Fic: 'An unfulfilled fear.'
Title: An unfulfilled fear.
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (movie): Return of the King.
Rating: (G)
Time Period: After the Battle of Pelennor Fields.
Summary: He just had to be out there. Somewhere.
Author's Note: This is quick ‘n’ dirty (for definition see the F. A. Q. or check this post for the definition).
I was never going to venture into this fandom but I watched Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King recently and I’ve always liked the perseverance of Pippin in this scene. You get to know he found the cloak and then he finds Merry. Never the search.
This was quickly written because I knew if I didn’t write and then put this out there, I would never have the courage to do it. Hence why it’s ‘quick ‘n’ dirty.’
Disclaimer
All characters contained herein are the intellectual property of JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate and the Tolkien Trust & Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh & Philippa Boyens (their intrepretations); I am not affiliated with nor endorsed by them.
_______________________
The wreck of the battlefield surrounded with its smell, the smoke and the soft cries of the injured as they were moved. Determination surged through his arms, his legs despite the sword at his side dragging him to the ground, tiredness blurring his eyes. None of that mattered. Not with Merry lost on the field.
The memory of Éomer’s stricken cry repeated itself, again and again. If it had not been for his superior height (he remembered how proud he’d been in Treebeard’s grove of how much he’d grown after drinking the Ent draught; of course Merry had disagreed), he would never have heard the worried murmur fall from Éowyn carelessly when they carried her away. His heart leaped into his mouth when he found the elven cloak and its leafy clasp; Merry would never have left this behind. Not intentionally. Which meant he was somewhere on the field. He was …
It was a big battlefield and his greater height would be no help. He needed to be shorter, closer to the ground. Around him, he heard the gurgling of Orcs killed by a swift stroke of a Gondorian or Rohirrim blade. What if they’d thought Merry was an Orc? What if …
He would not allow those thoughts to enter his head so he crowded his mind with thoughts of the search. The Oliphaunt. He had to start at the Oliphaunt. It had been near where he’d found the cloak now tucked into his belt. No one disturbed his search, dressed as he was as a Guard of the Citadel. No one was here except some of the Riders of Rohan and other Guards of the Citadel. Even Gandalf had left, returned to the city and Aragorn had gone too; he didn’t know where Aragorn had gone.
There were so many Oliphaunts on the field, dead from swords, spears and arrows. But he’d found the cloak near that Oliphaunt, the one closest to the fell beast hadn’t it been?
His throat closed and his hand dashed the tears that threatened to fall on his cheeks and cloud his eyes. It was night now; he could see small fires burning. Merry was here; he had to be. Éowyn would not have been worried for naught, not injured as she had been. He knew his cousin, knew that he would not have let himself be left behind and if Éowyn had come, then Merry had to have come as well. That was what he thought and it would take a Nazgûl to change his mind.
Not that he wanted one to turn up!
From the corner of his eye, he saw something twitch. There was no other movement. His stomach turned. “Let it not be an Orc,” he whispered, walking toward the Oliphaunt. “Let that Nazgûl be dead,” he gulped. His hands shook. He trembled under his cloak. It was all that was protecting him from the dead Orcs and that (definitely dead) fell beast and (very definitely dead) Nazgûl. Sweat snuck into his palms as he approached the lump that had twitched.
Relief swatted away the lump in his throat and he ran to the now recognisable lump. “Merry!” It was Merry. He was … “Don’t let him be dead,” he whispered within his thoughts but accidentally spoke aloud.
“Pip?”
The hoarse murmur caught his attention. “What is it Merry?” That lump in his throat seemed to have come back.
“Are you going to leave me?”
His hands were on Merry’s shoulders, lifting him gently. “No, Merry,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I'm going to look after you.”
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (movie): Return of the King.
Rating: (G)
Time Period: After the Battle of Pelennor Fields.
Summary: He just had to be out there. Somewhere.
Author's Note: This is quick ‘n’ dirty (for definition see the F. A. Q. or check this post for the definition).
I was never going to venture into this fandom but I watched Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King recently and I’ve always liked the perseverance of Pippin in this scene. You get to know he found the cloak and then he finds Merry. Never the search.
This was quickly written because I knew if I didn’t write and then put this out there, I would never have the courage to do it. Hence why it’s ‘quick ‘n’ dirty.’
Disclaimer
All characters contained herein are the intellectual property of JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate and the Tolkien Trust & Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh & Philippa Boyens (their intrepretations); I am not affiliated with nor endorsed by them.
_______________________
The wreck of the battlefield surrounded with its smell, the smoke and the soft cries of the injured as they were moved. Determination surged through his arms, his legs despite the sword at his side dragging him to the ground, tiredness blurring his eyes. None of that mattered. Not with Merry lost on the field.
The memory of Éomer’s stricken cry repeated itself, again and again. If it had not been for his superior height (he remembered how proud he’d been in Treebeard’s grove of how much he’d grown after drinking the Ent draught; of course Merry had disagreed), he would never have heard the worried murmur fall from Éowyn carelessly when they carried her away. His heart leaped into his mouth when he found the elven cloak and its leafy clasp; Merry would never have left this behind. Not intentionally. Which meant he was somewhere on the field. He was …
It was a big battlefield and his greater height would be no help. He needed to be shorter, closer to the ground. Around him, he heard the gurgling of Orcs killed by a swift stroke of a Gondorian or Rohirrim blade. What if they’d thought Merry was an Orc? What if …
He would not allow those thoughts to enter his head so he crowded his mind with thoughts of the search. The Oliphaunt. He had to start at the Oliphaunt. It had been near where he’d found the cloak now tucked into his belt. No one disturbed his search, dressed as he was as a Guard of the Citadel. No one was here except some of the Riders of Rohan and other Guards of the Citadel. Even Gandalf had left, returned to the city and Aragorn had gone too; he didn’t know where Aragorn had gone.
There were so many Oliphaunts on the field, dead from swords, spears and arrows. But he’d found the cloak near that Oliphaunt, the one closest to the fell beast hadn’t it been?
His throat closed and his hand dashed the tears that threatened to fall on his cheeks and cloud his eyes. It was night now; he could see small fires burning. Merry was here; he had to be. Éowyn would not have been worried for naught, not injured as she had been. He knew his cousin, knew that he would not have let himself be left behind and if Éowyn had come, then Merry had to have come as well. That was what he thought and it would take a Nazgûl to change his mind.
Not that he wanted one to turn up!
From the corner of his eye, he saw something twitch. There was no other movement. His stomach turned. “Let it not be an Orc,” he whispered, walking toward the Oliphaunt. “Let that Nazgûl be dead,” he gulped. His hands shook. He trembled under his cloak. It was all that was protecting him from the dead Orcs and that (definitely dead) fell beast and (very definitely dead) Nazgûl. Sweat snuck into his palms as he approached the lump that had twitched.
Relief swatted away the lump in his throat and he ran to the now recognisable lump. “Merry!” It was Merry. He was … “Don’t let him be dead,” he whispered within his thoughts but accidentally spoke aloud.
“Pip?”
The hoarse murmur caught his attention. “What is it Merry?” That lump in his throat seemed to have come back.
“Are you going to leave me?”
His hands were on Merry’s shoulders, lifting him gently. “No, Merry,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I'm going to look after you.”