Note: All names are taken from Appendix A, Annals of the Kings and Rulers in ROTK.

Deor, of Rohan

(Movie verse)

There is a tenseness in the air.  Around me, the horses are stamping their hooves and snorting air through their nostrils, trying to blow the offensive anxiety away.  Even my Gram, who would only flick his ears if a child ran under him, is shaking his head nervously.  We men are nearly crazy with waiting; waiting for a decision to be reached, waiting to march, waiting to fight.  There is a whisper among the soldiers that the Dark Lord came for the Holbytlan Peregrin last night.  It has the riders glancing sidelong at each other, wondering who will be next.  I reserve my thoughts to myself, but I cannot deny that evil was felt last night, nor can I deny the heavy silence. 

The silence is broken suddenly as Gandalf bursts into the stables.  The hobbits that he had in tow do not appear just yet and I catch a glimpse of a hesitant, sad look he casts over his shoulder.  As he hurries to Shadowfax, the two hobbits make their entrance.

There is a shadow over them that worries me; some storm cloud has broken over them.  Merry is already in the storm’s grips and every line of his body speaks of anger; anger at himself, anger at Gandalf, anger at Pippin for not understanding.  The howling winds are around him, the thunder is roaring about his head and his anger is adding fuel to the fire.  With every step his anger shatters the silence into a thousand pieces of glass. 

Pippin is riding the beginning of the storm.  He has a look on his face of sudden, devastating knowledge.  He now understands what Merry has known from the beginning; this may be a final parting and it may break them both.

Merry’s anger carries them to Shadowfax and Gandalf sweeps Pippin onto the horse.  Pippin’s piping voice asks a question that I cannot hear over Gram’s stamping and Gandalf grumbles a reply.  He sounds irritated and hasty, but I can tell that he would take a moment to comfort his charge, if he could spare the time.  Merry comes forward, as if he is afraid that Gandalf would leave without letting him say goodbye if he did not intervene.  A package exchanges hands and Pippin’s face changes from surprised to gratified to suddenly fearful.  He looks at Merry with eyes so full of need that I nearly turn away with embarrassment at his vulnerability. 

Merry’s eyes hold equal devastation as he looks to Gandalf, hoping the wizard will hold the answers for both of them.  Gandalf’s eyes flick from one hobbit to the other and he does not answer, knowing that any intervention on his part could bring the hobbits’ world crashing down around them.  Merry looks back to Pippin, for once without answers.  In face of this new, uncharted territory, his anger has melted away from him.  Already, he cannot even remember why he was angry with his kinsman.  And the younger one, he is so torn, I think he will split apart.  Gandalf mounts and moves to give Shadowfax the word to fly. 

Suddenly the full force of the storm is released on Pippin’s head and he is lost within it.  He lurches and moves to grab at his cousin.

“Merry!”  I can hear that anguished cry, even above the sounds of the horses.  Merry stands with his hands limp at his sides and tears in his eyes as Gandalf speaks word to Shadowfax and the horse springs forward, taking his Pippin away.

“Merry!”  Even as he is swept away, Pippin reaches back for Merry.  Only Gandalf’s steady hands keep the hobbit on the horse.  As if Pippin’s last cry jolted him into action, Merry darts after them and out of the stables.  If he could, he would fly and pluck Pippin from Gandalf’s grasp and hold him forever.

I can only hope that, one day, he will have the chance to.

Note: The italicized sections at the beginning and end of this chapter are taken from Return of the King, Minas Tirith.

Hallas, of Gondor

(Movie verse)

Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end.  So say I, Hallas son of Falastur of Gondor.

I have not considered those words in many long years.  In the days of peace, I did not think on them, save only when my young son grew old enough to join me in the service of our Lord and Steward.  My son is dead now.  His head lies at my feet.  He is staring at me and I stare back.  In this moment, he looks strangely dissimilar to my son, except for his eyes.  If I look deep enough into them I can see the little boy who asks his father to scare away the nightmares, but I no longer have that power.  I have only a sword and the oath I swore to Gondor and its people.

Yet the sword is not enough and I feel old and weary as I slip among the destruction of Gondor’s children.  No amount of force can stop the black tide of orcs.  I cannot see with darkness in my eyes, I cannot live if I cannot protect the wives and daughters, I cannot fight with children at my feet.

I stumble away from the chaos over rubble and ruin.  I must gather what sanity I have left.

My body hits a wall and I push myself into a corner, where I can feel a charade of safety.

My eyes catch sight of a small figure, and I would think him a child, if not for the white tree upon his chest.  Who he is, I do not know, but I have heard that Lord Denethor has taken a small stranger from far off lands into his service.  The little one gazes into the chaos with eyes that see nothing, for they cannot comprehend that such madness could exist. 

A shadow falls across his face as the Nazgul and his steed sweep across the sky.  The blank eyes are suddenly alive again with foresight, memory and terror.  As if the evil that he carries with him is not enough, the Ringwraith lets forth his awful cry, full of joy at the chaos he brings.  A darkness falls across the eyes of every man and coldness enters my heart.  I stare up at the black pair, but the little one claps his hands over his ears and screams.  It is the scream of one who has met such darkness before and knows its power.  It is the scream of one who knows what evil is to come and I find it more terrifying than any horror I have yet seen during these long, dark days.

I wonder what hurt could have been done to one so small and young to give him such knowledge.  His eyes are drawn to the black pair even as he tries to stumble away from them.  He is held by some power he cannot escape and I hear some foul memory in his scream.

The Nazgul’s cry ends and with it, the small soldier’s.  He seems to me as one released from great pain; limp with relief, exhausted and blank once again.  He wavers and, for a moment, I fear that he will fall to the ground, but gathers his strength and stands firm.  In that moment, I catch a vision of fair green hills, soft breezes and a merry folk living their lives in peace and quiet, safe from the horrors in the east.

As he gazes around, I see in his eyes nothing of the vision, nothing remembered from his home.  I cannot decide which is worse: when he walks through the violence without comprehension, or when his eyes are alive with terror.  Will he ever be at peace again?

An orc crosses between us.  I cast him to the ground and slay him with sudden anger, as if by this single deed I can help one small son return to his family.  When I look up again, my little one is gone, but there are no undersized figures lying among the dead and no orcs enjoying their kill where he once was. 

I cast a hasty prayer to any gods who might yet have pity for us that Gondor’s smallest soldier may find his way safely home.  With new anger and purpose, I plunge back into the battle.

Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me…

or death take me.

Aldor, of Rohan

(Book verse)

The air is alive with the sound of horses and men.  Even though it is night, the men talk and rustle about the campfire.  There is a quiet comfort in the sounds of my companions easing their hearts with song and laughter, despite the present dire situation.  I hope that others can take such solace from it as I do.  I know that Dernhelm sits silently in the shadows.  I give her the space she needs a hope that some of her icy layers melt in time.  Elfhelm pays her no undue attention and the eored follows his example.  Besides, she is a shieldmaiden of Rohan and can handle herself at need.  It is the hobbit I worry about.  It seems to me that he would too easily be lost or trampled among the proud horses and unwary men.

Currently, he is craning his neck to look my beautiful Leofa in the eyes.  He looks relieved to be in a place where he will not be tripped over and cursed as a root, though I notice that he keeps his feet well away from unpredictable hooves.  I understand that one so small would be wary of an animal so large, but I also I know that he has nothing to fear.  Leofa can be proud and fierce in battle, but he is as gentle as a lamb with those he is taken with.  In the few days we have traveled together, Leofa has developed a special interest in our small piece of extra baggage.    

On one side, fierce Folca pulls at his lead and stamps his feet, eyeing the small hobbit with angry eyes.  Leofa calmly pulls away slightly and, unaware that he is being led, his tiny companion follows him.  Leofa now has him between his own body and lazy Gram, who never takes the energy to snap at anyone unless his rider is upon his back.  Here, between Leofa’s steady feet and gentle muzzle, the Holbytla is safe from heavy hooves and fumble-footed men. 

Our hobbit, of course, is oblivious to such nuances.  He only knows that horse’s muzzle is gently exploring his hair and that his hooves are firmly planted on the ground.

The hobbit reaches into his pocket and brings out a small bit of carrot as a treat for Leofa.  Leofa takes the offering gently and it soon disappears.  The hobbit reaches up to stroke his neck, but the greedy lump smells another treat in his small companion’s pockets.  He nudges the hobbit’s chest and the little one laughs, pulling out a bit of apple.

“Just like Pippin,” I hear him say.  Underneath the light amusement, there is loneliness and longing in his voice.  Leofa snorts, as if laughing with his companion, but Merry takes no notice.  His shoulders have slumped forward again as his mind takes him back to his troubles.  He is alone and scared, even if he does not want to acknowledge it.  Without his cousin, the world is larger and darker and more dangerous than he thought possible.  I wonder if he knows who he is now that he is alone.  Can he remember a day without his cousin?  Suddenly the shreds of his normal life that he clutched so closely have drifted away like smoke on the wind.  How does one survive such an upheaval?

He does not know and neither do I.

Sensing his companions changed mood, Leofa lowers his head to hobbit level and gently presses his nose to Merry’s face.  Merry closes his eyes and lays his head against the soft nose, stroking Leofa’s cheek with one hand. 

“Thank you,” I hear him whisper.

The hobbit returns to his makeshift bed set among the cradling roots of a large tree.  I set my belongings nearby and lie down to sleep.  I am far enough not to cause alarm, but close enough so that the sentries walking their rounds will pick their way around me, away from the tree and the hobbit hidden within his roots.  Our bag will not be disturbed tonight.

Like horse, like rider.

Eradan, of Gondor

(Book verse)

It is three weeks to the day since I took my oath of service to Gondor and the Lord and Steward.  I am young for it, but I did not wish to be sent to the hills with my mother and siblings, to cower in fear and await word without action.  I wished to be like my father and to follow him into battle.  My mother protested, but my father set my helm on my head and my shield in my hand.  Then he turned away with tears on his cheeks.  That was the first time I saw my father cry.

The second time was the night before we marched to the Black Gate.  He held my face in his hands and I could see the tears glistening in the firelight.  It was then I realized that his oath was taken before these dark times, out of love for his people, whereas mine was taken with only the thought of death and glory in battle.  Never before had I wished so hard to be like my father.  I wished then to remain close to him the next day; not so he could protect me, but so I could protect him and keep him safe for my mother.

I think now that only the young and inexperienced would wish such a thing.  He and I, like so many other soldiers, were separated during the battle and now I am alone.  I have not yet seen him among the living and I cannot bring myself to look into the faces of the dead, for fear that I will find him there.  In truth, I cannot bring myself to move at all, so the only survivors I see are those making their weary way through the battlefield, away from the gates.  I almost ask them what now? but they have no energy for anything other than food, rest and peace at last. 

My vision is suddenly obscured.  There is a gash on my forehead and the blood is seeping into my eyes, but I cannot bring my hand to wipe it away.  It is a souvenir from when my helm was swept from my head by a glancing blow.  Now it lies under a dead orc, somewhere near the gates.

The king is walking near, pulling orcs off the bodies of dead soldiers of Gondor and Rohan.  He is searching, searching and hoping that he does not find his companions among the dead.  He sees me standing listlessly near and strides over.  One hand tips my head up to his while the other gently explores the cut on my forehead.  Kind fingers wipe the blood from my eyes so I can see again.  His gaze meets mine and he sighs.

Too young, his eyes say, too young for this burden of service.  Suddenly I am exhausted.  My eyes slide closed.  The sword threatens to slip from my limp fingers.  He pulls it from my grasp and sheaths it by my side for me.  The weight of the weapon nearly pulls me to my knees.  When I open my eyes he is smiling.  He squeezes my shoulder in reassurance.  I am too weary to even show my respect and thanks to my Lord and King, but I think he does not mind much.

A shadow over our faces draws his eyes upwards.  Two eagles hover near.  An old man in white slides down to the ground.  The White Wizard.  He, of all people, deserves my awe, but my attention is drawn to the two limp figures held gently in the eagles’ claws. 

One has blood dripping from his limp hand.  My eyes are riveted to the empty space where his finger should be, even though my stomach turns at the sight.  I rip my eyes away from his hand to rest on his face.  There is a world of sorrow written in his face, even though he is not conscious.  He is not free from his grief and pain even in sleep.  He looks so frail that I am surprised that he has not crumbled to dust in the eagle’s claws.

The other one is stockier and does not seem so frail, though his face is equally worn from his travels.

They are so still.  Even my baby brother, who is a frail child and was often sickly in his first days, is never so still, even in his deepest sleep.  Such stillness I have only ever seen in those near death.  I am fearful for these two Halflings; afraid that they may never walk, jump or dance again.

Are these the two that held the world on their shoulders?  I can barely believe it.  They are no taller than my little sister, who has only seen nine summers.  It seems impossible, that they could succeed where elves and men have failed, yet their bodies speak of the journey.  They sleeping faces tell me that they have tripped and fumbled and crawled their way through a land that I fear to even think of.

I almost turn away, ashamed at my reckless youth, which now seems so very hypocritical, when I catch something else in their faces.  It is a shock to find peace under so much damage, but it is there, along with acceptance and comfort.  I would never think to find such thoughts in two so apparently devastated individuals.  

I look carefully, thinking that my eyes have deceived me, but no.  Beneath the dirt and pain lies a steady tranquility.  It reminds me of someone who stands in the middle of a storm and says The rain will make the flowers grow stronger. 

Is it for the end of the journey at last?  Perhaps, though it seems to me that the calm has always been within them and has seen them through their darkest hours.  I think that it must be why they risked such a journey; for that sparkle of hope that the world would finally be at peace.  Yet even as I think it, my mind rejects the idea.  That thought seems too big for these small creatures.  They would be more driven for something smaller and dearer to them that the fate of all the free peoples.  What then?  What peace did they carry with them that enabled them to finish such a feat?

I do not know and I fear I never will.  For a moment, I wish that the two Halflings are awake so that they may tell me.  Something tells me that this is important; this is something I should remember.

The King finishes his examination of the two and the eagles take off, taking the Halflings to the area where the injured are tended.  The King follows them at a sprint.  Gandalf turns to follow them with a sigh.  As I see that he means to leave, I take an involuntary step forward.  I do not wish to be left alone here.  Suddenly, I feel tears pounding behind my eyes.  In that moment, I feel the desperate need to find my father again, the need to be held as a child, not as a soldier.  Gandalf sees my movement and turns to me, concern in his eyes.

“Have you…”  My body is trembling with the effort to hold back tears.  “Have you seen my father?”  He watches me with pity and compassion.

“Eradan, your father waits for you.”  Then he is gone, leaving me brokenhearted over his words, though I do not know why.  I turn to see where he has gone, but there is a man striding near.  I know the walk and though his face is streaked with dirt and blood, his face shines with joy.  I remember the same look from when he threw me into the air as a child.  My father has come for me.

Suddenly I know where the Halflings’ peace comes from.  Perhaps the joy of children is comfort enough.

The rain will make the flowers grow stronger. 

I fall into my father’s arms.

Mallor, of Gondor

(Movie verse)

It is perhaps the saddest sight I have ever seen.  The four haggard hobbitlings are standing in a row, looking like they would rather be anywhere but here.  They have a shiftiness in their posture that comes with feeling out of place.

The Dark Lord has marked them all in a way that sets them apart from others.  In their eyes, I see the same look that the old Grandfathers have when they are troubled by phantom pains from missing limbs, or by memories that have not yet faded away and never will.  Their days lengthen before them with the heavy weight of grief.  They have grown old before their time and I wonder if they will ever remember what it is to be young.  Such is the Dark Lord’s bitter gift.

They are so needy of each other that it is difficult to watch.  They guard each other like hawks, each afraid that the others may be taken from him somehow.  Yet their neediness in tempered by their loneliness.  Each has his own dark story and now they must rediscover each other.  When they should be at ease, they now reach for each other and stop just short of contact.  They need a healing touch, but they pull back, afraid of opening a wound that they are not prepared to deal with.  Where once their friendship was a smooth plate of glass, now it has bumps and cracks that cannot be easily smoothed over.

Beyond their apparent unease a ferocity and tenacity lies hidden.  It has made these hobbits hard and dangerous.  There is an effortlessness in the way they hold their bodies that I have only ever seen in battle hardened soldiers.  It says that these four have tested their limits and they know how far they can go.  Their faces tell me that they will go that far again, if needed.  Their postures indicate that they are comfortable with blades at their sides.  When they return to their Shire, they will have to relearn what it is to live without fear or danger.

This ferocity, though, lies hidden over thick layers of timidity.  They are so very afraid and I find it utterly heartbreaking.  They should be bright and brilliant, strengthened by their trials and victories, but the truth is that they are nearly broken.  I know that they were like shining beacons of light once and I nearly weep for what they have become for us.

It is the saddest sight I have ever seen, but when the city of Gondor kneels before them to pay tribute, they smile and the sun shines.

May they find peace at last.

   ~

Author's note:  Phew, the end at last!  Thanks to all who reviewed!  This was long in the making and I'm glad that you enjoyed it!