With Hope and Without Hope

Chapter 11: Looking for Escape

Pippin gazed anxiously at the Forest that now accompanied their march to Isengard. In the early morning light, the dark woods that ran along their path appeared less forbidding than they had in the midst of night.

Chewing on a crust of hard bread, Pippin contemplated whether the orcs would take them through the forest. They had already been in the hands of the orcs for four long days. Reaching Saruman's stronghold could take many more-since he hadn't paid much heed to all the talk of maps and such in Rivendell, he had no way of knowing.

Only two days earlier, he and Merry had convinced their guards that they must eat if they were to be brought to Saruman alive, resulting in occasional bread and water. But it was no hobbit breakfast he ate, first or second. How long must they survive on these crusts?

Their predicament was worrisome. The thongs about his wrists were as tight as ever, wearing the skin beneath them raw, and the scrutiny they were under rarely wavered. Though the disquiet in his heart had eased somewhat the previous day on seeing three of their friends alive and hale, it was not quite the meeting Pippin had hoped for. And though he had managed rare glimpses of them since, he had thought they looked unwell. Perhaps they had not succeeded in convincing the orcs that they, too, needed food to survive.

Pippin had insisted on keeping hope for their friends, hope that they lived. But neither he nor Merry had counted on their capture. How would they get out of this mess now?

Pippin sighed. It might be that the burden lay with them. Only he and his cousin might have the strength or the opportunity to make an escape. Perhaps Elrond had been right and this was no place for young hobbits. Well, sitting among enormous, smelly, constantly quarreling creatures such as these seemed no place for anyone-unless you were an orc.

There was no one left now. Frodo and Sam hadn't come with them. That the pair had begun the doomed trek with the others but had not made it to this point was a notion Pippin could not consider. Either of them may have continued to Mordor on their own-no, that was too a dreadful prospect. He quickly pushed the idea aside.

No Frodo and no Sam. No Gandalf. No Gandalf ever again. Another pang seized his chest as his grief surged again. It then doubled as he pondered the fate of Boromir. He tried to keep a hope for him, but it was like a candle against a gale and all but flickered out.

The Fellowship was dead.

In all likelihood, their Company was down to the five of them now captives of orcs bound for Isengard, to be delivered to Saruman. The wizard would undoubtedly demand the Ring and then torture them when he learned they did not have it, demanding they reveal its location.

Pippin looked over at Merry, who nibbled at his bread on occasion but seemed otherwise lost in thought. What he contemplated, Pippin couldn't say and wondered if he intended to devise an escape. Well, someone must. And might not that someone be me? He was looking to every other for his rescue but himself. He might wait a long time.

Pippin's musings were interrupted by a harsh laugh. "Ah! You shoulda been there!" Two orcs were walking by, one carelessly swinging a dirty sword. "It was a good time. Never played with a dwarf afore. Fagrod's the lad to talk to, see if you get a piece next time."

"Aye, I shall. Can't complain about the sport with the man, though. Except for the part about not letting him die. Being careful. Kinda spoils the fun if you ask me."

Pippin stared, frozen in place. If he moved, his entire body might revolt. His stomach threatened to upheave what little lay there. His eyes were suddenly moist with tears ready to flow. And many, many words quivered on the tip of his tongue, straining for release. Instead, he sat entirely still, afraid even to look at Merry.