*** I just want to grovel to a very good friend of mine, Luinë, who helped me so much with this story. Thanks to her, I got up the courage to post it. Please, thank her as much as you can, she deserves so much thanks! O, great Luinë! Gem of all college students, thank you! You're truly an inspiration!***

To Pity a Father

'That's Minas Tirith?'

That was my first thought when I saw the White City for the first time. I remembered how Boromir had always described his home. As Gandalf and I rode towards the city, sketches of the conversations I had with Boromir floated back to me and I remembered how he had described it. He had said it was beautiful and grand, full of music and laughter. And white. Now I knew why it was called the White City. Boromir had hardly been joking; Minas Tirith was certainly white, white enough that it hurt to look at it. And depressingly cold, it seemed to me. Almost as cold as the snow on Caradhras, or so I thought then, and we were headed right into that city. I think my heart was in my toes. 'Oh, where are you, Merry? 'I thought.

Shadowfax ran through the gates and into the city, not caring who, or what, was in his way and I was too uncertain, stunned and frightened to care much what Shadowfax did. Or what Gandalf did, for that matter. The city was just as white as it had looked from the plain, but now I could really see the beauty of the city. I could see the detail, though I hardly paid attention. Faces blurred past my own as we rode through the different levels of Minas Tirith. Cries and shouts followed and preceded Gandalf and I as Shadowfax raced higher and higher. Somewhere in my dimly light mind, I realized there was no laughter or music, as Boromir had said, and briefly I wondered why. I imagined that I wouldn't even hear a mother's lull-a-bye.

Shadowfax slowed suddenly and Gandalf quickly dismounted, swinging me after him. We were in a courtyard paved in white marble and exact green lawns in front of an enormous hall. It stretched high above me, scraping the sky. It made me wobbly, looking so high. Then I realized how high from the ground we must be, and that knowledge made me even more uncomfortable. Hobbits, even us adventurous Tooks, were not built for such heights.

In the middle of the nice, green lawns there was a grand, white tree. It was bare, almost dead seeming. Gandalf started walking quickly towards the hall. I followed after him, trying to keep up and look around at my surroundings at the same time. The tree held my gaze. I knew that tree. My heart jumped for a moment in recognition, but fell just as quickly in fear. I had seen it in the Palantir. It had been in flames.

"It's the tree." I stared in wonder at it, and almost stopped, but Gandalf kept walking. I ran to catch up. "Gandalf. Gandalf!"

"Yes," he grumbled, not stopping his quick pace towards two dark doors. "The White tree of Gondor. Denethor, however, is not the king. He is a Steward only. A caretaker of the throne." Gandalf led on to the doors and the steps leading up to them. Just before entering, Gandalf stopped and pointed to the doors. "Now, listen carefully. Lord Denethor is Boromir's father. To give him news of his beloved son's death would be most unwise. And do not mention FrodoS or the Ring." I nodded and forced myself to look at where I was to be going, but Gandalf stopped again and looked back down at me. "And say nothing of Aragorn, either." I nodded again. I looked to the doors again, but Gandalf still didn't open them. He looked down at me yet again. I was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to open those blasted doors. "In fact, it's better if you don't speak at all, Pippin Took." I nodded and I felt my face falling. I knew what Gandalf was trying to do. He was trying to keep me out of trouble. My thoughts were wrenched back to the many times I had messed up during the Quest. I remembered my slip at Bree. Then in Moria, when I just had to touch the arrow in the skeleton, sending it to the depths of a well. I was always getting into some sort of trouble, no matter that I never meant to be trouble, I just was. I nodded again, because suddenly, my voice wasn't working. Gandalf finally swung the doors open.

The hall was made with beautiful white marble. It was very bright inside. High windows lined the hall, illuminating rows of tall, proud statues. I thought they must be the old kings of Gondor. They were all so stern looking and melancholy, too. I stared at one. He looked like Aragorn.

"Hail, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor. I come with tidings in this dark hour. And with counsel." My gaze was wrenched from the Aragorn-looking statue at Gandalf's voice. My gaze went straight to the end of the hall.

I saw at the far end of the hall a large white throne. It was centered, but the black throne below it was off to the right. Stooped in that black throne was a man. Denethor, son of Ecthelion. Father of Boromir. Steward of Gondor. He held something in his lap that I couldn't make out at first. I kept squinting to see it better.

"Perhaps you come to explain this?" Denethor asked bitterly. He held up what had been in his lap and I think I almost swallowed my tongue in surprise. It was Boromir's horn, cloven in two, just like I remembered it had been as Merry and I were being taken by the Uruk-hai. Gandalf was just as stunned as I, I could tell that, even without looking at his face, for he had stopped short. The hall was completely silenced for a moment. "Perhaps you come to tell me why my son is dead?" I thought Denethor was near to weeping. I wanted to help him somehow.

I couldn't stand the quiet anymore. I couldn't not say anything. I stepped around Gandalf and knelt before the Steward. I bowed my head, not wanting to look at the grieving father before me. "Boromir died defending us. My kinsman and me." I felt as though my voice was too high and I was about to be smote down by either Gandalf or Denethor.  "He fell, defending us from many foes." I heard Gandalf hiss my name, but I ignored him. I needed to do this. "I offer you my service, such as it is, in payment of this debt."

Again, the hall was deathly still. I waited. And waited. It felt like an eternity passed, me kneeling on that cold, cold white marble, Gandalf standing behind me, stunned out of speech and Denethor in front of me, seriously affronted and unsure whether to strike me down or ask me about Boromir's last stand. I waited.  I could pick out small, natural patterns in the floor. I could see the stitching in the hem of Denethor's cloak. His boots were of black leather. He was dressed in black. Everything about him was black and dark. I felt something, like fear, coming from him. I didn't understand it, so I ignored it, wishing only for this interminable moment to end.

End it did, but not the way I expected. Gandalf came back to himself and struck me in the back with his staff. "Get up!" Gandalf finally said. I got up and stood beside Gandalf, hanging my head. I had made yet another blunder. Another mistake. "My lord," Gandalf addressed Denethor again. "There will be a time to grieve for Boromir, but it is not now. War is coming. The Enemy is on your doorstep. As Steward, you are charged with the defense of this city. Where are Gondor's armies?"

I knew Gandalf was trying hard to comfort the father of the man I had come to know as a friend. I wanted Denethor to nod, accepting the fact that Boromir was gone, but knowing that he could grieve later, after the fight his son had begun was finished. Instead, I saw Denethor's face close, and saw his eyes darken in quick anger. I watched these two. Powerful men, though powerful in different ways. They warred with each other, using their minds and their eyes. Denethor was not listening to Gandalf. 'What have I done? Merry, why did you let me come to this city?  I never think well when you aren't with me. I hardly think at all as it is!' I thought to myself. I was suddenly very afraid. 'Why did I have to look in that cursed stone?' I looked back up at Gandalf.

Gandalf was not giving up. "You still have friends," he said encouraging Denethor. "You are not alone in this fight. Send word to Theoden of Rohan. Light the beacons."

I turned my gaze from Gandalf to survey Denethor. He was smiling, and it certainly was not a welcoming sight. I shivered, even more frightened then before. 'What have I gotten myself into?' Denethor was even angrier than before.

"You think you are wise, Mithrandir, yet for all your subtleties, you have not wisdom," he muttered. His voice had dropped so low I thought that he was growling at Gandalf, as battling dogs will do. "Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? I have seen more than you know. With your left hand you would use me as a shield against Mordor and with you right you would seek to supplant me."

Did I really understand what Denethor was saying? I was shocked, to say the least. Did Denethor really think Gandalf wanted to dispense of the Steward? I looked at Gandalf. Gandalf wouldn't do that! I could see in Gandalf's eyes that he was just as stunned as me, though he hid it better.

"I know who rides with Theoden of Rohan," Denethor mumbled.

'Aragorn!' I thought. 'How did he know of Aragorn?' "Oh yes!" the Steward continued. "Word has reached my ears of this Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I tell you now, I will not bow to this Ranger from the North, the last of a ragged house, long bereft of Lordship."

Now Denethor was attacking Aragorn! He didn't even know Aragorn! What I had gotten myself into, I could barely guess, but I was certainly in over my head. Denethor was really mad. Angry and grieved. That wasn't all there was to his mood, but I was in no shape to try and untangle why Denethor was so unreasonable. Instead, I looked, once again, to Gandalf. He was hurt on Aragorn's behalf.

"Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the KingS Steward!" I knew Gandalf was angry, but I hadn't ever seen him this angry before. He'd been angry at me, but never like this! Now I was really frightened.

"The rule of Gondor is mine, and no others!" Denethor roared. I thought the hall itself would shake loose and bury us all in the force of Denethor's rage. I looked from Gandalf to Denethor and back again. Both were seething. Both were strong willed. I could tell nothing more was going to be accomplished this day between Denethor and the White Wizard. I looked to the floor in shame. Nothing had been accomplished at all, save for my stupidity growing worse, offering my services to the Lord Denethor. I chanced a glance up at Gandalf. He was more than angry, and I didn't want to find out what he could do in a temper that bad,

"Come," Gandalf said shortly as he spun on his heal to leave. I followed him, not wanting to risk his rage. As we left the hall, though, I looked back at Denethor. He had dejectedly slumped back in his black throne, covering his face in his hands. I didn't like the man. Something about him as a leader was wrong, but I sensed something different in him as well. His eyes were filled with sadness at Boromir's loss. I understood that, so I concentrated on that one emotion, disregarding the others I could barely comprehend. I realized then that I pitied him. Perhaps I hadn't done the wisest thing in offering to give my services to the Steward of Gondor to repay my debt to Boromir, but I felt sure that I had done the right thing in offering to give my services to the grieving father of my friend.