*Oh good going, Pip. He'd just forgiven you for the
business with the Palantir and now you have to go and
make him angry again!*

Peregrin Took trotted unhappily after Gandalf as
he stalked down the long hall and out the big doors,
shooting uncertain glances back at Boromir's father,
hunched again in his chair cradling the broken horn.

*But he already knew Boromir was dead.* Pippin told
himself defensively as they emerged into the white
sunlight of the Fountain Court. *Doesn't he have a
right to know what happened? He's his father isn't
he?*

The wizard made a sharp right turn, went around the
big building and through an arch into a narrow yard
full of boxes and barrels and baskets of all kinds of
food. Pippin hooked an apple from an open barrel and
bit gratefully into it - after three solid days even
Lembas bread starts to pall - then grabbed a little
round cheese from a basket and hurried on after
Gandalf. The wizard plunged down a sunken flight of
steps, like a rabbit into a hole, and through a small
wooden door.

Pippin caught just a glimpse of a long, arched
passage of white stone, lit by lamps, before following
Gandalf through another door into a plain little room
with small windows set high and maps and plans pinned
to its white walls. A table half buried under a heap
of paper stood in the middle of the room, with a tall
Man dressed in black and white sitting behind it, and
a number of chairs and stools were lined up against
the near wall.

"How long has he been like this?" Gandalf demanded
of the Man.

Who amazingly seemed to know exactly what the
wizard was was talking about. "Ever since word came of
Boromir's death."

"No one sent any word." suddenly Gandalf didn't
look angry any more, just very sad and rather tired.
He leaned on his staff. "I feared he would take it so.
How did he find out?"

"From Faramir." the Man answered quietly. "Thirteen
days ago half the city heard the great horn's call,
faintly on the wind from the North. And three days
later Faramir rode in from Osgiliath with the pieces
of the horn in his scrip and a stange story of seeing
Boromir's body laid out for burial in a small grey
boat sailing down the River to the sea."

Pippin perched himself on a stool that was a little
too high for him, and bit into his cheese. *Thirteen
days, has it really only been thirteen days? It
seems longer, a lifetime almost. Strider said they'd
put Boromir into one of the boats and sent it
over those awful falls. It can't have still been
afloat!*

"It must have been a seeing," Gandalf was saying.
"Boromir's companions did indeed lay him in a boat but
they sent it over the Rauros and nothing survives
those falls. He is safe at the bottom of the Anduin
where no Orc or other filthy creature can trouble
him."

Pippin tasted salt with his cheese from the tears
running down his face. Boromir was gone. Not just far
away like Merry and Strider and Gimli and Legolas and
Sam and Frodo, but gone. Gone forever, they'd never
see him again.(1) So much had happened since that
awful fight in the glade that the finality of it
hadn't had a chance to sink in before. Boromir was
dead, and it was all their fault. His and Merry's.

"Your companion seems in some distress,
Mithrandir." the Man observed.

"What's this?" an arm in a flowing white sleeve
went around him. "There, there Pippin, my lad." the
wizard said kindly. Adding over his shoulder. "He's
exhausted, we've been riding hard for three days. And
grieved. He saw Boromir fall."

"And being a Hobbit no doubt very hungry." the Man
said briskly. "I can do something about that at
least."
***

The Man, whose name it seemed was Hurin and was
somebody important here in Minas Tirith, (2) took them
down the long passage and out a door at the far end
into a narrow alley lined with tall buildings. Then
through an arch and down a flight of steps to a small
house, like a little castle with a dome and turrets,
clinging like a limpet to the side of the mountain.

They sat at a round table under the dome, which was
painted blue with a gold sun and silver stars, and Men
in green and white brought them cold meat, fruit,
cheese and bread to eat and ale to drink. Pippin
practically had the food to himself, his companions
seemed much more interested in talking.

"It's not just Denethor," Hurin told Gandalf, "the
entire city is in shock. Boromir was the hope that
gave us the heart to fight on, without him - " the Man
shook his head.

"There is Faramir!" Gandalf snapped.

Hurin smiled wryly. "No need to bite my head off,
Mithrandir, I haven't forgotten my younger cousin."
then his face went grave. "I know Faramir's worth, but
all his life he has been overshadowed by Boromir. And
though he is as brave and resourceful, and far wiser
in old lore, he is not the born leader of Men his
brother was."

"There are few who are." Gandalf conceeded. Then,
flatly: "Aragorn is in Rohan."

Hurin's face lit up as if somebody had fired a
torch inside it. Pippin stared in awe, meat half
chewed in his mouth. "The Dundadan is here in the
South? That is great news, Mithrandir!"

Gandalf's eyes narrowed. "You did not know?
Denethor did."

Hurin blinked. "No word of Aragorn son of Arathorn
has come to us by Man or bird, or I would have heard
it as well. Denethor must have Seen him. He has the
long sight and percieves more than other Men, even
those of the Ancient Blood."

"Hmmm." said Gandalf.

"The Dunadan must come to Minas Tirith,
Mithrandir." Hurin said urgently. "I know the dangers
but only he can put the heart and the spirit back into
our people."

"Boromir wanted him to come," Pippin said suddenly,
remembering things he'd overheard while the Company
was still together, "but Strider wouldn't." Man and
wizard looked at him in surprise, almost disbelief. "I
heard them arguing about it many times." he finished
defensively.

"So...The Steward's heir desired the return of the
King." Gandalf mused. "But would he have set his will
against his father's?" sighed. "Perhaps it is as well
we shall never know." briskly to Hurin. "Aragorn will
come, but in some way no one, not even Denethor, will
expect." grimly. "Better he had come unheralded, but
it seems that was not meant to be."

"Why?" Pippin asked worriedly, "What's wrong with
old Strider? And why does Lord Denethor hate him when
he doesn't even know him?"

Hurin smiled wryly at that. "Oh he knows him all
right."

"What is the point of eavesdropping, Peregrin Took,
if you pay no attention to what you hear!" Gandalf
demanded. "Have you been walking with eyes and ears
tight shut all these months? Don't you understand,
Aragorn is Isildur's Heir and the rightful King of
Gondor!"

"Oh." Pippin said, rather blankly, then his eyes
opened wide in sudden understanding. "Oh!"

The servants were just clearing away the empty
dishes and cups when a third Man came in and said very
formally to Hurin, "The Lady Idril, my Lord."

The Woman behind him was much taller than a
Hobbit-lass but looked small next to these towering
Men of Gondor. Dressed in a rich, somber gown of peat
brown satin with black embroidery on the high collar
and skirt front, and black fur lining the wide
sleeves. A small, pale, pointed face peeked out from
beneath a dark veil, held in place by a wide circlet
encrusted with tiny leaves and flowers of gold. She
wore a great deal of heavy gold jewelry, much more
than Lady Eowyn had, including a big oval brooch
decorated with an Elven 'B' in rubies.

Hurin and Gandalf had both risen, so Pippin did
too. "I thought I'd find you here, Mithrandir," she
said drily in a surprisingly deep voice, "conspiring
with Hurin as usual."

Pippin looked quickly up at Gandalf, but the
wizard's face showed only bland courtsy. "How may I
serve you, Lady?"

"It is rather my part to serve you, my Lord
Mithrandir." she answered. "My father the Steward begs
you to pardon his hard words as the foolishness of an
old Man in great grief, and to accept the hospitality
of the Citadel as has always been the custom."

"Foolishness?" Gandalf answered as drily. "Denethor
will die long before he sinks into dotage. Even his
grief for his son he uses to further his purposes."

"And why not?" the Lady said lightly, almost
mockingly. "Do you not use every tool that comes to
your hand to further your ends, my Lord Mithrandir?
But for now at least your purposes are the same.
Neither of you wishes to see Minas Tirith destroyed,
is that not so?"

Then she turned her attention to Pippin and he
found himself looking up into a pair of eyes that were
amber colored like a cat's, and almost fever bright.
Yet at the same time cold, like the glittering snows
of Caradhras. "My father spoke also of a Halfling who
offered him service and got no answer. Would that be
you, Little Master, or is there another?"

Pippin cleared his throat. "That would be me, yes,
my Lady. Peregrin Took of the Shire at your service."
and bowed.

She made him a slight curtsey, a brief bending of
head and knee, in return. "Welcome to Minas Tirith
Master Peregrin. My father asks you to forgive his
discourtesy and accepts your service - if you are
still of the same mind?"

Pippin set his jaw, and carefully did not look at
Gandalf. "I am."

"Very well then. For now you may lodge with the
Lord Mithrandir - as long as he chooses to stay with
us. If you will both follow me I will show you to the
house prepared for you."

*Oh dear* Pippin thought unhappily. *What have I
done? Am I going to have to stay here even after
Gandalf goes home, maybe forever? What will Merry say?
and my father! Oh, Pippin, you are a fool aren't you.*
*****

1. That's what *he* thinks. See 'The Return' by this
author. (adv.)

2. Hurin of the Keys, who appears briefly in the Book
and features prominently in this author's 'Rangers of
the North' (adv.)

Two more Women, demure in dark dresses and veils
and wearing rather less jewelry than the Lady, waited
quietly in the entrance hall and followed silently as
Gandalf, Pippin and Idril left the house.

They went back up the stairs to the narrow lane
between the massive Hall and a line of tall buildings,
also of white stone, decorated with fretted carvings,
little statues and high windows inset with colored
glass. A guard stood at one of the doors, near the end
of the row, and opened it for them.

It led to quite a grand sitting room with hangings
of dull gold silk and a few pieces of splendid,
over-sized furniture. A wide stair, with intricately
carved balustrades of dark wood, led up to a big room
lit by three open arches looking out onto a
north facing balcony. One Woman was tucking a brocaded
counterpane into place on the big red curtained bed,
and another was watching a Man in black and white
clothes lay a fire in the stone hearth.

"This will be your room, Master Peregrin, my Lord
Mithrandir will have the great chamber above." the
Lady told them.

The Man finished his work and left. Idril glanced
at the Women and they followed, then turned the full
force of that feverish golden stare upon Pippin. "My
father said you saw Boromir die. Tell me, tell me
everything!"

He looked at Gandalf for help but the Wizard was
staring out the windows and wouldn't meet his eye.
There was nothing to do but answer her as well as he
could without giving away Frodo or the quest.

"We were ambushed by Uruk Hai out of Isengard."
Pippin began hesitantly. "My cousin Merry and I were
seperated from the others, we were all scattered
through the woods looking for - for one of our Company
who'd wandered off, when they hit us. Merry and I ran
but wherever we turned there were more Orcs, we
couldn't get away from them." he began to shake at the
memory and sat on the chest at the foot of the bed.
The Lady knelt down beside him, those eyes of hers
fixed on his face.

"We were surrounded, trapped, when Boromir suddenly
burst out of the forest and cut the Orcs down. He told
us to run and we did, but the Uruks were everywhere.
Boromir killed ten, twenty of them, and Merry and I
did what we could to help, but there were always more.
He blew his great horn for help, the others heard and
started to fight their way to us, but they had
hundreds of Orcs in their way. Maybe Boromir could
have held out long enough for them to reach us if one
of the Uruks hadn't had a bow."

The vision of those thick black arrows thumping
into Boromir's body burned before his eyes, more real
than the room around him or the Woman listening so
intently. "The first arrow made him stagger, but he
recovered and killed some more Orcs, they couldn't get
near him. Then the second hit him and he fell to his
knees right in front of us."

Pippin heard his voice quavering and felt tears
streaming down his face. "Boromir *looked* at us,
trying to tell us something - to run maybe - but we
couldn't. I couldn't move, not even to throw the rock
in my hand or draw my sword. Boromir was dying but I
couldn't move! Neither could Merry.

"He got back up - I don't know how - killed another
Orc or maybe two, then the third arrow struck right
between the others and he went down again. I knew, we
both knew, he wouldn't be able to get up again. Merry
screamed and drew his sword, I did too, we tried to
get to Boromir but the Uruks just swept us up and
carried us off - we couldn't stop them, we were too
small - they ran away with us and left him there to
die."

Finally the sob he'd been trying to hold back all
this time burst out of him. "It's all our fault! The
Uruks wanted us, Hobbits that is, they weren't
interested in the others. If we'd let ourselves be
caught Boromir wouldn't have died!"

The Lady Idril put her arms around him and from the
sound of her voice she was crying too. "That's sheer
nonsense, Peregrin Took! You think they would have
risked leaving a warrior like Boromir alive to pursue
them after he had killed so many of their kind? Orcs
are not such fools!" She took his face between her
hands and fixed him with wet golden eyes that were no
longer either feverish or frightening. "Boromir's
death is not your fault. You could not have saved him
by surrendering yourselves. Nor would he have stood by
and let you do any such thing."

Pippin smiled damply at the thought. "That's true."

"Boromir died for you and your Merry because he
thought you were worth it." Idril continued intensely.
"You can repay him by proving he was right." suddenly
she smiled through her tears, and looked much younger
and nicer than she had before. Prettier too. "Most of
all you mustn't torture yourself with needless guilt.
Boromir wouldn't like that at all. He'd want you to be
happy."

"I know you're right." Pippin told her, sobbed
again. "But I miss him so!"

Idril hugged him. "I know, so do I. But he would
want and expect us to go on - and we must not
disappoint him!" and then she began to cry too.

Talking to Lady Idril made Pippin feel much better.
He was still unhappy about Boromir but he no longer
felt like he'd caused his death. Or guilty over
forgetting about him and enjoying the Ent House and
the food at Isengard and the Victory feast.

"It was not that you'd forgotten him, but that you
could not risk thinking about him or your grief until
you were safe." she'd explained. "As for the rest,
soldiers and adventurers must seize what plesures they
can, when they can. Boromir would understand."

After she left he looked hesitantly at Gandalf, who
smiled gently at him. "You have had a time haven't
you?"

And Pippin, for all he was trying to pull himself
back together, burst into tears all over again.

Gandalf crossed the room to sit on the chest beside
him and put a comforting arm around him. "My poor
Pippin. I would not have spoken so harshly in Meduseld
had you not frightened me half to death."

"I know," Pippin gulped, "I could have given away
Frodo and the Ring."

"And done yourself irreperable harm as well." the
wizard answered grimly, then smiled reassuringly as
Pippin looked up at him in alarm. "Fortunately the
contact was brief. And Hobbits, especially those of
Took blood, are made of tougher stuff than even the
Wise deem."

"I won't do it again." It was a vow - and not just
about Seeing Stones either. He'd been very foolish
indeed, he saw that. He hadn't understood before
but he did now. He was a member of the Company of the
Ring, a sworn enemy of the Dark Lord. And while he
wasn't much in himself he was close to some very
powerful and important people; the White Wizard, the
Returned King and the Ringbearer, which meant any
foolish thing he did could have terrible consequences
for all Middle Earth. He had to be careful - and he
would be from now on.

Which reminded him. "You're not angry with me then,
Gandalf? I know you told me to be silent but he
already knew Boromir was dead - and I didn't say
anything about either Frodo or Aragorn."

"No you didn't. Poor, Pippin! I hope it's a long
time before you find yourself in such a tight corner
again, caught between two such terrible old Men."
Gandalf laughed, but sobered quickly. "Offering
Denethor your service was a noble and generous act, I
should not have spoiled it by treating you like a
child." then he sighed. "The Lord Steward and I have
never been friends, but now I distrust the strength of
his will and the temper of his mind. Grief and anger I
expected, and his hatred of Aragorn is no news either,
but this apathy that grips him is most unlike the
Denethor I know. Whatever else he may be he was always
a fighter." looked seriously down at Pippin. "I would
not willingly entrust anyone I love to his care as he
is now."

Warmed clear through by Gandalf's words Pippin cast
his mind back to the hall and to Denethor. The wizard
was right, there was more and worse there than simple
grief, or even the rather frightening hate and anger
he'd shown towards Aragorn. Something was very, very
wrong with Denethor.

"Something's been done to him." Pippin said slowly,
thinking out loud. "He's hurt inside somehow, and he
doesn't want to do anything but huddle in a corner and
nurse his pain."

Gandalf gave him a startled, almost respectful,
look. "That's very perceptive of you, Pippin my lad. I
do believe you've put your finger on it." looked
thoughtful. "But how wounded, and by whom?"

That Pippin couldn't answer. "Can't you help him,
Gandalf."

The wizard shook is head, grimly rueful. "No chance
of it. Denethor would never let me close enough to
heal his hurt - assuming that I could. At least Idril will
recover now, thanks to you, Pippin. The fever's broken
and she will heal. But then she comes of a stubborn
line that does not give in to despair -. I wish I could say the same of Denethor."

Pippin blinked. "But he's her father, don't they
have the same family?"

"Foster father." Gandalf corrected, smiled
crookedly. "By blood she's closer kin to Aragorn than
she is to the Stewards.

The Hobbit blinked again. "You mean she's royalty
too? But then why isn't she queen?"

"Because the Gondorim don't have ruling queens -
and her family is no longer accounted royal." the
wizard answered, tone sharpening. "See here, Master
Pippin, I have no time now to instruct you in the
history and laws of Gondor but must be about other
business." he stood. "Chiefly the gathering of news,
Hurin touched but the surface. Where is Faramir?
surely not still on the marches now he is heir!"
Gandalf turned back at the door for a quick smile.
"Get some sleep, Pippin, you've had three long days
and two nights with little rest. But sleeping or
waking stay here and don't go straying about!"

Denethor, ever conscious of his daughter's rank as First Lady of Gondor, required her to dress in a fashion that became it. Idril herself tolerated the inconvience of cumbersome gowns and heavy jewels with the resignation of long habit. And if they didn't become her what of it? She'd never had much claim to beauty - and now had no reason to make the best of such looks as she had.

One piece of jewelry she had retained when her maids took the others to put away in the row of chests that filled a whole table in her dressing room: the locket signed with Boromir's cipher, a simple tengwar 'B'.

She opened it, indifferent to the presence of the maid
unraveling the intricate braided coils of her hair and
combing it smooth. The good ladies of Gondor could say
what they liked as long as she, Idril, didn't have to
listen to their twitterings.

And she didn't. She'd not been given to girlish
gossip and confidences even when she was a girl, and
certainly was not now. Her maids in waiting learned
quickly to speak only when spoken to. She did not
consider this cruel or unreasonable. The little
creatures were free to whisper and giggle as much as
they wished whenever they were out of her immediate
presence - as three of the four were now, and Luinil
would be joining them soon with a nice fresh bit of
gossip to share.

For inside the locket was a beautiful ivory
miniature of Boromir. Doubtless Luinil would take this
as proof that Idril's feelings for the Steward's Heir
had not been those of a sister. And why shouldn't she?
for it was true. And the only person in all Gondor who
had never suspected anything of the kind was dear,
dense Boromir himself.

But that was her fault rather than his. She'd never
tried to make him see - fool that she was! To expect a
Man absorbed in matters of life and death, such as the
war in the East and the undeclared war between his own
father and brother, to notice what was under his nose
without a bit of help was quite unreasonable.

Father had seen it all right - and been delighted.
Idril knew very well why but didn't hold it against
him. It had, in it's way, been an elegant solution to
the problem of ending forever the pretensions of the
Line of Isildur - assuming this Aragorn actually
existed at all. (1)

It was all moot now anyway. Boromir was dead, as
they all would be soon, and Gondor destroyed. There
was nothing left for them now but to make an end
worthy of the Heirs of the Kings of Men.

Her hand closed tightly over the locket. They could
not win but they could make Sauron's victory come hard
- that was what Mithrandir wanted and Idril was with
him hand to glove. Elendil's blood, however thin and
dilute, in her veins demanded it - and Boromir would
have expected no less of his city and his sister.

Suddenly the dressing room door slammed open
without a knock. Idril's anger vanished instantly at
the sight of Pharinzil's terrified face. "Oh my Lady,
come and see, come and see!"

She and Luinil followed the agitated girl through
bedchamber, antechamber, presence chamber and gallery,
out on to the terrace where Annalind and Faelivrin
huddled, clutching each other, and staring north-east.

Idril followed Pharinzil's trembling finger to the
twisted column of icy light rising from Minas Morgul
and was at first surprised, then slightly alarmed, to
find she felt no fear but a sense, almost, of
relief. Even perhaps of anticipation. She was wise enough
to know this was not courage but the fearlessness
of despair, and so both sin and folly, but
couldn't manage to care.

"Well," she said calmly, to her terrified maidens,
"at least the waiting is over."
***

Pippin hadn't expected to get another wink of
sleep, what with his long afternoon nap and now the
fears for Frodo, and himself, kindled by that awful
light. Even Gandalf had been shaken, and that had
scared Pippin half to death. But to his surprise he'd
dropped off the minute his head hit the pillow,
comforted by the homely presence of Gandalf, smoking
quietly on the balcony, his eyes still fixed on the
north.

And it was Gandalf who shook him awake in the dim
grey predawn. "Get dressed and come with me, Pippin, I
need your help." was all he'd said.

Thoroughly astonished, but wanting badly to make up
for his blunder with the Palantir, Pippin obeyed,
shrugging into his clothes and then following the
wizard through the little alleys winding their way
between the service buildings and workyards behind the
grand halls and mansions of the the Citadel.

"Peregrin Took, my lad, there is a task now to be
done." Gandalf told him over his shoulder. "Another
opportunity for one of the Shire-folk to prove their
great worth.

"The Witch King has marched forth from Minas
Morgul, already his army of Orcs and Trolls seeks to
force a crossing over the Anduin. There is no time to
be lost, the beacons must be lit, Gondor must call up
her levies and summon her ally Rohan. But I fear
Denethor, in this strange mood of his, will refuse to
do what must be done - or at least not until it is to
late."

The wizard came to a stop at last in an abandoned
yard crowded with old crates and other debris, pointed
upward. "See, there stands the beacon tower of Minas
Tirith, high on the flanks of Mindolluin." then he
looked down, very seriously at Pippin. "That beacon
must be fired, any delay could be fatal to Minas
Tirith and all the Westlands." knelt and put a hand on Pippin's shoulder. "You must not fail me."

Pippin looked at the mountainside. Higher than he
was used to but with plenty of hand and footholds.
"Don't worry, Gandalf," he said confidently, "I'll get
it done."

He had grown up in the Green Hill Country, climbing
its little rocky cliffs for sport with his friends and
cousins. He'd even climbed the Redwall, a high hill in
the North Farthing, on the very borders of the Shire.
This mountain was easy by comparison, but he was
careful to pace himself. It was much farther than he
was used to and it wouldn't do to tire too soon.

There were two Men on watch, sleepy eyed and
drinking something from bowls, paying no attention to
the ready laid pile of wood - and why should they?
Luckily the rope holding the oil was frayed, it broke
at a tug. Pippin threw the brass lamp into the pile then
waited a moment, to be sure the fire had taken
hold, nearly singeing his toes, before starting back down.

Gandalf was no longer in the little deserted yard
but Hobbits have a good sense of direction, and one
who'd been brought up in the tangled mazes of the
Great Smial wasn't likely to lose either his head or
his way in the winding alleys of the the Citadel.

He found the wizard on the wall smiling quietly to
himself, eyes on a bright little flame burning on a
mountaintop some distance due west.

"Has something happened, Gandalf?" Pippin asked
with an elaborate pretense of innocence that was
probably wasted on the nearby sentries. But not on the
wizard, his smile became a mischievous grin meant only
for Pippin. "The beacons of Gondor are alight, calling
for aid. See, there is fire on Amon Din, and a flame
on Eilenach; and from there the alarm will go speeding
west to Nardol, Erelas, Min-Rimmon, Calenhad, and
finally the Halfirien on the borders of Rohan."

*So I'll be seeing Merry again soon.* Pippin
thought with satisfaction. *But what about Aragorn, is
it really a good idea for him to come here?* he
quickly shrugged the thought away. *Not my problem.
Strider knows his own business."

The sentry nearest them moved down the wall a space
to whisper excitedly with some comrades. Gandalf
leaned down. "Thank you, Master Took."

"You're very welcome, my Lord Mithrandir."
****

1. Idril believes, probably correctly, that Denethor
was ploting to make Boromir King. His eldest son was
well loved, in a way Denethor himself had never been,
and marriage to Idril, last descendant of the
Anarioni, (by way of princes disqualified for the
throne by their mixed blood) would have forged a tie
with the former dynasty. It would have required new
statutes approved by the Council and people of Gondor
but he might well have pulled it off.

 "Best we make ourselves scarce for a while,
Pippin." Gandalf said as they left the wall, going
down a flight of steps to the ground. "Denethor will
not be pleased, and he knows me well enough to see my
hand in this."

Pippin felt a sudden qualm. Was it wrong to side
with Gandalf against Denethor now that he was in the
Steward's service? But Gandalf was his friend, not to
mention the only person he knew in this whole city, he
couldn't just abandon him.

"Don't worry, my lad," the wizard said kindly,
reading his mind, "you are no oathbreaker, for you
have not yet taken the oath only offered to do so. And
I promise once you are so bound I will not ask
anything of you that would go against your duty to
your lord."

"Thank you." Pippin said with heartfelt relief and
gratitude as they passed under an arch between tower
and hall into the Court of the Fountain. "So where are
we going?"

"First to visit Shadowfax and then down to a tavern
I know in the First Circle. I have spoken with the
lords of the City, now I would hear what the people
have to say."

Tavern, that sounded promising. "Do they brew good
beer here?"

the wizard shook his head. "Passable, just
passable. I would recommend the wine over either beer
or ale."
***

Gandalf's tavern proved to be a great grey stone
building with two wings embracing a pleasant bit of
garden. They sat at a small table in a sort of
pillared porch overlooking the garth, slowly emptying
a jug of red wine, (which really was very good -
almost as good as Old Winyards) and chatting with the
other customers.

There were tall, dark haired people, proud and
light eyed, who reminded Pippin of Strider but more
who were rather shorter and thicker, often with dark
eyes and swarthy complexions. And even a few who were
fair haired and blue eyed like the Rohirrim. They all
spoke in a formal, old fashioned way - just as Boromir
had - and were terribly polite, calling Gandalf 'Lord
Mithrandir' and Pippin 'Little Master'.

And they were scared, every one of them. Even more
scared than Pippin himself because they understood
what was happening so much better. They were a brave
people these Gondorim, had to be with that terror on
their borders, but losing Boromir had torn the heart
out of them - and Lord Denethor wasn't doing anything
about stepping into the breach, not even sending for
Boromir's brother Faramir, who was apparently off
fighting somewhere. Not but the folk seemed to have
some doubts about him.

"The Lord Faramir is a fine Man, no one questions
that, wise and noble as one of the High Lords of Old."
An old Man told Gandalf. "But he's not the warrior his
brother was - and a warrior is what we need now, not a
learned loremaster."

"He is gentle and kind and very handsome," the old
Man's daughter said consideringly, "but he doesn't
shed light around him as Boromir did. It doesn't lift
your heart just to look at him."

Pippin knew exactly what she meant. "You felt safe
with Boromir," he agreed, "no matter how bad things
got you knew somehow he'd get you through it." Just
like old Strider really in that respect, or Gandalf.
Then he remembered and his throat filled with tears.
"He got us through, Merry and me, but he couldn't save
himself."

The Man and Woman looked at him in surprise. Pippin
couldn't talk, he was too busy trying not to cry, it
was Gandalf who explained: "Peregrin travelled with
Boromir, and was with him when he died."

There was a murmur and stirring among the Gondorim
at the nearer tables, a number of people edged closer.

"Could you - could you tell us what happened,
please, Little Master?" the Woman asked hesitantly.

Pippin looked at Gandalf, who nodded slightly, took
a deep breath and began. By the time he'd finished
every Man and Woman in the Old Guesthouse was
clustered around their table and there wasn't a dry
eye to be seen - even Gandalf's.

"He was a great Man with a great heart and died a
death worthy of him." the wizard said softly. "Nor was
his life wasted, Pippin. Had he not blooded the Uruks
as he did they might not have simply fled with their
prizes but stayed to hunt out and slay your other
companions."

Pippin nodded, speechless but comforted. He didn't
like to think of Boromir's last effort as wasted.

"But it is bitter that he should be taken from us
now, just when we need him most." said an older Woman
behind Gandalf's chair.

"It is." he agreed. "But give Faramir a chance.
True he is no Boromir, but he has both courage and
wisdom. Give him the trust you gave his brother and I
promise he will not disappoint you."
****

It was just short of noon when they finally left
the tavern - to find people hurrying past on their way
to the wall with others whispering fearfully together
on the arcaded porches nearby buildings.

"What it is?" Gandalf called to one of the hurrying
Men, "What's happened."

"Nazgul!" he called back. "Four or five of them
above the causway forts."

The wizard stood frozen for a moment, eyes focused
on something far away, then blinked back to life.
"Faramir! Pippin, run up to the stable and fetch me
Shadowfax. Bring him to the Great Gate as fast as you
can."

Pippin did run all the way up the six levels of the
city. By the time he got to the stable he had scarcely
enough breath left to gasp out: "Shadowfax, Gandalf
needs you!"

The great stallion lifted up his head, dark eye
alert and eager as it fixed on the Hobbit. Pippin
dragged open the stall door, pulled over a mounting
block and scrambled without grace onto the broad back,
clutching a double handful of mane. "Now, quick, down
to the Great Gate."

And Shadowfax launched himself like an arrow from a
bow, tearing down the winding road to the first level
in a bare fraction of the time it had taken Pippin to
run up it.

After the first moment Pippin released his death
grip on his handfuls of mane, so smooth was the great
steed's gait that he felt in no danger of falling
dispite his speed and the lack of saddle or stirrups.
As Gandalf had once said; if Shadowfax consented to
bear you he made it his business to see you stayed on
his back.

They barely paused in the great square behind the
City gate, just long enough for Gandalf to swing
himself up behind Pippin, then the three of them
flashed through the half opened gates and out onto the
Pelennor field.

In the distance ahead Pippin saw a troop of
horsemen, some in armor others in dark leather, under
attack from Nazgul mounted on fell beasts like the one
Legolas had killed over Sarn Gebir. As he watched they
stooped upon the riders to snatch up one or two at a
time, horse and all, and hurl them again to earth to
be broken or trampled by their comrades.

Clutching again at Shadowfax's mane, in a worse
terror than that of falling, Pippin wondered what even
Gandalf could do against four or five the Wraiths and
their mounts. He soon found out; as they neared the
fleeing horsemen the wizard raised his staff and beams
of fierce white light broke from its tip, striking the
the Nazgul aside as they stooped upon their prey.

They wheeled, screaming in frustration, and gave
way. Shadowfax changed direction, heading now back to
the City with the fugitives close behind. The gates
swung open and they thundered inside, filling the
square with exhausted and shaken Men and horses, as
the folk of the City came hurrying down the side
streets to meet them. Even Shadowfax was slightly
winded, dipping his head to drink from the square's
fountain.

"Mithrandir!" a voice cried and Gandalf twisted to
look at the speaker. "They broke through our defenses.
They've taken the bridge and the west bank. Battalions
of Orcs are crossing the river."

The fair haired captain from the Citadel pushed his
way through the horsemen. "It is as the Lord Denethor
predicted! Long has he foreseen this doom!"

"Foreseen and done nothing!" Gandalf flared. And
Shadowfax, finished with his drink, wheeled away from
the fountain to let his riders face a tired looking
Man on horseback.

This had to be Faramir, Boromir's brother, tall and
fair haired as he had been. Very like indeed was
Pippin's first thought, then their eyes met and
Faramir's weren't like Boromir's eyes at all, though
as blue, but like Elves' eyes; wise and gently sad.
They stared back at Pippin, and into him, with an
intensity that quickly became uncomfortable. Pippin
turned his head aside, wishing the Man would look
elsewhere.

Gandalf said "Faramir?" in a puzzled sort of way,
then, enlightened: "This is not the first Halfling to
have crossed your path!"

"No." said the Man

Pippin looked up eagerly at that. "You've seen
Frodo and Sam?"

Faramir nodded, those eyes still fixed on Pippin
but somehow less unnerving now he knew why he was
being stared at.

"Where? When?" Gandalf demanded, a strange mixture
of anxiety and hope in his voice.

"In Ithilien, not two days ago."

Two days. Just two days ago Frodo and Sam had been
alive and well. Pippin looked up at Gandalf, he too
seemed reassured, even happy.

Then Faramir said: "Mithrandir, they've taken the
road to the Morgul Vale." and Gandalf's face froze.

"And then the Pass of Cirith Ungol?"

A grim, silent nod from Faramir.

This wasn't good, Pippin could see that plainly
enough, but why? "What does that mean?" he pleaded.
"What's wrong?"

And Gandalf said urgently: "Faramir, tell me
everything."

"My Lord," it was the captain of the Citadel again,
speaking to Faramir. "You must report to your father
at once." and there was a tone of warning in his voice
that Pippin didn't quite understand.

Nor did he understand the sudden, grim set of
Faramir's face as he answered. "I intend no delay, for
my tidings are dire indeed. Ride to the Citadel with
me, Mithrandir, we will speak as we go."

 Only they didn't get any talking done on the ride
up for as they left the square, with Gandalf and
Faramir riding side by side, the people on the street
raised a cheer that made the Man and Pippin both start
and Gandalf smile as if well pleased.

The clamor continued all the way up the City.
Pippin, buoyed up by the resounding relief and joy,
grinned and waved cheerfully. Lord Faramir seemed very
much surprised and deeply moved, judging by the tears
in his eyes and slightly stiff way he bowed his
acknowledgement. But Gandalf accepted it as easily as
he did applause for his fireworks.

Pippin heard the people cry the name Faramir, and
Mithrandir too, but they also called out a longer,
more complicated name that he couldn't quite make out.
"What's that they're saying, Gandalf? ernie ferryeth
or something like that."

"Ernil i Pherianath." the wizard replied, eyes
glinting, "means 'Prince of the Halflings' for such
they take you to be, Peregrin Took."

"You don't say!" for a moment Pippin was a little
dismayed, then shrugged it aside. No doubt the mistake
would straighten itself out in due time
***

The Lady Idril met them at the top of the steps to
the Court of the Tree, very grand in a wine colored
gown with jewels of ruby and pearl, including a diadem
with long loops of pearls framing her face. "Our
father asks that you wait upon him at once." she told
Faramir.

"Such was my intention." he answered. "I bring
grave news, Idril."

"None we might not guess even without your telling
I suspect." she said briskly. Turned to Gandalf: "My
father asks that you attend him as well, my Lord
Mithrandir, for he would seek your council."

The wizard gave a little snort of disbelief then
took Faramir, who didn't seem entirely steady on his
feet, by the arm and guided him towards the Hall.

Pippin would have followed had Idril not pinned him
to the spot with those eyes of hers. "As for you,
Peregrin Took, have you forgotten you're to make your
oath to the Lord Steward in less than an hour?"

In fact he had, as his face showed eloquently.
Idril suppressed a smile with some difficulty, held
out her hand. "Come with me and we'll get you
dressed."

They went back to the lodgings he shared with
Gandalf, trailed by the same four Women as yesterday.
"I will stand as your sponsor," Idril told him as her
Women took the arms and armor he'd piled on the table
last night and laid them out neatly on the bed.
"Mithrandir and my father are not friends, as no doubt
you've gathered, and the less he's reminded of your
connection with our visiting wizard the better. Now
then," she continued briskly, "remove those odd
garments of yours if you please."

"Uh - er.." Pippin stammered, gravely taken aback.

Idril laughed. "The upper ones only, you may retain
the shirt and breeches."

Oh. Greatly relieved Pippin pulled off his coat
and started untying his scarf.

"It is the custom of our country for ladies to arm
squire or knight." she continued. "Is it otherwise in
your land, Prince Peregrin?"

"Er...I really couldn't say. We Hobbits don't make
much use of arms as a rule, barring bow and arrow for
hunting and the like."

"A happy land." She said, looked at him
thoughtfully. "How did you come to leave it, Prince?"

"I'm not a prince," Pippin said quickly. "I really
don't know how that notion got round - I'm sure I
never said anything of the kind."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "My kinsman Hurin
told me you were heir to the Lord of the Halfling
Country."

"I -" Pippin began, paused and thought, then said:
"You know, I suppose he's right at that. My father's
the Thain - as we call it - and he stands for the King
who's gone and leads the Shire muster at need and the
like."

"That certainly sounds like a lord to me." Idril
agreed. One of her Women handed a her a sort of long
shirt made of leather and tiny metal rings as black as night.
"This goes on first and laces in the back.

Next came a sort of sleeveless black tunic that
went over the head and had a tree embroidered in white
and silver on the chest and more silver embroidery
around the hems. Then there were black gloves and
wristguards like Boromir's, of tooled black leather
deorated with gold and silver. And finally a sword
belt with buckles and bosses of gold that the Lady got
down on her knees to fasten around him herself. Then
kissed him on the cheek.

"That's customary too." she told him, laughing at
his expression. Got to her feet and took his sword
from the hand of her Woman. "This has the look of
Dunedain work." she said studying the black sheath
with its insets of red and yellow gems. Then she
looked at the device on the pommel, a tiny sword
surrounded by stars, and her eyebrows went up. Drew
the blade and studied the twining serpents in red and
gold that decorated it before nailing Pippin with
another of her piercing looks. "Where did you come by
this?"

"Strider, one of our company, a Ranger of the
North, gave it to me." Pippin answered carefully.

"These are the devices of the House of the Black
Sword, descended from Turin Turambar, who had their
seat long ago in the North." She told him. (1)

"Oh.. er... are they?" Pippin stammered. "I'm
afraid I don't know how he came by them." He didn't
think she believed him but she put the sword back in
its sheath and gave it to him.

He hung it from his new belt as the Lady took his
Elven dagger from her Woman. "This is not the work of
Men at all - Elf made?"

Pippin nodded. "A parting gift from the Lady of
Lorien." That caused a flutter among Idril's Women but
she seemed merely intrigued. "You have guested in the
Golden Wood have you? You must tell me about it
sometime -" she glanced at the clock above the bed.
"But not now! Come, Peregrin, we must hurry. It
wouldn't do to be late."
***

Gandalf brushed past them on his way out with a
face like a thunderstorm as they came into the Hall.
Pippin winced, and heard the Lady sigh with something
very like exasperation.

Denethor was standing in front of his black throne,
washed and shaved and looking very different from
yesterday, he even smiled at Pippin. Lord Faramir was
off to the side, looking bleak and unhappy, and the
tension in the room tingled like sleet on Pippin's
skin. The three of them, Faramir, Denethor and
Gandalf, must have had a terrible fight. He wondered
what about.

Pippin stopped when Idril's hand tightened on his
shoulder, some paces short of the dais, and bowed.
Denethor bowed back.

"My Lord," Idril said in a clear voice that rang
the length of the big room without being in the least
loud, "I bring before you Peregrin, son of Paladin
Lord of the Land of the Halfings, who asks leave to
enter the service of the White Tower."

"Welcome Peregrin son of Paladin of the Halflings."
Denethor answered. "I thank you for your offer and
accept it gladly. For we will have need of all folk of
courage and good will, great or small, in the days to
come." Denethor sat down on his throne and looked at
Pippin expectantly.

Idril pressed down on his shoulder and he knelt,
feeling totally foolish but determined, and recited
the words she'd taught him: "Here do I swear fealty
and service to Gondor, in peace or war, in living or
dying, from..." for a heart stopping moment he
couldn't remember what came next, then he did: "from
this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or
death take me." The solemnity of those last words made
him feel very suddenly very sober indeed, and a little
frightened.

"And I shall not forget it." Denethor stood up and
came down from his throne to stand right in front of
Pippin. "Nor fail to reward that which is given." the
Steward put his hand under Pippin's nose, remembering
his instructions Pippin kissed the ring on it, then
Denethor cupped his chin and tilted his face upward so
their eyes met. He was not, Pippin saw, taking this
swearing entirely seriously, (and who could blame
him?) but Denethor's amusement was not unkind as he
finished the formula: "Fealty with love, valor with
honor," he released Pippin and shot a cool look at his
son. "Disloyalty with vengeance."

Oh dear. Pippin stood rather unhappily sensing the
argument, whatever it was, between Faramir and his
father was about to break out again. Denethor went to
sit at a table set up nearby and laid for a meal.
Faramir didn't move.

Pippin, uncertain, looked to Idril, now standing to
the left of the throne with her Women, for
instructions. She signed for him to stay where he was.

"I do not think we should so lightly abandon the
outer defenses. Defenses that your brother long held
intact." Denethor said to Faramir as he loaded his
plate with fruit and cold meats.

"What would you have me do?" his son asked quietly.

"I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought.
Osgiliath must be retaken." was the crisp reply.

Idril frowned.

Faramir said flatly; "My Lord, Osgiliath is
overrun."

Denethor didn't seem to care. "Much must be risked
in war." he gave Faramir another cold look. "Is there
a captain here who still has the courage to do his
lord's will?"

The tension between the two Men was palpable. Why
were they so angry with each other?

Faramir said, pain in his voice. "You wish now that
our places had been exchanged. That I had died and
Boromir had lived."

Pippin winced. Uh-oh, just the wrong thing to say.
Didn't he *know* what his father was sure to answer,
angry as he was just now?

Yet the father hesitated for a moment, and the
words came out softly, almost reluctantly. "Yes, I
wish that."

'No you don't.' Pippin thought. Looked at Faramir
and his heart sank. Clearly his son believed that he
did, there were tears in his eyes.

"Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will do what I
can in his stead." he said. Bowed and turned to leave,
then paused. "If I should return, think better of me,
Father."

And Denethor replied, without looking up: "That
will depend on the manner of your return."

Pippin stood still. He wanted desperately run after
Faramir, to pull at Denethor's sleeve, to beg them
both not to part like this, not now when any parting
might be forever. But he didn't move. It wasn't his
place.

But it was Idril's. She gave her father a darkling
look that reminded Pippin sharply of Strider, then
swept down the hall after her brother followed by her
inevitable bevy of shadows.

And Pippin was left alone in the grand, white stone
hall with a clutch of silent, statue-like Menservants
and a father pretending he didn't care he'd just
broken his son's heart.
*******

1. In my Movieverse AU the swords Aragorn gives the
Hobbits at Weathertop came originally from the armory
of his kinswoman Aranel, Lady of the House of the
Black Sword.

 Idril ran down the steps of the hall and across the
paved court catching up with her brother just beyond
the fountain as he made determinedly for the stair to
the lower circles and caught his arm. "Where do you
think you're going?"

"I have work to do." he answered eyes straight
ahead, chin high, ignoring the tears tracking the dirt
on his face.

Idril ignored them too. "The work can wait. You are
weary and hungry and smell of horse and worse. If you
have no pity on yourself at least have some for your
officers!"

That jarred a brief laugh out of him. "A bath and a
bite to eat would be welcome." he conceeded and let
himself be turned around.

Idril took him to her apartments, as his own rooms
had not yet been made ready for him, ordered a bath
drawn, sent a chamberlain to fetch fresh clothing, and
had a table laid with enough food for three Men in the
solar.

When Faramir joined her a half hour or so later,
skin and hair several shades lighter and smelling of
flower essences, he devoured everything set before him
with an appetite honed by months of deprivation while
his sister entertained him with inconsequentialities;
a recension of the poetry of Gelmir of Edhellond
recently offered for sale by their favorite book
dealer; the sudden marriage of the City's most popular
female singer to a gentleman of Lamedon and her
departure from Minas Tirith amid the lamentations of
her admirers; and how their father's recent statute
closing the theatres and forbiding dinner parties or
other private entertainments had lowered spirits.

"I doubt anyone has much heart for merrymaking just
now, Idril." Faramir said quietly.

"You call dinner parties merrymaking?" she asked
drily. And her brother, who enjoyed such occasions no
more than she, smiled. "But even if you do, is it so
evil for folk to seek diversion to escape for a time
from their fears? You remember what Boromir used to
say; 'What good does it do the army for folk to sit at
home brooding in the dark? Let them put off mourning
til they have cause for grief!'"

"And now they do have cause." said her brother
quietly.

"They do," she agreed. "So don't you give them
more. He didn't mean it, Faramir, you know he didn't."

He shook his head, face set. "Yes he did, Idril,
you do not know all that passed between us. I have
displeased him beyond all mending this time. He meant
it."

She looked at him, disturbed by the conviction in
his voice but unconvinced. "I cannot believe that is
true."

Faramir produced a semblance of a smile. "Why would
he say it if he did not mean it?"

"Because for years now neither of you has let pass
a chance to hurt the other." Idril retorted sharply.
Then wistfully: "Surely it hasn't always been so. I
seem to remember a time when we were a happy family -
or am I decieved?"

"No." Faramir answered shortly. "You are not
decieved.

"Then when did that change, and why?" she almost
pleaded. "How did this war between you and our father
start?"

Her brother sighed helplessly. "I don't know Idril.
I know things changed between us - but when or how I
cannot recall."

"Nor maybe can he." she said softly, then strongly:
"End it Faramir. Stand up to him, tell him he's asking
the impossible and refuse this ridiculous order.
That's what Boromir would do!"

"I am not Boromir." Faramir reminded her tightly.

"No. You are Faramir, the Steward's wise and
prudent son, you know this is folly!"

But he denied it. "Not folly, Idril. Father's
right. If we lose control of the river we lose the
outer defenses - the Rammas wall and causway forts
cannot hold against an attack in force."

"Then let them fall! Outer defenses are meant to be
sacrificed at need. Don't waste Men's lives on
piecemeal battles that cannot be won. Save them for
the final defense of the City."

Faramir smiled crookedly. "Reckless as always,
Little Sister, anyone would think you wanted to see an
army of Orcs under the City's walls. Better far to
keep the enemy at distance as long as we may. Boromir
retook Osgiliath once before."

"With more Men against fewer of the Enemy." she
retorted. "It cannot be done again."

"No." her brother agreed quietly. "But the attempt
will buy time. Time for the provincial levies and the
Riders of Rohan to reach the City."

"At the cost of thousands of our Men." Idril shook
her head. "To high a price."

"Time is our great need now, whatever the cost."
Faramir argued. "And it is the Steward's will that it
be done. That ends it."

"It will be the end of him." Idril said bluntly.
"You are his last son, the last of his line. He
survived Boromir's loss - barely - he will not survive
losing you!"

"I think he will." Faramir answered bitterly.

His sister shook her head. "You know that's not
true. Kill yourself and you kill him." then she
paused, as a new thought struck her, and her eyes
narrowed. "Or that your purpose? To revenge all the
hurts and insults in one final, shattering blow?"

"No!" he recoiled from her, from the thought, in
undoubtedly genuine horror. "Of course not, now could
you think such a thing of me, Idril!"

"Whether it is your intent or not such will be the
result." she said inexorably. "Think again, Faramir,
it's not just your life but our father's as well. And
if he dies what becomes of our people left leaderless?
Consider that too before you throw your life away."
****

It was a horrible afternoon.

Denethor ate not like a Man who was hungry, or one
who was enjoying his food, but like a Man trying
desperately to shut out his thoughts.

For the first time in Pippin's life the sight and
smell of food inspired no appetite. In fact his
stomach rebelled at the thought of swallowing a single
morsel. He was wondering why when suddenly Denethor
spoke.

"Can you sing, Master Hobbit?"

"Well, yes." he stammered, heart sinking at the very
thought of singing 'The Green Dragon' or any of the
comic drinking songs he knew best to the Lord of Minas
Tirith. "At least, well enough for my own people. But
we have no songs for great halls and evil times."

Denethor gave him a grim look. "And why should your
songs be unfit for my halls? Come, sing me a song."

For a desperate moment all Pippin could think of
was that silly bath song of Merry's 'Sing hey! for the
bath at close of day.' which obviously wouldn't do at
all. Then he remembered Bilbo's favorite walking song
- the one they called the 'Adventurer's song':

"Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread.
Through shadow, to the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.
Mist and shadow, cloud and shade,
All shall fade! All shall fade ..."

The words had never made him cry before, but now,
after all he'd been through, they took on a new
meaning, a new poignance. He struggled against his
tears and Denethor, absorbed in his own pain, either
didn't notice or pretended not to.

It was no better after lunch. The silent Men in
their rich furred gowns cleared the table and took it
and the chair away. Denethor sat again on his throne
and various people were admitted to give counsel or
take orders. Occasionally Pippin would help the Men
set chairs for the visitors, or serve them with wine
and little white cakes.

Gandalf returned and Pippin's nerves clenched,
bracing for another explosion. But nothing of the kind
happened. Instead wizard and Steward had a chilly but
civil discussion of recent happenings in Rohan.
Denethor seemed very interested in Eomer for some
reason; asking about his opinions and what advice he'd
given the King.

It was about teatime, as they reckoned it in the
Shire, when Denethor suddenly looked at him, frowned a
little, and said quite kindly: "You seem weary, my
small liege, have I kept you too long on your feet?"

"I am not used to waiting on the great, my Lord."
Pippin admitted. Then added stoutly: "But I will grow
accustomed!."

Denethor smiled. "I have no doubt of it. But
perhaps it would be wise to limit your hours of
attendance at first, I do not wish to outwear you! You
are dismissed for the rest of the day, Master
Peregrin. Return to me tomorrow at the third hour."

Pippin bowed and went down the long marble floor,
past the towering statues and silent Menservants, to
the great doors which a guard opened for him.

The shadows of hall and tower darkened the court
outside where the Fountain Guards in their black robes
and strange winged helmets still stood watching over
the bleached and withered trunk of a dead tree. Beyond
them the black clouds over Mordor, lit by red fire
beneath, seemed to have come closer, almost
overshadowing the city. Pippin's heart sank to his
toes.

Here he stood in the great fortress and city of
Middle Earth, dressed in armor with the sign of the
White Tree on his breast like he belonged there - but
he didn't. He sat down on the steps of the Hall and
put his head in his hands. He wanted Merry. he wanted
to be safe home in the Shire and for none of this to
have happened.

"Are you all right, Master Halfling?" a voice asked
with concern.

Pippin started, looked up, then started again. One
of the Fountain Guards was looming over him, helmet
under his arm, gazing down with a kindly expression on
a face that reminded Pippin strongly of Aragorn, or
perhaps of a younger Denethor.

"Yes I'm fine!" the Man looked skeptical and Pippin
felt constrained to add: "That is to say no. But
there's nothing much wrong, just a touch of
homesickness." He consulted his insides and said
thoughtfully: "I should eat something I think, but I
can't say I have much appetite. Not to mention not
knowing where the dining rooms or kitchens are."

The Man smiled. "Now there I can help you. As my
Lord's esquire the messes of all the companies of the
Guard are open to you. If you like I will take you to
that of my own old company."

"Please!" said Pippin with relief. "And thank you,
Master - ?"

"Beregond son of Baranor." the Man said and offered
his hand.

"Peregrin Took." Pippin replied, taking it. "Or
rather 'son of Paladin' as your folk would say, and very
pleased to meet you."
 The mess turned out to be a big room in the
undercroft of the Hall with three long wooden tables
standing on a stone flagged floor and whitewashed
walls hung with weapons and tattered banners of
strange design. It was empty except for the two of
them and look chilly and lonely.

Beregond knocked on a shuttered hatch, "Greetings,
Targon," he said to the Man who opened it, "I have the
Lord's new esquire here, he has just been released
from attendance and is hungry, give us what you can
spare."

The food proved reassuringly plain and homely;
cold, sliced meats, bread with butter and honey to go
on it, apples and nuts and yellow cheese, and a flagon
of ale. Pippin felt his appetite return with a rush.

Beregond, sipping a tankard to keep him company,
watched the the dishes empty with something like awe.
And Pippin, feeling much more like himself now the
hollow place inside was being filled, blurted
suddenly: "Why do you guard a dead tree?" then wanted
to bite his tongue the minute the words were out.

Luckily Beregond didn't seem offended, though he
looked rather sad - like Strider had when he told them
about Weathertop once being a great watchtower. "The
White Tree is the heart of Gondor, our banner and our
device." he explained.

"Yes, I see that." Pippin said carefully, and
indeed he did - trees were everywhere in the Citadel,
carved in stone or embroidered on banners and
surcoats. "But why not cut down the dead tree and
plant a new one?"

Beregond smiled ruefully at that. "We would like
nothing better, Master Peregrin, but we cannot find a
seedling to replace our Tree. The Line of Nimloth,
like the Line of the Kings, is extinct."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask 'what about
Aragorn Isildur's Heir?' but this time he did bite it.
Old Strider was clearly sensitive subject here in
Gondor. Beregond might get just as angry as Denethor
had and Pippin didn't want that. "What and where is
Osgiliath, please. And why is it so important?" he
asked instead.

"Osgiliath was, long ago, the chief city of Gondor,
of which this was just a fortress." the Man answered
readily. "You can see its ruins on the banks of the
Great River if you look north and east from the walls.
It was deserted, then taken and burned by the Enemy.
But we retook it in the time of the last Steward to
hold as an outpost and a foothold on the eastern
bank." Beregond shook his head. "While we held it we
also held Mordor's power at bay. But I fear Faramir's
return means we have lost Osgiliath."

Pippin swallowed. "We have. But the Lord Denethor
is sending Faramir to get it back."

Beregond looked dismayed. "Surely not! How could
such an attempt succeed? And it would cost us Men we
cannot afford to lose - Faramir chief among them! And
yet -" he frowned in thought, "you say Faramir has
accepted this command?"

Pippin nodded.

The Man took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "He
is bold, more bold than many deem, for Men these days
find it hard to believe that a captain may be wise in
ancient lore and yet a Man of hardihood and quick
judgment in the field." suddenly he smiled
depreciatingly. "And who am I to question the wisdom
of the Steward? Just a plain Man-at-arms of Gondor. No
doubt the Lord Denethor knows very well what he is
about, and Faramir too."

Pippin wished he could agree. "And where and what
exactly is Minas Morgul?" he asked next.

Beregond looked sad again. "Once it was Minas
Ithil, sister fortress to our own city, and the seat
of Isildur when he ruled as King in Gondor."

"But - I thought Isildur was *our* King, the King
of the North I mean." Pippin blurted, confused.

"So he was, after the death of his father Elendil."
Beregond explained kindly. "But before that her
governed Gondor with his brother Anarion from whom
descended the later Kings of Gondor, while Isildur's
line continued to rule in the North."

"I see." Pippin said, and he did. *Gracious me!
Aragorn really is King of Gondor just as Gandalf said,
but Denethor won't give up the throne to him. I wonder
why?*

The Man was still talking about Minas Ithil. "-
Like Osgiliath it fell to our Foe and so its name was
changed to Minas Morgul, Tower of Black Sorcery, and
it is become a place of evil and the stronghold of the
Enemy's chief lieutenant, the Lord of the Nazgul." he
saw Pippin's eyes widen and darken at the name and
said: "You know of them."

"We were hunted by them, my kinsmen and I."

Beregond looked at him with new respect. "We in the
City have seen them only from a distance, riding their
fell beasts of the air, yet that little was enough to
chill the blood of the bravest. To elude such hunters
was no small feat!"

Pippin shook his head. "We can't take much credit
for it, I'm afraid. It was old Strider who saved us."
Beregond's eyebrows raised in question and he hastily
explained: "A Ranger of the North who was our guide
and travelled with us. I think he's in Rohan now."

"We have heard of the happenings in Rohan."
Beregond said grimly, suddenly looking astonishly like
Aragorn in one of his darker moods. "The doings at
Isengard warn we are caught in a great net of
strategy. This war has been long planned and we are
but a piece in it, whatever pride may say.

"Great Armies of Men are moving in the far east,
beyond the inland sea, and south in Harad. And other
things stir in the Mirkwood and Misty Mountains. All
realms shall be put to the test - to stand or fall
beneath the Shadow. And how shall we stand? I fear
Minas Tirith will fall, and with her the world of
Men."

Pippin swallowed. Beregond made it sound so
hopeless and yet - "Gandalf fell but has returned and
is with us." he said with stubborn, Hobbitlike faith.
"We may stand, if only on one leg, or at least be left
still upon our knees."

Beregond's grim face broke suddenly into a smile.
"Well said, Peregrin! All things must come to an end
in their due time but Gondor shall not perish yet. If
Minas Tirith falls there are other fastnesses, and
secret ways of escape into the mountains. Hope will
live on in hidden valleys where the grass is green."
***

When they climbed out of the cellar dining room
into the open air of the Fountain court they found the
sun had set, leaving a sky still fiery in the west and
pale grey-blue everywhere the overcast of Mordor
didn't reach.

"I hope to see you again, Beregond." Pippin said
sincerely. He could use a friend in this strange city.

The Man smiled. "You can scarcely avoid it,
Peregrin, but don't try to speak to me when I am on
duty as I am forbidden to reply or to take notice of
anything save my charge."

Pippin looked at the four guards standing still and
statuesque around the dead Tree, and nodded. "I
understand.

Gandalf was not at their lodging, nor did he come.
A pair of serving Men were let in by the guard just
after nightfall bearing a hot supper on trays which
they laid out on a table in the sitting room. Then lit
the fire and lamps before bowing themselves out.

Pippin did not enjoy his lonely meal. And as the
evening wore on his spirits fell. Where *was* Gandalf
and why didn't he come home? Didn't he need to eat and
sleep any more?

He was lying on his bed when he heard the door
below open. "Gandalf at last!" and tumbled down the
stairs to come to an abrupt halt on the landing.

Not Gandalf but the Lord Faramir stood, tall and
somber, in the sitting room below. He bowed slightly.
"Good evening, Master Peregrin. I have come hoping to
trade my tidings of your kin for news of my brother's
last days and of his death, if you are not too weary?"

"No." Pippin said hastily. "Not at all." Even
talking about Parth Galen was better than lying on his
bed thinking dark thoughts.

And so he told his story again, sitting with the
Man before the fire, each with a goblet of wine left
over from the supper in his hand.

Unshed tears sparkled in Faramir's eyes when it was
finished. "A valiant end, and one worthy of him. You
ease my heart, Peregrin."

"Lord Hurin said you saw Boromir in his boat on the
River." Pippin ventured.

The Man nodded. "Lapped in light as in clear
water." he said softly. Then: "All his life my brother
has been at war, now at last he has peace and
with it a victory the like of which few Men have
won."

Pippin bowed his head, struggling against his own
tears. He couldn't help feeling that Boromir would
much rather have stayed alive and come home to
his City. And though he knew in his head it was
nonsense his heart still insisted that somehow, some
way, he and Merry were to blame for Boromir being
dead.

"How did you meet Frodo?" he asked when he could
trust his voice.

"My Rangers ran across his trail as we laid an
ambush for Southron troops mustering to the Enemy."
Faramir answered. Smiled faintly. "I had never seen
Halflings before, though I had heard of them as
dwellers in the Northern lands, but Frodo refused to
tell me what errand had brought him and his gardener
to the marches of Mordor. And so I was distrustful and
detained them. Then I captured the creature Gollum -"

"Gollum!" Pippin burst out.

The Man shot him a quick, keen look. "You know
him?"

"I know *of* him. Uncle Bilbo got the -" he stopped
himself in some confusion, just in time. "That is to
say -"

Faramir smiled, a little grimly. "Your kinsman
Bilbo Baggins, the fame of whose deeds has reached us
even here in Gondor, got the Enemy's Ring from this
Gollum who had fished it up from the bottom of the
Great River where it had lain for many centuries."

Pippin stared, unsure whether or not to be alarmed.

"Yes, Peregrin, I know of the Ring." Faramir
continued quietly. "It was Gollum who told me. Only
then did Frodo confess his mission."

The Man sighed. "I was reluctant to let him go. It
seemed madness to send the Ring into the Enemy's own
country in the hands of two little Halflings. But in
the end Frodo and Sam made me see this is a case where
wisdom and prudence fail and only in folly is there
any hope at all."

"That's what Gandalf said," Pippin agreed as
somberly, "'just a fool's hope' but all we have. But
what was Gollum doing with Frodo?"

"He had taken the creature for his guide." the Man
answered. "I do not trust it, and told Frodo so, but
he said it had been faithful to its word and he
believed it would remain so."

"Frodo must know what he's doing." Pippin answered,
trying hard to believe it. "And Sam will take care of
him."

"I hope so." said Faramir.

There was silence between them for a time, then
Pippin, fishing for information, asked: "Why is it
Gondor has no King?"

Faramir smiled wryly. "You mean why won't we give
our allegiance to your friend Aragorn?" Then laughed
out loud at the look on Pippin's face. "Yes, Peregrin,
I know about him too. Aragorn son of Arathorn,
Isildur's Heir. I hear he is in Rohan. Does he mean to
come to Gondor?"

"I don't know. I don't think he wants to, but
Boromir thought he should. I heard them arguing about
it."

"So Frodo said as well." Faramir shook his head. "I
cannot see any good coming of a confrontation between
my father and this Aragorn - for all Boromir thought
otherwise."

Pippin couldn't help agreeing. Denethor had
practically foamed at the mouth at the very mention of
poor Strider's name. Who knew what he might do faced
with him in person. "But why are you so set against
Aragorn?" he asked plaintively.

"Because the Kingdoms in Exile were divided between
the sons of Elendil and Gondor is the patrimony of the
younger son, Anarion." the Man explained. "Though his
line has failed the Northern line still has no right
to the crown of Gondor - or so I was taught, and
Boromir too."

"Boromir changed his mind. Maybe you will too after
you meet Aragorn." Pippin suggested hopefully.

"Maybe." Faramir said, but doubtfully.

"What happened to your Kings that there are none at
all left?" Pippin asked curiously. It certainly did
seem strange that Aragorn's line had managed to keep
going for generations, living as Rangers in the Wild,
while the rulers of this great city had vanished
altogether.

"The last King died without begetting an heir." the
Man explained. "And in those days the descendants of
the Kings had become few. For since the Kin-strife,
when the Princes of the Blood challenged the true
heir's right to rule, our Kings had become jealous and
watchful even of their closest kin.

"To escape suspicion and persecution some Princes
fled into exile. But others chose to renounce their
lineage, for themselves and their heirs, by taking
wives not of Numenorean blood.

"Thus it was that no claimant to the crown could be
found who was of the pure blood of Westerness, or
whose claim all would allow. And so it is that Gondor
has no King but is ruled by Stewards."

"I see." said Pippin, though he didn't really.
Hobbits were no strangers to family strife but what
Faramir described went far beyond any such feud. "It
seems very sad."

"It is indeed." the Man agreed heavily and got with
some effort to his feet. "The hour grows late and we
both have duties on the morrow." offered his hand.
"Thank you, Peregrin, our talk has comforted me."

The clasp of the big, warm hand and the kindly
voice along with the gleam of firelight on fair hair
brought Boromir back to Pippin so vividly he had to
blink back tears. "You're welcome. I feel better too -
I think."

After seeing his guest to the door Pippin climbed
back up the stairs to lie again on his bed. He had a
great deal to think about - but instead he fell right
asleep.

 Pippin woke the next morning to find Gandalf still
hadn't come in. According to the clock it was half
past the first hour of the day, (or seven-thirty as
they'd say in the Shire) and remembering he was to
report to Denethor at the third hour he got up,
washed, downed the small loaf and mug of milk the
Gondorim called breakfast and struggled into his new
trappings. The mail hauberk weighed on his body as
loneliness and apprehension weighed on his spirit.
Surely Gandalf wouldn't have gone off without even
saying good-bye?

Leaving his empty lodging he went up the narrow
alley and through the archway between Hall and Tower
into the Court of the Fountain, and found it full of
Men in sparkling armour with a few clad in worn brown
leathers scattered through the crowd. All somber and
silent with their eyes on Lord Faramir, standing with
a knot of officers under a black banner of the Tree at
the foot of the Hall steps.

The Steward was nowhere to be seen but Lady Idril
was standing alone in front of the great doors, a
large golden cup held in both hands. Her collar set
with jewels of adamant and pearl and her mantle of
silver cloth blazed like the new sun in the pale
morning light. Underneath the mantle Pippin saw a sort
of apron embroidered with the familiar device of the
White Tree under a black sun with golden rays. And on
her black veiled head she wore a crown of silver
leaves with smaller leaves strung on fine chains and
falling to her shoulders.

She came down the steps and offered the cup to her
brother. Faramir drank and returned it to her, and she
moved on to the next Man who did the same. It seemed
to be some sort of ritual farwell.

The last Man handed the cup back to the Lady and
she said something formal in a language Pippin didn't
understand. Then they all bowed to her and Faramir
turned away, heading for the stair to the lower
circles his Men forming a column behind him as they
followed.

His eye chanced to fall upon Pippin as he passed
and he smiled at him. Pippin tried to smile back, not
very successfully, and felt his heart moved in way
he'd never known before. He'd been a bit afraid of
Strider at first, though he'd liked Boromir from the
begining, but he'd soon learned to love and trust both
of them. What he was feeling now for Faramir was not
quite the same.

He wanted to go with him, even if it was to certain
death. He wanted to stand by this Man, to protect and
guard him - which was ridiculous of course, what use
would a little Hobbit be?

Slowly the Court emptied as the Men followed their
captain down the stair. "They go to their deaths."
said a sad voice at Pippin's shoulder. He looked up to
see Beregond, in his black cloak and silvered armor,
standing beside him.

The Man's grey eyes went from the soldiers filing
slowly down the steps to the Woman standing,
glittering, on the Hall steps watching them. "And
Idril opposes it and is angered with her brother for
going."

Pippin looked at the Lady too. Her pale, pointed
face seemed quite expressionless to him. "How can you
tell?"

Beregond smiled a faint, brief smile. "By her garb.
Those are the colors and devices of the Kings of Old.
To flaunt them is a taunt to the House of the
Stewards. I have seen her show her displeasure with
father and brothers thus before."

The last of the Men disappeared down the stair and
Idril turned and went into the Hall. Beregond sighed.
"The third hour approaches and the begining of my
watch - and of yours too I think, Peregrin?"

"Yes indeed!" said Pippin. It wouldn't do to be
late. "See you later, I hope." and hurried across the
court to the Hall.

Inside he found Denethor seated on his throne in
the chill white and black starkness, almost as if he
hadn't moved since the day before. His six gentlemen
in waiting were also there - standing quietly between
the great columns upholding the vault.

The Steward greeted him with a smile as he made his
bow. "Good morrow, my liege, I trust you slept well?"

"Very well thank you, my Lord," Pippin answered
politely.

Denethor gestured for him to sit on the steps of
the throne and continued. "One of your duties as my
esquire, Peregrin Took, is to beguile my moments of
leisure with songs or talk." he smiled again at the
suddenly alarm in Pippin's face. "I have heard you
sing - now I would hear your traveller's tales. Tell
me of my son! Not of his death but of the months you
journeyed together."

"Well," Pippin began, "we met at Rivendell. Boromir
was good enough to take special notice of us from the
very begining - though I'm afraid Merry and I led him
quite a life!"

He was careful to say nothing about the purpose of
their journey - and Denethor didn't ask. Pippin was
even more careful to mention Strider as little as
possible, but it proved surprisingly pleasant to talk
about Boromir and relive the early, happy days of
their friendship.

His tales were interupted several times by Men come
to confer with the Lord Steward and again in early
afternoon when the gentlemen in waiting brought back
the table and laid it for lunch, but this time with
two chairs.

The second was meant for Lady Idril now dressed,
plainly for her, in dark green velvet and smelling
faintly of horse. The minute he laid eyes on her
Pippin saw Beregond was right; Idril was angry, very
angry, with her father as well as her brother. But
Denethor didn't seem angry with her in return. There
was certainly nothing apologetic in his manner but he
clearly didn't want a fight - though Idril showed
herself very ready to pick one.

She had, it seemed, spent the morning riding round
the townlands outside the City; collecting provisions
and having them brought within the walls, and finding
quartering for the people and their animals in the
lower circles.

"It would be better for the Women and children,
inside the City as well as without, to take refuge in
Lossarnach and so spare us the need to feed and
shelter them." said the Lord Denethor.

"I have proposed it." his daughter answered. "And
recieved a firm refusal almost every time."

"If you were to set the example and lead them - "
he began, and was interupted.

"I will do no such thing." she answered roundly,
with blazing look. "If Minas Tirith falls then neither
Lossarnach nor the mountain fastnesses will be any
refuge and I will not be dug from my burrow like a fox
or badger! I am a daughter of Anarion, though on the
left-hand side, and I will die in my father's City, if
die I must."

That seemed to settle that. Denethor turned the
subject to the rationing of food.
****

The afternoon passed much as the morning had. But
when Pippin was dismissed, at the same hour as
yesterday, he was instructed to return that evening,
the second hour after sundown, for further duty.

As he'd hoped Beregond had lingered, waiting for
him. "My wife plans an early dinner today, I hoped you
might share it with us, Peregrin."

"I'd love to." Pippin said with genuine fervor.
He'd like nothing better than to get out of this grim
fortress with its troubled cross currents for a while!

Beregond's house stood in the fourth circle, in the
shadow of the great crag that divided the City. Built
of white stone, as were all the houses in Minas
Tirith, and backed right up against the circle wall.
There was a shop on the ground floor with racks of
jars and bottles and boxes on display in the arcaded
porch and a spicy jumble of delightful smells coming
from the open doors. Pippin sniffed appreciatively.

"My wife is an apothecary," Beregond explained, "a
maker of medicines, perfumed essences and other
concoctions."

They didn't go into the shop but instead climbed a
flight of stone steps at the side of the house to a
first floor door that opened onto a stair hall. The
anteroom beyond it had two sets of double doors
standing open; one pair leading to a porch overlooking
the street and the other to a large, bright room full
of tall, dark haired Big Folk.

Beregond introduced his wife, Hiril, a green eyed
lady with curly tendrils escaping from her tight
braids; her brother Iorlas, a young Man wearing a
loose gown with a plaster covering half his face and
leaning heavily on a stick; his own twin sisters
Baradis and Berethil, as alike as two peas with
Beregond's grey eyes; and their mother, Anguirel,
shorter than her children, her hair laced with silver.

Finally he presented his own four children: the
very pretty but very serious girl in her early teens
with a large book cradled in the crook of her arm was
Beleth, his eldest. Then there was a young boy almost
a head taller than Pippin called Bergil. A small girl
with enormous blue eyes and an even tinier boy,
Bronwen and Borlas. All four stared at Pippin in open
wonder.

"How old are you?" Bergil demanded. Adding
proudly; "I am ten years already and will soon be five
feet."

"Bergil!" his father and mother chorused. But
Pippin just grinned.

"I am nearly twenty-nine, so I pass you there;
though I am but four feet, and not likely to grow any
more save sideways."

Bergil gave a low whistle. "Twenty-nine! why you
are quite old! As old as Uncle Iorlas."

"Thank your very much, Nephew." Iorlas said drily.
"But I don't feel quite ready to be classed among the
greybeards yet, do you Master Peregrin?"

"No indeed." Pippin agreed. "In fact I'm still
little more than a boy as my folk reckon such things
and won't 'come of age' as we say for another four
years yet."

"Bergil," said his father with resignation as well
as reproof, "this is not the kind of courtesy I would
have you show an honored guest."

"Oh I don't mind." Pippin said hastily as the boy's
face fell. "Nothing wrong with an honest question."

The Gondorim didn't seem to go in for dining rooms,
a long table had been set up under the arched windows
at the end of the parlor, as Pippin thought of it, and
spread with what even a Hobbit would regard as a good
dinner; jellied brawn and jellied beef, roasts of pork
and mutton, and spitted fowl of all kinds from a large
goose to a plate of dainty capons, hot and cold
vegetable dishes, an apple custard and mince pastries.

The tensions swirling around his new master had
robbed Pippin of all appetite while in Denethor's
presence, but now it came back with a rush. His mouth
watered and he set to with a will. The children stared
in open astonishment as plateful after plateful
vanished. Bergil opened his mouth to comment but
closed it, words unsaid, at his mother's gimlet look.

"At table small men may do great deeds." Beregond
observed lightly, an eye on his son. "And Peregrin has
had hard duty today, waiting upon the Lord Steward."

"I remember the pair of Halflings we met in
Ithilien ate enough for two Men apiece." Iorlas said.

Pippin turned to him eagerly. "You saw Frodo and
Sam?"

The Man nodded. "Only from a distance, I fear. I
can tell you no more than they looked well and were
determined to continue their quest."

Pippin wondered if Iorlas had any idea what that
quest was. Something in his eye and carefully neutral
tone suggested that he did.

"I am one of Captain Faramir's company of Rangers."
he continued. "If not for these wounds of mine, got at
Osgiliath, I would have ridden with him this morning.

"I am grateful you could not!" Hiril said firmly.
"A foolish waste of Men's lives - what Lord Denethor
was thinking to order it or Lord Faramir to agree to
it I cannot imagine."

"They think it worth the sacrifice and we must
trust their judgment." Beregond said firmly. Changed
the subject. "The reason for this early dinner,
Peregrin, is that the Captains of the Outlands are
expected at the usual dinner hour and we intend to go
down to the Great Gate to watch them march in. You are
welcome to join us."

"I'd love to." said Pippin. "But I have duty again
the second hour of the evening."

"No doubt the Lord Denethor wishes you to attend
him when he greets the Captains. You will have time
and to spare."

"In that case I accept with pleasure." Pippin said
politely.

"How are you faring in the Steward's service,
Master Peregrin?" Hiril asked.

"Well enough," Pippin answered, perhaps a little
doubtfully. "I'm getting used to it, and Lord Denethor
has been very kind." he sensed skepticism and added, a
bit defensive on his master's behalf: "Of course he
has a lot on his mind these days."

"He does indeed." Beregornd agreed grimly. "I am
truly glad I do not have to bear such a burden."
Iorlas nodded firm agreement. The Women seemed less
convinced.

Which reminded Pippin. "Lady Idril doesn't approve
of this attack on Osgiliath either - or so Beregond
tells me. I couldn't see any sign of it myself."

"She wore the colors of the Telemmirioni to farwell
the troops." the Man explained.

Everybody but Pippin seemed to understand what that
meant. "Who are Telemmirioni please?"

" Descendants of Telemmaite who was one of those
who claimed the crown after the death of Mardil, the
first Steward." young Beleth piped up. "and the only
one who refused to accept the decision of the Council
and swear to Mardil's son Eradan."

"Idril is descended from them on her mother's
side." Beregond continued. "To wear their colors is
accounted a challenge to the Steward's rule. But as
the heiress of that House Idril is entitled to do so
and has done from time to time to show her displeasure
with father or brothers."

"But why wasn't this Telemmaite made king?" Pippin
asked.

"Because he had Northman ancestors," Beleth, a
learned young lady who liked to show off her
knowledge, replied "and so his blood was not pure."

That just didn't seem right. "I'm sorry." Pippin
said. "But I don't understand why that should make
such a difference. You're all Men aren't you?"

Beregond smiled a little bleakly. "We are indeed,
Peregrin. And if we Dunedain have greater gifts than
other Men it is purely by the grace of the Valar. But
pride, alas, is our abiding fault and we do hold
ourselves better than other Men, as we should not."

"Especially as there is, these days, little
difference between us and those we call 'Lesser Men'."
his wife agreed somberly. "The race of Numenor fails,
and Lady Idril, for all her mixed blood, is the last
of the line of the Kings."

"Not quite the last." said Iorlas very drily.

"The last of noble rank at least." said Beregond,
then explained to Pippin; "there are a few commoners
with a thin strain of the Blood Royal but they are of
no account."

"Would that the Lord Steward agreed with you." said
Mistress Anguirel from her end of the long table.
***

After they had eaten all save Iorlas, Dame Anguirel
and little Borlas, walked down the circles of the city
to join the throngs gathering in the square behind the
Great Gate.

Beregond looked at the tightly packed backs between
them and the open pavement and said: "Let us try
outside the gate, the crowd will be less there."

It was, or perhaps strung as they were along the
roadway they just seemed less. Pippin and his
companions worked their way to the front and waited.

After a few minutes horns sounded in the distance,
echoed by trumpets from the rampart above the gate.
The people began to cheer, calling "Forlong! Forlong!"

"What's that they're saying?" Pippin asked Bergil,
beside him.

"Forlong has come." the boy explained. "Old Forlong
the Fat, the Lord of Lossarnach. That is where my
grandfather lives -" he broke off to shout; "Hurrah!
Here he is. Good old Forlong!"

Pippin saw am enormously fat old man encased in
mail, with a long grey beard showing beneath his black
helm. Mounted upon a big, thick limbed horse with a
scarlet and green banderole flying from the spear in
his hand and leading a dusty line of of grim, swarthy
Men, broad in the shoulders but shorter than the
Dunedain, armed with great battle axes.

Over his head he heard Hiril mutter; "So few! a
mere two hundred or so."

And Beregond answer; "We hoped for ten times that
number. No doubt Forlong has heard the tidings from
east and north and dares not strip Lossarnach of its
defenders. Still every little is a gain."

Forlong was followed by a Lord Devorin of a place
called the Ringlo Vale with a following of three
hundred Men. Then the Lord Duinhir of Morthond and his
sons, Duilin and Derufin, and their company of five
hundred archers. A very large, if ill equipped, force
from Anfalas, far away on the western coast, was led
by their Lord Golasgil. Then came a few score grim
looking hillmen from Lamedon who didn't seem to have a
leader any more than did the hundred or so Fisher-folk
from the mouths of the Anduin. Finally there came
another well appointed company; three hundred green
clad men-at-arms led by a handsome golden haired lord
riding beneath a green banner. Followed by the largest
and grandest of the forces consisting of both mounted
knights and tall men-at-arms, about a thousand in all,
under the golden banners of the Prince of Dol Amroth.

"Three thousand all told." Beregond said quietly.
"Not enough, not nearly enough. But with the Black
Fleet raiding at will can we blame them for putting
the peril to their own homes and families first?"

By now the sun had vanished behind the mountain of
Mindolluin and it was outlined in in fire, but the
city below was drowned in shadow. Pippin shivered for
it seemed an omen, and a dark one. The children ran
ahead at the heels of the Men of Dol Amroth and he
said quietly: "Wouldn't it be as well to get the
little ones out of the city? And Mistress Anguirel and
Iorlas too?"

"I agree." said Beregond drily. "But my good wife
does not."

"Minas Tirith will not fall." Hiril said with calm
confidence. "They are safer staying here at home than
they would be as prey for raiders on the long road to
Lossarnach."

Beregond shrugged and gave Pippin a half-smile.
"You see? I can do nothing with her. Are Halfling
women so stubborn?"

Pippin thought of his mother and sisters and aunts
and cousins, and nodded. "Oh yes."
***

They left Baradis and Berethil at their own little
house in the second circle, and Hiril and her children
stopped at home too, but Beregond continued up to the
Citadel with Pippin to hear the news the new levies
had brought.

"I'm more than a little nervous," Pippin admitted
to his friend as they walked up the near empty road,
lit by lamps, "I've done some fighting but never been
in an actual battle before."

"Nor have I." said Beregond. Startled Pippin looked
up at him and he smiled wryly. "I have been in the
service of Gondor all my life but never yet lifted a
sword in her defense. I was chosen early for the
Citadel Guard and never had the fortune, or
misfortune, to be sent on campaign. So I am even less
experienced than you, Peregrin, with your many
adventures."

"That's very odd." Pippin said, trying to be
tactful. In fact it struck him as very strange indeed
given what Boromir had said about Gondor's danger.
There couldn't be anything wrong with Beregond himself
or he wouldn't have been chosen for the Fountain
Guard.

"Oh there is a reason." the Man said. "A foolish
one in my opinion, but not alas the Steward's."

His mother had said something like that too, then
Pippin remembered in what connection and came to a
full stop at the entrance to the tunnel leading up to
the Citadel.

"You're descended from the Kings too, aren't you?
and Denethor doesn't trust you because of it."

"Alas yes. And unecessarily - I know my place very
well and will keep to it." the Man laughed briefly.
"Don't look so amazed, Peregrin, the blood is old and
thin and means nothing."

*Maybe.* Pippin thought. *And maybe Beregond
reminds Denethor of Aragorn too.*

Pippin went to his lodging for a wash and brush up
before reporting back to Denethor, and was delighted
and relieved to find Gandalf smoking and brooding in a
chair before the empty hearth.

Forgetting his new dignity as a guard of the
Citadel he flung himself into the wizard's arms.
"Gandalf at last! I was begining to think you'd ridden
off somewhere and left us."

Startled out of his dark thoughts Gandalf gave him
a quick hug, a sharply assessing look and said
briskly: "I am not leaving Minas Tirith until her
present troubles are settled, and certainly not
without you, Peregrin Took!"

Pippin sighed in relief.
***

The wizard too had been summoned to attend Denethor
the second hour after sundown when he would formally
recieve the Outland Captains. As the appointed hour
struck Gandalf took Pippin through a back door of the
Hall into a sort of dressing room where one of
Denethor's gentlemen servants was waiting with a
small, silver bright helmet for Pippin to wear and a
larger one adorned with ravens' wings of real feathers
for him to carry on a cushion.

Another little door led to the apse behind the
throne. For the first time Pippin saw the great Hall
of the Kings full of people, its starkness enlivened
by the richly colored, fur trimmed robes of the Men
and the shimmering jewels and gold embroideries of
their ladies. A double row of Citadel Guards in their
bright armor and gold bordered tunics kept clear a
long aisle to the doors.

Denethor was sitting on his throne, wrapped loosely
in a dark robe with a great black fur collar, having a
quiet but intensely bitter argument with Lord Hurin.
The latter was splendidly dressed in silvered armor
under a great black velvet cloak edged with gold and
pearls and had a winged helmet, like the one Pippin
was carrying, tucked under his arm.

Gandalf left the Hobbit's side to join and end the
argument with a few low voiced words. Then he and
Hurin went to stand side by side to the right of the
throne dais, and Denethor turned to greet Pippin with
a wintery smile.

"Ah, there you are my esquire. Stand you here at my
left hand."

Pippin took his appointed place feeling a little
nervous, but also enjoying the bustle and color. *Just
like one of Uncle Bilbo's stories.*

Denethor seemed to be looking for someone over
Pippin's shoulder, brow creased in what wasn't quite a
frown, then he relaxed and the Hobbit turned to see
Lady Idril coming towards them, looking unexpectedly
militant with a corselet of gold inlaid plate over her
flowing scarlet gown. She gave Pippin a smile and her
father a cool nod, and went to stand upon the dais at
his right hand.

Denethor picked up his gold tipped white rod and
stood, throwing back his fur lined robe as he did so.
And Pippin saw, with surprise, that the Steward was
clad from throat to heel in glimmering black mail with
a heavy, gold adorned sword girded at his side.

Trumpets sounded from the galleries above and the
great doors at the end of the Hall were thrown open.
The Outland Captains marched in, encased in mail and
plate under bright surcoats embroidered with their
devices, each attended by squires carrying his helmet
and banner. They advanced to within a yard of the
dais, and bowed.

Denethor returned their bows. "Welcome," he said,
"welcome true hearts and true friends come to our aid
in this dark hour. Dire is the need that has brought
you here, yet for tonight let us forget fear and
rejoice to find ourselves still so well befriended."
and then he came down from his throne and went to take
the hand of Lord Forlong, bearlike in his black armor
and scarlet trappings.

The people lining the length of the Hall came out
from behind the rows of guards to mingle and talk, and
somebody put a hand on Pippin's shoulder making him
start.

It proved to be one of the gentlemen in waiting,
who signed for the Hobbit to put the Steward's helmet
down on the dais and handed him a dish of fanciful
sweets made out of sugar paste and filled with honeyed
cream or jellies.

Pippin carried it over to where Denethor still
stood talking with Forlong. The old Lord of Lossarnach
took a sweet, studying the Hobbit with keen interest.
"So this is the Prince of the Halflings I have heard
tell of. They say you've offered your allegiance and
five thousand swords to the Lord Steward here - and
when the Riders of Rohan come each will have behind
him a small but doughty Halfling warrior."

"Oh no!" Pippin said, in real dismay, "oh dear,
that's not true at all!" and looked to Denethor for
help.

The Steward's lips were twitching suspiciously and
his grey eyes glittered, but he managed to keep a
serious front. "Master Peregrin is indeed the son of
the Lord of the Halflings but he has no sword but his
own to offer us, having come so far from his homeland
on quite a different errand."

Forlong nodded. "I thought it sounded an unlikely
story. Halflings are a peaceful folk, or so our
fireside tales say."

"Not that we can't fight if we must." Pippin said
quickly. "But the last time was more than a hundred
years ago, against the White Wolves of the far North.
I'm afraid most of my people have never even heard of
Gondor - I know I hadn't until I met Boromir at
Rivendell."

"And why should you living so far away?" Denethor
asked, quite kindly. Continued to Forlong: "Forgive me
if I leave you now, my friend, but I must have a word
with my good brother of Dol Amroth."

Pippin followed his lord over to a tall, fair haired
Man draped in a shimmering golden mantle, with
swans and ships decorating his surcoat. Not a brother
by blood but by marriage and his name was Imrahil.
Pippin looked at him curiously. So that was where
Boromir and Faramir had their fair coloring from. And
just as with Faramir there was something Elvish about
the Lord of Dol Amroth. Clean shaven, unlike the other
Men of Gondor Pippin had seen, and with his golden
hair worn rather longer.

"Where is my nephew?" he asked Denethor. "Surely
the Steward's heir should be present."

"Faramir has gone forth to retake Osgiliath if he
can." was the flat reply.

"What!" Imrahil stared at his kinsman in disbelief.
"Are you mad, Denethor, to throw Men away so rashly?
And your only remaining son among them!"

The Steward's face hardened but he answered evenly
enough. "Would you rather we yielded the crossing
unfought, Imrahil? You and the other Captains might
have arrived to find Minas Tirith already besieged had
we done so. Faramir has done well to hold the Enemy at
bay for this one day, even if he does no more."

Pippin, looking up at his master, wished that
Faramir were there to hear his father's praise,
measured as it was.
***

The party - if you could call it that - didn't last
long. When the bells tolled the fourth hour of the
night the company dispersed to their various lodgings
in the Citadel or wound their way downhill to their
homes in the fifth and sixth circles.

Gandalf came back to their rooms with Pippin and
stood on the balcony gazing eastward towards
Osgiliath. Pippin sat in an armchair before the fire
munching leftover sweets.

"Faramir came to talk to me last night," he told
the wizard. "he knew all about the Ring. Did he tell
Denethor?"

"He did." Gandalf answered shortly.

"And that's why his father was so angry with him
wasn't it?" Pippin guessed. "Denethor wanted the Ring
brought here."

"Yes." Gandalf sighed, and came inside to sit in
the other chair drawn up before the hearth.

"Gandalf, what's so terrible about this pass of
Cirith Ungol? I meant to ask Lord Faramir but I
forgot."

The wizard smiled grimly. "The name means 'pass of
the spider' and it is said to be haunted by a Great
Spider, one of the spawn of Ungloliant."

"Oh." said Pippin in a small voice. Then more
firmly. "Uncle Bilbo fought off the Spiders of
Mirkwood didn't he? Frodo has Sting with him. And old
Sam to watch his back."

"That is so." Gandalf agreed, continued as if to
himself. "We must not lose hope. Frodo is still alive
and still determined to fulfil his quest. We must
trust him to find a way."

He got to his feet. "It grows late and there are
evil days ahead. To sleep while we may!"

"But-" said Pippin.

Gandalf turned at the foot of the stair leading to
his room. "But what? Only one 'but' will I allow
tonight."

"Gollum," said Pippin, "how can they be going about
with him, even following him? Faramir didn't like it
one bit - I could see that - and I can't say I do
either."

"My heart guessed that Frodo and Gollum would meet
before the end. For good, or for evil." the wizard
answered grimly, then burst out: "Treachery, I fear
treachery from that miserable creature. Yet - a
traitor may betray himself and do good that he does
not intend." he shook himself and tried to smile
reassuringly at the anxious Hobbit. "It can be so -
sometimes. Good night, Pippin."

The next day, Pippin's third in Minas Tirith, was
dreadful.

It began, as usual, with him reporting for duty at
the third hour. Denethor was still wearing his dark
mail and sword under the heavy black furred robe and
seemed preoccupied, barely noticing Pippin's arrival.

Gandalf, Hurin and the Outland captains came in
soon after and Pippin helped the gentlemen in waiting
set chairs for them.

"Still no news from Faramir." Hurin told his uncle
grimly. "He should have met the enemy no later than
yesterday afternoon, and his courier, telling of the
result, reached us long since."

*Unless there was no one left to bring tidings.*
Pippin thought. And looked worriedly at his master.
Yes, that was what Denethor - what they all - feared.

Imrahil turned to Gandalf. "Can you See anything,
Mithrandir?"

The wizard shook his head. "There is a darkness
over Osgiliath that defeats my Sight."

"And mine." the Steward said, as grimly.

"Then we must go and seek news." Imrahil said
firmly. "Dol Amroth will reinforce Faramir."

"No." said Denethor, and as Imrahil glared at him.
"You accused me last night of wasting lives, but I
spent only what Gondor could afford to lose. All who
could be spared rode with my son. If we send more we
will not have enough to hold the walls."

"The Lord Steward is right." Gandalf agreed. "We
have no more strength to risk on such ventures - at
least until Rohan comes."

"But will Theoden come?" Lord Hirluin asked. "Will
he remember our old alliance?"

"He will come." said the Wizard heavily. "Even if
he comes too late."

*For all the good it will do us then.* thought
Pippin.

Word came, finally, in the afternoon and it was
bad, though not as bad as it might have been. Faramir
was alive but had been repulsed with great loss. He
was falling back to the Pelennor wall and Causeway
forts but did not expect to be able to hold there
long.

"It is the Nazgul Lord that defeats us." the
messenger told the Steward and his Captains. "Even our
bravest quail at his coming. And his own followers
fear him no less, yet they would slay themselves at
his bidding."

Pippin remembered Weathertop and shivered.

"Then I am needed there more than here." said
Gandalf, and strode swiftly down the hall and out the
great doors.

Pippin looked after him in dismay but Denethor,
sunk in his own dark thoughts, seemed scarcely to
notice. "If my son wins back across the Pelennor at
all it will be with the enemy hot at his heels. Unless
Rohan comes soon we are undone." then he roused
himself and turned to Pippin. "You are dismissed
Master Peregrin." and rising from his throne went out
a side door of the Hall, his gentlemen servants
hurrying in his wake.

So Pippin went back to his lodging to eat a
solitary lunch and supper and spent the long night
huddled in a chair on his balcony, eyes straining
eastward for the first glint of white that would be
Gandalf returning. But the wizard did not come.

He was wakened from a fitful doze by the bell
sounding the first hour of the day, though all was
still as black as night. Rubbing his eyes he sat
forward and saw red fire flare north and east, and
after a moment a dim rumble reached him like distant
thunder.

Thowing aside his blanket he ran down the stairs
and out of the house then up the lane and through the
arch into the Court of the Tree. Men and Women lined
the walls of the great stone buttress, eyes bent
anxiously northward. Pippin spotted Beregond among
them and pushed in beside him. "What is it? What's
happening?"

"They have taken the wall." the Man replied grimly.
"They are blasting breaches in it. The Enemy comes."

"Oh, where is Gandalf?" Pippin all but wailed.

"And where is Faramir?" asked Beregond, as bleakly.
***

Pippin went to the Hall at his usual hour but the
Steward was not there. Instead one of his gentlemen
servants stood waiting to take the Hobbit through the
side door Denethor had used yesterday, along a gallery
and up a winding stair to a chamber high in the White
Tower.

His master took no notice of him, but stood looking
intently through the eastward window. After a moment
Pippin dared to come to his side and look out too. The
plain of the Pelennor was dark, the houses abandoned
and their folk safe within the City wall, but at its
eastern edge fires burned, and standing beside
Denethor it seemed to Pippin he could almost hear the
clash of weapons and see tiny figures fighting.

Abruptly the Steward moved away, going to look out
of the northern window. Pippin stayed where he was and
at long last saw the gleam of white he'd watched for
all night. Gandalf and Shadowfax at the head of a line
of wagons, escorted by a few horsemen.

Pippin wet his lips, dared to break the brooding
silence. "My Lord, Gandalf returns."

Silently Denethor returned to his side and together
they watched the White Rider enter the City gates and
gallop up the seven circles to the Court of the Tree,
dismount and disappear into the tower.

After a few moments a gentleman in waiting opened
the door to the Steward's chamber and Gandalf entered,
white robes spattered with black Orc blood, looking as
grim and weary as Pippin had ever seen him.

Denethor asked the only question that mattered: "Is
Faramir returned?"

"No," the wizard answered, "but he still lives and
is unwounded. He is resolved to stay with the
rearguard and cover the retreat of as many Men as may
be saved, but I doubt they can hold for long. The one
I have feared is come."

"Not the Dark Lord!" Pippin blurted, forgetting his
place.

Denethor laughed bitterly. "Nay, not yet, Master
Peregrin. He will not come save to triumph over me
after all is won."

"It is the most fell of his Captains, the one I
spoke of before, Pippin, the Witch King of Angmar Lord
of the Nazgul who is come." Gandalf said quietly.

The Steward's lip curled. "Then, Mithrandir, you
have a foe to match you. Or can it be you have
withdrawn because you are overmatched?"

Pippin flinched, expecting an explosion, but the
wizard answered quite gently: "It might be so, but the
time for our trial of strength is not yet come. I came
to guard the wounded saved from Osgiliath and the
Rammas."

"Let us go down." said Denethor.
***

Bands of Men, weary and often wounded, trickled
back to the City all that dark morning and afternoon
as Faramir slowly striped the forts of their
defenders. Each new group reported him still alive
and still - somehow - holding Men to his will even in
the face of the Captain of Despair.

Denethor's hands were clenched, white knuckled, on
the arms of his throne. Pippin hovered at his side in
growing fear. If Faramir fell what would become of his
father? If only they hadn't parted as they had - in
mutual hurt and anger. Now that it was too late Pippin
bitterly regretted his silence. If only he'd spoken -
at the very least he might have made them think again!

When the rearguard came, if they did, they would be
hotly pursued, Prince Imrahil drew up his swan knights
in the square inside the Great Gate ready to sortie to
Faramir's support. But they were not needed.

It was a breathless guard, run all the way from the
Great Gate seven hundred feet below, who brought word
that the Enemy was at the walls and Lord Faramir
returned - alone - dragged at the heels of his
exhausted horse.

Denethor ran out of the Hall, Pippin and his
gentlemen right behind, just as Faramir was carried
into the court and set down beside the dead Tree.

"Faramir!" he cried, casting himself on his knees
beside his son. "Say not that he has fallen!"

"They were outnumbered." the fair haired Captain of
the Citadel told his Lord bluntly. "None survived."

"My sons are spent..." Denethor staggered to his
feet, stumbled away from Faramir's inert body. "My
line has ended!"

*No, please no, not Faramir too!* Pippin knelt
beside the litter, touched the Man's face. And
Faramir's eyelids fluttered as if he wanted to open
them but hadn't the strength to do so. "He's alive!"

"The House of Stewards has failed!" the father
wailed.

"He needs medicine, my Lord!" Pippin called
desperately after him - but Denethor didn't seem to
hear.

"My line has ended!"

"My Lord!" Pippin pleaded, unheeded.

The Steward reached the wall and stopped, struck
motionless by whatever he saw below. Pippin, still
crouched over Faramir, heard the crash of falling
stone and screams rising from the city.

Suddenly, shockingly, Denethor cried aloud in a
voice of thunder: "Abandon your posts! Flee! Flee for
your lives!"

Citadel guards, gentlemen in waiting, even the
normally immoveable Fountain guards exchanged
horrified looks. Pippin saw Gandalf and Lady Idril
come through the arch between the King's Hall and the
White Tower. The Lady stopped, staring at her father
as if she couldn't believe her ears. But Gandalf
strode towards him in an angry swirl of white robes
and, as Denethor turned away from the wall, struck him
full in the face! Then a second blow to the stomach
knocked Steward to the ground.

Gandalf whirled on them, eyes blazing. "Prepare for
battle!"

After a stunned moment everybody began to move;
guardsmen to the stair in Gandalf's wake; the
gentlemen in waiting to see to their Lord; and Idril
to bend over her brother. Pippin looked up, and was
shocked by the bitter anger in her face.

"I told you didn't I?" she said to the unconscious
Man. "I hope you're satisfied, Brother. You may have
ruined us all!" only then did she seem to notice the
Hobbit. "You know where the Houses of Healing are do
you not, Peregrin? Run now and tell them we have need
of a healer for the Lord Faramir and the Lord Steward."

The Houses of Healing were a cluster of buildings
just inside the gate to the sixth circle with treetops
showing above the wall of its terrace garden. Pippin
ran into a forecourt already filling with wounded from
the streets below and spotted an unexpectedly familiar
face. "Bergil!"

The boy turned from his horrified but unwillingly
fascinated contemplation of a Man with crushed legs,
and his eyes widened in recognition. "Master Peregrin!
what are you doing here?"

"I need a healer for Lord Faramir."

"But they said he was dead!" Bergil cried.

Pippin shook his head. "He's alive but badly
wounded, and his father the Steward could use a healer
too."

"I'll get my aunts." Bergil ran into the building,
leaving Pippin standing rather uncomfortably in the
court, trying not to look at the hurt folk being
brought in or hear their cries.

The boy soon reappeared, two wooden boxes, one atop
the other, in his arms, followed by Beregond's twin
sisters. What were their names again? Oh yes; Baradis
and Berethil, though which was which was anyone's
guess. Both dressed alike in grey gowns under darker
surcoats, hair covered by kerchief-like veils. They
walked very fast with their long legs, Pippin had to
trot to keep up.

"What can you tell me about the Lord Faramir's
wounds?" one of the sisters asked.

"Not much I'm afraid." Pippin panted, trying to
think. "He was still in his armor so I couldn't see
much, but there were two arrows stuck in his harness,
and one at least had gone through though I don't know
how deep. His face was hot when I touched it, and he
stirred a bit as if he felt it."

"Fever," the Woman muttered to herself, "and far to
soon to be natural."

They hurried across the Court of the Tree. One of
the Fountain guards turned his head to follow them and
Pippin realized it must be Beregond. A gentleman in
waiting met them at the door of the White Tower and
showed them up a winding stair to the third floor.
Through a large room with a chair under a canopy, a
second starkly decorated in black and white, and
finally into a small, austere bedchamber. Its windows
curtained against the lowering sky, lit by stands of
candles and a lamp shaped like a tree.

Idril was standing alone beside the narrow,
uncurtained bed where Faramir lay, undressed, washed
and lightly covered by a linen sheet. "The physical
wounds are none so grave," she told the healers as
they bent over their patient, "but I fear the Black
Breath."

"And rightly." One sister said bleakly, laid a
white hand on the Man's flushed brow. "It takes him as
a fever - he is fighting it."

"For all the good it will do him." was Idril's grim
answer.

The Healer gave her a sharp, almost chiding look.
"You must not give up hope, my Lady. A few have
managed to find their way back to life from under the
Black Shadow. Lord Faramir has the strength and the
will to be one of them. Someone must remain with him
at all times, to give him a line and anchor whereby he
may pull himself back to us."

Idril nodded.

"Peregrin said the Steward was also in need of a
healer?" the other sister prompted.

"In the next room."

This too was curtained and candlelit. Furnished as
a study with shelves of books and a writing desk.
Denethor lay on a couch beneath the covered windows,
still unconcsious.

"He has been struck." the healer observed
neutrally, feeling delicately around the purpling lump
on his temple.

"Yes." Pippin admitted uncomfortably, putting her
box of medicines down on a nearby table. "He - he was
distraught." the Woman's mouth twitched a little.
Pippin realized she must have heard Denethor's shout
and found himself saying defensively. "My Lord has
been worrying himself sick about Faramir for two days
now. And then to have his only son brought back to him
apparently dead - what father wouldn't go a bit mad"

"That is true." she conceeded. "The Lord Steward
has been under a strain the rest of us can only
imagine." She pried open one of Denethor's eyelids and
seemed satisfied with what she found beneath it. "No
great harm done, he is but stunned." glanced at the
gentleman in waiting standing by the door. "I need
cold water."

When it was brought she took a vial of greenish
glass from her box and poured it into the water.
"Bathe his wound with this, it will bring down the
swelling." she instructed Pippin. "He should come
around very shortly. If he is not himself again by the
time the hour stikes, send for me again."

She opened the door to the bedchamber just as her
sister was telling Idril: "There is nothing further to
be done, my Lady. My sister or I would remain but
there will be many others in need of a healer today."

"Indeed there will." the Lady agreed. "Go. Peregrin
and I will deal well enough here."

Pippin went back to sit by his master, bathe his
head with the medicated water, and think about his
parents. He'd remembered home and family often enough,
and wished himself back any number of times, but never
before had he considered what his long absence must be
doing to those he'd left behind.

Mercifully Paladin and Eglantine had no idea where
their only son was, or the peril he was in, but he'd
been gone for so long now that they must be getting
anxious. And how would they feel if he never came home
at all?

*I'll just have to see that I do.* he told himself.
And went on tending his master. Through the open door
he could hear an occasional moan from Faramir, calling
for his father. It seemed a very long time, but in
reality was only a few minutes, before Denethor opened
his eyes to look dazedly about.

"My Lord?" the eyes focused on Pippin, seemed to
recognize him. "My Lord, I am glad you are awake. The
Lord Faramir calls for you."

A hint of color crept back into the Steward's grey
face. "But...he is dead." he whispered, not daring to
believe.

"No, my Lord, he lives yet, though sorely wounded,
and wants his father. He's just next door."

Denethor pulled himself off the couch and, leaning
heavily on Pippin's shoulder, staggered into the next
room.

Idril was sitting by the bed, her brother's hand in
hers. She looked up as they came in. "Your son calls
for you, Father."

The Steward collapsed onto the chair Pippin hastily
set for him and took Faramir's other hand.

Idril left shortly after that, and Denethor sat
alone by his son save only for Pippin, standing by the
door, unwilling to leave yet unable to help.

But his master knew he was there. Said suddenly:
"Come, Peregrin, take my son's hand for a few moments,
for I would not have him think himself forsaken and I
have an errand elsewhere."

He left the room slowly, leaning heavily upon a
short staff. He was away only a brief time but when he
returned his face was so grey and haggard that Pippin
was frightened for him.

He took his place again beside his son. Pippin,
uncertain whether to return to his post by the door or
stay where he was looked at his master for a hint, and
saw tears running down his face.

"Do not weep, Lord," he stammered. "The healer said
he might get well. Perhaps we should get Gandalf?"

"Comfort me not with wizards!" said Denethor. "The
fool's hope has failed. The power of the Enemy waxes
and all we do will end in ruin.

"I sent my son forth, unblessed, into needless
peril, and here he lies with poison in his veins. Even
the House of the Stewards has failed. Mean folk shall
rule the last remnant of the Kings of Men, lurking in
the hills until all are hounded out."

For a moment Pippin felt himself sinking into the
black pit alongside his master, but then something
inside of him - sheer Hobbit obstinancy no doubt -
rebelled against despair.

Frodo lived, and as long as he did there was hope.
Even the fall of this great city would not be the end.
Aragorn's folk had fought from hiding for nigh on a
thousand years, his kin in the South could do the
same. And Hobbits too if it came to that! The Shadow
would not win, they wouldn't let it.

Lady Idril came in, dressed so differently from her
normal custom that Pippin almost failed to recognize
her. Her gown was bright scarlet, with kilted skirts
and flowing sleeves knotted up out of her way, and she
wore neither veil nor any jewels, save her great 'B'
brooch.

"The people cry out for the Lord of the City." she
told her father. "Not all are willing to follow
Mithrandir, or even Hurin. They want you, their Lord
and Steward. Will you not go down to them?"

"No." Denethor's voice was flat, indifferent. "I
must stay beside my son. Let them follow who they
will, even the Grey Fool, though his hope has failed."

The candlelight quivered on the gold and rubies of
the brooch and Pippin realized the Woman was shaking
with a barely contained passion that was certainly not
fear. "Hope fails but hate remains," she spat at her
father, "and defiance! Will you sit here and do
nothing while the White City burns about your ears?
Boromir would be ashamed of his sire!"

Denethor's head lifted and for a moment Pippin
thought her goading had succeeded - but no. "Here I
stay." he told her.

"Very well!" she blazed. "But I am going down into
the city to do what little I might to make the Enemy's
victory come harder! Good-bye, Father."

She whirled to leave, was halted by Pippin's cry of
"No!" Father and daughter both looked at him in
astonishment but he wasn't going to make the same
mistake twice. "Please, you musn't part like this -
not now. Not when you might never see each other
again."

There was a tense silence. Then Denethor rose from
his seat, detached the long sheathed dagger that
balanced his sword and offered it to Idril. "Take
this, daughter," he said huskily. "I trust you to know
when to use it." his voice broke slightly. "Believe
me, Child, if there were any way I could save you I
would. But I cannot.

Tears glistened in Idril's eyes as she took the
blade. "I know, Father. Don't worry, I will not live
to be Sauron's slave." Then she stood on tiptoe to
kiss his cheek, and bent to place another on Faramir's
brow. "Farwell, dear Brother." she said softly, and
went out.

Denethor sank back into his chair and picked up his
son's hand.

Pippin subsided onto his own stool, shaking with
relief - and remorse. If only he'd spoken up so when
Denethor was quarrelling with Faramir! Then maybe they
wouldn't be sitting here now, waiting for the son to die
while his father aged before Pippin's eyes, heart and
will broken.

 
   Idril led a long train of healers, Citadel serving
women, her own four maids in waiting, ladies and
burgess' wives from the upper circles and their maids,
down the long spiral avenue that united the city.

   The lower levels were in chaos, just as she had
feared; the streets littered with masonry, the people
either rushing about in panic or huddling together in
tearful despair. She seized the arm of an older Man
whose velvet gown proclaimed him to be a person of
importance as he tried to push past her, stopping him
in his tracks.

   "You, collect Men and clear this rubble from the
streets - our soldiers must be able to move."

   He stared at her for a moment, then the glassiness
left his eyes and he turned away shouting to the Men
nearby with the easy authority of one used to being
obeyed. "Come, boys, you heard the Lady, let's get to
work."

   Idril stepped over blocks of stone to a Woman of
about her own years, huddled weeping over a frightened
toddler. Took the child from her arms and handed it to
Faelivrin. "Get the children and old folk to the upper
levels." she ordered. "I have had the empty mansions
of the fifth and sixth levels opened to recieve them."

   She turned back to the Woman, pulling her to her
feet. "Your child is being taken to safety." she said
firmly into the uncomprehending face. "You come with
me, we need Women at the wall to carry water and tend
the wounded."

   A light came back into the reddened eyes.
Obediently the Woman kissed her child good-bye and
fell in with others behind Idril.

   She continued down the street, collecting Women and
setting the Men and boys to clearing rubble. Finally
they came to the great square behind the gate and
found it already full of injured defenders being
tended by their fellow soldiers.

   "Go back to your duties." she said to the young
officer in charge. "We will see to these Men."

   He looked at the Women, moving among the wounded
with their supplies of linens and salves, displacing
his soldiers. "Yes, my Lady." then, uncertainly: "My
Lady, Mithrandir has taken command of the defense -"

   "By the Steward's will." Idril answered at once and
firmly. "Obey him as you would the Lord Denethor
himself."

   Doubts answered the Man saluted her, collected his
Men and left.

   The great square, being the largest open space
inside the walls, became their main field hospital.
Idril established other aid stations, each with a
healer or experienced housewife in charge, and
stationed the steadiest of the Women on the wall
itself, to carry water and fresh arrows, and bear away
the wounded, freeing the soldiers to fight.

   Behind the walls the Men of the city struggled to
keep the streets clear and dig wounded and dead out of
the rubble as the enemy's trebuchets continued to rain
ruin upon them. Then the Nazgul came, snatching Men
from the inner walls to fling to their deaths, and
uttering the terrible screams that froze the blood in
the veins and sent Men cowering under whatever cover
they could find, hands over their ears. But not all
Men.
****

   High above the battle the four Fountain guards
stood unmoving at their post of duty. A Nazgul on his
winged beast stooped down upon the Citadel, sending
those watching from the buttress wall running for
cover. But the Fountain guards held their ground,
turning to face the threat, spears leveled. The Wraith
hovered directly above them and voiced its terrible
cry, and still they did not blench.

   But it did not attack. Perhaps some virtue in the
dead husk of the Tree kept it at bay. Or perhaps it
prefered to seek less determined prey. For whatever
reason the Nazgul turned aside, swooping down upon the
lower levels.

   Weak with the aftermath of terror and the effort of
will it had taken to withstand it, Beregond, Gildor,
Angrim and Meneldur, exchanged looks in which relief
and astonishment mingled. Then resumed their usual
stations, the silence imposed by their discipline
unbroken.   
****

   The Nazgul's cries came only distantly to the first
circle but still Women and Men stopped their work to
look upward with haunted eyes. Idril urged them back
to their tasks, with a mounting frustration that
almost held back fear.

   She could get their people to follow her orders and
work in their own defense but she could not put the
heart back into them. Nowhere did she see the rage and
defiance that burned within her and it was beyond any
power of hers to inspire it. Neither could Mithrandir,
or Hurin or Imrahil of Dol Amroth though Idril had
watched them all try. It was like firing wet wood, the
sparks they struck were soon smothered.

   The one Man who could have kindled all these hearts
chilled by fear and despair to renewed courage had
gotten himself killed pursuing some unkown quest when
he was needed at home. His brother, who perhaps could
have taken his place, had instead thrown his life away
in a useless gesture. And the father who had sent both
to their doom had forgotten all duty in his grief and
despair.

   Idril was furious at father and brothers alike for
failing their people - and her - in this last need.
And at herself too for being but bastard Anarioni, and
a Woman at that, and unable to wear the winged crown.
The House of the Stewards had failed, just as
Telemmaite had predicted. Gondor needed her King but
there was no King to hear or heed her call.
****

   One by one the candles in Faramir's sickroom
guttered out until Denethor's hunched form in its dark
robes was almost invisible. Pippin could stand the
strain no longer, he had to get out, if just for a few
minutes. He groped his way to the door and slipped
through it.

   The six gentlemen in waiting stood still and silent
as ever in the outer room. Pippin hesitated, but they
didn't ask him his business, scarcely seemed to notice
he was there. He went past them, through the presence
chamber and down the long stair to the great door of
the tower.

   It was dark outside too, except for the reddish
light cast by the torches on their poles. Pippin
leaned against the stone wall and shook. Suddenly the
Captain of the Citadel came through the arch between
tower and hall followed by the five companies of the
guard, each with its captain at its head.

   "Come you Men," he called to the sentries posted
about the court, "down to the lower levels." The
guards abandoned their posts willingly, almost
eagerly, each joining his proper company behind the
fair haired captain.

   Pippin hesitated, fear fighting his reluctance to
return to the Steward's chamber, painfully conscious
of his armor and weapons, and the White Tree on his
chest. But as the tail of the column passed him he fell
in with it, another guard of the Citadel, however
small.

   The tall soldiers didn't run but they strode very
fast with their long legs, and Pippin soon found
himself falling behind. The streets of the lower city
were strewn with rubble, dispite the best efforts of
the Men trying to keep them clear, with more wreckage
raining down on them every time an enemy boulder
struck home.

   The difficulty of getting through the streets and
necessity of taking cover every few minutes broke up
the column. Pippin clung determinedly to the band he
was following, they knew where to go and he certainly
didn't.

   The Big Folk didn't seem to see him at all until a
group of them accidently knocked him off his feet
getting away from yet another fall of masonry. A big
chunk fell practically on top of Pippin, shaking him
badly.

   Some of the city Men noticed him then, picked him
up and dusted him off with apologies, then directed
him after the vanished guardsmen. Pippin wouldn't have
believed things could get any worse after that - but
they did. Horrible winged Nazgul swooped down on them,
uttering their bone chilling cries and sending
everybody, even the bravest soldiers, stumbling for
cover hands over ears.
   
   Yet finally he made it to the wall, collapsing
winded on a chunk of roof as the other guards pounded
up the stone stairs. But his conscience wouldn't let
him rest for long. He squinted up the at the
battlements and saw a flash of white cloak - Gandalf!
Pulled himself to his feet and started to climb.

   He arrived just as the Orcs did, pouring out of
their huge wooden siege towers. Gandalf saw him and
cried: "Peregrin Took, go back to the Citadel!"

   "They called us out to fight." Pippin managed,
round eyes fixed on the enemy.

   An Orc started for them and Gandalf struck it down
in a whirl of cloak, sword and staff. "This is no
place for a Hobbit!" he shouted.

   Pippin couldn't have agreed more, but he couldn't
move. The big hulking Orcs were just like the ones at
Parth Galen and just as at Parth Galen he couldn't
*move* couldn't do anything but stand there like a
lump watching Gandalf fight for his life - as Boromir
had.

   The he saw an Orc come up on the wizard's blind
side. Before he knew what was happening his sword was
out of its sheath and he'd thrust it straight and hard
into the nasty creature. It fell and he stood staring
in disbelief at the the black blood on his blade. Had
he really done that?

   Gandalf smiled at him. "Guard of the Citadel
indeed." then crisply; "Now, back! Up the hill!
Quickly! Quick!"

   Pippin obeyed, scampering for the stairs. But once
down off the wall, away from the Orcs and able to
think clearly again, he hesitated. Wandering
uncertainly through the first circle he walked into a
little cross street square full of wounded men being
tended by Women, including Lady Idril.

   She looked up, yellow eyes widening at the sight of
him. "Master Peregrin, what are you doing here?"

   "The Captain of the Citadel ordered us down to the
walls," he explained, glad to find somebody to confide
his uncertainty to. "but when I got there Gandalf
ordered me back. Now I don't know what to do - I'm no
kind of warrior but I want to do my duty."

   "Mithrandir is right," the Lady answered without
hesitation. "Your place is in the Citadel, Master
Peregrin, at the Steward's side. You are his esquire."

   Well that settled that, though the thought of
returning to Denethor's darkened rooms was almost as
appalling as facing Orcs on the wall. He squared his
shoulders. "Then I'll go back. Thank you, my Lady, for
clearing that up for me."

 
   Denethor's gentlemen in waiting paid no more
attention to Pippin's return than they had to his
leaving. He lit one of the candles he was carrying
from a stand near the door to the bedroom before going
in.

   It was pitch dark and dead silent save for
Faramir's labored breathing. Grimly Pippin groped his
way to the nearest candlestand, stuck in the new
candles and lit them, then moved on to the next. Only
after he'd made a complete circuit of the room did he
turn to look at his master.

   Faramir's face was red with the heat of his fever
and glistened in the candlelight. But his father's,
hanging over him, was cold and grey like the congealed
candle wax dripping from the stands. There was nothing
Pippin could say, nothing he could do but take up his
station by the door and wait.

   After what seemed a very long time the door was
opened to admit a breathless messenger. "My Lord," he
said bowing to Denethor's back, "the first circle is
on fire and Men are flying from the walls. What are
your commands?"

   Slowly the Steward straightened up, then turned to
the messenger a face so bleak and terrible that the
Man blanched and recoiled a step. "Why? Why do the
fools fly?" he asked. "Better to burn sooner than
late, for burn we must. Go back to your bonfire!" he
came to his feet, voice rising to a shout. "The West
has failed. Go back and burn!"

   The Man turned and fled. Denethor looked after him,
then back at his son with a glitter in his eye Pippin
didn't like at all.  

   "Send for my servants!"

   Pippin went out the still open door to the
anteroom. "The Lord Steward calls for you." he said to
the gentlemen in waiting. Then went on through the
presence chamber and down the stair to see for himself
what was happening outside.

   The first circle of the city was indeed afire, and
the enemy was hurling great balls of flaming pitch
over the wall to start more. Looking down from the
embrasure at the tip of the great buttress Pippin saw
a great battering ram tipped with an iron wolf's head,
red fire in its jaws, at the Great Gate far below.
Straining trolls pulled it back then released it to
swing forward, crashing against the wood and metal of
the gates.

   "Oh no." he whispered.
****

   The Great Gate quivered under a thunderous blow,
the wounded in the square and the Women tending them
stared at it apprehensively.

   "Idril!"  She looked up to see Mithrandir on the
wall above. "Clear the square, get the wounded and
your Women out of there."

   She waved to show she had heard and turned to obey.
"Luinil, get the walking wounded up and moving, at
least as far as the second circle. Annalind,
Pharinzil, try to find me some Men to carry the
litters of those who cannot walk."

   "The gate won't break." Luinil said fiercely,
denying her fear. "It *can't*!"

   At that moment the ancient timbers shuddered again
under a second even greater blow.

   "Get up to the second circle or higher if you can."
was all Idril answered.

   After seeing her field hospital in the square
packed up and on its way she went down the lower
avenue to collect the Women at the aid stations and
start them and their charges upward as well. Then
climbed onto the wall to find Hirluin of Pinnath
Gelin, who commanded the defenses north of the Gate.

   "Get your Men out of here." she said flatly. He
stared at her in disbelief, as well he might. She
explained. "The Gate is under attack, it will not
hold, nor will our Men will be able to keep the enemy
out when it breaks. If you don't go now you'll be cut
off, trapped."

   He looked at the Orc littered ramparts, nodded
reluctantly. "You're right, we can do no more good
here."
****

   Pippin turned away from the embrasure. If the city
was about to be breached its Steward should be told,
not that he was likely to care. The Hobbit had just
reached the fountain and the Tree when he saw Denethor
descending the steps of the Tower. Followed by six
guardsmen bearing Faramir, now dressed in mail and
silver edged surcoat, upon a bier. Followed in turn by
the somber waiting gentlemen.

   Pippin stopped in his tracks, eyes filling with
tears. "Oh no." he whispered again. Faramir was dead.

   He ran to join the little procession, trailing the
gentlemen servants, as they walked slowly down the
stair and through the tunnel to the sixth circle.
Turning westward they went past the grand old
mansions, some visibly decaying, watched by the wide
eyed Women and children sheltering in them, until they
came to a door in the rearward wall, guarded by a
porter in the uniform of the Citadel. At Denethor's
command he unlocked the door and they passed through.
Pippin, at the tail end of the procession, heard the
door close and relock behind them. Followed the others
down a winding, descending road hemmed in on either
side by high walls.

  Eventually it opened up into a narrow street with
many side lanes snaking their way between massive
buildings of black and white stone, grand with domes
and spires and many statues looking down with empty
eyes upon the intruders.

   Pippin looked around him uneasily. He didn't like
this place. Then suddenly he realized what it was; a
graveyard. These were the splendid tombs of the Lords
of Gondor and they had brought Faramir here to bury
him. Pippin stopped where he was in the middle of the
street and let the funeral cortege go on without him.
He didn't want to go into any of these grim grand
buildings or watch them lay Faramir away in cold
stone. He'd just stay here and wait until Denethor and
his attendants came out again.

   After some minutes a pair of the gentlemen in
waiting reappeared, walking quickly up the street
towards the long twisty passage and the door. Pippin
looked after them in some bewilderment. Had they
forgotten something?
****

   Idril was chiving her various charges through fire
and ruin up the great avenue to the second gate when
they were overtaken by a surge of shaken and battered
Men, and Mithrandir on his white horse.

   "The city is breached!" he shouted. "Fall back to
the second level." then he saw her. "Get the Women and
children out, get them out!" and galloped on.

   She glared after him. What did he think she was
doing? But she feared the second level would prove no
refuge. The inner walls had been hopelessly
compromised over the centuries by windows, balconies
and postern doors.

   Unfortunately she was right. Even before the second
gate had closed behind them the circle had been
breached in a dozen places. Orcs, Trolls and even
Wargs roamed the narrow alleys hunting for prey. The
retreat soon disintigrated into a score of desperate
rearguard actions as soldiers tried to cover the
flight of the Women, unarmed Men and wounded to the
higher levels.

   Idril stood in the lea of a half shattered tower,
Pharinzil and Annalind huddled behind her, as Women
ran past them up a flight of steps winding steeply
between the buildings. Some, looking back over their
shoulders, screamed at the sight of massive black Orcs
all to close behind. Idril looked frantically around
for something, anything to stop them and her eye was
caught by the jagged wall looming over her.

   She grabbed at a couple of the Women running by,
"Help me!" the five of them got behind the shattered
wall and pushed with all their strength, it gave a
little. A few of the Women bringing up the rear saw
what they were trying to do and stopped to help. Their
combined weight finally overbalanced the ruin and it
gave way, stones cascading down the stair to crush and
sweep away the Uruks.

   "Well done!" Idril told them. "Now go on, keep
moving." obediently the Women scampered up the steps.
Before following she looked one last time down at the
wreckage and saw that one Orc was still barely alive,
half buried, mewling in pain.

   Idril hesitated, torn between hatred and disgust
and an unexpected pity. Finally she drew the dagger
her father had given her and picking her way down
through the the tumbled stones drove it into the
creature's eye, ending its agony. She wiped the black
blood from the blade and turned to follow the other
Women telling herself there was no justification for
needless cruelty, even against such as Orcs.
****

   Pippin was sitting disconsolately on the steps of a
splendid tomb adorned with gilded statues of black
stone when Denethor's gentlemen finally returned,
followed by liveried servants carrying bundles of wood
and vessels of oil like the one he'd spilled over the
beacon pyre. He watched them pass in bewilderment.
Then after a few moments saw the serving Men
returning, looking pale and shaken.

   Pippin came to his feet. "What is it? what are they
doing?"

   "Something I have no stomach for." one of the Men
answered him bleakly.

   And another said; "If you are wise Little Master
you'll come back with us. Leave the Dead to the Dead."

   They hurried on up the road. Pippin, really
frightened now, went the other way - after Denethor.

   Peering cautiously through the open door of the
great tomb house of the Stewards he saw guards and
gentlemen in waiting piling wood onto a wide stone
dais. They lifted Faramir from his litter to lay him
atop the pile and he moaned a weak protest.

   Pippin gasped. Faramir wasn't dead at all! Why then
had Denethor brought him here?  

   The Steward climbed up on the heaped wood to cradle
his son's head in his lap. "The house of his spirit
crumbles." he mourned. "He is burning. Already
burning."

   Suddenly Pippin realized with horror what Denethor
meant to do. Abandoning his hiding place he ran to the
pyre, tried to pull away the bundled wood. "No! He's
not dead! He's not dead!" Then Denethor seized him in
an iron grip and dragged him, struggling and pleading,
to the door. 

   "Hear now, Peregrin, son of Paladin," he said in an
iron voice. "I release you from my service." threw him
to the ground outside the great metal doors and
finished. "Go now and die in what way seems best to
you." then slammed the doors shut in his face.

   Pippin heard him cry "Pour oil on the wood!" then
picked himself up and ran all the way back to the
locked door and pounded on it. Nearly bowled over the
porter when he finally opened it, and raced through
the sixth circle and up the tunnel to the Citadel.
Help, he had to get help for Faramir. But who? and
where? Then he remembered one of the four guards
standing round the Tree was Beregond and ran to him.

   "Beregond, Beregond, you must help. Faramir isn't
dead but his father is going to burn him alive and
himself too I think! Please do something."

   He saw the Man's eyes glint above the black silk
mask as they looked down on him and then away.
Remembered suddenly what he'd been told the very first
day they met: Fountain Guards couldn't speak or take
notice of anything while on duty.

   A sob of frustration broke from him. "Curse this
mad city and its mad laws!" Abandoning Beregond he ran
back to the stair. Gandalf, Gandalf could help. If
only he could find him in time.

   "My Lady? Dame Berethil asks to speak to you."
Faelivrin looked nervous and unhappy, clearly
something else had gone wrong.

   Idril handed her ladel to another Woman and came
out from behind the great kettles of soup and pottage
under the colonade to follow her maid in waiting
across a courtyard crowded with Women and childen
supping quietly at their bowls to the suite of
apartments on the far side.

   Pharinzil was lying in the middle room, on a dusty
old day-bed covered with a sheet, the healer bending
over her.

   Idril frowned worriedly. "Still unconscious?"

   "It is the Black Breath." Berethil said flatly.

   For a moment Idril could only gape at her, then she
got her breath back. "Impossible! Pharinzil was struck
by falling masonry not a Morgul dart!"

   "Yet she has fallen under the Shadow." the healer
sounded tired. "Many, indeed most of our wounded are
so afflicted, whatever the nature of their injuries. I
cannot explain it, my Lady, but it is so."

   Bitterness flooded Idril's soul. "Then they are
doomed, Men, Women and children alike."

   Berethil looked like she wanted to disagree, but
couldn't. They both knew how terribly rare recovery
from the Black Breath was.

   *Why grieve?* Idril asked herself. *They will die
in any case, and the Black Breath is a kinder end than
the Orcs would give them.* "Do what you can for her,
and the others." she said to the healer, turned and
left.

   The garden terrace behind the house was also full
of huddled Women and children. It was surrounded by a
high wall with niches for statues and three false
gates framing landscape frescoes. Tucked away in a
corner was a stair leading up to a rampart walkway.

   Standing on it Idril could see north and east over
the Pelennor fields, now black with the enemy, and the
first three circles of the city burning beneath her.
She felt for the dagger her father had given her, it
would be time to use it soon.

   Struck by a sudden thought she looked back at the
people in the garden, and remembered all the others in
this house and the other great mansions of the fifth
and sixth circles. What of them? The best they could
hope for was a quick death. Far more likely was a
prolonged one, as the sport of the Enemies creatures.
Worst of all some might be taken captive and carried
away into Mordor to serve the Dark Lord as his slaves.

   Her mouth set in a grim line. *She* would not
abandon her people to their fate as her father and
brothers had, if she could not save them she would at
least take them out of Sauron's hands forever.
****

   *Oh where is Gandalf? In the thick of things, I
suppose, as usual. But where is that?*

   Pippin pushed his way against the tide of tired,
stumbling soldiers. "Have you seen Mithrandir?" he
demanded. "Do you know where he is?"

   Most didn't seem to hear, or at least didn't
answer. Those who did could only shake their heads.
Somewhere in the third circle, no doubt - but as for
exactly where...

   Nothing for it but to keep looking - and hope when
he finally found Gandalf it wouldn't be too late.
****

   "You're mad. You've gone mad, my Lady." the Woman
clutched at her children, two small boys and a girl,
and stared at Idril in horror.

   "Perhaps I have." said the Lady grimly. "But would
you leave these to the mercies of Sauron?" she held
out the knife. "Spare them that, and take a particle
of the Enemy's victory from him!" almost gently, "I
promise I will not give the word until all is truly
lost and there is no other escape."

   The Woman bit her lip, hesitated, then took the
knife with trembling hand.

   Not all needed persuading. Idril was unsurprised to
discover other Women had had the same thought; that
death was better than capture, for themselves and
their children.

   Some indeed saw no reason to wait, but there she
stood firm: "Not while the Men are still fighting lest
they think they have failed us. I will see we have
time enough." she told the impatient ones.

   Only a few remained adamantly opposed; among them
the healers Baradis and Berethil and their
sister-by-marriage, a Mistress Hiril.

   "It is not lawful." the latter insisted. "In any
case the city will not fall."

   "I greatly fear you are wrong there." Idril
answered evenly. "But if you are right there will be
no need, and no harm will be done."
****

   The patter of Peregrin's bare feet on the stone
steps to the lower circles died away but cries and
sounds of destruction continued to float up the dark
shaft to the Court of the Tree.

   Beregond didn't need to be told the city was
breached. There was no hope now for Minas Tirith.
Perhaps Denethor was right to take himself and his son
out of this world before they could fall into enemy
hands. A clean death by fire was far better than
Sauron's mercy. It was not worth breaking the
discipline of a thousand years to save a life that
would be soon forfeit anyway - and far more cruelly.
But poor Peregrin! Poor, innocent Halfling. Why had
Mithrandir brought him here to die far from his
peaceful northern home?

   A breath of air, warm and smelling of the sea,
brushed his cheek. Startled he looked westward; and
saw a band of grey night sky at the edge of Sauron's
Dark. As he watched, disbelieving, it widened and
stars appeared, including one brighter than the rest
that did not flicker.

   "Earendil." he whispered. The star's light fired
his spirit not just with hope but with a purpose and
authority that was quite alien to the humble
man-at-arms he pretended be. Ignoring the law of the
Fountain Guard he spoke aloud in the High Tongue of
old, his voice ringing strongly through the Court:

   "Aiya Earendil Elenion Orestel!" Behold Earendil,
Star of High Hope. "Auta i lome, aure entuluva!" The
night is passing, day shall come again!

   His fellows stared at him in amazement, and
something like awe, but none made any move to stop him
as he left his post, striding for the stair. A living
Man mattered more than a dead tree - even Nimloth. The
day had come. Faramir and his father, must live to see
it.

   He was checked at the door to the Hallow. "You have
not the Steward's permission to enter." the Porter
said stubbornly.

   "I have news he must hear!" Beregond pleaded. "For
the Lord Denethor's own sake let me pass!"

   But the Man was unmoveable. "Not without proper
authorization."

   Beregond stared at him in disbelief. Then saw over
his shoulder the key still in the lock. He swept the
porter aside with the haft of his spear and set a hand
to the latch.

   "Oh no you don't!" the other Man regained his
balance, drew his sword and attacked. Instinctively
Beregond blocked and countered and stabbed the Porter
to the heart before his thought caught up with his
hands.

   He pulled the blade free, watched in horror as the
Man sagged to the ground, face empty in death. "The
first blood I ever shed, and it is that of a fellow
soldier." he whispered bitterly. "Valar forgive me."
But there was still Faramir and his father to be
saved. He went on.

   The great steel doors of the House of the Stewards
were shut but unlocked, Beregond struck them open and
saw the guards within a breath of lighting the pyre on
which Denethor stood, back to the doors, over his
son's body.

   "My Lord Steward!" he cried not just with his voice
but with the full strength of his will. The tension
holding the Men inside shattered like a glass bowl.
The guards jerked back their torches, Denethor whirled
to glare savagely at the intruder.

   "What is this, my Lord?" Beregond asked. "The
houses of the dead are no place for the living. Would
you abandon your people in their last need?"

   "Since when has the Lord of Gondor been answerable
to such as you?" the Steward snarled.

   "Since the realms were founded, and before."
Beregond answered. And saw the words go home in a way
he had not intended. He had meant only that a Lord was
answerable, always, to his people. But he saw in
Denethor's glaring eyes both the memory of his,
Beregond's, own remote royal descent and of the
allegiance the House of Hurin owed to the House of
Anarion.

   Suddenly the rage went out of the Steward's face
leaving it ravaged and full of sorrow. his shoulders
sagged. "Battle is vain." he said, almost pleadingly.
"Why should we not go to death side by side?"

   "Battle is not vain!" Beregond answered urgently.
"The wind has changed, my Lord, it blows now from the
west and pushes back the darkness. There is still
hope. Your people cry for you, do not fail us."

   Denethor wavered. Beregond saw the nobler part of
his spirit do battle with pride and despair. For a
short moment it seemed likely to win, but then
Denethor's face twisted again into a mask of fury and
he laughed with a note of madness in his voice.
Beregond knew he was lost.

   The Steward stooped, lifted a swathed bundle lying
at his feet, and swept off the coverings. It was a
palantir, its glassy blackness lit by a red inner
fire. Denethor laughed again, wildly, sprang down from
the pyre and advanced on Beregond the seeing stone
extended before him.

   "Your hope is but ignorance." he sneered. "Go forth
and fight? Vanity! Against the Power that now arises
there is no victory. Even now the wind of your hope
cheats you and wafts up the Anduin a fleet with black
sails. Look! see for yourself."

   Unwillingly Beregond did look and saw, as the
Steward had said, black sailed ships small but clear
within the globe. But he saw also bright sky in their
wake. Looked up. "I trust my own heart over a thing
made by craft." he said quietly. "And my heart tells
me there is still hope. Help is coming, my Lord, I
know not who or how, but it comes. And if we hold fast
it may not be too late."

   But even as he spoke he knew it was no use.
Denethor had shut mind and heart. "Hope on then." the
Steward said bitterly. "The Ancalimonioni were always
fools.(1) The West has failed. It is time for all to
depart who would not be slaves." turned to the nearest
guard. "Give me the torch."

   Beregond leveled his spear. "Stand where you are."

   The Man hesitated, eyes darting between the two.

   "You dare?" Denethor breathed, unbelieving. How
long had it been since any had directly opposed his
will? "You are sworn to my service, Guardsman,
whatever blood may be in your veins!"

   Beregond shook his head. "No I am not. You yourself
released me from my oath when I joined the Fountain
Guard. I am sworn to the service of the King. As are
you, Steward."

   Denethor glared at him, face working, shouted to
his guards. "Slay me this renegade!"

   The Men exchanged dazed, almost frightened looks
but did not move. His hold on their wills had been
broken.

   "What, are you all recreant? Then I will slay him
myself! I can still wield a brand!" and he cast aside
the palantir and his fur lined robe to draw the sword
at his side.
*****
     
1. The name of Beregond's line, descended from Prince
Ancalimon son of Elemmacil second son of Narmacil II.
See Note below.

Note: The Law of Hyarmendacil II

   By this statute it became a crime punishable by
loss of lands and place in the succession to 'pollute'
the Blood Royal by mixing it with that of 'Lesser
Men'. The Kings of Rhovanion, because of their
supposed kinship with the House of Hador, were not
counted among 'Lesser Men', (which was most convenient
for Hyarmendacil!) but non-royal Northmen were. As
were descendants of the Mountain and Vale folk who'd
occupied the land before Gondor was established; Men
not of Gondor, Haradrim, Easterlings and the like; Men
of mixed blood; and Men of common birth as they were
unable to prove 'purity of blood'.

   In justice to Hyarmendacil he made his law less out
of bigotry and pride or race than to secure Gondor
against another Kinstrife. And it proved very useful
to Princes of the Blood seeking to escape suspicion
and surveillance by the current occupant of the
throne.

  Ancalimon was one who availed himself of this
protection, chosing to wed the very beautiful daughter
of a humble tanner. This lost him his rank but did
wonders for his military career as his royal uncle and
cousin no longer feared to employ his skills. As
Captain-General of Gondor he was responsible for the
victories of King Calimehtar, and was slain in the
Battle of Dagorlad. Beregond is his direct descendant.

   Pippin was almost ready to give up when he turned a
corner and there was Gandalf, sitting on Shadowfax
frowning off into the distance, seemingly unaware of
the soldiers streaming past him.

   "Gandalf!" he ran to him, shoving the big Men out
of his way as if they were Hobbits. "Gandalf,
Denethor's lost his mind. He's burning Faramir alive!"

   For a moment the wizard blinked down at him without
recognition, then his eyes flared wide in alarm as
Pippin's words registered. He reached down a hand to
haul the Hobbit onto Shadowfax. "Come!"

   They galloped up the winding avenue and passed
through the gate to the fourth circle. Then Shadowfax
checked, coming to a halt so sudden his riders were
almost unseated.

   Pippin felt a downwash of air, as from giant wings,
and was filled with an all too familiar dread. Peeking
around Gandalf he saw a fell beast had landed almost
directly in their path, the Nazgul on its back masked
and crowned with black iron.

   "You cannot enter here." the wizard's voice rang
cold and hard. "Go back to the abyss prepared for you!
Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your
Master. Go!"

   And was answered by an even colder and more deadly
voice: "Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know
death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!" the
Witch King raised his sword and red flames ran down
the blade. Pippin buried his face in Gandalf's cloak.

   The wizard lifted up his staff, light blazing from
the tip. But this Nazgul did not blench from the white
fire. Sword met staff once, twice, and on the third
stroke the staff shattered in a blinding flash.

   Shadowfax staggered back a few steps, as the Witch
King laughed, then checked himself. Gandalf set his
hand to Glamdring's hilt, but before he could draw the
homeliest yet strangest of sounds froze both wizard
and Witch King in their tracks and made Pippin lift up
his head to look around in bewilderment for the
source.

   Somewhere, in some backyard coop, a cock crowed
welcoming the morning. And, sure enough, though the
east remained dark there was light in the west. Honest
yellow-white sunlight, seeming terribly bright in
contrast with the Shadow still hanging over the City.

   Then, as if in answer to the cock, there came
another sound, faint with distance, the wild music of
horns.

   The Nazgul pulled his beast's head around and took
to the air, heading out to the battlefield. "What is
it?" Pippin asked, shaking with relief. "What happened
Gandalf?"

   "Day has come again," the wizard answered, sounding
a little dazed himself. "and the Riders of Rohan with
it." then with a touch of his old irrascibility:
"There are things I should be doing, but first for
Faramir!"
***

   The Porter lay dead beside his door. "This is the
work of the Enemy!" Gandalf said bitterly. "Such deeds
he loves: friend at war with friend; loyalty divided
in confusion of hearts."

   They galloped on; down the winding Rath Dinen, up
the central street of the tombs and then down the side
alley leading to the House of the Stewards.

   Shadowfax reared, striking the steel doors open
with his hooves. Light streamed in from the
brightening sky behind them showing Beregond and
Denethor face to face, weapons in hand.

   "Stay this madness!" Gandalf thundered, and for an
instant both Men looked towards him. Then Denethor
raised his sword to strike.

   Snatching a spear from a guard flanking the doors
Gandalf charged forward and knocked the blade from his
hand. Denethor staggered back, almost fell.

   As Shadowfax wheeled around beside the pyre Pippin
threw himself onto it to roll Faramir, soaked in oil,
into Beregond's waiting arms. The guardsman carried
the unconscious Man to the bier nearby, and as he did
so Faramir moaned and called for his father.

   At the sound of his voice the madness vanished from
Denethor's face and tears filled his eyes. "Do not
take my son from me!" he pleaded. "He calls for me."

   "He calls," Gandalf said gently and pityingly, "but

you cannot come to him yet. For he must seek healing,
and maybe find it not. Your part is to go out to the
battle, where maybe death awaits you. In your heart
you know this."

   Again Denethor wavered, trembling and looking with
longing at the face of his son.

   "Come!" Gandalf urged softly. "We are needed. There
is much you can yet do."

   It was the wrong thing to say, or perhaps there
were no right words to call Denethor back to himself.
The fey, fell fire flared again in his eyes. "I am
Steward of the House of Anarion." he snarled. "I will
not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an
upstart! If doom denies me my due then I will have
*naught* neither life diminished, nor love halved, nor
honor abated."

    "Yet you shall not rob your son of his choice."
Gandalf answered.

   Denethor pulled a dagger from his sleeve and took a
step towards the bier, face terrible. Beregond and
Pippin hastily put themselves between. He stopped.
"So," he said, breathing heavily, "your minions rob me
wholly of my son at the last, Mithrandir. But in one
thing at least I will have my will: I will rule my own
end!"

   Whirling he snatched a torch from the hand of the
nearest guard and sprang up upon the pyre before any
could stop him. Smiling viciously, directly at
Gandalf, he cast the brand into the oiled wood.

   It caught at once. But it seemed to Pippin that
Denethor's eyes turned one last time to Faramir, in a
look of love and grief, the instant before the flames
engulfed him. "No!" he cried, startibg forward.

   Beregond held him back. "It is too late, Peregrin.
It has been too late for him for a long time."

   The flames roared, licking hungrily at the nearer
stone biers and the long dead Stewards laid upon them.
"Out!" Gandalf shouted. "Everybody out!"

   They fled, carrying Faramir with them. The Wizard
reached down to slam the doors shut on the inferno,
and as he did so they heard a single, agonized cry,
from the dying Man.

   Pippin collapsed in the street in tears.

   "Thus passes Denethor son of Ecthelion." Gandalf
said heavily. Turned to the dazed guards and waiting
gentlemen. "As for you, servants of the Steward, blind
in your obedience -"

   "Let them be, Mithrandir." Beregond interupted.
"His will was strong. He overbore them."

   The wizard looked at him for a long moment, then
nodded slowly. "Very well, no reproaches. Come, let us
leave this place."

   He took Pippin up behind him on Shadowfax and the
shaken guards lifted up Faramir and bore him after,
trailed by the gentlemen in waiting. As they reached
the opening to the Rath Dinen there came a great noise
from behind. Turning they saw the dome of the
Stewards' House collapse in on itself in a flurry of
sparks. No one said anything, they but looked for a
moment, then wearily began the long climb back to the
City of the living.

   "Mithrandir." Beregond said in a soft yet carrying
voice. Wiping his eyes Pippin saw the guardsman had
come up alongside Shadowfax, and that he carried
Denethor's cloak bundled in his arms. "The Steward had
looked into the Anor-Stone. It showed him that which
drove him to this final frenzy."

   Gandalf bowed his head. "So that is how Sauron's
will entered into the very heart of the City - through
its lord."

   "What do you mean?" Pippin whispered, for both Man
and wizard had kept their voices very low.

   "There was a palantir kept in the White Tower as
well as at Orthanc." Ganadalf answered. "As the peril
to his realm grew Denethor dared to look into it."

   "But..but he would have seen -" Pippin's voice
failed as he remembered the horror of his own
experience.

   "Seen Sauron," the wizard agreed heavily, "and
matched his will against the Dark Power. He was too
great to be subdued, but he could be decieved. He saw
only that which Sauron permitted him to see and those
visions fed the despair of his heart until it
overthrew his mind." He turned back to Beregond.
"Denethor had it with him in the tomb? What became of
it?"

   "I have it here." the Man answered. And Pippin
shuddered, realizing what the furred robe must
contain. "It is now the Lord Faramir's charge but -"

   "He is not fit to bear it." Gandalf finished for
him and gave him a piercing look. "And so I give it
into your keeping, Beregond. Guard it well, give it up
to none save it's rightful owner."

   "I will."
****

   They didn't carry Faramir all the way back to the
Citadel but only as far as the Houses of Healing, now
crowded with wounded, who overflowed into the usually
peaceful cloisters surrounding the courts.

   "Papa!" Bergil came hurtling out of a doorway to
his father's arms, followed more slowly by the weary
and harried looking Man who was Warden of the Houses.

   "Of course we can find room for the Lord Faramir,
Mithrandir." he assured the Wizard. Looked ruefully
over his shoulder. "Somewhere."

   "Master Peregrin here will stay with him -" Gandalf
began.

   "No I will not." Pippin interupted decidely, and
got startled looks from Men and wizard alike. "I am a
soldier of Gondor not a nurse, time I acted like one."
he looked up at Gandalf. "Boromir taught us to fight
and I will do what little I can in defense of his
City. For him, and for Faramir, and for my Lord
Denethor too!"

   "Bergil and I will tend the Lord Faramir." Beregond
put in quietly. Looked significantly at the wizard. "I
have now a charge that I may not leave."

   For a moment Pippin couldn't imagine what he was
talking about - then he remembered; of course the
palantir.

   Gandalf still hesitated, clearly displeased. Pippin
braced himself for an argument, but instead the wizard
sighed. "Very well, Peregrin Took." he said
resignedly. "Let us go down and see how the battle has
fared without us."

Idril was at the old Telemmirioni townhouse, on the
unfashionable south side of the sixth circle, when she
heard the horns and ran up the stairs to the top of
the tower to see what was happening.

   The stone bastion that bisected the City blocked
her view of the initial Rohirrim charge but a spear
point of green cloaked riders soon came into sight,
piercing the black mass of the enemy.

   "They are too few," said Luinil, who had followed
her up, clutching at the stone sill. "They cannot
win."

   Idril laughed. "What does that matter?" At last she
was seeing what she had longed all this endless night
to see; Men fighting back against the Shadow
unfettered by either hope or fear, and her spirit rose
fierce and fey in response. She laughed again and
chanted: 

   "Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising
   I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.
   To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking:
   Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!"

   Poor Luinil was staring at her in horror, she made
an effort to calm herself and explain: "That is a
stave from one of their warsongs. I am part Rohirrim
you know, and I agree with them that it is better to
fall fighting than to submit to the Dark."

   Luinil seemed to straighten a little, her soft
young face falling into sterner lines. "It is not only
the Rohirrim who feel so!"

   "No." Idril agreed, well pleased. "It is not."

   It was she who had the Rohirric blood, from her
father's grandmother who had been daughter to King
Folcwine, but it was Boromir who had taught her the
poetry and all else she knew of that heritage. The
Riders' stern, warlike spirit had spoken to him, pure
Dunedain though he was. Perhaps it would inspire the
rest of their people as well to make an end worthy of
the heirs of the Fathers of Men.

   "Oh no," said Luinil, eyes again on the field.
"Mumakil!"

   "They come late," Idril observed with an oddly
detached curiousity. "I wonder what delayed them?"

   The Riders formed a line and charged the great
beasts only to be crushed under their feet or swept
aside by long swinging trunks armed with spikes. And
yet, unbelievably, the Mumakil too began to go down.
But not enough, not nearly enough. They came raging up
to the very wall of the City, bludgeoning it with
their massive bodies. Looking down the Women could see
the avenue up to the third circle was solid black with
Orcs and the buildings that lined it were aflame.

   Luinil looked at her mistress, asked steadily: "Is
it time, my Lady?"

   Idril drew her dagger, the morning light glittered
white on the blade. Luinil was right, if they waited
til the enemy was at the fifth gate there might not be
enough time for all to escape. Yet something held back
the words.

   *Coward! You are afraid!* but even as her inner
voice jeered she knew it lied. It was not fear that
held her hand but hope, a mad, unreasoning hope born
of the new sun and the valor of Rohan - and of another
voice whispering in her heart that all was not yet
lost. For a long moment she stood still, torn between
hope and despair, faith and fear, Denethor's rearing
pitted against Elendil's blood.

   Luinil's voice seemed to come from a great
distance.
"My Lady?"

   Idril dropped the blade and it rang on the stone
floor, hope and faith had won. She would trust in her
heart. "No. No, we do not die today." she turned to
look at the river. "Help is coming. Hope is coming. He
is almost here."

   "Who?" the maid asked in bewilderment.

   Idril could only shake her head, knowing but not
knowing what she knew. "I cannot say. But he comes."
and then she saw the black sails. "He is here!"

   Luinil saw them too, with horror. "My Lady, it is
the Corsairs!"

   But Idril shook her head again in dazed, wondering
certainty. "No it isn't."
****
   
   Pippin crouched with Gandalf on a sort of porch
overlooking the fourth gate. Several ranks of
battered, grim looking guardsmen faced it, spears and
swords at the ready. It shuddered again under the
blows of the great Troll on the other side.

   Pippin shuddered too. "I didn't think it would end
this way." he said, and hated the forlorn note in his
voice. *Fine soldier of Gondor you are!*

Gandalf gave him a sharp, surprised look which
softened into kindliness. "End? No, the journey
doesn't end here." he said gently. "Death is just
another path, one that we all must take." One he had
already taken. His eyes shifted from Pippin to
something only he could see as he continued softly:
"The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and
all turns to silver glass, and then you see it."

   He stopped. "What? Gandalf?" Pippin prompted. "See
what?"

   The wizard looked down on him and smiled. "White
shores, and beyond, a fair green country under a swift
sunrise."

   Pippin's insides unclenched. "Well...that isn't so
bad." he said slowly.

    "No. No, it isn't." Gandalf agreed, still smiling
at his memories and at Pippin.

   The gate shuddered again, bringing them back to
this world. The enemy'd be through in another moment.
Gandalf gave Pippin a 'get ready' nod. He nodded back
adjusting his grip on his sword. Closed his eyes:
*Mum, Dad, I'm sorry, I really meant to come back.
Forgive me.*
****

   Luinil was now quite certain her mistress had gone
completely mad. "It is the pirates of Umbar -" she
began then broke off with a gasp as something, a
greenly glowing cloud in which she could faintly
descry the forms of Men and horses, poured from the
ships onto the shattered docks of Harlond sweeping the
Orcs before them. "What is it?"

    Idril laughed again, a youthful, joyous sound
quite unlike the mistress Luinil was familiar with. "I
do not know. But whatever it is, it is on our side."

   The cloud lanced through the ranks of the foe and
came into the City, flowing up the levels like
unloosed floodwaters. Luinil and Idril saw greenly
luminous, cadaverous forms smother flames and enemy
host alike and then withdraw, like a turning tide,
flowing back out of the City to the battle still being
fought on the Pelennor, leaving behind dead Orcs,
Trolls and Wargs tidied into heaps.
****

   The final blow, the one that would shatter the gate
and let the enemy through, never came. Pippin opened
his eyes to look blankly at Gandalf, who looked back
just as baffled. Then his eyes unfocused again as he
looked beyond, and he smiled. Standing he vaulted the
railing and headed for the gate. Pippin quickly
followed, using the steps.

   The wizard pushed his way through bewildered, still
wary soldiers to where Lord Hurin stood with Prince
Imrahil and old Forlong. "Open the gates." he ordered
breathlessly. They stared at him. "Do as I say!"

   Hurin turned to the Men still holding the great
doors shut. "You heard the Lord Mithrandir. Open the
gate, let's see what's happened.

   Reluctantly they obeyed. Pippin braced himself for
a rush of enemies and felt the Men around him do the
same. But when the gates did open they revealed naught
but dead Orcs and Trolls and Wargs, all neatly piled.

   Gandalf's smile became a grin. "Aragorn!"

   Hurin turned to him, face kindling with joy at the
name. "He is here?"

   "The pretender is come?" Imrahil asked, frowning.
And many of the Men around them shifted uncertainly.

   Gandalf shook his head. "The King is come. And he
is no stranger but a Man you knew well once, my Lord
Prince, as Thorongil."

   "Thorongil?" Imrahil whispered, and then his face
lit up just as Hurin's had. "*He* is Isildur's Heir?
Why do we stand here, Mithrandir? Our King and our
allies of Rohan fight before the walls, we must gather
all the strength we can find and join them!"
****

   Idril felt the change in her people's mood before
she knew the cause. It was more than simple relief at
their reprieve. The air of dread and despair that had
brooded for so long over Minas Tirith had dissapated
along with Sauron's Shadow. Everywhere Men were
eagerly siezing weapons and hurrying to join the force
preparing to sortie while Women and children, the
elderly and the wounded, lined the avenues of the
upper circles to cheer them on. And the White City
shone in the morning sun.

   Idril herself felt lighthearted almost to the point
of giddiness, as if a great weight of some kind had
been rolled from her spirit, but she didn't learn why
until she had led her nurses and healers back down to
the great square to re-establish their field hospital.
Only then did she hear the rumor being whispered among
the people: The King had returned.

    So that was who was on the Black Ships. Though she
still did not know his name or his lineage Idril had
no doubt that he, whoever he was, was the true King.
No lesser Man could have brought light and hope back
to Minas Tirith when all seemed lost. 

   She remembered the other half of Telemmaite's
prophecy; he had predicted the Stewards would fail -
as they had - but also that the King would return to
Minas Tirith in the hour of her greatest need and
restore Gondor's glory.

   Pippin quickly decided he much prefered doing
battle in the openess of the Pelennor fields to twisty
City streets with enemies popping unexpectedly out of
alleys and from behind walls.

   The Orcs and other creatures seemed readier to run
than fight but the dark Men in their barbaric
trappings were another story. Yet at last the moment
came when there were no more enemies left, at least
not standing.

   "Is it over?" he asked the Man beside him.

   He grimaced. "It is indeed, Little Master."

   Pippin looked at the dead Orcs and Men and horses
scatted thickly over the ground, and at the huge grey
bodies of the fallen Oliphants, and felt a little
sick.
"That's good." then "We did win didn't we?"

   "Oh yes." the Man looked grimly around, added
quietly. "The only thing worse than a battle won is a
battle lost. And sometimes it can be hard to tell  the
difference."

   Pippin could well believe that. "Thank you for
looking after me." he said politely.

   The Man grinned down at him. "Light duty!" he
answered. "Captain Hurin and Mithrandir underestimated
you sadly, Master Peregrin."

   Pippin blinked, then caught his drift and blushed.
"Boromir taught us how to fight."

   "You are a credit to him." The Man said warmly.

   Walking slowly back towards the City they ran
across Gandalf, afoot with Shadowfax following,
talking earnestly to Lord Hurin, Prince Imrahil and
Lord Eomer, also dismounted and leading their tired
horses.

   "Ah, there you are, Peregrin." the wizard greeted
him.

   The Man saluted the Captains and went off but
Pippin fell in beside Gandalf. "Have you seen old
Strider or any of the others yes?" he asked.

   The wizard simply pointed ahead and sure enough
there was Strider, with Gimli and Legolas and a number
of tall, grey cloaked Men around him, facing what
looked alarmingly like a crowd of ghosts, all green
glowing and skeletal.

   The tallest of them said; "Release us!"

   "Bad idea." Gimli put in quickly. Strider and the
ghost both looked at him. "Very handy in a tight spot,
these lads, despite the fact they're dead."

   "You gave us your word!" said the ghost to Strider.

   "I hold your oath fulfilled." he answered gently.
"Go, be at peace."

   The phantom seemed to close his eyes and Pippin
could have sworn there was look of almost blissful
relief on his face as he and the whole army of dead,
rippled and blew away.

   Strider gave Gimli one of his dark looks. So did
Legolas and the Men in grey. The Dwarf shrugged, a
little embarrassed. "All right, I'm sorry. But they
surely did come in handy."

   The Ranger sighed, shook his head, turned away and
saw Gandalf, Pippin and the rest.

   The wizard bowed. For a moment Pippin just stared
at him in astonishment, then he remembered who Strider
really was and bowed too, feeling a little silly.

   He wasn't sure Strider liked it either. He just
looked at them, tired and a little sad, inclined his
head slightly in return then smiled a welcome that
warmed the Hobbit clear through. "Hello, Pippin, I'm
glad to see you safe and whole." his eyes moved past
him to the Gondor Men. "Hurin?"

   The Captain essayed a smile but there were tears in
his eyes. "Late is better than never, Dunadan," he
choked, "but try not to cut it quite so fine next
time!"

   Strider laughed and moved to embrace him. "I hope
there will not be a next time, Hurinya." He released
the Captain and turned to Imrahil. "Well met, Prince,
it has been many years."

   Pippin saw the Man swallow hard before he answered.
"Too many long years, my Lord and King. You return to
us in an dark hour. I would your City were in a state
to welcome you as you deserve."

   Strider shook his head. "The City and the realm has
rested in the charge of the Stewards for many long
years. I will not enter in, nor make any claim, until
it be seen whether we or Mordor shall prevail."

   Hurin and Eomer both frowned but Imrahil nodded
unhappy agreement. "It may be wiser so. I fear
Denethor will not welcome you, my Lord."

   Pippin bit his lip trying to push back the memory
the pyre and that last terrible cry.

   "Denethor is dead," Gandalf said heavily, "by his
own hand, and his house lies in ashes."

    All four Men stared at him in horror and dismay,
then Hurin, Imrahil and Eomer looked at Aragorn. "With
Faramir sore wounded Gondor is left leaderless," said
the Prince. "your City needs you my King."

   But Strider shook his head again. "I have no mind
for strife with any but our common Enemy. For now I
will remain but the Captain of the Rangers of Arnor.
Hurin, you are next in line -"

   "Not I!" the Captain said vehemently. "My house has
stood between the true King and the throne long
enough!"

   Strider gave him one of his looks but Hurin stood
firm, all but glaring back. Finally the Ranger sighed.
"Imrahil then." and as the other Man opened his mouth
to protest, "The people need a leader, better one they
know than a stranger."

   "You are no stranger, my Lord," said the Prince,
"but I will do as you wish."

   "Thank you." Strider said, and seemed really
relieved.

   Gandalf and Hurin both looked less then pleased and
Eomer bewildered. Pippin impatiently dismissed the
whole confusing matter as a problem for the Great Folk
to deal with and no concern of his. He took the chance
to ask about something that was; "Where is Merry,
Strider?"

   "We left him with King Theoden." the Ranger replied
and looked at Eomer.

   The Rohirrim knelt down before the Hobbit,
frightening Pippin with his somber face. "Theoden King
commanded Master Meriadoc to remain behind in Edoras,
but one of my Riders found this lying near my uncle's
body." and he held out a blackened piece of metal
which it took Pippin some moments to recognize as the
hilt of Merry's sword.

   He took it with trembling hands. "But he wasn't
there himself, so he must be all right, musn't he?" he
pleaded.

   Gandalf put a consoling hand on his shoulder. "We
will look for him."

   Eomer led them back to the place where his uncle
had fallen. Theoden's white horse lay there dead and
near it a fell beast with its head hewn from its long
neck. Beside the beast was a tangle of black robes and
a few twisted bits of metal.

   The search party of two kings, a prince, a wizard,
a Hobbit squire and a dozen or so Rangers fanned out
in all directions. Pippin walked slowly, looking
carefully at the many dead, feeling sick and scared.

   *Merry's all right.* he told himself desperately,
"Why shouldn't he be? You're all right and he's got
twice your sense.* Then he saw a bare, hairy foot
sticking out from beneath the voluminous black robes
of a Southron warrior.

   He rolled the Man's body aside as if it were a
feather, heart pounding. There was blood on Merry's
pale face, his eyes were closed and his hand cold to
the touch. "Merry! Merry, it's me." he sobbed. "It's
Pippin."

   His cousin's eyes opened and he tried to smile. "I
knew you'd find me." he whispered.

   Pippin sobbed again in relief. "Yes."

   "Are you going to bury me?" Merry asked.

   "No, Merry." he choked. "I'm going to look after
you." he saw his cousin's grey cloak lying nearby and
pulled it over him, then raised his voice in a shout.
"Gandalf! Strider! I've found him, come quick!" 

   They were there almost at once, the other Men
crowding behind. Strider knelt down beside Merry and
uncovered him searching for wounds.

   "He's gone all cold, like Frodo after Weathertop,"
Pippin told him. "What does it mean?"

   "That your cousin has done a deed beyond the power
of the greatest warrior of Men." Gandalf answered
grimly.

   "It was Eowyn." Merry whispered. "She did it, I
just helped a little." the name seemed to rouse him.
"Eowyn! the King, they need help, Strider -"

   "They have been seen to." the Ranger assured him
gently, face grave with concern. "Now it's your turn,
Merry." he lifted the Hobbit in his arms. "We must get
him to the City."

   And so the King entered Minas Tirith on foot with
an injured Hobbit in his arms, and passed unheralded
and unrecognized up the six circles to the Houses of
Healing.

   Hurin, Eomer and Imrahil however were recognized
and heartily cheered by the people crowding the ruined
streets. They made their way through the tumult and
mounted to the Citadel where they found only three
Fountain guards on duty and the doors of the Hall
standing open. The Men exchanged puzzled and slightly
apprehensive looks before going inside, slightly
fearful of what they might find after all the evil
fortunes of the day.

   Two biers stood before the empty throne. The body
of King Theoden lay in state upon that to the left,
his bed draped with the green and white colors of
Rohan and his body covered to the breast by a
magnificent cloth of gold coverlet. His hands were
folded on the hilt of his unsheathed sword and his
shield was at his feet. Candles burned in many
branched holders at the four corners of his bier, and
an honor guard of knights of both Rohan and Gondor
stood with bowed heads and spears reversed around it.
The King's herald held his banner at his head and two
Women, tall and darkly beautiful but no longer young,
stood quietly at his feet gazing sadly at his peaceful
face.

   They turned as the Men entered and Eomer recognized
them. "Aunt Elfflaed, Aunt Flaeda." He embraced
Theoden's sisters, fiercely glad there had been
kinswomen at hand to do what was needful for him and
that he had not been left to the ministrations of
strangers, however kind.

   Elfflaed kissed her nephew then pushed him back to
armslength and said solemnly; "Westu Eomer hal! Hail
King of the Mark."

   His eyes filled with tears. "It wasn't meant to be
like this." he said almost rebeliously: "My uncle
should have lived many more years and Theodred
followed him. And I would have gladly served both all
the days of my life!"

   But now not only was he King, but the last of the
House of Eorl. He looked at the other bier and saw
with surprise that it held the body of a dark Dunedain
lord, one of the kinsmen who had come to Aragorn at
Dunharrow. "Where is Eowyn?" he demanded of his aunt.
"She should be lying here beside our uncle and in no
less honor. What have they done with her?"

   The Lord Aragorn's Elvish lady stood by the
Dunadan's bier. "Eowyn isn't dead, Eomer." she told
him gently. "She has been taken to the Houses of
Healing." He could only stare at her, choked by sudden
hope - and renewed fear. She held out her hand to him.
"Come, we will go to her."   

   The Warden found an unoccupied corner in what was
normally a private chamber for the Lord Faramir and
called over old Ioreth, who'd served the healers as
long as anybody could remember, to make him
comfortable.

   She bent to examine her new patient and exclaimed;
"Why he's soaked in oil!" straightening up to glare
indignantly at Beregond.

   "Yes." he said.

   She looked at him expectantly for several moments,
until it became clear that he wasn't going to say one
word more nor offer any kind of explanation. Then she
snorted, snapped; "Come, boy." to Bergil and flounced
out of the room.

   Beregond smiled wryly to himself. Ioreth had a good
heart but anything you said to her was instantly known
to all Minas Tirith - and this was one story the Lord
Faramir would definitely not want spread. Beregond
agreed; Denethor had been a hard but just ruler, he
deserved better than to be remembered as a madman
intent on murdering his own son.

   Ioreth returned with an armful of towels and
Bergil, laboring under two tins of hot water, at her
heels. "Well don't just sit there," she snapped at
Beregond, "help me get these soaked clothes off him!"

   Obediently he got up to lift and turn Faramir as
directed while the muttering nurse stripped away his
oil ruined garments, bathed and dressed him in a fresh
nighshirt.

   Though the wounded Man still burned with fever his
body was like a dead weight in Beregond's hands. He
remembered uneasily how Faramir had roused enough to
speak when rescued from his father's pyre, not even an
hour ago, yet now all this handling brought no
reaction at all. Had Denethor's death somehow snapped
his son's link to life as well?

   Another Man was carried in by servants in the green
and grey livery of the Houses followed by one of
Beregond's healer sisters.

   "Baradis." he called, low but carrying.

   She looked at him, recognized Faramir, glanced
quickly back at her patient to see he was being duly
tended by a nurse, then came over.

   "I fear we are losing him." Beregond said, even
more quietly.

   His sister laid a long, white hand on the young
lord's brow, shook her head grimly. "You are right, he
is going away from us." She spoke forcefully to the
sick Man, calling him by name. "Faramir! my Lord
Faramir!"

   Brother and sister both listened, though not with
their ears, for a response; for a whisper of thought
or faint stirring of the will, but none came.

   Finally Baradis looked bleakly up at Beregond and
shook her head again. "He is past hearing. Many of our
wounded are in like case, I fear we will lose them
all."

   "How many?" her brother asked, dreading the answer.

   "Hundreds." she said flatly. "And we have not the
skill to save them."
***

   The day passed slowly. Beregond sat by Faramir's
side watching him sink slowly but inexorably into
death. It was all for nothing then, the breaking of
his vows and the death of the Porter, Faramir would
die in any case - but at least not by his own father's
hand.

   Looking back Beregond couldn't understand what had
come over him there in the Fountain Court. It was
almost as if some other will had entered into him -
though he knew that could not be so. The light of
Earendil had sparked something in himself, something
quite alien to the unassuming man-at-arms careful to
keep his proper place that Beregond had pretended all
his life to be.   

   He sighed. As he was pretending now, even to
himself. He knew very well why Earendil had spoken to
him, just as he knew why Mithrandir had entrusted
something as perilous as the Anor-stone to his care.
Because he was of the Blood Royal, however diluted by
lesser stock, descended from the Morning Star and from
Elendil who had brought the Seven Stones from
foundered Numenor home to Middle-Earth. And probably
the only Man in Gondor, outside of the Steward and his
Heir, who knew the lore of the Stones and how to
handle one safely.

   Near sunset the door burst open admitting Bergil.
"I was right, there is an empty cot, Bring the Perian
in here, my Lord."

   His father came to his feet in alarm, Peregrin had
been wounded? But no, there he was behind Bergil, pale
but sound. He was followed in turn by Mithrandir and
finally a tall Man shrouded in a hooded grey cloak
carrying a second Halfling in his arms.

   "I'll find a healer." Bergil told the Man as he
laid his burden gently down.

   "No need." he answered crisply, pushing back his
hood and unfastening the leaf brooch at his throat. "I
am a healer. I'll need water and clean linen, Bergil."

   "Yes sir." the boy hurried out.

   "Will he be all right, Strider?" Peregrin pleaded
as the Man shed the shabby leathers he wore beneath
his cloak and rolled up his sleeves.

   So this was the Northern Ranger Peregrin had spoken
of. "I don't know yet, Pippin." his friend replied
gently. "I hope so."

   Bergil returned with the requested water and linens
and the Ranger began to strip off the wounded
Halfing's Rohirric armor with Peregrin's help. The
wizard stood by, his face clouded with worry.

   Beregond hated to distress him further but -
"Mithrandir?" his head turned. "Faramir is sinking
fast, can you do aught for him?"

   The wizard came over for a closer look then shook
his head. "This is beyond any power of mine." he said
heavily.

   Old Ioreth's face crumpled as if fighting back
tears. "Oh, if only we were living in the Elder Days
instead of now! 'The hands of the King are the hands
of a healer' the old books say. If we had a King he
could save the Lord Faramir!"

   Mithrandir stared at her. Then his face lit up in
sudden hope and he laughed aloud. "Men may long
remember your words, my good Ioreth! Haven't you
heard? The King has returned!" he turned to the
Ranger. "Aragorn?"

   Beregond recognized the name of Isildur's elusive
heir and stared at the Man as he joined them by
Faramir's bed. He had the High Numenorean look, with
his elegant bones and deepset eyes, and Beregond's own
blood told him this was indeed Isildur's Heir,
descended like himself from Elendil the Faithful and
the Kings of Numenor. Though it seemed his line had
faired no better than Anarion's over the long years.

   The King took Faramir's hand in his and laid the
other upon the sick Man's brow. He stood so for a
moment, then shook his head. "He is nearly spent,
would that I could have been here sooner! Ioreth, do
you keep athelas in this House?"

   "I'm sure I don't know, m'Lord." She answered, a
little blankly. "I can't say I've ever heard that name
before. But the herb-master will know, he knows all
the old names."

   "I mean kingsfoil, as it is called in these later
days."

   "Oh that!" said Ioreth with relief. "Well if your
Lordship had named it so first off I could have told
you at once. No, we have none of it, I'm sure. I've
never heard it had any great virtue; still it smells
sweet when bruised, does it not?" she frowned
consideringly. "If sweet is the right word; wholesome
maybe is nearer."

   "My Lord." Beregond cut in quickly, as Ioreth
paused for breath. The King looked at him with
quicksilver grey eyes, startling in their piercing
brightness. "My wife keeps a store of athelas for my
sisters who are healers. They have found it good for
drawing poison from wounds and the like."

   The King smiled a little. "So it is." he agreed.
"In the right hands."  

   Beregond swallowed. It had never before occured to
him that his sisters' healing abilities had aught to
do with their ancestry. "Bergil," he said to his son,
watching round eyed, "run home and get some athelas
from your mother."

   As the boy left, running, the King gently laid down
Faramir's hand. "Since we must wait I will take a
moment to see how the Lady Eowyn fares. I fear she may
be in almost as bad a case as this." He picked up his
grey cloak and slung it around his shoulders.

   "Strider," Peregrin pleaded, "what about Merry?"

   The King smiled gently down at him. "Hold his hand
and try to keep him talking, Pippin. And do not fear,
he is none so far gone yet - we have time."
***

   When the King returned a few moments later he was
accompanied by Prince Imrahil and an Elven lady whose
beautiful face gave Beregond the same shock of
recognition as the King's had. He knew that she too
was, somehow, kin. though he couldn't even begin to
imagine how.

   "They seemed but black Orc arrows," Imrahil was
saying, "but when he fell into the Dark Sleep we
assumed one must have been a Morgul dart."

   The King shook his head. "Had that been so he would
have died last night. No, he must have fallen under
the Shadow long before he rode to battle on the
out-walls. Slowly the Dark must have crept on him as
he defended Ithilien. He is a Man of staunch will, he
resisted it well until grief and wounds sapped his
strength.

   "The Shadow has hung heavy over the City for far
too long." said the Elven Lady. "I have never seen so
much Black Breath, not even during the worst of the
Witch Wars."

   The King nodded bleak agreement. "This House is
full of it. Would that I could have come sooner!"

   He sat on the stool beside Faramir's bed and laid
one hand upon the sick Man's brow and another upon his
folded hands. Then the King said his name softly, but
with command.

   On the other side of the cot Beregond flinched, the
low voiced call resounding in his mind like a great
shout - far more powerful than his sister's Voice.
Imrahil also winced a little, as if he too had Heard.

   The King's lips moved silently as he Called again,
and even his inner Voice sounded more faintly as his
spirit moved away from the world of the living into
the dark spaces where Faramir's wandered.

   Bergil ran in clutching a folded cloth. "I have it
- athelas!" he panted to his father. "Mother says it's
not fresh, two weeks old or more, but she hopes it
will serve."

   "It will do very well." the Elven lady told him
taking the cloth from his hand. "Now bring me some of
that hot water if you will." There were six long
leaves inside the cloth. She took two and breathed on
them, then crushed them in her hand.

   'Sweet' and even 'wholesome' were far too poor a
word to describe the living freshness that filled the
room, setting the very air tingling and sparkling with
joy. The Lady cast the leaves into the bowl of
steaming water Bergil brought her and the fragrance
grew stronger.

  "Well now!" said Ioreth to the room at large. "Who
would have believed it? That weed is better than I
thought. No King could ask for better!"

   The other wounded Men stirred and exchanged
wondering smiles with their nurses, pain and weariness
forgotten. And across the room the injured Halfling
opened his eyes and breathed in a great gulp.

   "Oh my!" he said. "Oh my." then "Here now, Pip,
what are you crying about?"

   The King opened his eyes and smiled up at the Lady
as she held the bowl so he and Faramir could breath
the steam, though the weariness did not quite leave
his face.

   Faramir stirred, slowly his lids rose. He looked at
the King, bending over him, with wonder and with love.
"My Lord, you called me. I come." he whispered weakly.
"What does the King command?"

   "That you rest, and take food, and be ready when I
call." he answered. He rose, gently disengaging his
hand from Faramir's grip. "Now I must go to others
that need me, but I will return, my Steward."
Faramir's eyes followed him as he moved away.

   "King!" Ioreth had finally realized just who the
shabby looking Ranger was. She dropped back onto her
stool breathless with astonishment but not, of course,
speechless. "Did you hear that? What did I say? The
Hands of a healer, I said. A King again, and right
here in this House. Who'd have thought it?"

   "So much for keeping his presence in the City a
secret." muttered Imrahil.
****

   Aragorn crossed the room to where Merry lay, Pippin
sitting cross-legged on the cot at his feet. "Well,
Merry, how are you feeling?"

   "Hungry." was the prompt answer. Ranger and Gandalf
both laughed

   "Hobbits!" said the wizard, shaking his head in
rueful amusement.

   "I am sure we can find some supper somewhere for a
Nazgul bane." Aragorn smiled. 

   "Nazgul." a sudden fear came into Merry's face.
"Eowyn! how is she? Is she all right?"

   "I am going to her now." Aragorn assured him
gently. "Try not to worry Merry." he turned to go.
"Gandalf, Arwen, come with me if you will." 

   Behind them Merry said: "Here now, Pip, what are
you got up as?"

   The door closed on Pippin's reply: "I'll have you
know I'm a guard of the Citadel. And you're a fine one
to be talking, where'd you get that fancy armor?"

Idril watched the Elvish Lady of the Northern Dunedain leave the hall with young Eomer of Rohan, then turned to her cousin Hurin. “Who is she?”

“Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond Half-Elven.” he answered.

She blinked. “Elrond? You mean Gil-Galad’s herald, Elros’ twin brother, *that* Elrond?”

He smiled faintly. “The same.”

Which explained why Arwen looked like an Elf but felt like kin to Idril. Another thought occurred to her. “How old is she?”

This time Hurin grinned. “Older than this hall.” (1)

“So,” Idril managed, after a stunned moment, “we are to have an ancient Elf for a queen, that should be interesting.”

Hurin studied at her narrowly. “You’ll accept the Dunadan as King then?”

She looked surprised at the question, then thoughtful. “Perhaps if I were a Man - but I’m not. I am the last of the Anarioni and a Woman as well as of impure blood. My heart tells me Gondor *must* have a King if she is to survive. Isildur’s Heir must be that King - there is no other.” then she grimaced; “But what my father will say is another matter. I should go to him, see how he and Faramir are fairing.”

Hurin looked unhappy. “Idril, Denethor is dead.”

She met his eye levelly, pale but not surprised. “How?”

“By his own hand.” he answered bluntly.

“I wish I could say I was surprised.” she said quietly. “I knew he would not outlive Faramir, but I had hoped he would chose to die in defense of his City.”

She looked at Theoden and the Northern knight, it would not be fitting to lay Denethor beside them. The Tower presence chamber then, he and Faramir together. “Where are they? Still in Father’s apartments?”

Hurin looked even unhappier. She saw him draw breath as if bracing himself, and tensed in fear. What could possibly be worse than what he’d already told her? What could her father have done in his despair to make Hurin look so?

“Faramir isn’t dead, at least not yet.” Hurin began carefully. “Mithrandir said he’s been taken to the Houses.”

But that didn’t make sense. Why would Father kill himself if his son were still alive? “Where is my father!” she demanded almost in terror. “What has he done?”

“Idril.” Hurin took her by the shoulders. “Did you know Denethor was using the Anor-stone?”

She went even paler, if that were possible, staring up at him in disbelief. “No. No, he couldn’t have been such a fool!”

“Not a fool,” Hurin said quietly, “just desperate. Desperate enough to take any risk. Sauron could not bend him to his will, but in the end he broke him. Idril, Denethor had his Men carry Faramir down to the tombs, he meant for them both to burn alive on a common pyre. Little Master Peregrin got help, Mithrandir and Beregond of the Fountain Guard. They managed to rescue Faramir but Denethor wouldn’t be saved. He got the death he wanted and lies in the ashes of his house.

Her eyes closed, Hurin tightened his grip, afraid she would swoon. Instead teardrops seeped from beneath the tightly closed lids. “Oh no,” she said softly. “Oh no. It was Father. It was Father all the time.”

“What was?” her cousin asked bewildered.

She opened her eyes, their gold glittering through tears, “The Shadow on the City, the darkness that sucked the heart and hope out of our people. It was Father‘s fault, it came through him - because he was proud and foolish enough to look into that crystal and try to match wills with the Dark Lord!” her voice rose, turning Ellevain and Vanawen’s heads and causing the honor guard to shift uncomfortably. “ Can’t you feel the difference in the very air now that he is gone?”

Hurin, alarmed, gave her a sharp shake. “Idril, this is folly, you are hysterical.”

“No, just bitter.” she answered, and sounded it. “The House of the Stewards has brought itself to ruin in time to clear the way for the return of the King - and I have now neither a father nor brothers. All have played the fool and left me alone.” and finally her anger broke in a sob.

Hurin hugged her close. “You still have a cousin, Little Spark, (2) and a new kinsman as well as a King in the Dunadan.”

****

The rumor that the King had come to the Houses of Healing and proved himself by curing the Men lying sick with the Black Breath filtered through the three habitable levels of the City, carried by recovered patients released from the Houses. But not all who lay under the Shadow had been brought to the healers, many lay in the mansions of the upper circles, Women and children as well as Men. As dusk passed into night a crowd gathered before the Houses, the kin of the sick seeking help for their loved ones. They came in such numbers that the Warden was alarmed and closed the gates against them, holding the crowd at bay with promises that the King would, in due course, come out to them.

But when he did he was so utterly unlike the image the Gondorim had conjured for themselves from statues and paintings and ancient tales that they could scarce believe their eyes. As he came fresh from the battle they’d expected him to be clad in armor and wearing the winged crown on his helm like the statue of Anarion in the Great Square. And to be accompanied by a retinue of squires and gentlemen as was the custom for highborn lords.

Instead they saw a grimfaced Man in a plain grey cloak over worn and dusty green leathers, his hair matted with sweat and hanging in strings. He stood, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and stared back at the crowd with a cold and wary face. But as the first disillusioned shock passed, the people saw the elegant bones of the High Numenorean blood beneath the tangled hair and scrub of beard, and the mithril brooch shaped like a eagle and set with a great beryl glittering on the dusty coat, and recognized the shape of the hilt upon which his hand rested. And became aware of the power beneath the unprepossessing surface and sensed that the strange King’s mood was neither friendly nor welcoming.

Intimidated they hung back, unwilling to approach him. Finally Egalmoth, a grain merchant with a house in the Fifth circle, was urged forward by his wife. He bowed nervously before the King, and the lovely but equally unkempt Woman at his side, and began hesitantly: “My Lord, ’the hands of the King are the hands of a healer‘, or so the old saying goes, and we have heard that you healed the Lord Faramir and others in the Houses so we would ask - that is to say -” but then the piercing stare of the King’s strangely bright eyes dried the words in his throat and he could say no more.

It was his wife, Findemir, (3) who finished for him: “M’lord there are many sick of the Black Shadow in the City, Women and children as well as Men.” she said with matronly bluntness. “If you cannot help them they will die -” then her voice to failed, choked by tears.

But the King’s grim face softened and he reached out to fold her hand between his. “My Lady and I will do all we can.” he promised in a surprisingly gentle voice, then spoke to a grey cloaked man-at-arms standing nearby. “Menelgil, find my brothers and the Lady Arwen’s. We will need more than our two pairs of hands.”

****

The King ordered his wife and one of her brothers to tend to the sick on the sixth level, and sent his own two brothers, as plainly clad as his men-at-arms, down to the fourth. He himself, accompanied by the Queen’s second brother and the Ranger Menelgil, went down to the fifth. His first stop was Egalmoth and Findemir’s house where their daughter and grandchildren lay in the Dark Sleep.

“What happened?” he asked, bending over the Woman and two small boys tucked into the big bed.

“Yesterday, just after the attack began, I went down to the third circle to see if they were safe -” Egalmoth began

“Our son-by-marriage has his house and shop there.” Findemir put in. “He is a dealer in gold bullion and plate.”

“Half the house was down, struck by a stone,” her husband continued grimly, “I found Morniel sitting on the front step with little Galdor screaming in her arms from the pain of a crushed foot, and Glorfindel huddled beside her with a bloody head. I brought them straight back home to be tended and they seemed all right for time -”

“I thought they had just fallen asleep,” Findemir admitted tearfully, “It wasn’t until I took Morniel’s hand and found it cold that I realized they were slipping away from us.”

“I can’t understand it, my Lord,” said Egalmoth, “we always thought the Black Breath came from the weapons of the Morgul Lord and his minions but I swear no such ever touched my daughter or her sons.”

The King shook his head. “This came from the Shadow that has brooded for so long over your City.” he explained. “Those in health can resist such subtle poison for a long time, but the wounded in body or spirit soon succumb.” he looked up, his eyes shining silver in the darkened room. “Where is her husband?”

“We don’t know.” Egalmoth answered heavily. “Under the stones of their house I fear, I looked and called but got no answer.”

The King took two leaves of kingsfoil, bruised them and cast them in the dish of near boiling water that Findemir held for him. As their scent, fresh and enheartening, filled the air he placed a gentle hand on Morniel’s brow, and then on her sons’, and called them by their names. Their eyes opened so promptly that Findemir was amazed.

“Is that all?” she asked. “I thought there would be more to it.”

The King shook his head with a hint of a smile. “We were fortunate, your daughter and her children had not had time to wander far. Now, let me see that foot.”

He unbandaged and reset little Galdor’s crushed foot. “I fear he may always be slightly lame,” the King told the grandparents, “but he will be able to walk without a stick at least.” then he looked at Glorfindel’s head wound. “There will be a scar,” he said to the eleven year old, “a real battle scar, your first and I hope last.”

“Galdor cried, but I didn’t, did I, Mama?” the boy said proudly.

“Galdor is just a little boy,” the King answered mildly, “and cannot be blamed for acting like one.” he got to his feet. “And now I must leave you, there are others who need my help.”

He went from house to house, followed by Menelgil, healing the Shadow Sick within whether they were few or many. The tenth hour of the night found him in a grand but crumbling mansion in the shadow of the great stone pier dividing the city tending a young soldier who’d been seized off the wall by a Nazgul and thrown to the street below. By the Valars’ grace he had survived the fall but the shock of the experience and the physical contact with the evil creature caused a particularly severe case of the Black Breath, and the Man had strayed far into the shadows in the day and two nights since his injury.

His tensely watching young wife gave a cry of joy as her husband’s eyes opened at last to look around him in some bewilderment. “Belthil?” he whispered.

“Yes, darling, I’m here, Everything is going to be all right.” she looked in mingled hope and question at the King.

“The broken bones have been well set.” he answered. “It will take time and patience but he will walk and wield weapons again.”

The Woman sighed in relief, though her husband seemed still too dazed to take in the hopeful words. The King started to rise and faltered, the man-at-arms who attended him stepped quickly forward to catch his arm.

Belthil saw that the King’s face was grey and drawn beneath its thatch of disordered hair and was shocked into frankness. “My Lord, you must rest!”

He gave her a smile that took her breath away and haunted her dreams for the rest of her days. “I will. When I am finished with my work.”

****

Aragorn faltered again, outside in the street, and leaned against the wall of the house to recover himself.

Menelgil watched grimly. “And when will you be finished with your work, Dundan?”

His chief gave him a wry sidelong look. “When there is none left to do, as you very well know.”

The Ranger was not pleased. “You’ll kill yourself,” he said bluntly, “and then where will we be?”

“That he will not.” another voice interposed. They looked up to see Elrohir striding towards them, followed by a tall Dunedain Woman in Gondorian dress and a boy carrying a healer’s box. “Go, Estel, get some rest. Mistress Baradis and I will finish here.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Don’t be foolish Elrohir, you must be as weary as I.”

“Must I?” he asked and shook his head. “You had already spent much of your strength on the sick in the Houses of Healing even before we began this task, while I came to it fresh. And I am the elder and stronger of us two. Do as you’re told, Little Brother!”

“Oh very well.” Aragorn caught the expression, half shocked, half amused, on Baradis’ face and said: “Tell me, kinswoman, are the Gondorim so froward with their Kings.”

Beregond’s sister blinked at being addressed as ’kinswoman’, though she knew it was true enough, but answered promptly. “It is hard to say, my Lord, it’s been long years since we’ve had a King. But close kin rarely stand on ceremony even among the great.”

*****

1. The Hall of the Kings was built on the site of an earlier, smaller hall by Tarondor , twenty-seventh King of Gondor (r. 1656-1798)

2. ‘Idril’ means ‘bright spark’, hence the pet name ‘Little Spark’.

3. The name 'Findemir' was coined by Osheen Nevoy, author of 'Boromir Returns'.

Pippin put the heavily laden tray down on a small table and pushed it nearer Merry’s bed. “We’ve got boiled eggs, ham, bread and butter and marmalade,” he announced, “and - believe it or not - tea!”

Merry sat upright. “No!”

“Yes!” Pippin grinned. “It seems they use it as medicine here.”

His cousin shook his head. “Men are curious creatures.”

“I agree.” Pippin hoisted himself onto the big bed, handed a plate to Merry and then helped himself to a mug and a slice of bread and marmalade. “Now, tell me the rest of it. How did you get here if Theoden wanted you to stay in Rohan?”

“Eowyn brought me.” Merry answered around a forkful of ham. “She had some sort of understanding with the rest of the troop. They pretended she was just another Rider and acted like they couldn’t see me at all.” He shivered. “I’ve never been so scared in my life as when we came over the hill and saw the city burning and that huge army of Orcs all around it.

“But you were in the charge?”

“Oh yes.“ Merry frowned. “I don’t know what came over me. The Riders were all shouting ‘Death’, even Eowyn, and all of a sudden I was shouting right along with them and I wasn’t scared any more I just wanted to get down there and kill some Orcs!“ he shrugged “So we did. We even brought down one of those Oliphants, Eowyn and I, but then another one fell right on top of us. Our poor horse must have been squashed flat and I thought I was going to be too but it just missed me.

“I think I blacked out for a minute or two. When I came around my eyes and my nose were full of dirt and there was no sign of Eowyn anywhere. I pulled myself together, crawled clear of the Oliphant, and then I saw her.” he shivered again. “A Nazgul had her by the throat and I heard it telling her no Man could kill it.”

Pippin grinned. “But you’re not a Man - and neither is she.”

“No.” Merry agreed. “But I didn’t think of that at the time, just that I had to do something to help Eowyn. So I stabbed the thing in the back of the leg. Not a very gallant blow I’m afraid but it did the job. It dropped her and fell to its knees. My sword vanished in a flash of light and this horrible cold shock travelled up my arm and knocked me flat on my back.

“Eowyn pulled off her helmet. ‘I am no Man.’ she said to the Nazgul and then she stabbed it right where its face would have been if it had one. Her sword disappeared too and she sort of staggered back with this stunned look on her face. And the Nazgul just went to pieces, crumpled up and collapsed in a heap at her feet with this terrible wailing sound, like when Lightfoot killed those Barrow Wights, until there was nothing left of it but a black robe and some bits of metal..

“Eowyn fell down in a swoon and I dragged myself over to her. She was breathing but she looked like death and her arm was all cold, just like mine. Then I saw that she was lying on the legs of the King’s horse, it was dead poor thing, and King Theoden was pinned under it. At first I thought he was dead too, but then he opened his eyes and looked at me. ‘Meriadoc?’ he said, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“’Yes, Lord,’ I answered. ’forgive me for disobeying your command.’

“But he wasn’t angry at all; ‘It is forgiven.’ he said. ‘Great heart will not be denied.’ of course by now I was crying so hard I could hardly see. ‘Tell Eowyn not to grieve. I have died as becomes a King of the Mark. A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!’

“I couldn’t bring myself to tell him she was lying wounded just a few feet away. He closed his eyes and I staggered off to get help for him and for Eowyn. But I didn’t get very far before this Southron attacked me. I killed him with the Lady’s dagger but he fell right on top of me - and I don’t remember anything after that until you found me.”

“That wasn’t just any Nazgul you killed but their chief, the Witch King himself.” Pippin told him. “He was the one who stabbed Frodo on Weathertop.”

Merry’s eyes widened. “You don’t say. Well I am glad! we owed him one for poor Frodo.” he took another gulp of his tea and asked: “So what happens now?”

Pippin shrugged. “No idea. That’s for Aragorn and Gandalf and the other grand people to decide. But of course we’re just a sideshow. Frodo is the one who matters.”

Merry’s face darkened. “And we have no idea what’s happening to him - or even if he’s still alive.”

Pippin grinned. “Oh yes we do! Faramir, that’s Boromir’s brother, met Frodo and Sam alive and well in Ithilien not quite a week ago!”

“No, really?” Merry exclaimed delightedly.

“Yes really!” Pippin’s broad grin faded a little. “That’s the good news. The not so good news is he was travelling with Gollum and they were going to try to get into Mordor by a very dangerous route.”

“I don’t suppose there are any safe ones.” said Merry. “But what’s he doing with Gollum of all people?”

“According to Faramir Frodo’s taken him as his guide. He, Faramir that is, didn’t like that much and neither did Gandalf. I just hope Frodo knows what he’s doing.”

“He usually does.” said Merry.

Pippin sighed. “That’s what I keep telling myself.” A bell tolled three times and he quickly crammed the last bit of bread and marmalade into his mouth and finished his tea with a gulp. “Nine o’clock! I have to report for duty now, Merry, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The door closed behind him, then reopened. “I almost forgot,” Pippin said peeking around it, “the healer told me Strider said you can get up if you feel like it, and have a stroll in the garden they have here.”

“Maybe later.” said Merry. “Thanks, Pip.”

“So long.” the door closed.

Merry reached for his pipe and began to pensively fill it with the last plug of Longbottom leaf . The lad who’d just left was definitely not the same Peregrin Took who’d looked so forlorn and frightened when they’d said good-bye in Rohan - and it wasn’t just those grand black and silver clothes either.

“I do believe you’ve grown up at last, Pip.” Merry said softly to himself.
****

Idril sat at a small writing table in the mistress’ morning room of her north side townhouse reading a sheaf of scribbled reports and lists from the guildmasters and provosts of the City while a lark sang in the garden outside her window.

A surprising number of survivors had been discovered in the lower City. Citizens and soldiers alike, cut off from retreat to the upper circles, had taken refuge from fire and foes in the network of cellars, subcellars, tunnels and drains that honeycombed the foundations of Minas Tirith. And the Great Gatehouse’s garrison had, incredibly, managed to hold out while the rest of the City defenses went down around them. Idril made a note recommending their valor be recognized and rewarded - by somebody.

She was uncertain exactly who ruled the City now; the new King, or Hurin as acting Steward, or Imrahil as head of the Council of Nobles. Or, for that matter, of her own status; Was she still Lady of Gondor? Probably not - but she intended to carry on until formally relieved of her duties. It would be scarcely fair to turn them over to the new Queen with the realm in such disorder.

If the loss of life had turned out to be lighter than their first fears the same could not be said for the material damages. Fire had destroyed the homes and possessions of the City‘s humbler denizens, who lived for the most part in the first and second circles, as well as their workshops and tools and stockpiles of goods, also the rich shops of the third circle. The great public buildings in the first circle; the Guildhalls, and City Hall and the Courts had been gutted and the Pelannor fields swept clean with not a wall or even a tree left standing. How they were to make good these losses, not to mention pay for the rebuilding Idril did not know. Assuming of course they survived long enough to attempt it. Mordor had been repulsed but not defeated. There was still a good chance they would be called upon to die gallantly in a final defense of the world of Men. She sighed; certainly that would be much simpler than trying to remake it.

The door opened and Faelivrin looked in, face bright with smiles. “Pharinzil is awake, my Lady.”

At last a bit of good news.

“A shining lady, all in white, called me back.” Pharinzil was telling Luinil and Annalind earnestly from her bed in the small middle room off the courtyard. “But I don’t know who she was.”

“That was the Queen.” said Idril from the doorway.

“Queen?” Pharinzil echoed blankly. “I don’t understand, my Lady, what Queen?”

“Our Queen, the Queen of Gondor.” Idril laughed aloud at her maiden’s bewildered look. “Poor, Pharinzil, you missed everything. Well, that will teach you not to let yourself get knocked on the head!”

The girl stared at her incredulous, and then looked questioningly at Faelivrin, who could only shrug a little in reply. This kind of badinage was most unlike the mistress they were familiar with, but her maidens were at loss to explain the change.

Idril couldn’t entirely explain it herself. Her father was horribly and dishonorably dead, her City lay in ruins and she was like to lose her rank - but somehow these things weighed feather light against the hope the Returned King had brought with him. And the fact that Faramir was going to live.
****

Egalmoth, grain merchant of the fifth circle, almost failed to recognize the ragged, soot blackened Man standing in front of his house looking upward at the citadel - then he did and swept his son-in-law into a relieved embrace.

“Gwindor, thank the Valar! We’d feared you were dead.”

“Not quite, not yet anyway.” the younger Man answered with a weary smile. “I’ve been fighting fires half the night - and spent the morning salvaging what I can from my shop.”
Egalmoth let him go. “It burned of course.”

Gwindor nodded. “Still I am more fortunate than my neighbors. Gold and jewels can withstand fire, as silks and spices cannot.”

“Nor grain.” Egalmoth agreed grimly. “I haven’t been down to my warehouses in the first circle yet - but I know very well what I’ll find.”

His son-in-law looked again up at the citadel, shook his head. “I do not understand.”

Egalmoth looked too, and blinked in surprise; the blue banner of Dol Amroth flew above the Hall of the Kings, not the White Tree as he had expected.

“The King did return, didn’t he, it wasn’t just a dream?” Gwindor asked.

His father-in-law smiled a little. “He was no dream, believe me - if not quite what we’d have expected.” he looked again at the blue banner and felt a chill of fear. The King had come - but what if he hadn’t stayed?
****

“But why is the Prince’s banner flying over the citadel rather than the King’s?” Angbor of Lebennin (1) demanded of Hurin as they, and Ciryandil of Pelargir, entered the Fountain Court.

“Because the King would have it so.” Hurin answered grimly. “He remembers too well Gondor’s long rejection of Isildur’s line and will not understand that times and hearts have changed.”

“He fears opposition even after saving the City?” Ciryandil asked incredulously.

“Why not.” said Angbor quietly. “We turned on Tarondor didn’t we?” (2)

They found three of the surviving Outland Captains awaiting them in the council chamber: Duinhir of Morthond, Devorin of the Ringlo Vale and Golasgil of Anfalas. Angbor took the small figure in the window seat for a young page at first glance, but a second showed that he was nothing of the kind.

Hurin, seeing his perplexed stare, explained. “This is my esquire, Peregrin son of Paladin of the land of the Halflings. A very valiant Man.”

The Halfling straightened abruptly from his bow to give his Lord a chiding look. “I am no Man but a Hobbit,” he said firmly, “and no more valiant than I am a Man, save perhaps now and again out of necessity.”

Angbor laughed. “Many a doer of great deeds might say no more, Little Master.”
Hurin smiled too. “I beg your pardon, Peregrin, no offense was intended.”

The King arrived shortly thereafter. He stood in the doorway with a lovely Elf-woman in worn and stained riding dress at his side. He himself was clad in dusty green leathers but the Captains barely noticed his garb. As Thorongil he had hidden his power but he wasn’t hiding it now; it blazed from him as light and heat blaze from the sun, striking the waiting Men both dumb and motionless.

Mithrandir, Imrahil and Eomer of Rohan moved to join the other Captains at the table but the King hesitated a long moment before taking his place at its head. He stood before the great chair, backed by two tall Dunedain with the star of the North Kingdom on their shoulders, and swept the Men before him with a stern look from silver bright eyes.

“Some of you will remember me as Thorongil.” he said in that soft yet carrying voice. “My true name is Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur’s Heir and Chieftain of the Dunedain of the North. I have come in this dark hour not to press old claims but to join Gondor in her war against the common foe. Sauron and Sauron alone is the enemy.”

He surveyed the dazed faces of the Men before him and seemed satisfied he’d made his point. He sat down and, after a stunned moment, they followed suit. He looked at Mithrandir.

“My Lords, the late Steward spoke truly when he said: ‘against the power that has now arisen there is no victory’ for he had looked into the stone of Anor and not even Sauron can make the seeing stones lie.” said the wizard. “Yet I do not bid you to despair as he did. Victory cannot be gained by force of arms - this we all know. But there is still hope of victory. What you have heard is true, the One Ring has been found but it is not yet in Sauron’s hands, nor is it in ours. In wisdom or great folly it has been sent away, even into Mordor itself, to be destroyed lest it destroy us. We must at all costs keep the Eye from his true peril. We cannot achieve victory by arms but by arms we can give the Ringbearer his chance.

“Sauron now knows for certain that which he has long feared.” The King said quietly. “An Heir of Isildur, who defeated him of Old, still lives and the sword that was broken has been reforged. I mean to challenge him, face to face, and to march with whatever following I can gather on the Black Gates.” He smiled grimly. “I am a bait he cannot resist.”

“Sauron fears the King of Men.” Mithrandir agreed. “He will send out all his power to defeat and take Isildur’s Heir. And we must walk open eyed into the trap, with courage but small hope for ourselves. Even if the Ringbearer succeeds and Barad-dur is thrown down we still may all perish in black battle far from the living lands.”

“This I deem to be my duty as Elendil‘s Heir.” said the King. “And according to my oath to the Ringbearer - to protect him with my life or my death. But I do not claim to command any Man. Let you choose as you will.”

“I’ll go with you, Strider.” a light voice said promptly. It was the Halfling squire, deathly pale but resolute. “Sauron thinks I have the Ring. If he sees you have me along he won’t bother to look for it anywhere else.”

Mithrandir made as if to protest but the King silenced him with a sharp gesture. “Good thinking, Peregrin.” he said warmly. ”The sight of the supposed Ringbearer in the livery of Gondor will indeed give Sauron pause.”

The Halfling managed to smile back. Clearly he knew very well what he was risking. Hurin had not exagerated when he praised his valor.

“The King has spoken.” said Hurin. “Gondor follows, what more is there to say?”

But the King shook his head. “No Hurin. I have told you that I demand no allegiance.”

“And yet you have it unasked.” said Duinhir of Morthond..

“My Lord, my Men did not march for Minas Tirith at the behest of a Captain of Rangers.” Angbor told him firmly.

“Nor did mine.” said Ciryandil. “We have come to follow and serve the Returned King.

Then it was Hurin‘s turn again. “My very dear and stubborn Lord,” He said with both affection and exasperation, “what will it take to convince you that the only Man in Gondor like to oppose the return of the King lies dead by his own hand?”

The King rubbed his eyes, seeming suddenly weary. “We cannot afford division in our ranks, not now.”

“My Lord,” said Duinhir, “giving us a King to rally around will not make for divisions - far from it!”

He gave them another long, considering look, then slowly nodded. “Very well then. I would have chosen to leave this matter to the days of peace, should they come, but if you will have it so then I will declare myself now. In the high tongue of old I am Elessar, the Elfstone, and Envinyatar, the Renewer. Elendil‘s heir of Arnor and Gondor, and by right of blood your King.”

“How splendid.” the Halfling Peregrin beamed at them from his window seat. “Congratulations Strider!”

A rustle of amusement passed over the Men at the council table. Imrahil of Dol Amroth laughed aloud. “It is we who are to be congratulated, Master Peregrin. But is ‘Strider’ a fit name for a King?”

“It will be the name of my house, if I live to found one.” Elessar said with a smile for his small friend. “And it will sound fairer in Quenya; ’Telcontar’ I will be, and all the heirs of my body.

‘Hail Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor!” said Hurin. “And now, what are the King’s commands?”

“I mean to march in two days, no more,” said Elessar. “And I will take with me only Men who go willingly, knowing their peril.”

Imrahil smiled. “I misdoubt there is a Man in Gondor who would not follow the King to whatever end. Yet the City must not be left undefended, for I hear from King Eomer that there is an army still unfought upon our northern flank.

The young King of Rohan frowned. “If we must ride soon, then I cannot hope to lead even two thousands and yet leave as many for the defense of the City.

“I have brought four thousand Men with me.” said Angbor. “And Ciryandil has one or two thousands more?” he looked questioningly at the shipmaster beside him.

“Little over one thousand when I left the Harlond dock,” he said. “but they were still coming, as many as could find a craft in which to follow the King up the River.”

“We could lead out seven thousands of horse and foot and still leave the City better defended than it was.” Elessar said crisply. “Seven thousand then I will take if we can find so many willing.”

“We should go mostly afoot for the no-man’s lands are an evil country for horses. Eomer, I would have the main part of your Riders remain behind to guard the western road against the army in Anorien and we must send out riders to scout the lands north and eastward.” the King glanced over his shoulder at the grey cloaked Dunedain at his right hand. “Halladan?”

“It will be done, Dundadan.”

“Hurin, I charge you with the defense of the City.”

The Man made a move as if to protest, checked himself, then grinned. “Revenging yourself, Dunadan?”

The King smiled in reply. “A little perhaps. But I wish also to leave my City, and my Queen, in safe hands.” at that the Men’s eyes turned to the Elven lady ensconced in one of the window seats. “But I forget, not all of you know my wife, Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond Half-Elven, twin brother to Elros Tar-Minyatur.”

The Captains rose up and bowed to the Queen, who smiled graciously in reply.

The King also stood. “Go now and choose your Men, but remember I want only those who are willing and understand what they risk.”

“This is the last move in a great jeopardy,” Mithrandir said gravely. “and for one side or the other it will bring the end of the game.”
****

1. I know the book calls him Lord of Lamedon but that just doesn’t make sense. Why would the Lord of an upland dale be defending a coastal city? More to the point the folk of Lamedon apparently don’t have a lord since their men come to Minas Tirith without a Captain.

2. This is a bit of my own history making: Tarondor was the seventh king of Arnor - 515 to 602 - but his name means ‘King of Gondor, an odd choice you’ll agree. As his reign and his father’s coincide with the first Easterling attacks on Gondor I have postulated that King Ostoher of Gondor (411- 492) appealed to Tarcil of Arnor (435-515) for aid, (Gondor still being young and poor at that time) and for a short time the kingdoms were reunited with the High King’s Heir, Tarondor, co-ruling the southern realm with Ostoher and his successor Tarostar. However once the danger was past Tarostar ousted Tarondor, who fled back to Arnor, and established himself as sole ruler taking the name ‘Romendacil’ meaning ‘east victor’ but was slain in battle against the Easterlings shortly afterwards.

This scenario is based on an early version of the rejection of Isildur’s Line by Gondor found in the HoME.

“Are you angry with me, Gandalf?” Pippin ventured as he and the wizard made their way down the winding avenue to see Merry in the Houses of Healing.

Gandalf shook his head with a wry smile. “Not angry, just wondering how I could have been fool enough to let you in for all this.”

“It wasn’t your doing, we wanted to come.” Pippin said firmly.

“I know.” the wizard sighed. “And my heart told me it was right to let you and Merry join us, certainly events here in the south would have gone ill without the two of you.”

“Merry helped kill the Witch King of course, “ Pippin said dubiously, “but I can’t see what I’ve done - beyond making more trouble for everybody.”

“Hmmm.” Gandalf gave him a sharp sidelong glance, a flash of blue from under bushy white eyebrows. “Was it or was it not you, Peregrin Took, who tricked Treebeard into bearing you and Merry to the south marches of his forest and so discovering the devastation Saruman had wrought?”

Pippin blushed a little. “That was a dirty trick.” he admitted. “But he had to find out about it eventually, so why not when it would do us some good?”

“Quite.” the wizard agreed calmly. “And thanks to your trick Isengard was reduced and Saruman’s power destroyed.”

Pippin blinked. “So it was.”

“And then there was the matter of the Palantir.”

“But that was a terrible mistake,” Pippin protested, “awful things might have come of it, you told me so yourself.”

“So they might have.” said Gandalf. “But instead we were forewarned of Sauron’s attack on Minas Tirith, and he gained the mistaken idea that you are the Ringbearer which we can now use to our advantage.”

“I suppose that’s true too.” Pippin conceded in some surprise.

“And finally Faramir would now be dead, as well as his father, had you not been there to go for help.”

Pippin shuddered, as always, at the memory of Denethor’s pyre. Then forced a smile. “All right, I’m convinced. I have been of some use after all.”

“If mostly in spite of yourself.” the wizard agreed dryly.

Pippin laughed. “Good old Gandalf! No chance of me getting a swelled head with you around is there?”

****

Merry did not take the news at all well. “Have you gone mad, Pip?” he demanded. “And, Gandalf, what are you and Strider thinking of to let him do it?”

“Peregrin is not a child, Merry,” the wizard answered quietly, “and we will not treat him as one. He knows very well what he is doing - and why.”

“It’s for Frodo, Merry,” Pippin said pleadingly, “that was the whole reason for our coming along in the first place - to help Frodo.”

“So it was.” Merry took a deep breath, visibly struggled to calm himself. “I’m sorry, Pippin, it’s just I’ve been looking out for you since we were teens and it’s hard to break the habit.” then rather defiantly to Gandalf. “Well if Pip goes so do I!”

“That is for King Eomer to decide.” the wizard answered calmly. “You are his sworn man, remember?”

“Bother!” Merry frowned suspiciously at him. “But if Eomer agrees, you and Strider won‘t try to stop me will you?”

Gandalf shook his head.

“I’ll be glad to have you along, Merry,“ Pippin admitted rather shamefacedly. “fact is I’m scared silly. The Lady said I’d find my courage - but it hasn’t happened yet.”

Gandalf took his pipe out of his mouth. “My dear, Pippin, just what do you think courage is? You have shown yours many times, most lately by offering to play the part of the Ringbearer.“

“Even though the whole idea scares me half to death?” Pippin asked bewildered.

“Even so. Courage is doing what must be done is spite of your fears.” he raised his bushy eyebrows as high as they would go. “Do you think I am not afraid?”

Both Hobbits stared at him. “You, Gandalf?” Merry asked wonderingly.

Yes me!” said the wizard. “Even without the Ring Sauron is mightier than I. I fear to face him yet I will do so for Frodo’s sake, and for Aragorn’s.”

Pippin produced a strained semblance of his old cocky grin. “You mean I’m going to go right on feeling sick with terror courage or no?”

Gandalf smiled gently back. “I am afraid so.”

Pippin took a deep breath. “Well that’s a bit of a disappointment, I must say. I’ll just have to get used to it I suppose.

*****

Merry’s next visitor, after Gandalf and Pippin had lunched with him and gone, was conveniently enough the new King of Rohan himself. Merry blurted out his request before the Man had a chance to say so much as hello: “Eomer - I mean my Lord - may I ride with the army to the Black Gates?”

“Certainly.” he replied promptly, “providing you are fit enough.”

“I’m sure I will be,” Merry said. Relieved and obscurely pleased by Eomer‘s matter of fact acceptance. “I feel almost my old self already.”

The Man sighed. “I would I could say the same of my sister.”

“They said she was getting better!” Merry cried.

“So she is. But she is still very weak and her spirits are low. I was hoping you would pay her a visit, Merry. I have told her you are safe and well but she had many evil dreams during her illness and cannot be at peace until she sees you with her own eyes.”

“I know the feeling.” Merry nodded. “Of course I’ll go. Right now if you like.” he threw back the coverlet and got out of bed.

“Thank you.” Eomer said, looking relieved, then added hastily. “Do not tell her you mean to march with the army. She is angry that she will not be allowed to do so.”

Merry finished pulling on his breeches and grinned. “That sounds like her. But she was much worse hurt than me, she can‘t possibly be fit to go.”

“She is not.” Eomer agreed. “On top of all else she has a broken shield arm. I would not let any Man ride out in such condition and told her so.”

“I won’t say a word.” Merry promised, tucking in his shirt. “Now, where is her room?”

****

Eowyn didn’t look well at all. She was lying, propped up with pillows, staring at but not out of the window near her bed. It took a moment or two for her to rouse herself enough to look around and see who’d entered her room. Then she did and her face lit up.

“Merry!” She held out her good hand to him. He crossed the room to take it, and it was warm and strong again just as it should be. “I am so glad to see you.” she continued. “I was afraid you’d been crushed by the Mumakil.”

“I thought you had been too.” he answered. “Until I saw you and - and *him*.”

They both shuddered. Then Eowyn forced a smile; “You saved my life, Merry, thank you.”

“It wasn’t very heroic,” Merry said ruefully, “stabbing from behind like that.”

“Oh yes it was.” she contradicted firmly. “Just getting near enough that thing for a blow...” she shuddered again at the memory.

“Let’s not talk about it.” said Merry with a shiver.

“No,” she agreed, “nor think about it either. It‘s over. He is gone.”

Merry groped for something else to talk about. “Did you hear what happened after we were hurt? About Strider and the ghosts and all?”

She shook her head. “No, tell me.”

So he did. All about the Dead Men of Dunharrow, which she seemed to understand a great deal better than he did, and how Aragorn had been accepted as King at last.

Her face went oddly still when he mentioned old Strider, which Merry didn’t understand at all until she said. “My brother tells me King Elessar means to attack Mordor itself.”

Merry swallowed. “Yes, they told me that too. It’s not as mad as it sounds, Eowyn. Aragorn - the King that is - and Gandalf know what they’re doing. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.” She looked at him as if he’d lost his wits and he couldn’t blame her, but to his own surprise he found meant every word. “No, really, I have this feeling that somehow everything’s going to work out fine.” he shrugged helplessly. “I know I sound daft.”

She smiled sadly. “I wish I could share your hope, Merry. But I can’t. This is the End, if not for all, at least for me.”

“Please don’t say that, Eowyn.” he begged.

She put her good arm around him. “I’m sorry, Merry, I shouldn’t trouble you with my dark forebodings.”

“Maybe it’s just your illness.” he suggested hopefully. “I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’re a little stronger.”

“Maybe so.” she said, but he could tell she didn’t believe it.

*****

After the council Aragorn led his companions back to their borrowed quarters where they found the remaining Northern Rangers assembled, patiently awaiting further orders, which Halladan promptly gave them.

He assigned pairs to scout northward and eastward to the River and beyond. Those who went north and as far as the River were to return in two days to march with the army, but those who passed over the River into Ithilien and the no-man’s lands were instead to await the army at set rendezvous.

“Elledhir, Adanedhel, Menelgil, Arthamir, Dagorlas and Glingol you will remain here with the Dunadan.” Halladan finished, with one eye fixed defiantly upon his foster brother.

Aragorn said nothing. It would be as well to have a few of his own Men with their special skills on hand, but he was not pleased by the mistrust which he knew had prompted the order. The Northern Dunedain’s view of their Southern kin as treacherous oathbreakers was understandable, given their history, but unjust to the current generation who had inherited the consequences of their forefathers’ sins, but committed none of their own - at least not against the North.

The scouts saluted him and left. Aragorn turned to Beregond, waiting silent and patient as any Ranger in his corner. “Come with me, kinsman, and bring the stone.” He saw apprehension on Arwen’s face as he led the way into a small inner room but she made no protest. He was grateful she had accepted his decision so gracefully, not even demanding to come with him as he had feared. But he should have expected no less. She was Elrond’s daughter, and like her father and brothers would do whatever must be done to defeat their Enemy - however hard.

The small room adjoined both bedroom and antechamber and had been furnished as a study. Beregond set the Palantir, closely wrapped in layers of dark silk, down on the center table. “My Lord,” he said quietly, “I would like to tell you how the stone came into my hands.”

Aragorn nodded consent. He was, he admitted ruefully to himself, in no hurry to face this confrontation. And Beregond’s expression made it clear he considered what he had to say a matter of no small import. Baranor, his father, had been a level headed Man of sound judgment and Aragorn adjudged the son to be the same. So he listened as Beregond told in brief, unvarnished words of Denethor’s madness, his attempt to destroy his son as well as himself by fire and how he, Beregond, had broken his oaths as a Fountain guard and shed a comrade’s blood to save Faramir.

“I spoke to the Lord Steward of the west wind and how it drove back the darkness but he took no hope from it. Instead he uncovered the Palantir, which he had there with him, and commanded me to look in it. I did so and saw the Corsair ships, your ships, my Lord, though we did not yet know it, sailing for the City. I believe it was that sight drove Denethor to his final madness.”

Aragorn did not doubt it. He closed his eyes in a spasm of grief - and guilt. “She said I would be his death.”

“My Lord?”

He opened his eyes. “The Lady Finduilas. When I served Ecthelion as Thorongil she told me I would bring Denethor to his death, though not by my own hand or even by my will.”

“He brought himself to death.” Beregond answered flatly. “He and no other chose every step of the path that led to his pyre.”

“That too is true.” Aragorn agreed, and sighed.

Then Beregond said rather more gently. “Denethor is as much to be pitied as condemned. He withstood much for many long years, but in the end his strength failed him.” he shook his head. “I only wish Peregrin had not seen his lord’s end. I fear it will haunt him.”

“No doubt it will.” Aragorn said. Then he smiled, thinking of his small friend: “But Pippin is stronger than even he knows. He will remember but he will not let the remembrance needlessly darken his heart.”

“I hope so.” said Beregond, and bowed his head. “I thought the King should know I stand before him as both oathbreaker and man slayer. I ask for his justice.”

“You shall have it.” Aragorn promised. He looked at the Palantir. “But now other duties call me.”

Beregond bowed and left. Aragorn took a deep breath and unwrapped the swaddled stone. It shone glassy black between his hands, then a red spark flickered to life in its heart, and grew....

A slit pupil, black as the pit and fringed by flames glared out of the crystal depths of the Palantir. “I see you! I see you!”

Aragorn knew very well what Pippin had sensed by instinct; to speak to the Dark Lord was to open your mind to him. And he knew too that Sauron was not seeing the weary, unkempt Ranger that was his physical form but something altogether more threatening; the fierce white light of the power of the King of Men unveiled.

Sauron’s will battered against his hard held silence. “Who are you? Who are you?”

He answered not in words but with an image: Himself, Anduril burning in his hand, ascending the throne of Gondor. And he felt the Dark Lord’s mind explode in rage - and fear.

A whirlwind of threats tore at Aragorn’s silence. Images of death and destruction; Minas Tirith in flames, the butchered bodies of his friends, and Arwen - Arwen lying pale and dead, half covered by dry brown leaves.

His spirit reeled and almost faltered - but not quite. Coldly, deliberately, he formed an image of his own: Of Isildur cutting the Ring from the Dark Lord’s hand, of the mere Man who had brought him down just as victory was in his grasp. Sauron writhed in an agony of shame and denial and Aragorn, gathering his strength, sliced the Palantir free from his will as cleanly as Isildur had severed him from his power an Age ago.

The crystal went dark, clear and cool and empty. An instrument waiting to be used. Aragorn buried his face in shaking hands. The image of Arwen’s death had pierced him to the soul. For that would happen now and nothing he could do would change it. Win or lose Aragorn knew that he was going to die, and his death would now be hers as well. He spent a moment bitterly regretting all the years he’d wasted trying to change her mind. The ending would have been no different, but they’d have had more time together. Then he lowered his hands and readdressed himself to the Palantir. Now that it was free it would be a pity not to get some use out of it.

****

Ten pale faces turned to him as he opened the door to the antechamber. He steadied himself for a moment against the doorframe.

“Did you see him?” Gimli demanded. “What did you say to him?”

Aragorn barely heard, his eyes fixed on Arwen, alive and watching him anxiously. He crossed the room to take her in his arms and hold her tightly for a moment before pushing her back so he could look into that beautiful face.

Gimli however was not about to be ignored. “Aragorn?”

“Yes, I saw him.” he answered, eyes still locked on hers. “But I spoke no word to him, and in the end I wrenched the stone from his control which he will find hard to endure.” A touch of satisfaction warmed the cold emptiness of his exhaustion. “He saw me and I showed him the blade reforged. He is not so mighty yet that he is above fear. He is afraid now, and doubt gnaws at him.

He spoke directly to his wife. “Once I had mastered the stone I saw many things. Arwen, I saw Elrond fighting beside our people in the Ettenmoors.”

“Of course you did.” she said huskily, eyes shining with pride - and fear. “He is Fingolfin’s heir and has the blood of Tuor and Beren in his veins. He might send his people to the ships but he would never abandon his kin in their last need.” her voice faltered a little “Is he - did you see him fall?”

“No,” Aragorn assured her quickly, “no he is safe and whole as far forward as I could See.” he grinned suddenly at the memory. “I only wish the twins could have seen him too - I had no idea our Uncle was so formidable a warrior!”

“They saw him fight, long ago in the Witch Wars.” Arwen reminded him.

He forced himself to let her go and turned to face the others. “Our people are fighting on the marches of Angmar and in the Moria dale as well as the Ettenmoors.” he said quietly to his Rangers. Then to Legolas. “Lorien and the Woodland realm are both under attack from Dol Guldur.” and finally; “Gimli, Dale has fallen and Erebor is besieged.”

The Dwarf glared fiercely at his boot-tips. Legolas roused himself from his own griefs to lay a gentle hand on his comrade’s shoulder.

“One more axe would make no difference.” Gimli said gruffly. “And the Ringbearer‘s quest was a great matter needing the presence of a Dwarf.”

“That is true.” said Legolas.

Gimli looked up at him, alert for a jibe, but saw at once that Legolas was quite serious. His face softened. “It needed an Elf too.”

Legolas smiled a little. “Thank you.”

“It was worth attempting - even if the company did fail.”

“We did not fail, Gimli.” Aragorn told him firmly. “We brought Frodo safe to the marches of Mordor - beyond that we would have been a hindrance and a danger rather than an aid to him. And there was work for us elsewhere.”

Slowly the Dwarf nodded. “Aye, I suppose you’re right.”

Arwen touched his arm. “You are weary, you must rest.”

He shook his head. “No. There is too much to be done.”

“Indeed,” she answered crisply, “and Hurin and the other Captains are doing it. They don’t need you breathing down their necks!”

She had a point but - “I should greet the Men Angbor and Ciryandil brought up from the south,” he argued, “they deserve at least that much courtesy after coming so far and so quickly at my word.”

“Later.” his wife said firmly.

“But -” he began.

She stamped her foot. “Estel! Am I going to spend the rest of my life nagging you into being sensible?”

“Probably.” said Legolas and four of his Rangers in near chorus.

Gimli chuckled and even somber Beregond smiled.

Aragorn gave them all a mock glare then raised his hands in surrender. “Very well.” He glanced quickly at the Gondor Man. “I give the stone back to your charge, kinsman, for now.” then hesitated a moment, choosing his words: “as for the other matter - this is not the time for such things. For now you may consider yourself a member of my following. When we return - if we return - I will render judgment.”

Beregond bowed and Aragorn turned to obediently follow his wife into the bedroom.

She pulled the curtains, dimming the room to pale twilight, and asked: “What was that all about with Beregond?”

“Our kinsman is troubled.” Aragorn answered quietly, sitting on the bed to pull off his boots. “He was forced to break solemn oaths and worse to kill a comrade to save the Lord Faramir’s life.”

Arwen winced. She knew as well as he how hard a Dunedain, especially one of Ancient House, would take that. “I see. He is not likely to fall into despair and seek death is he?”

Aragorn shook his head. “I think not. He is too level headed for such follies. But his conscience will demand some kind of expiation in due course. I will think of something fitting when I have leisure to consider the problem.”

“And in the meantime keep him close so he cannot do himself a mischief.”

“Something like that.” he agreed, and lay down.

She sat on the edge of the bed and nailed him with a straight look. “Estel, what did you see that troubles you so? Not just scenes of war I think.”

“No.” he closed his eyes, bracing himself to speak calmly, then opened them to meet hers. “Sauron showed me your death.”

“My fate is not in his hands.” she said.

“If he gets back the Ring you will die.” he answered flatly. *and even if he doesn’t* he thought but did not say.

Arwen, astonishingly, smiled: “But he’s not going to get it back is he?”

He stared at her for a long moment, then finally smiled back. “No, he is not. We will give Frodo his chance, and he will put an end to the Ring and to Sauron forever.”

“Trust in Frodo,” his wife advised, with a kiss, “and sleep.” She slipped out the door, closing it gently behind her.

Aragorn closed his eyes, and for all his fears and griefs was asleep in an instant.

****

A knock sounded on the door of Faramir’s chamber. The new Steward raised his eyes from the scroll he was studying to call: “Come in.”

It was the Halfling Peregrin, his worried expression becoming a relieved grin at the sight of Faramir up and dressed and reading in the window seat. “They said you were better.”

The Man smiled. “Much better, thank you Peregrin. You were right.”

The little squire blinked. “I was, about what?”

“About your friend Aragorn. I see now what Boromir saw. He is our King, the King we must have if Gondor is to survive.”

Peregrin sighed with relief. “I’m glad you think so too. Did they tell you he‘s already been accepted by the Council?”

“No, but I am pleased to hear it.” Faramir answered with a glint humor in his eye. “They’d have had me to deal with if they hadn’t!”

The Halfling plopped himself down on a stool with a gusty sigh of relief. “Then that’s all right!”

“It is indeed. Very right.”

Peregrin hesitated then took a deep breath as if bracing himself for something. “I - I wanted to talk to you about Denethor.” Faramir felt his smile freeze and the Halfling rushed on: “He was sorry for what he said, and sorry for sending you away, and he said you’d done well - much better than anybody else could have.” he paused for another gulp of air then forged on. “He was heart broken when he thought you were dying. He did love you, Faramir, very much.”

“I know.” the Man said quietly. There was something different about Peregrin, an almost haunted look in his eyes. Faramir felt a spurt of unreasoning anger against his father. Wasn’t it enough he should hurt his sons? Did he have to harm to his innocent little esquire as well. “Did you see him kill himself, Peregrin?”

The Halfling’s mouth dropped open. “I..I...” he took breath. “Yes I did. How did you know?”

“I knew my father.” Faramir answered grimly, then softened a little. “I felt his grief, and his despair. And I felt him die.”

Peregrin flinched. “It was awful. But your father wasn’t in his right mind, Faramir. You were dying and the City falling, it was all just too much for him. And he didn‘t mean for me to see. He released me from my oath and sent me away - but I came back.”

“To save your life.” Idril said quietly from the doorway.

“My Lady!” Peregrin interupted reproachfully.

“He has a right to know.” she told him, then turned back to her brother. “Father fell into despair, as I warned you he would. He did nothing for the defense of the City, just sat by your bedside watching you fade.”

Faramir winced. Idril, pitiless, went on: “Then when the first wall fell he tired of waiting. He had his men attire you for burial and bear you to the House of the Stewards. And there they built a pyre for the two of you. You were to burn together, alive.”

Man and Woman both looked at Peregrin. “He released from my oath as I said.” he told them steadily. “I ran for help. Beregond came, and Gandalf. They saved you, Faramir. But Denethor -”

“Father was determined to burn, and he did.” Idril said flatly. “Along with all your ancestors back to Pelendur. The House of the Stewards lies in ruin.”

“And you saw all this.” Faramir said quietly to the Halfling. He nodded, two tears leaking out from beneath tightly closed lids. Poor Little One. A fine way for Father to repay his loyalty. “Thank you, Peregrin, I owe you my life.”

“Gandalf and I would have been too late if Beregond hadn’t left his post and kept Denethor talking until we came.”

“Beregond left his post?” Faramir echoed blankly. “But he’s a Fountain Guard!”

“I know,” Peregrin agreed miserably, “and it gets worse. He had to kill the porter to get by him. I don’t know what’s going to become of him now. Please, Faramir, you won’t let them do anything awful to him will you?”

“No indeed.” the Man promised grimly.

“Judgment belongs to King Elessar.” Idril reminded them both.

The Halfling’s face lit in relief. “Old Strider? oh that‘s all right then!”

Faramir hoped it would be. But oathbreaking and shedding a comrade’s blood, whatever the cause, were serious matters. He did not envy Elessar the decision.

“Please try not to be too angry with your father.” Peregrin was saying to Idril. “He wasn’t responsible. It was Sauron getting at him through the Palantir -”

“What!” Faramir interupted sharply.

“Father had been looking into the Anor stone,” his sister explained. “Apparently for years.”

“It’s more awful than you can imagine.” the Hafling told them earnestly, then shuddered. “At least I hope you can’t imagine it. And Denethor did it over and over again. He was very strong but Sauron drove him mad in the end.”

“Peregrin,” Idril said slowly. “How do you know how terrible it is to match wills with the Dark Lord?”

He blushed. “Because I was an idiot. Gandalf had the Orthanc stone, he got it from Saruman. I - I looked into it.” Man and Woman could only stare. “It was - indescribable.” Peregrin continued with a shiver. “Like burning alive and freezing to death at the same time. And that voice inside your head, tearing at your mind - well luckily Gandalf got me out of it before I told Sauron anything -”

“You kept silent?” Faramir breathed.

Peregrin nodded. “I had to. But I couldn’t have kept it up for long. If Gandalf hadn’t rescued me...” he shivered again.

Faramir looked at him in wonder. To resist the will of the Dark Lord was no mean feat. It seemed Peregrin had far more strength and courage than his childlike appearance would suggest - like his cousin Frodo. “You are a brave man, Peregrin Took.”

“Not a Man,” he corrected, “a Hobbit. And not all that brave either - though I am trying!”

****

Pippin’s next visit was to Merry. He found him in the garden, standing at the wall looking at the fire and darkness in the east.

“It’s all settled,” Merry told him. “Eomer’s going to take me as his squire.”

Pippin sighed with relief. “I am glad. At least we’ll all be together. No more of this business of being split up and scattered all over the landscape.”

Merry nodded agreement. “All but Frodo and Sam.”

“And Boromir.” said Pippin.

For a long moment neither of them spoke as they stood there watching Mount Doom belch fire at the black clouds over Mordor. Finally Merry said firmly: “We will see the Shire again, Pippin. All four of us.”

“I know.” his cousin answered quietly, but Merry wasn’t sure Pippin really believed it.

Peregrin rose to take his leave. “With your permission, m’Lord, m’Lady, I’d like to look in on my cousin Merry before I go back on duty.”

“Of course.” Faramir said promptly. “Thank you for coming, Peregrin, and for all your other services to my House.”

The Hobbit bowed and shot Idril a reproachful look on his way out.

“Master Peregrin is displeased with you.” Faramir observed after the door had closed behind him.

“Peregrin doesn’t know how much you hate having things kept from you.” she retorted crisply.

“True.” said Faramir. Then added quietly. “I knew he had killed himself - learning how is no great shock.”

“I told you so.” Idril said flatly.

“You did.” her brother conceded. “But had I fallen at his side on the walls would it not have led to this same end?”

“He might have died better.” she replied.

Perhaps. They’d never know. “The attack was worth attempting, Idril. It failed for a reason none of us could have anticipated. Who ever heard of Orcs using massed bows?”

“That must have been Angmar,” she said, “only a Man, or what used to be a Man, would have thought of that. But archers or no I still say you’d have done better to keep your Men and yourself within the walls!”

He laughed. “Stubborn as ever, Little Sister!” then he looked at her thoughtfully. She was wearing yellow, not mourning, with neither a veil nor the rich jewels their father had always insisted upon. She was rejecting the strictures Denethor had placed upon her, and perhaps his memory as well. “Father deserves pity rather than anger, Idril.”

She sighed. “So I tell myself, but anger comes easier. You were a fool to follow his orders but his was the greater folly, meddling with that deadly stone. Still - Peregrin is right. Father was not himself, and has not been for years. A stranger saw at once what his own children could not.”

“The change was a slow one,” said Faramir, “too slow for us to see.” then he remembered: “But Boromir felt there was something wrong, he spoke to me of it several times.”

Idril’s frowned. “Could he have known about the seeing stone?”

After a moment Faramir nodded. “Very likely. If Father ever confided in anyone it would be his heir.”

“Boromir wouldn’t have liked it.” she said with certainty. “He would have tried to make Father stop.”

“And if Denethor could not be persuaded by his favorite you or I would have had no better fortune.” said her brother. “We could not have saved him.”

“I wonder if anybody could have....” Idril mused. “Maybe your mother?”

“Maybe.” he said. “That is something we can never know. Had she lived many things would have been different.”

“I will try not to think too ill of Father, as Peregrin said.” Idril promised. Then she smiled and came over to kiss his cheek. “Thank the Valar for sending King Elessar. Even a fool of a brother is better than none!”

He laughed. “Thank the Valar and the One above them for our King!”

“Have you heard what he means to do?” his sister asked settling herself in the window seat beside him. He shook his head and she smiled wickedly. “He is gathering troops to march upon the Black Gates.”

For a moment Faramir was nonplussed, then he remembered Frodo and Samwise. They should be inside Mordor by now, Elessar must be trying to draw the Eye from them. “How is it you are not battering his ears with your protests, Sister?”

“I know better than to treat my King like my brother.” she answered primly. “And matters have changed somewhat. No, I like the idea of attacking Mordor very well.” she lowered her voice slightly. “Queen Undomiel has told me why - you already know the reason I think?”

“I do.” he said as quietly. Then frowned in surprise. “What did you say - what queen is this?”

“Our King’s wife of course. Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond of Rivendell.” she laughed. “I wish you could see the look on your face.”

Faramir collected himself. “How was I to know the King was wed?” he demanded defensively, “and to an Elf at that!”

Idril shook her head. “A half-Elf like her father and her uncle Elros Tar-Minyatur. By marrying Elessar she has chosen to become Mortal. She counts herself a Woman now, pointed ears or no.”

“Have they an heir?” Faramir asked.

Again Idril shook her head. “No. They’ve scarce been married a week Undomiel says, though they’ve been handfasted for far longer.”

Faramir’s frown deepened. “Then if Elessar falls we are left kingless again?”

“Assuming Gondor survives at all.” she pointed out. “But he has some kinsmen with him, perhaps one of them is his heir.”

“We will have to establish that.” her brother said. “The law says the King may not risk himself in battle unless he leaves an heir in safety behind him.”

“I will leave it to you to raise the question with him, Steward.” Idril said dryly.

****

The first thing Pippin saw when he followed Lord Hurin into the anteroom of Strider’s apartment was Beregond sitting on a couch by an inner door, an open book in his hand. The Hobbit ran to him.

“There you are!” he exclaimed with relief. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“You should have asked Hiril.” The Man answered mildly, shutting his book. “She would have told you I had gone to the King.”

“Er, yes. I didn’t think of that.” Pippin answered awkwardly. In fact he’d been afraid to ask. What if Hiril didn’t know either? He‘d only scare her - and the poor lady didn‘t need that. “Anyway you have nothing to worry about. Strider - the King I mean - will understand you had to do what you did.”

Beregond smiled gently at him. “I am not worried.”

The four Rangers scattered around the room had also been beguiling the time with the Lady Idril‘s library. Hurin addressed himself to the Man by the bedroom door. “The Dunadan’s not awake yet?”

The Ranger shook his head, a glint of humor just visible. “No. And it would be more than my life’s worth to disturb him for anything less than a personal assault by the Dark Lord.”

Hurin laughed. “The Lady Arwen’s orders I take it?”

The Man nodded, then looked over his shoulder at the door, alerted by some sound only audible to Ranger ears. It opened and Aragorn emerged; clean, brushed and clad in robes of grey and crimson embellished with gold and silver needlework.

He looked so regal that for a moment Pippin could only gape, then he found his voice. “My word, Strider, don‘t you look grand!”

The two Gondor Men laughed out loud and even the Rangers showed quiet amusement.

Aragorn smiled at him, “Thank you, Pippin.” then he turned to Hurin. “How goes the muster? Are enough Men willing to go?”

“Too many. As Imrahil said, all are ready to follow the King.”

Aragorn frowned. “You must make clear the peril.”

Hurin all but rolled his eyes. “Nobody expects a march to the Black Gates to be a merry maying expedition, Dunadan!” his voice lowered slightly. “Naturally we have not told them it is a diversion, or about the Ringbearer. But we have said that while the King expects this attack to give us victory it is very likely none who make will return. Is that sufficient?”

“I do wish you wouldn’t say things like that, m’Lord.” Pippin put in a little forlornly. “It might turn out all right - after all nobody thought we’d survive the siege either did they?”

“Very true, Pippin.” Aragorn agreed. “But we must consider the worst as well as the best when making our plans. And the Men must know what they risk.”

“That’s true.” the Hobbit conceded.

“Now then,” Aragorn continued to Hurin, “I would like to give my greetings to the Men from the South, and then have a look at the City defenses.” he glanced around. “Where is my wife?”

“She went off with the Lady Idril some hours ago, Dunadan,” answered the Ranger at his shoulder, “after leaving those clothes and threatening us with the direst fates compassed in her spellcraft should we wake you before time.”

“And you obeyed her to the letter as was wise.” Aragorn said with some amusement, then turned to Hurin. “Who is this Lady Idril, Hurinya?”

“Narcil and Almiel’s daughter.” he replied. “Born after you left Gondor. Both their boys died young of the wasting and Narcil fell soon after in a skirmish on the Northern March.” he shook his head sadly. “So many losses so close together were too much for Almiel‘s strength, she died bearing Idril and the little girl became Denethor‘s ward.”

“And so Lady of Gondor.” Aragorn nodded. “That explains all, thank you Hurin.”

***

“As you see the Gate is destroyed,” Prince Imrahil told the King and his companions as they stood beneath the empty archway, “and where now is the skill to remake it?”

“In Erebor, in the Kingdom of Dain.’ Gimli answered promptly. “If by some chance we should survive this expedition I will send for Mountain wrights to make you gates that no foe will break.”

“A generous offer, Master Dwarf, for which we are grateful,” said Imrahil. “But what do we do now?”

“Men are better than gates,” said Aragorn in voice deliberately pitched to reach the eagerly listening ears crowded at a respectful distance around them, “and no gate will endure against our Enemy if Men desert it.”

“Well said, my Lord,” Hurin answered, “but what of the Women and children, should they be sent into Lossarnach?”

“That is just the question we have been debating.” the crowd parted for Arwen Undomiel,

radiant in a blue gown all aglimmer with threads of gold, and with blue and yellow flowers braided in her long hair. She was followed by several other Women including one almost as tall as she, and another much shorter.

Aragorn broke into a smile at the sight of her, then bent to kiss her hand. “And what have you decided, my Lady?”

“Nothing yet.” Arwen turned to one of her companions, “The Lady Idril here argues for it.”

“At present everybody is crowded into the fourth, fifth and sixth circles,” the small Woman in the yellow gown explained, “and the greater part of our siege stores have been spoiled or destroyed. Under such conditions sickness is perilously likely. Lossarnach would be healthier for the bulk of our people until the lower circles are habitable again.”

“A well considered argument.” said Aragorn. “Who is against it?”

“I am.” Arwen answered. “The threat of sickness is real, but Emeldir of Endorien told me long ago that folk do best in their own place, no matter how ruinous, and my experience in the old wars proved her right.”

Aragorn considered. “What of the water supply, is it clean?”

“Yes,” Idril answered, “the enemy had not the time to meddle with it.”

“Then they may stay.” he decided. “Food can be brought from Lossarnach as easily as the people sent there, and many hands will lighten the work of rebuilding.” he smiled at his distant kinswoman. “I trust my wife has already thanked you for all your kindness to us, Lady Idril.”

Yellow eyes, like her father Narcil’s, looked up at him. “A small return for my brother’s life.” she answered, then smiled radiantly. “Thank you for Faramir.”

“I forsee I will have good cause to be grateful for him myself in days to come.” Aragorn answered, studying her closely. The last of the Anarioni could make a great deal of trouble for Isildur’s Heir if she chose, but he saw at once she had no more intention of opposing him than Faramir or Imrahil.

The lack of resistance continued to surprise him, he couldn’t believe a thousand years of obdurate denial had just disappeared overnight. Sooner or later he would be challenged, of that he was certain, but it would not be by Idril. And hopefully not until after Sauron was defeated.

The two days of the muster of the Army of the West passed quickly, for there was much to do and little time to do it in. The Ranger scouts returned with good news; Elfhelm and the Riders of Rohan had scattered the Orc and Easterling army in Anorien and sent them fleeing northward towards Cair Andros. And in the ruins of Osgilliath the Northern Rangers discovered nearly a score of Faramir’s Men who had not only managed to hide themselves from the Enemy but to cut the bridge over the Anduin for a few key hours, so that the Haradrim came late to the field - after Rohan had broken the Orc army. The City was as secure as it might be and the road eastward clear. All was ready for the final throw.

Half past noon on the second day Merry knelt at the feet of Eomer King, in the Lady Eowyn’s chamber in the Houses of Healing, and received from him a short sword and a shield ensigned with the running horse. “Rise now Meriadoc Holdwine, Knight of the Riddermark!”

Merry blinked rather blankly up at him. “Pardon?”

Eomer laughed. “Holdwine, ‘true friend’ I call you in our tongue. And a true friend you have been to all our House. Will you serve as my esquire as you served my uncle, Sir Meriadoc?”

Merry got to his feet and bowed. “I would be honored, my Lord.”

Eowyn was lying in the big bed, propped up with pillows but smiling almost happily. She beckoned Merry to her and kissed him. “Hail Sir Holdwine!” she said. “I count on you to take care of my brother for me.”

“I will.” he promised.

“But who‘s going to take care of Merry?” Pippin wondered.

“Merry can take care of himself.” said Gandalf, and cocked an eyebrow down at Pippin. “As can you, my lad.” And the young Hobbit blushed with embarrassed pleasure.

A knock on the door preceded the entrance of the two Women who attended Eowyn, both carrying trays of dishes. Merry and Eomer settled down to share the Lady’s lunch but Pippin and Gandalf excused themselves and went down the passage to see Faramir.

They found him sitting at a table piled high with books. “What’s this?” Gandalf asked picking them up one by one and reading the titles: “’Annals of King Eldacar’ ‘A History of the Kinstrife’, ‘On the Royal Succession’, ’Of the Restoration of the True King’, ’The Accession of King Earnil II’...?”

“I am looking for precedents.” Faramir explained and grimaced. “Unfortunately it seems King Elessar has no legal right to the Throne of Gondor.”

“What!” Pippin exclaimed in horror, “but Faramir, you said you wanted him for King -!”

“I do,” the Man answered, “we all do, Peregrin. But laws were made long ago by Men who did not want Isildur’s Heirs to rule in Gondor, and now I must find some way around them.”

“Can’t you just change them?” Pippin demanded.

Gandalf snorted and Faramir smiled wryly. “I don’t know how such things are managed in your Shire, Peregrin, but in Gondor the making or changing of law is no simple matter.”

“Give the matter to the Great Council of the Realm and Aragorn will be a grandsire before he is crowned.” said the Wizard grimly.

Faramir nodded rueful agreement, then smiled reassuringly at Pippin. “Never fear, Peregrin, I studied law as well as literature and lore. I will find a way.”

“I certainly hope so.” said the Hobbit, and sighed gustily. “Honestly, Faramir, sometimes I think you Men deliberately set out to make things as hard as possible for yourselves and everybody else!”

“It’s not deliberate, Peregrin,” Faramir assured him, “at least not usually.”

Gandalf snorted again, then the bells rang the seventh hour.

“Bother!” said Pippin. “I have to go back on duty. I’m glad to see you so much better Faramir.”

“Thank you, Peregrin. And would you do me the favor of asking Beregond to come see me?”

“I’d be happy to.” the Hobbit answered with a short bow before heading for the door. “See you later Gandalf.”

Faramir smiled after him. “Remarkable creatures these Hobbits, so small and vulnerable and yet so brave.” he glanced at Gandalf. “To resist the Dark Lord‘s will, even for a few moments, is no mean feat. Peregrin doesn‘t know his own strength.”

“No, and I hope you didn’t tell him.” the wizard answered crisply. “He’s thoroughly ashamed of that little incident, and it’s best he stay that way. It might keep him from taking any more foolish risks.”

“All is risk now.” said Faramir, then sighed. “I am worried about Beregond. He will take oathbreaking and bloodshedding hard.”

“Ah,” said Gandalf, “you know him do you?”

Faramir nodded. “He was a Citadel Guard when Boromir and I were boys, and our first arms-master. Father had a prejudice against him, I never knew why.”

“Something to do with his family, I believe.” said the Wizard.

“Very likely. Boromir said it was foolish - but there was no arguing Father out of it.” Faramir grimaced. “Bad blood, good blood, we Gondorim are far to concerned with ancestry and not enough with what a Man is.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” said Gandalf.

****

Beregond arrived not long after the Wizard left, having now no duties to detain him. “I am glad to see you so recovered, my Lord.” he said formally. “No doubt you are concerned about the fate of the Anor stone. Mithrandir entrusted it to my keeping as you were unfit at that time for the charge. And I gave it into the hands of the King. He has since had it returned to its place in the uppermost chamber -”

“Beregond!” Faramir interrupted, “I did not call you here for a report.”

The other Man fell silent, waiting respectfully for orders. Faramir sighed in exasperation. Beregond had always had a way of using formality to keep others at a distance. His reserve would have been exceptional even in a Dunedain of Ancient House and was quite extraordinary in a commoner. He had unbent long ago with a small boy, but the boy was now a Man and his superior officer.

“Are you all right.” Faramir asked bluntly.

“Well enough.” the other Man answered quietly, then his stiff soldier’s bearing softened and he almost smiled. “I have placed the matter in King Elessar’s hands and am content to await his judgment. Peregrin tells me I have nothing to worry about.”

“I agree with him.” said Faramir, thinking wryly that Elessar’s real problem would be finding some penalty that would appease Beregond‘s aching conscience without displeasing the people, who had sided solidly with the Guardsman, by its harshness. “I have thanked Mithrandir and Peregrin, I wish also to thank you for my life. And even more for trying to save my father.”

“Even tempered steel will break at the last,” Beregond said quietly. “and Denethor had had much, in the end too much, to bear.”

“Yes,” Faramir agreed as quietly. “Even the strongest have their limits. It was my father’s misfortune that the darkness of these times pushed him beyond his.” he turned the subject. “I hear you will be riding with the army.”

Beregond nodded. “My first campaign.” he said a little wryly.

“Try not to make it your last.” Faramir said, quite seriously.

“I will.” Beregond promised and Faramir was satisfied. He himself had almost thrown his life away in a fit of grief and despair, but saw his old friend was too level headed do the same.

****

It was early evening when the King came to the Houses of Healing to see his Steward. He found Faramir lying on his bed frowning over a dusty tome which he put quickly aside at the sight of his visitor and started to rise.

Elessar waved him back. “Leave that. I am here as your physician not your King.” He took Faramir’s pulse and laid a light hand on his brow to check for fever - and other things - then smiled. “You are doing well and are a credit to me. Yet I would have you remain in the care of this House at least a tenday more. Your body and mind have been sorely tried for many years, give them a little time to rest before you make more demands upon them.”

“As you wish, my Lord and healer.” Faramir answered, studying his sovereign closely.

The King was dressed now as became his rank, in deep green velvet and silk gilded with embroideries of gold thread, and washed clean of the grime of travel and battle. Yet there was still a hint of something - not weariness exactly but a kind of strain - shadowing his eyes and honing the strong bones of his face. “How many long years have you been hard tried, my King?” Faramir asked softly. “And when will you take rest?”

A flash of laughter lightened that usually sad face and the deep eyes glinted. “I am the physician here, my lord Steward.” Elessar said, mock sternly, then smiled openly. “Never fear for me. I have a wife and a number of determined and persistent Men to see that I take proper care of myself.”

*And are more than equal to all of them.* Faramir thought, but said out loud: “The army marches tomorrow.”

The King’s smile vanished. “Yes.’

“My Lord, by the law of Gondor the King may not ride out to war unless he leaves behind an heir of years to rule.”

“So the Council has already told me.” Elessar replied calmly. “I have such an heir. He is Gilvagor son of Armegil, my father’s brother, and my own foster son.”

“You have him here with you?” Faramir asked.

Elessar shook his head. “No. He remained in the North as my deputy.”

“That fulfills the law,” Faramir admitted, “yet it would be hard for Gondor to regain her King only to lose him again. Will you come back to us, my Lord?”

“I do not know.” the King answered softly. “From the day I first set my foot upon this road I have been unable to see its end.” he turned away, moving to the window to look eastward, towards the Enemy. “I do not know.” he said again, but strongly and with a ring of conviction. “But I believe these days will see Sauron’s end. The Ringbearer will succeed in his quest and Middle Earth be freed from the Shadow.”

“But you do not believe you will live to see that end.” Faramir said to his back.

Elessar turned. “I do not know.” he said yet again, heavily. “I know only that I will do what I must, whatever the end may be.” then he smiled gently, trying to reassure. “I do not want to die, Faramir. If I can come back I will, but I can only promise not yield up my life easily, not that I will succeed in keeping it.”

“I understand.” At least the King was not riding out almost eager for death as Faramir himself had done just a few days ago. There was a healthy share of fear behind those level eyes, as well as the courage to master it. “We must hold to hope.”

Elessar nodded somberly. “Always. Hope is the strength of Men.”

****

Aragorn had thought long and hard about his next visit, whether it might not do more harm than good. But the Lady Eowyn was not only his patient but his friend, and had been a kind and gracious hostess to him. To not see her would be a grave discourtesy. Finally he left the decision to her, sending to ask if she would receive him. She decided that she would.

A Woman in the service of the Healers, grey gowned and veiled, opened the door to him. Eowyn was sitting, well wrapped, propped up in a cushioned chair set beneath a window open to the sweet night air and garden scents. She was deathly pale, save for two spots of color high on her cheeks, and her eyes were feverishly bright. Aragorn’s heart ached at the sight of her.

He bowed. “My Lady, I come to see how you fare and if there is any more service I can do you before my departure tomorrow.” far too stiff and formal but talking to her like a father or elder brother, which was how he felt, would have been even worse.

“I would ride with you.” she answered.

“You are not fit for such a journey,” he answered, “and your brother and King has forbidden it. If he falls you will be the last of the House of Eorl, your people will need you, Eowyn.”

“He will fall, as will we all wherever the black tide overtakes us!” she cried. “I would die with those I love, is that asking so much?”

“You seek death, Eowyn, and that is not defiance but surrender.” he heard the steel edging his voice and stopped. No, sternness was not meet for this case. Eowyn was no malingerer but a young Woman tried beyond her strength. Her despair was all too understandable.

He knelt before her chair, put his hand over her cold one and felt her quiver at the touch. “Eowyn, you have struck the greatest blow in all this war by depriving the Enemy of his chief captain. It may well be that Minas Tirith stands and I still live only because of you. If this hand accomplished so much cannot others do the same? And together may we not topple Sauron from his throne? Lady I have fought the Shadow for more years than you have been alive and I tell you there is yet hope - there is always hope!”

But his words kindled no answering spark. He could not give Eowyn what she needed, he could only pray that somewhere there was one who could - and that she would find him soon. He rose; “Hail and farewell, Lady of Rohan, it may be we shall meet again beyond the Shadows.” He kissed her cold brow then turned and left her, careful not to look back.

If the new King’s new esquire hadn’t known from his own experience it was customary for Women to arm Men for war Pippin might have shut the door on Lady Arwen, and her companions when they showed up to help Strider dress, instead he let them in.

All three Women were looking grand and rather solemn in dark gowns glittering with gold and silver. Aragorn, in his shirt and breeches, greeted them without surprise or embarrassment. Of course Lady Arwen *was* his wife now, and the other two, Lady Idril and Lady Laebeth, were some kind of relations. Besides Men aren‘t Hobbits they have their own ways - and very odd some of them are too!

It was just as well the ladies had come for they knew how all the bits and pieces went on, which was more than Pippin did. He made himself useful by handing the pieces to them - at least he remembered from his own arming the order in which the things were supposed to go on.

For some reason Strider wasn’t going to wear the kind of plate armor that seemed usual in Gondor instead the ladies put a shirt and a sort of long skirt of black mail upon him, then fastened some scaly bits of silver-steel plate inlaid with gold and engraved with feathers and trees in the usual Gondorian fashion to his shoulders and upper arms.

A sleeveless red velvet robe went over the armor, and a black leather surcoat embroidered on the chest with the tree and stars went over that. Then Lady Arwen buckled a pair of tooled black leather vambraces decorated with the feather and star crest of the Kings in silver steel onto Aragorn’s arms, while the other two fastened similar plates to his boots.

After that Arwen took the swordbelt, with Narsil and the Elven knife hanging from it, out of Pippin’s hands and buckled it around Strider’s waist. And last of all Idril and Laebeth draped a black cloak lined with dark red over his shoulders, fastening it with the Eagle brooch and a silver pin engraved with the Tree.

Then Lady Arwen made him sit down and combed his hair herself, plaiting two little braids with silver and fastening them at the back of his head to keep the hair from his eyes, which struck Pippin as quite a good idea considering how Aragorn’s hair usually behaved.

He picked up the glittering helmet with its adamant star above the noseguard and wide spread seagull wings of real feathers but Strider shook his head, smiling. “Leave that, Pippin, I will not wear it. And leave the shield as well. It will be no use to me and awkward for you to carry.”

“To put it mildly.” Pippin agreed with some relief. The shield was near as tall as he was, and unwieldy with it.

Aragorn rose but before he could go Lady Arwen held up a finger. “Wait, there is one thing more.” Turning aside she dug for a moment in a saddle-bag and when she turned back she had a sort of silver ribbon spread across her hands with a big glittering white jewel in its center.

Strider’s eyes went wide. “The Elendilmir!”

“Gilya gave it to me to bring to you along with Narsil.” she answered, maybe a little defensively.

His brow crinkled in that way he had. “And what else do you have in that saddlebag of yours, the Scepter of Annuminas? Elendil’s chair itself?”

“Of course not,” she answered, “don’t be silly, Estel. Now bend down and let me put this on you.”

As he straightened up the jewel caught the light from the window and blazed like a star upon his brow. Pippin felt his breath catch and for a moment Strider didn’t look like himself at all but intimidatingly grand and remote, like one of the towering king statues in the Hall.

Lady Arwen smiled like the sun coming out and said something in Elvish: “Onan-i-Estel Edain.”

Aragorn’s face changed. “U-chebin estel anim.” he answered, almost harshly. Then he took his wife’s hands in his and said: “Arwen -” in a tone that told Pippin this would be a very good time to make himself scarce. He put down the helmet and headed for the door, the other two ladies right at his heels.

Outside the door Idril got down on her knees and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Peregrin.”

“For what?” he asked in surprise.

“For not letting me part from my father in anger.”

He broke into a relieved smile. “Then you’re not angry with Lord Denethor any more?”

She smiled back, a bit ruefully. “A little. But his life was more than its ending. I will try to remember the good years not the bad. And thanks to you I need not reproach myself over our parting as poor Faramir must. I am grateful.”

“You’re welcome.” said Pippin.

***

As he followed the two Women through the Great Hall Pippin saw that Denethor’s black throne at the foot of the dais had been taken away somewhere. Then they passed through the open doors into the Court of the Fountain to find it full of armed Men. Not the whole army of course, just the Captains and their personal guards.

Lord Hurin stood on the steps talking to King Eomer and Prince Imrahil with Merry behind them, listening intently. Lady Idril’s four women were grouped nearby, one holding a tall pitcher and the other a large goblet. Idril joined them but Lady Laebeth, who was Hurin’s wife, went down the steps to talk to the young Man holding Aragorn‘s banner.

Pippin himself headed straight for his companions. Gandalf, Gimli and Legolas were standing with Strider’s Northern Rangers, who looked very plain and plebian in their dark grey cloaks and unadorned leather and mail next to the splendid silver-steel armor and gold broidered black cloaks of the new King’s Guard. Not to mention the elegant blue and silver of the Knights of Dol Amroth and the colorful leather and gilt armor of the Rohirrim. Not that they cared a jot, as far as Pippin could see, any more than Strider himself had minded wearing his shabby old leathers at the Court of Edoras.

Beregond was standing with them as well, along with Mistress Hiril. Baradis and Berethil were there too but they weren’t paying any attention to their brother, instead they were talking earnestly to Lady Arwen’s twin brothers.

“They seem to have a lot to say to each other.” Pippin observed, interested.

“Yes.” said Mistress Hiril in a tone he recognized. He’d heard it from his mother when she’d seen his sisters chatting up somebody she didn’t approve of.

“I’m sure it’s just business. The healing art and all that.” he said hastily.

“I hope so.” Hiril said grimly. “We shall see when you return.”

Pippin let out a gusty sigh of relief. “At last somebody who thinks we’ll be coming back! I must say all the gloom and doom these last days has had my heart right down in my toes.”

Beregond smiled down at him. “I doubt that, Peregrin, yours is not a heart easily cowed. For myself I have no fears at all, not with an experienced campaigner like you to look after me.”

The Hobbit blushed. “That was just Strider - I mean the King’s - little joke. Anyway,” he continued to Hiril, “you were right about the siege so I believe you about this too.”

“Thank you, Peregrin.” she answered. “See if you can convince my husband. After all these years he still hasn’t learned I am *always* right.”

“Well I’d think he’d have noticed that -” Pippin was beginning when Aragorn and Arwen appeared under the arch of the doors and the Men raised a cheer.

Strider and the other Captains descended the steps to stand with their squires and chief officers beneath their banners. Pippin joined Aragorn, his cousin Halladan who headed the Rangers, and Siriondil the Gondorian captain of the new King’s Guard beneath the Tree and Stars.

The maid holding the pitcher poured wine into the great cup held by her companion, who handed it to Idril who passed it in turn to the new Queen. She carried it to each Captain, Eomer first, then Imrahil and finally Aragorn, and they drank from it one by one as did those standing by them including, last of all, Pippin himself.

Lady Arwen took the cup back from him and addressed them all, not in Elvish but in plain common speech: “We part but for a time. Fare you well until we meet again.” which sounded like she thought they’d be coming back too.

Pippin certainly hoped she and Hiril were right.

After bowing to the Queen they all trooped down the steps of the tunnel to the sixth circle and mounted their horses in the stable yard there.

“Here Pippin my lad, you ride with me.” Gandalf said smiling. “Shadowfax and I would be lonely without our familiar third.”

Pippin saw Eomer had Merry mounted behind him as the party arranged themselves in marching order with Strider and the other Captains at the front, along with the remaining members of the Fellowship of the Ring.

Pippin cleared a dry throat and said as brightly as he could: “Where are we going?”

Eomer and Imrahil stared at him in astonishment but his companions got the joke. Aragorn smiled wryly, and Legolas kindly, and Gimli gave a little snort of laughter. Gandalf rolled his eyes histrionically, but Merry heaved a long suffering sigh and said with exaggerated patience: “Mordor, Pip, just like before.”

“Oh, right.” said Pippin, well pleased to have wiped that grim look off Strider’s face, even for an instant, and trying to ignore the way his palms were sweating under his gloves and the gone feeling in his belly. “I remember now.”

And so he rode out of Minas Tirith with a joke on his lips. A very different Hobbit from the one who had ridden in a bare week ago.

TO BE CONTINUED ....In the sequel ‘The Black Gates’. Coming eventually ;)