With Hope and Without Hope

Chapter 19: Arrival

Aragorn stumbled as the orc prodded him up the stone stairs, his wounded leg buckling. Petty though it was at this point, he resented he would be unable to hide his limp from Saruman. And he would see the wizard soon. They had arrived at Isengard.

They had only needed another day's march to arrive at the Tower. But to Aragorn it had seemed an age had passed. While Legolas had suffered the worst in the last day, Aragorn's injuries and the lack of nourishment were draining his strength. A part of him was relieved to arrive at Saruman's stronghold, if only for an end to the march--a misguided hope, for Saruman was sure to have new horrors awaiting them.

Climbing the Tower Orthanc took longer than he expected. In the gloom relieved only by reflected torchlight, he pushed himself up winding stairs, listening to those who followed. The uneven shuffling of Legolas disturbed him, but the elf could not yet put weight on his broken foot and had been forced to accept Gimli's shoulder as a crutch. The weary hobbits panted behind them as they climbed the steep steps. He hoped for their sake it was not much longer to their destination.

Finally, the endless stairs opened unto a large circular hall, many levels above the ground. The stairs continued, circling the walls of the room and ascending to unseen spaces. High above, small, deep slits in the walls followed the rise of the stairs, allowing a hint of the dawn to creep into the room. Sharp ridges had been cut into the same black stone Aragorn had seen at the entrance, giving a sense of strength and solidity of the walls. The air hung heavy and stale, oppressive as the walls surrounding them.

As the orcs shoved them into the center of the dim room, Aragorn lost his balance and sprawled to the floor. Pain shot through him, and he suppressed a gasp, as the others landed around him. They lay still and silent as the orcs filed out of the room without a word, leaving them alone together for the first time since the hobbits' capture.

Aragorn looked about. The room was lined with archways that opened onto murky unknowns. He heard nothing but the breathing and rustling of his companions and the clink of Legolas's chains. Shouts and other noises were faint and far off. He scrambled up to his knees. The others showed the same astonishment at being left unguarded as they pulled themselves off the floor, with watchful eyes on the doorway through which they had come

They were all quite a sight, especially the three of them who had hunted the orcs. Aragorn was painfully aware of how they must appear to the hobbits, and he was glad for the meager light. Gaunt from days without food or water, their elven cloaks long gone to the amusement of their captors, their remaining clothes hung from their bodies, now too large and in shreds. The many bruises on Legolas's face showed brighter through his pallor. Gimli seemed less solid and formidable, his small stature more apparent. Aragorn was certain he was unsightly. They were bruised, bound, and starved. Not a proud moment for a Ranger.

Thankfully, the hobbits had fared somewhat better. Their clothes were intact though filthy, which gave Aragorn hope they had not been ill-treated. And they appeared to have been fed, not having a wasted look about them.

They were not unchanged, however. Merry wore a sterner expression than Aragorn had ever beheld on a hobbit, as he sat close to his cousin. The younger hobbit seemed daunted by the space. He looked up with wide eyes into the gloom where the far-off ceiling was engulfed in blackness. Aragorn saw the weariness in the hobbit, the dirt on his clothes and face, the tears in his breeches, and swallowed the bitter taste of his failure.

Pippin looked to his cousin and then to Aragorn. "So, this is Isengard then?" he said with more timidity than his usual manner.

"Yes, Pippin, we are at Isengard, in the Tower of Orthanc," Aragorn said quietly, listening for the approach of footsteps of any kind.

Legolas took in his surroundings silently while Gimli turned to the hobbits. "Quickly, Merry, how do you fare? How are your legs, Pippin?"

"Well enough," Merry answered in a hard tone. "We have few injuries to speak of. Mostly, we're just tired."

"And hungry!" Pippin added, looking dismayed at the thought of his stomach. With a glance to the vacant doorway behind him, as heavy steps climbed other stairs to other rooms, he added in a hush, "But please, Gimli, don't you fret about us! You and Strider and Legolas have fared far worse than we have, and it is all due to us." Anguish washed over his face. "Please, you must forgive us!" As Pippin continued, his voice began to waver. "We never meant for this to happen! You should be watching after Sam and Frodo, and who knows where they--"

"Pippin!" Aragorn said in a harsh whisper, looking at the dimly lit entrance as Pippin had. The steps had faded, but they could not know who approached. He lowered his voice further. "Do not mention those names! Ever!" His heart beat wildly at the thought that Saruman might have heard them. "Forgive me, but you must always be wary here. You know not who listens."

"For that matter," Gimli rushed to add with his own glance to the door, "while you do not often use any name for him but Strider, you must remember to never use his true one. Things would go much worse for him, I fear." Aragorn simply inclined his head, hesitant to place further burden on the hobbits.

"Sorry, uh, Strider," Pippin continued. "It's just--I know you tried to save us. How long you must have run! And now, you've been captured and abused, all on our account." He paused and took a breath. "I want to thank you all on behalf of my cousin and I, and I'm so very sorry you got captured with us." Pippin looked down at the floor, tears glistening in his eyes.

"Sorry! Thank you!" Gimli sputtered and grumbled for a moment. He paused as they heard far off shouting that quickly died away. He lowered his voice. "Had we freed you, all that followed would have been fair price. But you remain captive. You hobbits should not have to endure such trials as these."

Merry looked at Gimli with an expression as stern as it ever had been. "And yet, it is because of us that you are here."

Aragorn frowned at the still empty doorway. For what did Saruman wait? Before Gimli could answer, he turned to Merry, despising the rasp to which his voice had been reduced. "I know Legolas and Gimli will agree, we would submit to every trial again for the chance to free you. We would never leave you to the torment of orcs."

Merry's eyes bore into Aragorn. Maintaining his grave composure, he asked, "We knew you would not. But tell us, then, please, what of," Merry's voice grew faint and trembled, "the others? Why is Boromir not with you? Did he go with our cousins? Where did they go?"

Aragorn was taken aback, not realizing all the hobbits had missed. And now, they had so little time, there was none left for gentleness. "Your cousins have--gone on, continued. That is all I will say of them. Boromir..." There was no other way to tell them. "Boromir is dead. He died on the shores of the Anduin in the attack by the orcs. After we set his body to ride the river, we turned in pursuit of you."

The hobbits were still. Then they looked to each other, some silent communication passing between them. Pippin remained quiet and withdrawn, but Merry nodded. "We feared such a story when we failed to see him. We hoped, but..." He trailed off, then seemed to refocus on Aragorn. "And how do you fare, Strider? You look weary."

Merry's quiet tone stilled Aragorn, and his quick reassurances died on his lips. "I am well enough, Merry," he finally said softly.

Merry passed his glance over the others, then returned to Aragorn, his stern expression back in place. "No, you are not well enough, Strider. None of you are. You are bruised and injured. And now that we are here... I fear for you." Merry's candid statement left Aragorn without retort.

Then faint shouts began to float up to them, breaking the silence. They stiffened as they heard the ruckus grow louder and leaned into each other unconsciously. With the approaching steps, Merry lost his new severity, and he was suddenly the young hobbit again. "What is to become of us, Strider?"

Aragorn's stomach clenched in dread as he contemplated what Saruman might have in mind for the hobbits. He was uncertain whether it was wise to hope the wizard spared their lives. In this tower, life might be the cruelest sentence. The thought of the hobbits tortured and abused grieved him deeply. "I do not know," Aragorn said quietly. "We must wait to learn what fate lies ahead for us."