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.