Pippin sat very still, his back pressed against the hard stone of the wall behind him, sword resting in his lap.  His knuckles were white, gripping the hilt, and before him Gandalf looked down at him gently.

            “I didn’t think it would end this way.”  Pippin’s voice was soft, barely heard above the din of battle that surrounded them. 

            “End?” Gandalf asked, raising his eyebrows.  “No, the journey doesn’t end here.”  The hobbit cocked his head slightly, eyes asking the question his mouth did not.  “Death is just another path…one that we all must take.  The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass.  And then you see it.”

            Pippin gazed at Gandalf, spellbound, the noise and fear surrounding them forgotten for a moment at the look in the wizard’s eyes.  A faraway look, as though he were seeing what he was describing to the youngster.  When he fell silent, however, Pippin could not help but ask, “What?  Gandalf?  See what?”

            “White shores,” Gandalf answered softly, distantly, still with that look upon his face, a peacefulness settling about his ancient shoulders.  “And beyond.  A far green country.”  He turned, finally looking back to the hobbit and smiling slightly.  “Under a swift sunrise.”

            Pippin could not help but meet that smile with one of his own.  “Well,” he whispered, softly.  “That isn’t so bad.”

            Gandalf shook his head, still smiling gently.  “No, it isn’t,” he agreed, just as softly. 

            For a moment there was silence between the two of them, a stillness needing no words. 

            The thundering blows against the single remaining door increased in intensity, startling the hobbit, and he jerked, his eyes widening in fear once more.  Gandalf’s face became somber, and he raised his sword, looking down at the tweenager.  Pippin met his eyes determinedly, trying to appear braver than he felt. No matter what pleasant place it might take him to in the end, he had seen too much of death in battle not to realise that his end would likely not be easy and free from pain. But such was his fate, and he would do his best to make Gandalf proud. Nothing more needed to be said between them as the pounding continued, and both knew that any moment the door would be sundered.   Men were shouting, pressing their bodies against the last barricade, still striving to keep the enemy out. 

            Pippin closed his eyes, briefly, gathering his courage as one would gather stones.  A terrible splintering sound brought his head up, and instantly he was on his feet, Gandalf beside him.

            The last barrier to their enemy was gone, the door in a thousand splinters and the men of Gondor were yelling and screaming as a stream of orcs pushed and fought their way through the rubble, hacking and slashing as they came. 

            Pippin froze for the barest second, Gandalf beside him already moving with the fluidity of a raging storm, his staff battering and his sword slicing and stabbing all those of the enemy that crossed his path.  An orc managed to lunge past the wizard, snarling and sneering as it advanced towards the young hobbit with a swiftness that belied its grotesque form.

            The hobbit felt his own lips draw back in a snarl as he moved with a speed the orc clearly did not expect, surprised to find the small warrior’s blade imbedded in its chest.  Pippin watched the creature twitch a moment in death, then fall to the ground, before turning his attention to the next orc, and then the next. 

            Though Gandalf strove to remain near the hobbit, more and more of the orcs were pouring in through the shattered gate, and it was only a matter of time before they would all be overwhelmed by Sauron’s minions.  Slowly he was being forced to move away from where the youngster was fighting valiantly.

            Without warning a sudden hush fell upon the fighting, and all eyes flew towards the splintered gate. Pippin’s eyes widened.  A troll, larger even than the one they had fought in Moria was lumbering towards them, swinging its club and ripping through men as though they were made of paper.  Behind the large beast, a vast horde of orcs could be seen, weapons glinting cruelly, sneers of triumph on their twisted features.

            A man fell beside the wall, near where Pippin was standing struggling to catch his breath, and he watched in fascinated horror as the troll leaned over and made to reach for the fallen soldier.  Something inside the hobbit snapped, and with a shrill scream he found himself driving his sword up into the monster’s throat.  The height of the wall only just gave him the reach that he needed.  For a moment the troll stood motionless, staring at him stupidly.  Pippin could feel his muscles tremble from the effort it had taken to drive his short sword through the creature’s thick hide and into its flesh, but he would not release the hilt. Boromir had driven that lesson into him and Merry; never lose hold of your blade during battle.

            Suddenly, without warning, the troll gave an unearthly bellow and came crashing down, bringing wall and hobbit with it as it fell with a deafening crash.  The tide of orcs, seeing one of their mightiest advantages destroyed by an enemy they would have thought they could flick away as one would flick away a fly, hesitated for just a moment in their attack.  It was all the opening and encouragement the men of Gondor needed and they fell upon the hordes of attackers with new vigor, those that had seen the Ernil i Pheriannath fell the great beast inspired by the fierce bravery of this small warrior scarcely half their size. 

            Gandalf, as well, had watched the mighty troll succumb to the thrust of the hobbit’s blade, and he had struggled against the tide of orcs to reach Pippin’s side.  Even as he slashed and hacked at the seemingly endless tide of the enemy, the thunderous crash of troll and wall nearly deafened him, and the wizard felt his heart plummet.  Pippin had had no time to escape the fall of that crushing beast!

“Noooo!” Gandalf bellowed, a fire glinting in his eyes as he fought with a ferocity that had the creatures fleeing before him, taking their chances with other warriors rather than face the wizard’s fury as he fought to reach his fallen hobbit. 

Within seconds he had cut a path to the great mound of rubble that still plumed grey dust.  The soldier that Pippin had saved was staggering to his feet, stunned but alive, and Gandalf recognised Beregond of the Guard. The Guard stared awestruck at the fallen carcass of the monstrous beast that had almost been his end, then flung himself back into the battle with a scream of “For Peregrin!”

    For Peregrin indeed, thought Gandalf, terrified. He cast aside large pieces of rubble until he saw a sight that took his breath away. A small, grubby hobbit foot, partially hidden under a large chunk of the wall that had miraculously survived.   Hesitantly, afraid of what he might find, Gandalf reached out to grasp the appendage.

It jerked in his grasp, and he narrowly missed a kick in the nose.  A great sigh of relief burst from his lips even as he pulled with all his might, freeing the small lad that had miraculously been saved from being crushed by that one intact piece of stonework. 

Pippin’s eyes were closed, his face filthy and pinched as though in pain, sword still gripped tightly in his hand.

“Pippin!” Gandalf exclaimed frantically, caressing the hobbit’s brow in fear.  Perhaps he was wounded even more gravely than the wizard guessed.

“Gandalf!”  Pippin choked, coughing as though his lungs might burst.

            “Pippin, are you able to stand?” the wizard asked urgently, knowing that at any moment battle would once more flow over them, unsure of his ability to protect the hobbit if he was badly wounded. 

            “Yes,” Pippin managed to gasp out, grabbing the wizard’s hand and pulling himself up shakily. 

            Before Pippin could blink he was engulfed in a fierce hug, a strong arm crushing him to white robes that still retained a faint hint of pipeweed. 

            “Come, Peregrin, we still have a battle to fight,” Gandalf said gruffly, holding the tweenager a moment longer before releasing him, taking in his appearance carefully before nodding, once, in satisfaction.  Pippin nodded back, and the two of them turned, side by side, to face the oncoming horde. 

            Though he was shaky and a bit unsteady on his feet, Pippin maintained his stance, Gandalf a white flash beside him as they fought the orcs that seemed to redouble their efforts.  So intent were they on the fighting they did not hear the sudden commotion that was steadily rising from the ramparts below them.  Shouts of “ships!” and cries of dismay blended into the overall chorus of the battle.

            Pippin could feel his muscles tremble, and hoped only to find the strength within himself to last long enough to make Gandalf proud, to stand and fight beside the wizard for as long as he possibly could, and then to die as bravely as he could manage.  

 Out of the corner of his eye, Gandalf watched the little hobbit beside him fight with a tenacity that amazed even him, who knew hobbits well.  He felt a surge of pride fluttering in his chest for his young Took.  And hoped that he would yet have the time to tell Pippin of it. 

Until then, however, the two of them continued to fight, ignorant of the aid rushing to their side on ghostly wings.