil son of Beregond, who was on a tour of duty assigned to the Citadel Guards, passed through the gate of Minas Tirith heading across the Anduin to the Cross Roads then south to the lands that lay on the southeastern side of Emyn Arnen and those between The Great River and the Harad Road. There, betwixt the Mountains of Shadow and the Anduin lay the farms at which the strange occurrences had happened. The land had long since been reclaimed by the folk of Gondor. Farms had been staked out, the land put under the plow or herds set to grazing on the meadows. A few hamlets had sprung up along the Harad Road, along small rutted paths running from the Road to the Anduin, and a new port town now stood at the river’s edge. It had been inns in these hamlets and the port where the stories had been over heard by soldiers of the realm.

It was late afternoon when Bergil and Pippin arrived at the settlement of Kingstown, consisting of a few businesses on either side of the Harad Road at the narrowest point between Emyn Arnen and the mountains. They were not in uniform, the King having suggested, based upon his long experiences, that they would more readily hear the local gossip if they looked like common travelers. Having obtained one of the four guest rooms the King Elessar Inn offered, the two soldiers now sat in a corner of the inn’s common room, listening.

“Well I didn’t hear much that I didn’t expect to at the meetin’ Gerung called. His Majesty politely and courteously told old Gerung that He and His would look into it.”

“ ‘Spose we ought be grateful He was polite and all.”

“Yes, but that’s been a few days now and I’ve not seen any soldiers nor anyone what looks like a courtier passin’ this way. I’m all for Him being polite, but I’d rather there was something being done.”

“Nought will be done till it’s our children or our women bein’ slaughtered. Not to say that the worst of things has all been south of here, yet still, it would be a comfort to see some of the King’s liveried come into town.”

“Nay! We’ve all heard better than that of King Elessar! He’ll be doin’ something. he said he would.”

“Then where’s the soldiers?”

Bergil leaned in to whisper in the hobbit’s ear. “Perhaps our lord was mistaken. Perhaps we should have worn our uniforms.”

Pippin shook his head. “No, Bergil. Then we would have heard more words but less meaning. I find that with being head of the Tooks back home, it can take forever for folks to get to the point.”

They listened to more of the farmer’s talk till one man’s words stood out from the rest.

“I fought with the King before the black gates. He’ll see to this. He’ll see to the reason why the dusk falls faster in Grief’s Glen. He’ll seek out the reason a fog will hang there when there is no fog elsewhere. He has faced the dark and he’ll be knowing that something still haunts that valley of the Shadow Mountains.”

“But this killin’ of stock and such ain’t been near to that glen.”

“I know.” was all the old farmer answered and those listening fell silent as he rose slowly to his feet and left, the room behind him now gloomier and colder than it had seemed moments before.

Pippin motioned to Bergil. They left their coin upon the table before heading up the stairs to their room.

“That last was the bit we were waiting for, Bergil,” Pippin said softly as the door shut behind them. “That old man’s words froze us all. Do you know of this glen he spoke about?”

“No, I am more familiar with the lands to the north, but there have been other places where the dark seems to have lingered. My lord, Prince Faramir, has said that the evil can never be completely destroyed, that we need be ever vigilant. I know of more than a few places that have needed to be cleansed in the years since the War.”

“It sounds like there is yet another waiting to be dealt with. I suggest that tomorrow we inquire as to the whereabouts of that old farmer’s holdings and then we ride there to question him further.”

The farm of Daufer lay to the south of Kingstown and to the east of the Harad Road where the road and the Mountains of Shadow began to diverge. Bergil noticed a quietness come upon his companion as they road south. The house and barns were less than a mile off the road, a fair enough looking holding, but Pippin felt uneasy.

“I took note of you, I shan’t deny,” the old farmer who had once worn the uniform of a soldier of Gondor grinned, nodding his head at Pippin. Bergil and Pippin had been invited into the old man’s home and now sat facing him across the kitchen table as they shared a light luncheon. “I was there the night some of us listened to your telling Beregond of an evil dream you had been having. Set Derufin to rights it did when the King himself said you had been speaking of true events.” Sorrow crossed the man’s face. “He passed from this life, there before The Gates, knowing not to be so quick to judge others by their size.”

Pippin looked harder at the man before him, trying to take away the changes brought by passing years. “Daufer . . . Dau . . . Yes!” the hobbit smiled. Yes, I do remember you. though I will confess it’s barely.”

Daufer blushed a bit and looked down at the worn table in his snug farm kitchen. “Yes, milord Ernil, I’ve always been a quiet sort. Not one for being noticed. Unlike a certain short soldier of Gondor who once served with my company.” He looked up and winked at Pippin, causing him to blush and Bergil to laugh. But the pleasant moment passed quickly. “You’ve not come here to reminisce, though I’ll wager. You’ve come about what was said at the King Elessar Inn last even.”

“Yes,” the Ernil replied, a solemn tone shading his light voice. “We would know more about the glen of which you spoke. Where it lies and how one gets there.”

Daufer’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he quickly regained himself. Of course that would be the reason Sir Peregrin and the son of Captain Beregond would be in this area and traveling out of uniform. “It is further south. If you look west from its mouth you see Emyn Arnen upon your right and on a clear day you can see the glint of the Anduin just shy of the horizon.”

“And you have been there?” Bergil asked. “You spoke at the inn as though you have seen the place with your own eyes.”

“Yes, I have been there. My own holding is quite large, but beyond that my cattle graze on open lands. It is while checking on my herd that I sometimes draw near the glen.” Daufer looked into the eyes of each of his guests. “Near, but not to its mouth nor into the valley. There is a feeling there like that of the lands of the Dark One when we neared his gates, those long years ago. The cattle avoid it as well. It wasn’t as strong when first I settled here, it has been growing. Grief’s Glen has always been a place of strange shade, but now even the brightest midday sun doesn’t seem to pierce its glooms.”

“Word should have been sent to Minas Tirith. The King should have been made aware of this.” Bergil said sternly.

“Been told what, lad?” The old man sighed, shaking his head. “No man wants to be known for fearing a shadow, and that was all was there for many a year. Middle-earth has always had its places of shadow, it always will. There was nought to tell . . . until some began having these attacks on their beasts and flocks. Even then, as you heard last night, the attacks have not fallen near to the glen.” Daufer looked up and away to the south. “But there are enough of us here that were soldiers once. We’ve looked about. Grief’s Glen is the only place where the darkness broods.” He looked back to Pippin and Bergil. “The attacks have happened more to the south and west of here, away from the mountains and nearer the river. It was in Freeburgh, along the Westbranch Road that runs from the Harad Road to Newport, that I was part of the group that sent Gerung off to advise King Elessar. The lot you heard gossiping last night in Kingstown aren’t the ones who have been attacked.”

They sat for a few moments in silence, each with his own thoughts, until Pippin spoke.

“Well, we’ll be finding out what this is all about soon enough. This is why we’re here, as I’m sure you’ve realized, Daufer.”

“Yes, I had reckoned that much, Sir Peregrin. Shall I escort you to the glen?”

“No. If we could purchase some supplies from you, I think . . .”

“Purchase!” their host bellowed. “Purchase. Indeed not, milord. I will supply you with anything I have that might be of help to you and will do so gladly.”

So it was the next morning saw Bergil and Pippin setting off southeastwards, off the road, towards Grief’s Glen with one of Daufer’s horses to carry supplies. They had ropes for they may need to climb trees or cliffs or descend into a rift. They had lanterns for they may need to go underground and they would surely be going under the shadow. Extra food. Extra water skins. Medicines and cloth for bandages.

They weren’t even to where they could see the opening into the vale when Pippin began to feel gloom weighing upon him, a feeling he had not felt in actuality for many a long year, though it ofttimes haunted his dreams. Soon, Bergil grew quiet and anxious as well, while even the horses seemed to be tiptoeing.

Gradually they began to see on their left, to the east, the far side of a wide valley, the steep slope covered with a growth of dense, gnarled trees. On they rode, more of the glen opening itself to their sight . . . yet not. The midday sun little touched the weedy floor of Grief’s Glen, while neither the eyes of Man nor Hobbit could see much further than half a mile up the quickly narrowing cleft in the Mountains of Shadow. Finally, the two soldiers stopped at the mid point of the mouth of the glen.

“Nought for it but to go forth,” Bergil said quietly, licking his dry lips and looking the steep slopes over for any sign of . . . anything.

“Luncheon first,” replied Pippin. He pulled his own anxious eyes from the dark gorge ahead as he slid off his mount to undo a the bag containing their food for the day from the pack horse. “Better to face whatever there may be to face with our bellies full.”

Bergil grinned. At least the shadows weren’t putting his Hobbit friend off his food. That was always an encouraging sign. They ate slowly, feeling a need to savor their repast as well as being reluctant to begin their venture into the oppressive valley. But at last the meal was finished and there was no longer a sound reason for further delay. They packed up, mounted up, and began a slow walk into Grief’s Glen.

They did not proceed undetected.

The air was thick, feeling as though a storm were approaching. Though the ground was hard and stoney, the horses hooves thudded dully. The riders stretched their necks while running a finger between collar and throat as though the difficulty they had with drawing a breath was being caused by a sudden change in the fit of their clothes.

Within the growing closeness, Pippin felt, more than heard, a strange music. Notes without melody. Rhythm without form.

The mists rose.

The fogs lowered.

Like on the Barrow Downs long years past yet older, stronger, deeper.

Enclosing.

Enshrouding.

Seperating.

Bergil saw Pippin fading away upon his right. They were close to each other yet his ears seemed to be closing to his friend’s “Hullos!” while his own shouts felt pushed back into his mouth. He choked. Gagged. There was no up nor down. There was no before nor behind. Bergil grew unsure as to being still mounted upon his horse. He didn’t feel himself slip into the nothingness that surrounded him.

Bergil woke to weak light causing the cloying fog to glow a sickly greenish-grey that grew brighter off to his left. He saw no shadowy forms of their horses, no huddled lump near him on the ground that might be Pippin. He called but still his voice stuck in his throat. He crawled toward the light until the weight of the air grew less, then he stood. He walked trying to call for his friend, trying to call for help. Shapes began to appear. Almost like walking through a doorway he was free of the mists. The horses stood tightly together in the orangey glow of the sun as it set. Bergil was at the mouth of Grief’s Glen . . . but he was there alone.

Pippin wasn’t sure he had awakened. Like Moria without Gandalf’s staff, it was as dark with is eyes closed as it was with them open. He was not uncomfortable. The air around him was not as close as it had been in the fog, but there was an odd feel to it.

Suddenly a small light appeared. Like a candle flame that glowed for itself but was unwilling to give its light to the room around it.

“Poor small creature.”

Pippin started. It seemed the light itself spoke.

“Poor small creature which lost its way in the fog. Poor small creature.”

It was a feminine voice. Neither soothing nor threatening. Neither high nor low. it simply was.

“Do you hunger, small creature? Do you thirst?”

A candle seemed to grow downward from the flame. The light appeared to flow like honey ever so slowly revealing a table, set with plate and utensils, bearing a pitcher and cup, and laden with food. Steam rose from the bowls and platters . . . yet Pippin smelled nothing.

“Poor small creature. Do you hunger? Do you thirst? Eat if you hunger. Drink if you thirst. Poor small creature. Rise and be filled.”

Pippin moved a bit. He was not bound, there was nothing holding him in place. Nothing but a voice of caution in his head.

She was lit by the candle’s light, just suddenly there, standing by the table. Her hair was golden with touches of silver, her raiment was grey, falling in soft folds about her. She smiled, but the smile was neither comforting nor malicious, neither happy nor sly. It simply was there upon her lips.

“Poor small creature. Do not hunger. Do not thirst. Rise and be filled. Sit at my table.”

Pippin rose. He went to the chair that had gradually appeared as had everything else, sitting upon it then drawing himself closer to the table. He saw roast duck, and suddenly he could smell its rich aroma. A platter of sliced ham offered up its smokey sweet smell. A bowl of mushrooms with butter, their musty scent filling his nose. Golden potatoes and bright orange carrots. Pale parsnips and vivid green peas. The shear comfort of the aroma wafting from a lovely round loaf of dark rich looking bread. He poured from the pitcher a frothy pale ale. A more hobbity meal could hardly be wished for.

He carved a bit of breast meat from the duck. He took a slice of ham, a dab of the various vegetables, a slice of the warm bread. Then Pippin sat and looked at his filled plate, yet he did not begin to eat.

“Poor small creature. Eat, small one. Drink. Be filled.”

Pippin picked up knife and fork, but sat there with them in his hands.

“Eat. Drink. Be filled,” the lady’s voice sounded gentle in his ears.

He cut a bite of ham. He placed it into his mouth. He chewed.

And at first it tasted of . . . nothing.

Nothing at all until suddenly the flavor burst into his mouth.

It was the same with the vegetables, the ale, the bread and the duck. Nothing, then flavor the likes of which he had never experienced before. Pure. Intense. Luscious.

“This . . .” his voice squeaked, sounding as small as she kept calling him, yet he smiled and it colored the tones. “This is . . . it’s . . . I’ve never tasted better.” But Pippin was still cautious, thinking how it nearly hadn’t tasted at all.

“Eat and drink and be satisfied. Poor small creature.” Her voice sounded pleased. He looked, and the smile she wore now looked happy.

Pippin ate till he was sataisfied.

She sat down opposite him.

She looked at him with eyes as grey as the mists.

“Now, what are you, small creature?”

“A hobbit,” he replied. His mind was flooded with images and feelings. Fire and flying creatures. A indescribable face. A voice that hurt him. His own small reply - “A hobbit.” But it was fast and fleeting and gone.

“A hobbit.” She said nought else for several long moments as she gazed into his eyes. “I’ve heard . . . rumors have come to me . . . tales . . . that tell a,” she paused again and for a few seconds Pippin felt chilled. “A hobbit brought Him to an end. Is this true, Hobbit?”

Slowly the words formed in Pippin’s head and slowly they came to his mouth and slowly he spoke them. “Yes. A hobbit.”

“Are you that Hobbit?”

“No.”

“What magic do your people have? What magic did that one of your kind use?”

“We’ve . . . He had . . . We have no magic.”

“No magic?” Her voice was surprise coated with pity. “No magic for the small Hobbit creatures? Surely not! They must have magic or this could not be. He would have crushed them; crushed them all.” She stopped and looked at the Hobbit before her. “There were many of you? You combined your magic? Only one could not have borne the . . . treasure. But there were many of you with him, yes?”

Pippin struggled a bit in his mind. None of this was good. None of it was right. “No,” was all he said.

She rose and began to pace, the grey gown swishing on the floor. “But . . . It had to be . . . they must have . . . there could be no other way . . .” She no longer had her gaze fixed upon Pippin and he realized that she was speaking to herself. “Magic, they must have magic. Strong magic. They must.”

She turned on him. Her grey eyes were like ice, her bared teeth looked pointed, her skin was sickly pale and her hands gnarled. With a flick of her hand he was bound to the chair. The table with it’s burden of food vanished.

“What is your magic! I will have it! Oh, yes, small Hobbit creature, I will have it.”

All went dark.

In Minas Tirith, Faramir Took’s concentration slipped. His sparring partner’s blade went to his throat, unparried, stopping short of actually doing any harm.

“Faramir?” their instructor called from the edge of the room.

The lad blinked and shook his head a bit. “Yes, Halbard?”

The man walked over and knelt down. “You’ve gone pale, milord, and it is not like you to miss such an easy parry. Are you unwell, Faramir?”

“I . . . I’m not sure, Halbard. I feel cold. Perhaps I just need to eat. May we take a break for a bit?”

“Of course, young sir. It is nearly evening. We are finished for the day.”

Faramir nodded his farewell to his instructor and partner then went to his quarters. He requested his dinner be brought to his rooms then paced nervously. For the first time since Pippin had left on the King’s errand, Faramir missed his father.

Bergil could not shake the dread that filled him. Pippin was gone. He had lost a knight of the realm and a close friend of the King. He had no idea where in that cursed glen the hobbit might be, nor any idea of if Pippin was alive, nor, if alive, who - or what - had him. The horses were terrified. They spooked at every noise of the night and come morning, though obviously as eager to leave the mouth of the glen as Bergil was, they were too skittish for them to travel very quickly.

Bergil rode for Daufer’s farm. The pack horse bolted for his stable as soon as they came to familiar roads. Daufer unloaded the lathered animal, turned him into the pasture and was in process of saddling up his riding horse when Bergil rode unsteadily into the farmyard. The old man trotted out to catch the young man as he lost his balence while dismounting.

“Steady, lad, steady. I was just about to head out after you and . . .” Daufer looked about for the hobbit. “What’s happened, soldier. Where’s the Ernil i Pherannath?”

“Gone. Vanished. The fog and . . . and the mists . . . there was no trace. I . . . I . . .” Bergil drew a deep breath, feeling like it was the first he’d drawn in days. He drew in another and began to finally pull hiimself together. The chill, the fear, had clug to him even as he left the glen behind him. He had been a lad in the days of the War. He had been in the city during the Siege, but he had not ridden forth to the Black Gate. He had not been with the soldiers who had done much of the clearing of the lands that had been under the Dark Lord’s rule. He had never before faced the sort of evil that held sway over Grief’s Glen. But he was now a man full grown, and a soldier of Gondor. he had to recover himself.

“We need to send word to the King. There is something there that is beyond a small scouting party.” He said firmly to Daufer.

“There is a message rider in Kingstown. I will send him. He will be in the city ere the sun rises on the morrow. You get yourself into the house. The ale keg is in the cellar as are a ham and other fare. Get yourself fed and into bed lad and I’ll be back ere you have much time to have missed me.”

Bergil hesitated, his eyes searching the old man’s hungrily for reassurance.

Daufer softened his look and his voice. “The King will hear as soon as is possible. He will know what to do, we both know how dear he holds Pippin.”

The use of the hobbit knight’s nick name was not lost on Bergil. He nodded. “I will trust his fate to you for now.”

The old soldier headed for the barn; the young one headed for the farmhouse.

Pippin didn’t know if one day had passed or several. There was no sun where he was. The darkness was broken only when his captor made an appearance. She would be gentleness itself. She would beat him. She would ease his pain. She ranted and raged. She was calm and icy cold. She would rip at his mind. And always the same questions: “What is the magic of the Hobbits? How was He brought down?”

He had learned more about her than she had of him, he was pleased to admit - when he wasn’t in such pain that he cared about nothing.

“He had great need of me,” she had related. “I am a powerful singer. He had great need of my singing into being mists and fogs, hazes and smokes to hide Himself and His works. For long ages I had been in His service, and the service of the one whom He served. But He grew wary of all His servants. He held the most powerful of us tightly so we could not wander, held by His mighty power. But I would have remained without being held as I liked to make such potent use of my skills. It has been long years since I’ve walked in the sunlit realms. Perhaps that is why your kind are strange to me. Did the Grey one know your kind?” she had asked, then hurt Pippin deeply when he gave no response.

“The Grey one and I are the same. We are of the same kindred. But he thought so highly of himself. He denied himself the true use of his powers which he would have found in service to the Lord of Darkness. Ha! But I am still here in this Middle-earth while him I sense here no longer. Yes, the Grey one would like your kind, I’m certain. Did you know the Grey one, small creature?”

Pippin said nothing. And when she was not present he dared to wonder why he was so alone. There was one who had helped him in the past, but he hadn’t sensed her familiar presense.

Faramir Took’s sleep was not restful. Odd proddings came to him in his dreams. It was at the time that is almost the dawning that his dreaming took a different course. Again he saw the sharply narrowing vale, felt the weight of the gloom and lost sight of the world in the fog. But this time, faintly, out of total darkness he saw a hazy figure. Tall and grey clad it appeared. He felt cold anger seeping from it. He felt pain.

Then it was gone; figure, darkness, pain and all. He found himself upon a woodland path in the waning of the year. Warm sun broke through the canopy of autumn leaves, warming away the chill the other had left in him. He heard his name.

“Faramir.”

He turned to see her behind him on the path. He had met her before, but rarely. Her face was anxious.

“My Jewel, our Falcon is in great need. The danger is grave. The King must go to him at once. I cannot help him. She is a Maiar, a servant of the Foe of the Valar. I would be revealed to the one who holds him. She would know of the bond between us and his death would come swift and sure.”

She paused as though listening.

“You must go at once to the King. A messenger has arrived and will soon be given audience. Rise quickly, my Jewel!”

Faramir woke with a start then fled his chambers at a full run heedless of the stares of the palace guards as a hobbit ran past them in his night shirt. He gave the guard at the door to the King’s chambers no chance to stop him, hitting the door with the momentum of his running to nearly burst the heavy door open. The king sat in the antechamber listening to a dusty man who smelled of a long hard ride.

“Strider!” Faramir shouted as he slid to a stop before his king. He fell to his knees to look beseachingly up at his father’s dear friend. One of his trembling hands came to rest on Aragorn’s knee. “My Father . . . my Father is in dire need. You . . . we must ride at once, Strider. She will kill him!”

Strider laid his left hand over the young hobbit’s trembling right one, but he looked and spoke to the messenger. “It appears your news preceeds you, Teregond, at least to Sir Peregrin’s son.” He turned his eyes to Faramir’s bloodless face. The lad’s green eyes were wide, fear and fire mingled in them. “I have just this moment heard that your Father has been lost. Bergil had suffered some great shock and was in need of rest. An old soldier of the realm, Daufer, tends him at his holding south of here along the Harad Road. It was Daufer who sent Teregond here with word of the matter.”

The king placed his right hand gently to Faramir’s cheek taking a moment to hold the frightened hobbit’s eyes with his own. He knew what stirred in those green depths but he knew their magic would not be turned on him.

“Rise, Faramir. Clothe yourself for a journey and arm yourself with your best weapons, not the sword you have been useing for training. Meet us at the stables as soon as possible.”

Faramir grasped the King’s left hand as he rose. He bowed low. “At once, your Majesty!” Then he was gone even more quickly than he had arrived.

She was being kind again. Trying to weedle what she wanted from her captive.

“What is it like, your homeland? I have heard that is it in the north. Is it a fair place to your eyes?”

Pippin said nothing.

“Oh come now, Hobbit creature. What harm can there be in telling me these small things?”

She ran her hand along his shoulders as she paced. Pippin shivered at each touch.

“I have wandered in the green lands for a time now. Not often. Not far. Enough to glean news from the filthy Men. I have heard that they have a king again. One with an Elvish name and an Elf-brat for his queen. I have been abroad enough to have heard of the Halfling creatures and their strong magic. Magic so strong that it fooled My Lord. So strong that they were not destroyed by the Thing they hid from him.”

She paused in her pacing. Her fingers curved around Pippin’s shoulders.

“I tolerated the foul company of Men long enough to learn that one of the Halfling creatures was coming to visit their filthy little king. So I . . . did things. I did things which would be sure to catch the king’s feeble attention, in hope that he would send forth one of his magical Halflings.”

Pippin felt her fingers curl. He felt the edges of her finger nails against his shirt.

“What is the magic you have, Hobbit creature?”

There was no response. The finger nails went easily through fabric and into soft skin.

“What is your magic!” she screemed in rage.

“Something you can never have,” Pippin hissed through clenched teeth.

“What! What do you think I cannot have!”

“Mercy. Forgiveness. Love.”

There was a long moment with nothing said before the nails were pulled from his shoulders and his tormentor returned to her pacing.

“Mercy? Forgiveness and love? Ha! What nonsense is this you offer me? There is no magic in those things. They are the emotions felt by the weak. Did you think I do not know of them? Did you think I do not know what they are? They are weakness! They bring about poorly made decisions and foolish acts of what is called bravery.”

Suddenly she was nearly nose to nose with him, learing into his face, boring into his eyes with her steely gaze.

“If you thought to please me by finally giving me an answer, you thought wrongly, little Hobbit creature. These things have no magic. They have no power. They are . . . nothing.”

Pippin felt a familiar stirring in his mind. He had felt it with the Lady Galadriel. He had felt it when he looked into the plantir. He had felt it in a different way when, as a child, he had got friends and sisters to do what he wished them to. She had tried it with him before with no success, but this time went differently. Whether it was because he was nearly exhausted or because his listing of Frodo’s attributes had opened some chink in his mind, Pippin didn’t know, but the probing was reaching deeper into his mind than was allowable. He fought back, blocking her thoughts. There were things she must not be allowed to see.

It was his downfall.

She sensed the change in him and with a blink of her eyes, her thoughts left his mind. She drew back to search his face in a way she had not before, noting small details, noting his eyes. Her steely cold eyes widened, then narrowed as her evil smile crept onto her lips.

“I remember this,” slyness coated her words like a viscous poison. “I’ve seen those eyes before, but not in ones with hair upon their feet.” Her face again drew near to his, her breath hot and stale in his nostrils. “The small creatures that were like the wretched First Born. There is a name . . . a name for them . . . Faeries! This is your magic, Hobbit creature. You have failed.”

She gave her words a few moments to sink into his heart, then rose to pace once more.

“But how? How would your people come by this? You cannot be one of them. I would have sensed the magic sooner, yet there it is within your eyes. How? How?”

She paced. Pippin hardly dared to breathe. He thought of every bit of nonsense he could. Scraps of songs and nursery rhymes. Drinking songs and bawdy ditties. Anything to hopefullly keep any thought of his from giving more away than he already had. Long she paced, occasionally muttering “How?” to herself, then she stopped so suddenly she nearly lost her balance. Again she brought her face near to Pippin’s. A hideous chuckle rose in her throat. Without taking her eyes from his she rubbed her forefinger hard across the cuts her nails had made in his left shoulder. She held the finger up. His blood glistened upon its tip.

“Halfbreed. It is in your blood.”

They rode like the winds of a storm, the King, Teregond and Faramir Took. As Teregond had on his way to Minas Tirith, they changed horses at the messenger stops. By evening they were at Daufer’s farm making ready to face whatever it was that dwelt in the shadows of Grief’s Glen. Bergil was fully recovered and Daufer held firm in his request that he too be allowed to go.

“I am old, true, but not yet frail, milord. I toss hay and stack sacks of feed. I can more than wield my sword. Extra eyes and ears can be good to have.”

So it was that four headed southeastward at the next day’s first faint glowing.

Pippin had been hung up like a beast to be slaughtered, which, he thought grimly, was exactly what he was. His ankles were tightly bound, a hook thrust between them and around the rope. His arms were bound tightly to his sides. He now swung upside down from a ring that was somehow driven into the ceiling. His captor had been rather jolly through the entire process, boasting how adding his magic to hers would surely make her the strongest of His servants available, the best to serve the Lord of all Darkness when next his time came to visit Middle-earth. She had given Pippin’s cheek a cheery pat before leaving to “find the necessary recepticle”.

He wasn’t sure if he had swooned or not, but suddenly there seemed to be a freshness to the formerly stale air. A pleasant scent filled his nose. He sighed a contented sigh as though he hadn’t a care.

“Think of our Jewel,” Cullassisul whispered in his thoughts.

Pippin didn’t understand. He had avoided thinking any thoughts of those he loved. Best, he reckoned, not to give his tormentor any ideas. “No. I won’t do that.”

“He is near, my Falcon. Near but cannot find you. You hold the key. Reach out in your need. You must touch his thoughts.”

“No! I’ll not bring him here.”

“Do it now!” Cullassisul’s voice rang in his head. Never before had she given him an order.

Pippin turned his thoughts to his son. He took in all he could of his surroundings and all that he could picture in his mind of his captor. Then she was upon him. She slapped his face over and over.

“Where is it? I felt it here! Where is it lurking? Filthy Faerie kind. Where is it?” She spat in his face. Then, her fire turned to ice once more. “No matter. No matter.” Her voice froze him. “Do you hear me, Faerie Witch? Is he yours? You will not take this halfblood filth of yours from me! You cannot help him now. You are too late and too impotent here.” She again patted Pippin’s cheek with icy fingers. “I am nearly ready, Hobbit creature. You and I will soon be united.” Again, she left the room. With a deep breath to fight off the spinning in his head, Pippin turned his thoughts once again to his son.

Faramir slowed then stopped. It was a good thing he was not the last of the four rescuers as they walked cautiously along a narrow path in the cave he had led them to, if he were they would have gone on without him. He had sensed the Faerie. He could almost hear her, almost see her. And he sensed his Father.

“This way. Along this way. Then . . .”

He gasped and stumbled. Aragorn caught him or he might have fallen to the cave floor.

“He’s . . . being hurt.” Faramir gasped again, then drew a deep breath. He shook off the feelings that were trying to overwhelm him. “It has stopped . . . he . . . we need to hurry.” The hobbit set off at a run with the others being careful not to tread on his heels with their longer strides.

Visions of times spent with his Father ran through Faramir’s head. Happy times fishing, playing games, hearing his Father tell stories, his Father teaching him to ride a pony, teaching him to wield a sword, teaching him to use such things only to defend those he loves. Their times all together, his Father and Mother, his brother and sisters. And love. Love and joy, peace and contentment. His Father’s love for him and for their family. The rustle of leaves dancing on a fresh autumn breeze surrounded the memories, carressing them, nurturing them, blessing them with even more love. He could see Cullassisul watching over them all, her eyes sparkling with love for these children of her child, as she would express it. Faramir went which ever way made the memories and feelings grow stronger within him.

She returned to where the Hobbit creature hung. She placed a golden basin on the floor beneath him. She held a bejeweled, golden hilted dagger in her hand. She would be powerful! She would posess the magic that had destroyed Sauron the Great. The Great Lord of All Darkness would surely choose her to be his right hand when next he returned. Her fogs, her mists, her glooms of despair would cover the whole of Middle-earth. All would wilt and wither of the world so beloved by the Valar and those foolish enough to adore and follow them.

She spoke and the room shook. She spoke the words of joining that would bind the Hobbit’s blood to hers as she drank her fill of it. She held the dagger out to her side, ready for the swift slash that would cut his flesh and open his vein.

She gave out an strange gasp. Her back arched, her eyes widened, the glittering dagger slipped from her grasp and clattered on the floor. She fell forward against the body of the Hobbit hanging before her. She clutched at him, then slid down him, both twisting so that when she fell from him she landed on her back across the golden basin. Her blood oozed down the hilt of the small knife in her back, dripping then flowing into the basin. Her incantation had to be satisfied, the basin took it’s due.

Faramir had thrown the knife, with a hobbit’s practiced accuracy.

Aragorn and Bergil rushed past Faramir. Strider took Pippin into his arms as Bergil swiftly cut the rope from which the hobbit had dangled. Strider laid his friend gently upon the floor as Faramir rushed to his Father’s side, embracing him tightly not caring that Pippin couldn’t hug him back as the ropes binding him had yet to be severed. Daufer went to the corpse of Pippin’s captor, it writhed and withered. A mist shrouded it, then the corpse, the jeweled dagger and the basin vanished. The old man bent to pick the young hobbit’s knife off the floor.

Strider carried Pippin out of the cave with Faramir trotting along beside clinging to his Father’s hand. The late afternoon sun shone brightly into Grief’s Glen as the four soldiers and their king ate a small meal, which did much to revive Pippin. With Sir Peregrin and his son sharing a mount, the group began the ride to Daufer’s farm.

Pippin continued to relate his ordeal as they rode but suddenly went quiet after once more using the valley’s name. “It really should get a new name, Strider. It will be a place of grief no longer, now that she is gone.”

Aragorn turned in his saddle to look back into the cleft in the mountains. The westering sun shone deeply into it now that the mists no longer hung in its air. The glen was deep, its sides steep and rocky, but waterfalls now caught the light of the sun. One could see that there was vegetation over hanging many of the the rocky ledges, vegetation that would green-up and be lush now the sun could shine her light further into the valley. The valley would be green and beautiful like Pippin and Faramir’s homeland.

“I think it should be Took’s Glen,” Strider said with a contented sigh as he winked at Bergil and Daufer. “And since I’m the King of Gondor, and it is in my realm, Took’s Glen it will be. I will see to the change when we are back in Minas Tirith.”

“Well, son,” Pippin chuckled as he nudged Faramir in the ribs. “That will be one bit of Gondorian geography that oughtn’t be hard for you to remember when you’re back to your lessons.”

Faramir sighed. He had been hoping his Father might have forgotten about that part of his lessons.