In the darkening twilight, Pippin fled the shadowed paths of the village. He plunged into the heart of the forest, where ancient, gnarled boughs offered a meagre curtain against the eyes that sought him. His breath caught in his throat, a silence outwardly kept, yet within his mind, a thousand unheard screams echoed.
The Shadow's force was a sickening pressure, a cold, cloying hand that seemed to reach from the East, seeking him out. The evil lure of the Ring clawed at his spirit, whispering promises of power and dark dominion, a siren song sung by the very depths of Mordor. With every fibre of his being, he fought against the encroaching darkness, a small, lone light battling the void. At last, gathering every remaining shred of his mental fortitude, a will honed by the very hardship of his quest, he wrenched the accursed thing from his finger. The Ring fell, a dull, insignificant clatter upon the mossy ground, and Pippin sank beside it, utterly spent, a feather dropped by the wind.
When his senses returned, his thoughts assembled into a grim truth. A rot that had taken root within his own company. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the Fellowship had been broken, tainted by a creeping evil in their ranks.
"They are lost to me now," he muttered, his voice a dry rasp against the silence. The dream of a united company marching to the end of all things had crumbled like ancient stone. There was only one path remaining, one dreadful purpose. Standing, small yet resolute beneath the vast, indifferent trees, he set his gaze not upon companions, but upon the distant, smoking mountain. He vowed then, to the silent, watchful woods, that he would complete the perilous journey to Mount Doom alone, a solitary, desperate spark against the coming night...
The Shadow's force was a sickening pressure, a cold, cloying hand that seemed to reach from the East, seeking him out. The evil lure of the Ring clawed at his spirit, whispering promises of power and dark dominion, a siren song sung by the very depths of Mordor. With every fibre of his being, he fought against the encroaching darkness, a small, lone light battling the void. At last, gathering every remaining shred of his mental fortitude, a will honed by the very hardship of his quest, he wrenched the accursed thing from his finger. The Ring fell, a dull, insignificant clatter upon the mossy ground, and Pippin sank beside it, utterly spent, a feather dropped by the wind.
When his senses returned, his thoughts assembled into a grim truth. A rot that had taken root within his own company. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the Fellowship had been broken, tainted by a creeping evil in their ranks.
"They are lost to me now," he muttered, his voice a dry rasp against the silence. The dream of a united company marching to the end of all things had crumbled like ancient stone. There was only one path remaining, one dreadful purpose. Standing, small yet resolute beneath the vast, indifferent trees, he set his gaze not upon companions, but upon the distant, smoking mountain. He vowed then, to the silent, watchful woods, that he would complete the perilous journey to Mount Doom alone, a solitary, desperate spark against the coming night...
