You, Legolas, and Aragorn burst into the room, only to be greeted by a nightmarish sight—Pippin stood rigid, trembling violently, his small hands fused around the glowing Palantír. His knuckles were bone white, as though the orb had become part of him, refusing to be pried loose. The flickering Eye of Sauron swirled within the sphere, pulsing with a sinister rhythm, and the hobbit’s body twitched uncontrollably, caught in a web of agony.

“Pippin!” Aragorn shouted, surging forward, but the hobbit’s only response was a faint, pained whimper. His wide, glassy eyes were locked open, as if staring into some unthinkable horror beyond the physical world. His mouth hung slightly ajar, silent and frozen, like a puppet with its strings cut—but his grip on the Palantír only grew tighter.