Into Darkness

by Avondster


Part 12

Boromir looked up at the creature before him in awe rather than fear. Covered in branches and leaves, and with a skin that looked like bark, it could easily be mistaken for a tree. Yet it had two legs, two arms and an old face with endlessly deep, yellow eyes that looked down on the two Men before it as if in deep thought.
As he gazed, mesmerised, into the yellow depths of these eyes, Boromir recalled the stories Finduilas his mother had told him and his brother when they were children, untroubled by the hard reality of the world, and stories of times past could still enchant him. From the depths of his mind came a long-forgotten word.

“Onodrim,” he whispered, more to himself than to anything around him.
The creature slowly turned its ancient head to him and something akin to surprise came into the deep eyes, and it began to speak in a low, deep voice that seemed to vibrate in the air.
Boromir listened intently, but could not make out many words. Finally he held up his hand and said: “please… I know only a few words of the Fair Speech.”
“Yet you know the name the Elves gave us,” said the creature, “hmmm… and I see that you are akin to them. But I do not recall seeing you before, and I have seen many things, the tales of which could fill many of your lifetimes. Who are you, proud Man, and from whence have you come?”
“I am Boromir of Gondor, and I come from the South,” said Boromir.
“South?” said the creature. “I always like going South. Somehow it feels like going downhill.”
At this strange reply Boromir did not know whether to be amused or annoyed, and settled for neither when the creature turned its head to Éomer, who looked appropriately awed.
“Hoom, but I have seen you before, though you may not have seen me,” it said. “Yes, many times have I watched the Horse-Children from afar, and heard the glad calls of their beasts. You are good to them, and they love you. You are good Men.”
It fixed the two companions with another long, thoughtful gaze, and Boromir almost thought that it had drifted off to sleep when it spoke again.
“What is your business in Fangorn, young Horse-Child and Man from the South? I doubt not that you mean no harm, but the trees have grown wild and dangerous since Men last ventured here, and they will harm you if they can.”
“So we have learned,” said Boromir grimly. “But before we speak to you of our errand in these woods, or rather beyond them, might we first ask you your name, and what side you are on in these dark days?”
“My name?” said the creature, almost as if remembering something long forgotten. “I have been called many different names, most of them being too long to tell such hasty creatures. But by some I have been named Fangorn, and you may call me so. And I do not know about sides. I am not altogether on anybody’s side, because nobody is on my side. But you might say I am on the opposite side of these – burárum – these Orcs that bite and hack and burn all that is green an good. Destroyers and usurpers, curse them!” A red glow, like a fire, was kindled in Fangorn’s eyes.
“Both of our peoples have also suffered by the hands of the Orcs,” said Éomer. “So this, at least, we have in common.”
Boromir, thinking of the Hobbits, cut in rather briskly, saying: “As a matter of fact we are following the trail of a party that carried off two of our friends. They must have passed the borders of your country nigh on three nights ago. Have you seen them?”
“Hoom, hom,” said Fangorn, “don’t get hasty now, Man of the South! Never get hasty. Hoo, hm, I have seen no such thing, though I heard rumours in the air and in the whisperings of the leaves. But seen them, no. Yet, hm, I do think I know someone who has. Many times he sits on his hill-top, and looks out over the forest. He may have seen them.”
“Who is this person?” asked Boromir impatiently. “Can you take us to him?”
“Hmm, yes, I suppose so, but it would be a journey of many days to his home. Hoom, I shall call his name, and he will come to meet us. Follow me.”
Fangorn started walking, and Boromir and Éomer had to run to keep up with his long strides. Boromir smiled grimly as he thought that he now knew what it had been like for the Hobbits, keeping up with Aragorn.
A deep, rumbling sound from the earth startled him so much that he almost tripped, and he realised that it was Fangorn making the noise. It was like nothing he had ever heard before, old and deep and dark, but not altogether unpleasant.

They had not gone very far when a creature, similar to Fangorn and yet very different, appeared out of the shadows of the trees. He was somewhat taller and leaner than Fangorn, but his eyes were not as deep and his voice not as impressive.
“Hoom,” said Fangorn to them. “This is Bregalad, one of the younger of my people, though in your measuring he is older than can be measured. From his hill-top where he laments the loss of his trees by the Orcs, he sees the borders of the forest and beyond. He may help you.”
“Have you seen the Orc-host that carried off our friends?” asked Boromir without further ado.
“Hm, I have seen Orcs at the borders, yes,” said Bregalad. “They were headed for Isengard, and did not stay long. But I saw only Orcs, no Men.”
“They are not Men,” said Boromir. “They are Hobbits.”
“Hobbits, hmm?” said Fangorn. “You have not said this before. I have never heard of these Hobbits, and they are not in the old lists. Hmm, are you sure they exist?”
“Yes, I am,” said Boromir, getting a bit agitated conversing with this queer, long-winded creature. “They are small but brave, and they come from a small, green country in the North, or so they have told me. They dwell in holes and love peace and good tilled earth. The two I speak of have saved my life, but the Orcs captured them.”
“Hm,” said Fangorn. “They sound like good decent folk, and saving them would be a good thing. I would like to see these Hobbits, that are not in the old lists.”
“Will you help us then?” asked Éomer hesitantly.
“Hoom! Master Horse-Child!” said Fangorn. “For long have we suspected some evil in the valley of Saruman, and something must be done indeed. But we must not be hasty.”
“I must be! We are running out of time!” cried Boromir. “My friends are out there, and they need my help. I need a swift answer. Will you aid us, or will you let us go on our way?”
The Onodrim seemed genuinely confused at his straight question, and both studied the two Men for a while before Fangorn turned away silently.
“Very well then,” said Boromir, his voice trembling with emotion. “Come, Éomer! Let us move on.” He turned abruptly and started walking in no particular direction, his blood boiling. Éomer followed silently.

It was not long before Bregalad caught up with them. “Hoom, wait, young masters!”
“What is it?” asked Boromir in a not very friendly tone.
“Hmm, first of all, you are going the wrong way,” said Bregalad, his mouth twitching slightly. “And secondly I would like to help you. The old Ents take a long time to say anything, let alone to decide something. But I see that you are hasty folk, and cannot wait. Yet you must not travel through the Forest alone, and not at night. Dusk is falling, and I see that you are tired. I will show you where you can rest – for a little while,” he said as Boromir opened his mouth to protest, “and at dawn I shall take you to Isengard. My strides are longer than yours, and I do not tire easily. You will be there as swift as you can be.”
Boromir looked at Éomer as they considered it for a moment. “Boromir,” said Éomer at last, “with your leave, I would take the offer of this… Ent. Travelling with the protection and guidance of one who knows the country well would seem better than walking around in the dark of an unknown land. And I daresay we need a rest for what lies still ahead.”
Finally, Boromir sighed and nodded. “Very well then,” he said.


Merry could not stand the silence. He knew that no sound could come through the walls of his cell, and yet he imagined that he could constantly hear Pippin screaming in pain. He pressed his hands against his head, but could not block out the sound.
His entire body ached from crying and screaming and throwing himself desperately against the unyielding walls. His throat was sore, and his fingers and knuckles were raw from clawing at the stones. For many hours he had ran around in his cell, mad with anger and grief and guilt and hatred. Now his tears and his voice and his energy had all been drained from his body, and he sat on the cold floor, cradling himself.
‘Oh Pip,’ he thought. ‘What have I done to you? Me and my stupid defiance. What will become of you know? Will I ever see you again?’
He gasped silently. What if Pippin was killed? How would he ever be able to live with that? Yet he felt in his heart that his cousin still lived, now. But for how long?

He had been so occupied with these dark thoughts, that it took him a while to realise that it was no longer silent. A distant roaring sound could be heard through the small, high widow, like the raging of a storm on the distant sea. Merry listened intently, and heard that it were in fact voices, thousands and thousands of voices chanting in unison.
Despite his misery he felt curious, and he forced his aching body to get up and look on high at the window. It was some six foot above the floor, so all he could see from his viewpoint was the smoke rising up to the heavens. He tested his painful fingers on the stones, and then started to climb. It was far from easy with his sore fingers, and the wall was slippery and almost smooth, but finally he managed to reach the window and could pull himself up by grabbing the bars. It was just a bit bigger than his head, and turned out to be only a few inches above the ground outside.
At first he was not quite sure what he saw, but as his eyes adjusted to the daylight he could see it. Feet. Rows and rows of big black legs and heavy boots, stamping and dancing to an inaudible rhythm. A familiar stench came to his nose, one which had surrounded him many days.
They were Uruk-Hai, and more than he could count. A great army, dressed for battle. Over the deafening choruses of roars he could hear the voice of Saruman, though he could not understand any words except for ‘blood’, ‘Rohan’,’march’, and the final “to war!”.
He shivered at the sound of the voice and the roar of approval that met these words.

The door creaked almost unnaturally loud and Merry, startled, felt the bars slip from his hands and landed flat on his back on the hard stone floor, the sound of the marching feet still thundering in his head.
Carch was in the doorway, and leered at the Hobbit on the floor. “A pretty sight, ain’t it? But it ain’t any of your concern. I won’t see you climb that wall again, understand me? Now get up and come with me. The Master wants to see you again.”
Merry got up and glowered, but said nothing as he followed Carch, slower than last time, through the maze of Orthanc’s many halls and staircases. As they reached the rock chamber Merry was once again provided with his Lórien belt and dagger and an Orc-sword, and pushed into the same great arena.
There it seemed very quiet compared to the day before, considering that most of the Uruk-Hai had marched to war. Some Orcs and Half-Orcs still remained, and the few of them that could abandon their work were gathered around the pit. Saruman sat where he had been previously, as if he had not moved at all. Beside him sat a rather uncomfortable-looking Man, raven-haired, with a deadly pale, beardless, wise face. He looked so unhealthy and miserable that Merry briefly wondered if the Man was perhaps dying.

“Once again I welcome you, Halfling,” said Saruman, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “In spite of your arrogance, I have decided to summon you here once again, to point out to you the consequences of such defiance, and to see if you regret your actions.”
Merry did not reply, and glared at the Wizard, who was smiling most unpleasantly. “Very well, I see that you do not. But I have something to show you that might change your mind.” He gestured towards the gate.
Merry turned and stifled a shriek when the gate opened to let Pippin in. Merry made to run towards him, but a closer look at his cousin stopped him dead in his tracks.
Pippin’s body showed no signs but the old bruises Merry had given him the previous day, and having been robbed of his shirt his smooth, unharmed skin could clearly be seen.
But it was his face that made Merry recoil as if he had been struck a physical blow. It was still Pippin’s face he saw, but Pippin himself seemed to be missing. The spark of life that had always been there, that made him Pippin, had now gone out, and he gazed into two staring, hollow, green pits.

Pippin moved slowly towards Merry, staring at him with that emotionless gaze, and Merry felt tears come to his eyes and stretched out his hand in disbelief and pity. “Pippin…”
But his cousin gave no sign of recognising him, and with an unbelievably swift move pulled out his sword and launched himself at Merry.
It was only Merry’s quick reflex of ducking and rolling away that saved him. He got up quickly and drew his own sword, but hesitated to use it. This was no enemy he was fighting, this was his Pippin.
Pippin used Merry’s indecision to strike at him again. Merry parried the blows easily, and if he would have had the intention to hurt Pippin, he would have had several chances. But he was careful not to let his sword come near Pippin’s skin, even though this was getting progressively more difficult as Pippin’s blows gained force.
At one point when Merry held up his sword to stop one, Pippin suddenly made a move that Boromir had once taught him and at which had been very good. As soon as Merry’s arm was down, Pippin suddenly pulled away, made a turn and quick as lightning wrapped his free arm around Merry, pinning both of his arms to his side, and with a practiced twist wrenched the sword from Merry’s hand.
His other arm moved up to place the razor-sharp blade against Merry’s throat.