“So this is Osgiliath.” Pippin said, looking interestedly around him. It was nice to see the place at last after hearing so much about it. Mind you it wasn’t much to look at, not a roof nor a whole wall in sight, and the once white stones were grey with the patina of ages. But the ruins seemed to be crawling with Men working busily away, though at what Pippin couldn’t quite see since they always stopped their labors as the vanguard of the army passed to watch and cheer the new King.

“What are they doing?” he wondered aloud.

“Gathering the stores abandoned by the enemy, and whatever booty they managed to carry away with them.” Beregond answered. He was riding just behind Gandalf, ’I must keep close to Master Peregrin as he has charge of me.’ he’d said with a twinkle in his eye.

“It must have been a beautiful city once.” Merry commented quietly from his seat behind Eomer.

“It was.” Gandalf agreed, making Pippin wonder if he were old enough to have seen it whole and in its glory.

“How long has it been since anybody lived here?” he asked.

“Nigh on to fourteen hundred years.” Aragorn answered, without turning his head. “It was abandoned in the Plague years. We were hit hard in the North but it was even worse down here, near to Mordor.”

Pippin shivered, the Hobbits remembered the terrible Plague. It had struck shortly after Marco and Blanco - Pippin’s remote ancestors - had led their people to their new home in the Shire. Hundreds had died of it, and nobody - not even the High Kings - had been able to do a thing about it.

When they reached the River’s edge Pippin saw half a dozen bridges had once united the two halves of the city. But all had been broken and more Men were working constructing wooden spans between the stone ends. The bridge directly in front of them was the widest of them all - easily twice the width of the great avenue in Minas Tirith - and ran past a cluster of ruinous buildings rising out of the river, the largest crowned with a vast broken dome.

“The Dome of the Stars,” Beregond said quietly, “once the seat of the Kings of Gondor.”

“You mean they built their palace right in the middle of the River?” Merry asked in astonishment. That seemed a bit much, even to a water-loving Brandybuck.

Beregond nodded.

“Must have been damp.” Pippin observed.

Beregond laughed, and so did Aragorn. “It may well have been,” said the latter, “but the histories do not say.”

It was two or three hours past noon before the engineers felt it was safe for the army to cross. The timber spans seemed fragile as matchsticks compared to the solidity of the ancient stone and the horses’ hooves thundered loudly on the wooden planks and made them vibrate in a most unnerving fashion. Pippin, after one horrified look down at the waters of the Anduin far below, kept his eyes tight shut and breathed a huge sigh of relief once they were across.

The main bulk of the army, the foot soldiers, didn’t go much farther that day but settled down to make camp just a few miles beyond the ancient city. However the mounted vanguard, including the Kings and captains, pushed on until they came to a crossroads guarded by the massive seated statue of an ancient King. His head had been knocked off and a crudely carved boulder put in its place and statue and pedestal were all daubed with foul Orc writing.

Aragorn sat on Brego, looking silently at the desecrated figure of his ancestor, then said; “Summon the heralds.” They came, four tall men of the Dunedain wearing the colors and devices of the four great Lords of Gondor riding with the army; Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Angbor of Lebennin, Ciryandil of Pelargir, and Devorin of the Ringlo Vale. “Take trumpeters and proclaim to the four quarters that the Lords of Gondor have returned to take back that which is theirs.” Aragorn commanded

“Nay,” said Prince Imrahil, “say rather the King Elessar has returned to claim his rightful realm.”

“Yes.” Gandalf agreed. “That name will strike fear into our Enemy’s heart.”

Aragorn bowed his head in acquiescence. “Very well.”

So trumpeters advanced a short way up each of the four branching roads and blew a great fanfare. Then the four heralds cried aloud in near perfect unison: “The King Elessar has returned and all this land which is his he takes back.”

Pippin glanced at Aragorn’s still face and a shiver of something he could not name went down his back. He looked the King - high, incalculable and remote - not like old Strider at all, and Pippin didn’t like it one bit.

“Now.” Aragorn said quietly, as the last echo died away. “Let the King‘s head be put back in its place and this Orc filth cleansed away.”

They made camp at the crossroads raising a great black tent fringed with silver for the King with the Queen’s banner flying over it. Inside Aragorn sat in a high backed, throne like chair sunk deep in thought while Pippin pottered uneasily about not quite daring to break the silence.

Then one of the Rangers came in, a rare smile tugging at his mouth and something Pippin couldn’t see in his hand. “See what we have found, Dunadan.”

Aragorn looked - and laughed. “Come here, Pippin, do you know what this is?”

The Hobbit looked at the green fragments in the palm of Aragorn’s hand and recognized them at once by their scent. “Mallorn leaf - Frodo and Sam were here!”

“Little over a day after they left Faramir I would judge, meaning they were making good time.” Aragorn grinned, looking like their familiar Strider again.

Pippin sighed with relief, his heart swelling with hope. “Good old Frodo! He’s going to make it - I know he will!”

“He will.” Aragorn agreed. “And we must give him what help we can.”

Gandalf, King Eomer, Prince Imrahil and the other captains came in shortly afterward for a council of war.

“Why not assail Minas Morgul?” Angbor suggested. “It must be thinly defended, if at all, with it’s master and most of his army dead.”

“Yes,” Ciryandil agreed eagerly, “take it and destroy it! That would give Sauron pause indeed.”

“And maybe the Morgul pass will prove an easier way of assault than the Black Gate.” said Imrahil.

“No!” said Gandalf. “The evil that dwells in that valley would madden our Men’s minds with horror.”

“The Ringbearer has taken the path through the Morgul vale,” Aragorn said firmly. “we must draw the Eye of Mordor away from it rather than to it.”

“I had forgotten that.” Imrahil admitted. “Then the Black Gate it must be.”

Pippin managed to contain himself until all the grand people had left but the minute he was alone with Aragorn - except for old Gandalf and a few Rangers - it came bursting out of him: “What about Frodo and Sam? If this place is so terrible what will it do to them?”

“Nothing, providing they do not linger.” Gandalf said reassuringly.

“One can pass safely through the Morgul vale,” Aragorn added kindly, “I have done so. I think Frodo and Sam will be all right.”

“I hope you’re right, Strider.” Pippin said, still worried. “What’s so bad about this valley anyway?

“You may see for yourself tomorrow if you wish.” Aragorn answered, “I mean to follow the Ringbearer’s trail at least as far as the mouth of the Vale.”

***

It was almost like old times again, Pippin thought, no Lords or guards or servants; just him and Merry, and Strider, and Gandalf and Gimli and Legolas - and several of the Rangers as well. They had the horses with them but walked most of the way on foot - so Aragorn and his kin could study the ground.

“How bad can it be?” Merry wondered. “Worse than the Old Forest? Worse than Moria? Surely it can’t be worse than Moria!” he glanced over at the Dwarf. “No offense, Gimli.”

“None taken.” he answered calmly. “You did not see the City of Durin at it’s best, young Hobbit.”

“Now there’s an understatement for you.” said Pippin.

Aragorn and the other Rangers were fanned out ahead, across the road and into the brakes on either side, looking for tracks. Gandalf walked directly behind them, head up and alert, with Legolas - an arrow on the string - at his side. The others were not far behind; Pippin leading Brego and Gimli Arod with the Ranger horses and Shadowfax following after like giant dogs.

“I can’t say I like this country,” Merry continued, “I feel as if it’s watching us.”

“It is.” said Gandalf. “Watching and listening.” he shot them a keen glance over his shoulder, stay alert and keep your swords loose in their sheaths.”

At first glance the Morgul Vale didn’t look so bad; a long tilted valley narrowing as it ran deep into the black mountains. The city at the head of the valley was white like old bone, except where it was crusted with iron like black blood. Dark windows gaped in the tower rising high above the angular walls. There was no sign of life.

A river wound its way towards them, greeny black and breathing vapors, but the meadows on either side were vivid green and starred with white flowers. Flowers that at first sight seemed fair but they shone with a faint, pallid corpse light and breathed an odor like a charnel house that drifted down the vale to the noses of the company. Pippin swallowed hard and hoped he wouldn’t be sick.

“I take it back.” Merry said faintly beside him. “It is worse than Moria.”

Aragorn had stopped stock still in the middle of the road, looking intently towards the city, with Gandalf and Legolas on either side of him. Pippin handed Brego’s reins to a nearby Ranger and he, Merry and Gimli pushed forward to join their comrades. “Did they go in?”

Aragorn nodded. “They did, eight or nine days ago by the signs.” then he took a step up the steep road towards the vale.

Pippin unceremoniously grabbed his cloak. “Oh no you don’t! You’re not going in there, Strider.”

He smiled gently down. “I wasn’t meaning to, Pippin. Now let me loose and stand back.” a little reluctantly he obeyed.

Aragorn unpinned the big silver eagle brooch with the green stone he wore on his shoulder and held it cupped in his hands. His eyes closed and his lips moved; suddenly light blazed around him hot and golden like the sun, then it licked forward like a great flame and set the evil meads alight, the pale fire running upward, towards the city, roaring as it consumed the terrible flowers.

Merry and Pippin stared at their friend in disbelief. Even Legolas and Gimli seemed a trifle startled but Gandalf merely arched his brows. “I thought you wanted to avoid drawing Sauron’s attention to the Morgul Vale?” he said mildly.

Aragorn turned to face them, fastening the brooch back in place. His eyes shone silver bright with a clear, fell light. Pippin shivered. “I want to draw his attention to me - and to remind him of exactly who and what he faces.” Gandalf nodded his understanding.

Then Aragorn looked directly at the two Hobbits and, to Pippin’s vast relief, his eyes were normal again, their usual greyish blue and very kind. He smiled gently. “Why so pale you two?”

Both swallowed but it was Merry who managed to speak. “It’s just - we didn’t know you could do anything like that.”

“And I didn’t know you could kill the Nazgul King or Pippin match wills with the Dark Lord.” Strider answered, a teasing note in his voice. “If I had I’d have spoken softer in the inn at Bree!”

It wasn’t the same thing at all of course, yet Pippin found himself grinning familiarly back at his friend and feeling much better. After all they’d seen Gandalf do magic enough times - why make a fuss over old Strider doing it too?

***

It was late afternoon before they got back to the crossroads. They found the rest of the army had come up, and Prince Imrahil pacing the King’s tent in a bit of a taking.

“My Lord you must not take such risks!” he said fiercely to Aragorn, “To go with so few Men to guard you to the very doorstep of the Enemy -!”

“The last time I walked the Morgul Vale I was quite alone, and the Nazgul lord still dwelt in his tower.” Aragorn answered calmly. “Yet as you see I came out again safely. Never fear for me, Imrahil, I am a good judge of peril - and I promise you I will dare no unnecessary danger.”

The Prince did not seem reassured - and Pippin didn‘t blame him. But Strider and Gandalf must know what they were doing, he told himself, they always did.

The army headed north at dawn the next day, the third since they’d left Minas Tirith, leaving a strong guard behind at the crossroads made up of archers and some of Faramir‘s Ithilien Rangers. The mounted Northern Rangers scouted the road ahead of the army while more of Faramir‘s men, led by Mablung his lieutenant, haunted the thickets and rocky gullies to either side. It was a bright, sunny day and the warm western wind kept the gloaming mists over the Mountains of Shadow at bay.

Pippin rode on Beregond’s saddle bow among the grey cloaked Northern Rangers. He liked them, they reminded him of home, which was odd when you thought about it as he’d never even seen a Ranger before meeting Strider in Bree. Maybe it was because they spoke to him in the homely manner of the Shire rather than the grand and rather stiff Man style - though he’d heard them talk like that too to the Gondorim.

Beregond seemed comfortable with them also but Pippin had noticed the new King’s Guard and the other Gondorim were uneasy around the Northern Dunedain - even Beren, Aragorn‘s new banner bearer, who was half Northerner himself. Pippin wondered why. After long consideration he decided the Ranger’s habitual silence was the source of the trouble, like Strider they practically never opened their mouths. Pippin was quite used to that by now, and Beregond was almost quiet enough to be a Ranger himself. But the other Gondorim were like old Boromir, chatty enough in their fashion, and no doubt found the Northerners’ taciturn ways off-putting - even unfriendly. But no doubt they’d get used to it in time.

Gandalf rode ahead next to Aragorn, the two of them deep in talk. Pippin wondered what about, then decided he was probably better off not knowing. And every so often the trumpeters would let loose with a fanfare and the heralds would shout their piece about King Elessar taking back his lands. It was not a pleasant journey. On the surface there was nothing wrong; good weather, a sound road and no enemy to be seen anywhere, but Pippin felt a heavy weight of foreboding, a sense of evil that grew stronger with every northward step.

“I feel like turning around and running all the way back to the Shire.” he admitted to Aragorn that night after they’d made camp.

The King let the tent flap fall shut and turned to smile at his squire. “I feel it too, we all do.” the smile vanished and he sighed. “So far the Men are bearing up well, but some are bound to break before we reach our goal.”

“I hope I’m not one of them.” Pippin said ruefully, taking the kettle from the brazier and pouring the hot water into a big golden basin.

“You won’t be.” Aragorn said with a conviction that was both flattering and comforting. “You’ve borne far worse than this, Peregrin Took.”

Pippin put the bowl of gently steaming water on a stand and Aragorn began to wash his face; “Strider, if the Black Gate is so strong and well guarded and all the rest, why did you want us to go that way from Parth Galen?”

“Because the Rangers know a secret way around the Gate.” the King answered reaching for the towel.

Pippin’s eyes widened. “You mean you’ve been inside Mordor?”

Aragorn shook his head. “No. I’ve never been farther than our watch post on the eastern side of the mountains - nor have any of my people since Sauron returned seventy years ago.”

“Even that’s a lot closer than I’d want to get!” said Pippin with a shudder. “Is it... is it very terrible?”

The King’s eyes went out of focus as if he was looking back through the years and his face got that grim ‘Ranger‘ look. “Yes.”

Oh dear. “Worse than that Morgul Vale?” Pippin pressed anxiously.

“Frodo and Sam have withstood the one, they can bear the other.” Aragorn said firmly. “Try not to worry, Pippin. It does neither them nor you any good.”

Easy to say but hard to do Pippin thought wryly. “Boromir said the very air was poisoned,” he worried aloud, “do you think he knew?”

“Very likely.” the King sat on the edge of his bed, a big cross-legged thing too grand to be called a cot. “I would not be surprised if he had sometime dared the Morgul pass to look into the land of his Enemy. But it was just a manner of speech, Pippin, Orcs must breath too - the air is heavy and foul but that is all.”

“’And the Great Eye watches all’” Pippin quoted softly, from Boromir’s words at Elrond’s long ago council.

Aragorn reached over to clap Pippin on the shoulder. “The Eye is on us, and it is our business to keep it fixed so.” he said. “Frodo and Sam will be all right as long as they escape its notice. Now get some sleep, Pippin.”

***

Pippin rode with Gandalf again on the next day‘s march, and so was right there, near to the King, when one of the mounted Rangers rode back to report. “The road passes through a defile with steep, well wooded slopes on either side, Dunadan.” the Man said. “A good place for an ambush.”

“We have often found it so.” said Mablung, chief of the Ithilien Rangers, striding along at Aragorn’s stirrup.

“I think I know the place.” said the King. “Mablung take your Men and see if the enemy has decided to take advantage of it.”

They were several further miles along, dismounted and having a breather, when Mablung returned with the news that there was indeed a strong force of Orcs and Easterlings lying in ambush just as suspected.

He scratched a rough map in the earth for the Kings and Captains; “The main body is here, with smaller bands here, here, and here.” he stabbed the ground with his stick in four places. “And watchers stationed along the road. White teeth flashed in a brief, fierce smile. “We have already taken care of those.”

“Good.” said Aragorn, his eyes on the map. “Our foot will leave the road here and come upon them from a direction they do not expect. Imrahil, Eomer King, take your horsemen west and circle around to attack their flank. We will crush them between us.”

And that was exactly what happened. Pippin heard the clash of arms as the leading companies engaged the enemy, and the war cries of the Rohirrim and Swan knights as they too attacked, but by the time the King and his companions came upon the field the enemy was either dead or fled.

Pippin was disappointed and said so. Merry, who’d ridden to battle behind Eomer, grinned cheekily. “Sorry, Pip, next time I’ll save an Orc or two for you.”

“It was but a fient,” Aragorn said, “meant to fill us with false confidence rather than do us hurt. Sauron has many troops, he can afford to sacrifice some in such stratagems.”

“That’s our Strider, always looking on the bright side.” said Merry wryly.

Imrahil laughed. “I remember well my Captain Thorongil’s dark forebodings, and that they invariably proved true.”

“That’s reassuring.” said Pippin.

***

They went a few steps farther up the road, enough to get clear of the dangerous high ground, and made camp. Pippin’s hands were kept busy as the King’s tent was reared and arranged but that didn’t keep him from thinking over the incidents of the day. It was true, he had been disappointed at not getting a chance to fight - to kill more Orcs - and being so what did it say about the Hobbit he‘d become?

Dinner that night was informal, just the remaining companions of the Ring and Eomer King who’d come with Merry, so Pippin was able to join them at table after serving rather than standing by in attendance. He confessed his fears. “I never used to want to kill anything and it can’t be good that I want to now - even Orcs.”

Old Merry started to look worried too but Eomer, sitting beside him, said firmly: “You have become a warrior, Master Peregrin, naturally you desire battle, to use your skills.” he smiled wryly. “And if wishing to kill Orcs is a sin than every one of us here is as guilty of it as you.”

“They are vermin, young Hobbit,” Gimli said gruffly, “a plague that must be kept from spreading. Don‘t worry yourself over the likes of them!”

“They are sad, twisted creatures,” Gandalf said sorrowfully, “their lives are a torment to them. Death is a mercy - the only one we can give them.”

“They are not simply the servants of the Enemy, as the Easterlings and Southrons are, but his creatures,” Aragorn explained equally seriously, “they cannot change as Men may and so we have no choice but to destroy them without mercy. For certainly they will have none on us.”

“I understand your fear, Pippin,” Legolas said quietly, “there was a time when my hatred of Orcs led to a bloodlust that darkened my spirit, but I see no such shadow in you.” he smiled quickly. “If I ever do I will warn you at once - I have no wish to see you go down that path!”

Pippin looked at him startled and curious, but realized there were some questions even a friend shouldn’t ask. “I don’t want that either.” he said earnestly instead.

“But we can’t help hating Orcs, Pippin and I,” Merry ventured, “not after watching them kill Boromir and suffering at their hands ourselves.”

“There is no blame in that, Merry.” said Aragorn. “It is right to hate evil and wish to destroy it.”

“But one must not enjoy the doing too much.” said Legolas.

“No.” Aragorn agreed.

Pippin squinted, trying hard to remember how he’d felt during the Siege and the Battle of the Pelannor field - other than scared to death. “I didn’t enjoy fighting exactly,” he decided at last. “but it was satisfying - like mucking out the stable. It’s a nasty job but it’s got to be done and you feel you‘ve really accomplished something when it‘s finished.”

Gimli choked on his wine and Legolas pounded him on the back grinning. Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged a glinting glance, and Eomer laughed out loud. “A good comparison, Master Peregrin, we go now to cleanse a very evil smelling stable indeed!”

The line between Ithilien and the No-Man’s Lands was as sharp as a sword’s edge with the rather straggly green of a living land and on the one side and on the other a desolation of naked grey earth and rock outcroppings twisted into grotesque forms by some evil force. A sort of horror hung over the waste land, sickening to the soul.

Pippin stood on the border, his toes in the dead sand, and looked steadily into the desolation trying to accustom himself. Frodo and Sam were in a worse place, for their sakes he would withstand this - somehow. Eventually he turned away to see Legolas nearby, squinting upward, and went to join him.

“Are they still there?”

“Yes.” the Elf answered, “circling.”

“Like vultures.” Pippin shuddered. “Why don’t they attack and get it over with?”

“Because that is not their mission.” said Beregond crossing the brief space between the tents of the King’s company and the edge of the No-Man‘s Land. He too looked up, though he had told Pippin that neither he nor the other Dunedain could see the Nazgul at such a height any more than could the rest of the Men or the Hobbits. “They have been sent to drain our strength and kill our spirits with dread.”

“Well it’s working.” said Pippin. “My heart’s right down in my toes - as old Sam would say.”

Beregond smiled faintly at that but quickly sobered. “I fear for the Men of the country levies. They have not your strength, Peregrin, nor your experience with such evils. And unlike we City Men they have not lived so long under shadow as to be somewhat inured.”

“I underestimated the valor of Men once at Helm’s Deep.” said Legolas. “I will not make that mistake again.”

But Beregond shook his head. “It is not a matter of valor but of fortitude which is rather a different matter. These are brave Men or they would not be here, but even those who can face the shock of battle without flinching may break under such an oppression of the spirit.”

“You seem to be bearing up well enough.” Legolas pointed out.

“As I said we City Men have dwelt under the Shadow for a very long time.” Beregond’s eyed darkened at the memory. “The hope of the King’s presence makes this dread seem light and easy to bear compared to the days before the Siege.”

Pippin shivered, remembering. “You‘re right,” he said, “this is not quite so bad as that was.” Then, behind Beregond, he saw Prince Imrahil and King Eomer heading purposefully for Aragorn’s tent. “Excuse me,” he said, “I may be needed.” and ran to catch up with Merry, following after Eomer as usual. “What’s up?”

“Trouble.” Merry whispered back. “Some of the Men are refusing to go on. Eomer’s furious and I’m scared of what Aragorn might do. He could have them all killed.”

“No!” Pippin gasped, horrified, “Strider wouldn’t do that -”

“He might have no choice, it’s the law Eomer says.”

They were stopped, rather apologetically, at the door to the King’s tent by his guards and one of the Rangers - Halladan who was Strider’s cousin - appeared out of nowhere to ask if their business were urgent. “I managed to persuade him to take some rest an hour or so ago. Is this not something you can deal with yourselves, my Lords?”

“I fear not.” Imrahil replied grimly. “It is a matter for the King’s Grace alone.”

Halladan accepted his word, not even asking what the trouble was, and admitted them to the tent. As they stood waiting he crossed to the big camp bed and leaned over the Man sleeping on it. “Dunadan.”

Aragorn came awake at once, without a start, and looked inquiringly up at his cousin who nodded towards the group by the door. The King’s eyes shifted to them and he sat up. “What is the matter?”

“Mutiny -” Eomer began bitterly but Imrahil stilled him with a hand upon his arm.

“Not quite so bad as that, my Lord, but some of the Men are refusing to go on, not in a spirit of defiance but out of pure dread and despair.”

Aragorn nodded, unsurprised. “I have been expecting this.” he said. He pulled on his boots and got up, putting on his surcoat ensigned with the Stars and Tree over his red tunic but covering it with the grey Lorien cloak instead of his kingly mantle. “Come. I will speak to them.”

***

Prince Imrahil was right; none of the great crowd of Men assembled in front of his sea blue tent looked the least bit mutinous - only sick and ashamed. And they looked even sicker and more ashamed when they recognized the King. There were fair haired Rohirrim among them, and short, swarthy Gondorians as well. Pippin recognized the latter by their devices as Men of Lossarnach, and he knew them to be no cowards having seen them fight upon the Pelannor Field.

“Eomer King and Prince Imrahil tell me you Men will not go on, is this so?” Aragorn asked them mildly, his voice pitched to carry to the edges of the crowd yet somehow not seeming loud at all.

They shifted on their feet and exchanged looks among themselves, unable to meet his eye. Finally one spoke for them all: “We cannot, my Lord, and sorry we are for it, but ...we cannot!” heads nodded fervently around him.

“I understand.” Aragorn said quietly. “You made a valiant offer in good faith, but one beyond your strength. I do not blame you for this - nor should you blame yourselves.

Go then, but keep what honor you may and do not run! And there is a task you may attempt and so be not shamed. Take your way southwest till you come to Cair Andros, and if that is still held by enemies, as I think it will be, retake it and hold it to the last in defense of Gondor and Rohan!”

A little color had come into the Men’s pale faces as Aragorn spoke, and a light of hope kindled their eyes. The spokesmen bowed. “My Lord, that we can and will do!” Then he and many of the others went away, eager to embark on their new mission, but some stayed, their eyes fixed upon Aragorn as if trying to draw strength from him.

He stood quiet under their stares until at last one spoke. “My Lord King, I would go on, if you will have me.”

“And me.” “Me also.” echoed the others.

Aragorn studied them, one by one. And they paled or colored under his eye but all managed somehow to meet it steadily as long as long as it was fixed upon them. At last the King smiled, that bright sunburst smile that so altered his usually grim face. “You will be most welcome.” he said. And the Men were dazzled, and very glad.

Pippin was a little dazzled himself, and a little uneasy. What kind of power did Aragorn have that he could lift Men’s spirits and change their minds with naught but a look and a few words? It was akin to the spell Faramir had, all unknowingly, cast over Pippin himself, and looking back he realized Boromir had had something of that same power too. But Aragorn hadn’t shown it until now, and Pippin didn’t quite like it. It made him seem less like their friend Strider and more like a distant and rather frightening stranger; the King of Gondor.

“We cannot afford to lose so many Men.” Prince Imrahil said worriedly as he and the two Kings walked away, trailed by their Hobbit esquires.

Aragorn shook his head. “Numbers do not matter, Prince, remember the true battle lies elsewhere. We are but a diversion.”

Eomer was still angry. “Faint hearts and cowards! I am ashamed to call them Riders of Rohan.”

“Eomer,” Aragorn said gently, “would you ask a boy new come to arms to match the deeds of a seasoned warrior?”

“No, of course not.” he conceded unwillingly. “But it is not the same.”

“Yes it is. These are not guardsmen nor experienced Riders but young husbandmen of Lossarnach and the Westfold. Mordor to them has been a name out of fireside tales - a legend that had no part in their simple life - and so they were all unprepared for its horror.”

Eomer sighed a little and let go of his wrath. “Perhaps you are right, Aragorn. No, I know that you are. Very well, providing they carry themselves well at Cair Andros I will lay no blame nor shame upon them.”

“They will. That is a deed within their measure.” said Aragorn.

Imrahil and Eomer left him at his tent but Aragorn didn’t go back to bed. Instead he settled himself on a bench placed to catch the last of the afternoon sunlight with Merry and Pippin on either side and his grey cloak wrapped around him against the evening breeze, hiding his kingly garb of crimson and black. He stretched out his long legs and lit his pipe. As he blew out a thin stream of smoke an unhappy tension inside Pippin unclenched itself and he laughed.

“Look! Strider the Ranger has come back.”

Aragorn glanced at him and smiled. “He has never been away, I am Strider and Dunadan too. I belong both to Gondor and the North.”

“Thank goodness for that.” said Merry. “Eomer was ready to hang those Men, and even Imrahil seemed to think it would be the right thing to do. We Northerners aren‘t so bloodthirsty.”

“Mutiny is a serious matter, Sir Meriadoc,” Aragorn answered, “and was accounted a crime worthy of death even in the North back in the days of my Fathers. But I will lead only those willing to follow into this battle, and I will not punish Men for being unable to face what no Man should have to bear. The wonder is not that some have broken, but that so many have held true with those horrors -” he gestured upward with his pipe stem, “-undermining their spirits.”

“I feel pretty awful myself, truth be told.” said Pippin. “But I’ll hang on somehow, for Frodo’s sake.”

“And I’ll hang on as long as you, Pip my lad,” said Merry, “and maybe a minute or so longer!”

***

“A full eight hundred have gone.” Prince Imrahil said grimly at the regular council of the Captains that night. “We have now less than six thousand to face the legions of Mordor.”

“Seven or six makes little difference.” Aragorn said calmly. “We have known from the beginning that we would be gravely outnumbered.”

“Yet we can afford to lose no more if we are to keep Sauron’s attention.” said Gandalf.

“We will lose no more.” said Aragorn, and Pippin wondered what made him so sure.

Suddenly Imrahil’s mood changed and he laughed. “Surely this is the greatest jest in all the history of Gondor: that we should ride with scarce as many as made up the vanguard of its army in the days of its power to assail the impenetrable gate of the Black Land. Will Sauron not smile at the sight and crush us with his little finger as he might a fly?”

“No, he will trap the fly and take the sting.” Gandalf answered grimly. “There are names among us that are worth more than a thousand mail clad knights apiece. No, Sauron will not smile.”

Pippin’s mouth was dry. If this was a jest he had no heart to laugh at it - nor did any of the Men around the council table.

They entered the waste the next day, going more slowly than had been their wont and with more and lengthier rest periods, nor did they send out scouts any longer as there was nowhere in all that flat desolation for an ambush to hide. The heralds continued to trumpet their challenge and every time they did so the whole host tensed in expectation of an answer, but none ever came.

Pippin was with Beregond again, which meant he was a horse length or so behind Aragorn and Gandalf and the rest of the Captains, riding among the King‘s Rangers.

“This is a terrible place.” young Beren, son of Hurin, who carried the King’s banner, said as he looked uneasily around.

“Horrible!” Pippin agreed heartily.

“The No-Man’s lands were never pleasant, but the oppression hanging over them has grown heavier as Sauron’s power waxes.” said Edennil, Beren’s Ranger uncle.

“You’ve been here before?” his nephew asked incredulously.

“The Rangers kept a watch on the Black Gate after Sauron’s return.” Edennil explained. “I took my turn along with many others until the Dunadan withdrew us not quite twenty years ago.”

Beren stared at him, shocked and disbelieving. “You stayed in this awful place?”

“As I said it was not quite so bad in those days - and the watches were short, a week or two no more.”

“No doubt one becomes somewhat inured to even such places as this with use, Sir Beren.” Beregond put in. “Just as we learned to bear life under the Shadow in Minas Tirith.”

The young Man seemed dubious. “That was different.”

“Only in degree.” one of the sons of Elrond, who were riding nearby, said suddenly then added to Beregond: “But the oppression of the Shadow over Minas Tirith, was far heavier than you know, Kinsman. Your blood makes you better able to bear such things than other Men - even of the Dunedain.”

Beregond shifted uneasily. Pippin had noticed before that references to his distant royal descent discomfited him as nothing else could - and no wonder: Beregond had spent his life thinking himself just an ordinary Man - that his umpteen times great grandfather being a King of Gondor meant nothing at all - and now all sorts of people, including his distant cousin the King, were telling him that it did matter, very much. Pippin didn’t blame him for being bothered. It couldn’t be very comfortable to suddenly find out you weren’t at all the person you’d always thought you were.

Beren was bothered by other things. “You set a watch right on the border of Gondor and yet did not make yourselves known to us?” he asked his uncle accusingly.

“The Dunadan and the Lord Steward agreed many years ago that an open alliance between our peoples would be far too dangerous for both.” Edennil answered calmly and arched his brows. “You saw what happened when Aragorn did at last reveal himself.”

“Gandalf said that Sauron would raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he’d let the King return.” Pippin put in.

“He tried.” Beregond said grimly. But Pippin could tell that he - and Beren too - was a little offended by the suggestion Minas Tirith couldn’t take care of itself.

Edennil saw it too and gave them both one of those sudden, rather breathtaking Ranger smiles that erased all the grim lines and made him look like another, much younger Man. “We had our own safety to think of too,” he reminded them, “we have no great walled cities in the North and are far more vulnerable than you.”

Pippin couldn’t help but agree with that. Brave as Hobbits were the Shire wouldn’t have stood a chance against an army like the one Sauron had sent against Minas Tirith, nor Bree either.

***

They made camp early, well before nightfall, on a slight rise of sandy ground and ringed it with great bonfires made from deadwood and scrub gathered along the march. But nobody slept. Aragorn sat in his tent talking with Gandalf and the Captains about what might happen tomorrow. Pippin found listening to all the dreadful things Sauron might do or try far too disturbing and decided to take a turn around the camp instead.

He looked into King Eomer’s tent to find Merry awake and sharpening the edge of his sword with a whetstone. He gave him a pale smile. “Hullo, Pip.”

“Hullo.” There didn’t seem to be much else to say. “Want to take a walk?” he asked after a long moment.

“Sure.” Merry put down his whetstone, scabbarded his sword and picked up his helmet.

The wind had died and the air was as still as if they were closed in a windowless room, and it was almost as dark - save for the flare of torches and watch fires - the crescent moon and stars overhead dimmed by the drifting glooms of Mordor.

Merry and Pippin weren’t the only ones wakeful and restless, the Men were all astir as well; wandering aimlessly about the camp or sitting morosely around their fires. Here and there a group of soldiers might attempt a game of dice but soon the players would lose interest and drift away. Or somebody would start a song or tale only to have his voice die away into silence. And through that silence came, faintly, the distant howl of wolves.

Merry and Pippin exchanged looks and headed for the edge of the camp. They found Gimli and Legolas, with arrow knocked, Beregond and a few Rangers standing several feet outside the ring of bonfires with the flames at their backs looking intently into the night.

“What is it?” Pippin half whispered to the Elf.

Legolas shook his head. “I do not know.”

“Look! look there!” Merry cried and pointed.

Pippin thought he caught a glimpse of something tall and man-shaped before it melted into the shadows and drifting clouds of sulfurous fumes that rose out of rents in the earth.

“What was that?” Merry demanded.

“If this were our own country I would say wights or wandering swamp walkers.” one of the Rangers said quietly.

“You mean like the wights who haunt the Barrow Downs?” Pippin asked fearfully, he remembered those all to well.

The Man smiled quickly down at him, reminding him reassuringly of Strider, “Whatever they are they seem to fear fire - as wights do.”

“Fire and numbers are a good defense against many things.” another Ranger agreed, but he folded his arms as if chilled.

Legolas lowered his bow. “I think we need not fear attack,” he said, “their purpose is the same as that of the Nazgul - to sap our strength and spirits.”

“And it is working.” Beregond said grimly, turning to survey the restless, nervously stirring camp behind them. “Something must be done. Peregrin, run and tell the King he is needed.”

Pippin couldn’t think what Beregond expected Strider to do but he ran anyway - all the way back to the King’s tent - only pausing to catch his breath before going inside.

“Excuse me.” Kings, Captains and wizard broke off their discussion to look at him in surprise. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but the Men are getting all worked up and Beregond thinks you should do something about it, Strider.”

“He is right.” Aragorn said, then turned to the others. “There is nothing more to be said, we can make no plans but only be ready to oppose whatever Sauron might choose to do. Let us then go out and give what courage we may to our Men.”

Pippin spent the rest of that endless night trotting at Aragorn’s heels and trying to figure out just how he did what he did. Pippin could feel the brooding atmosphere change and lighten in their wake yet as far as he could see all Aragorn was doing was listening as Men poured out their fears, then saying a few words about hope and courage in his soft voice before moving on. But Pippin, glancing over his shoulder, would see the Man or Men behind them looking all perked up, sometimes even smiling.

Eomer wasn’t quiet and soft spoken like Aragorn yet whatever it was he was saying to his Rohirrim in their own rich, rolling tongue had much the same effect. Men’s faces lightened for him too, and for Prince Imrahil and Gandalf and the others. Nobody went to sleep but the movement in the camp took on a bustling, businesslike, purposeful character as the Men polished armor and shields and sharpened sword and spear in preparation for the morrow, their faces showing determined and intent in the red-golden firelight.

Eventually Aragorn and Pippin ended up at the edge of the camp. The bonfires were beginning to die down a bit but Beregond and a Northern Ranger were still standing, motionless and almost invisible in their black and dark grey cloaks, outside of the ring looking out into the night.

“I’m glad you sent for me, Kinsman.” Aragorn said quietly to Beregond. “But I should have thought of it for myself.”

“You have many things on your mind, my Lord.” the guardsman answered diplomatically.

Aragorn smiled faintly. “True. But that is no excuse.” then he turned to the Ranger. “Well, Arthamir?”

“The night-walkers have withdrawn,” the Man answered, “and a new wind has come up, blowing from the North.”

“Maybe that’s why it’s gone so cold.” Pippin ventured. He looked up at Aragorn. “Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know, Pippin, maybe neither.”

“It is a dawn wind,” said Arthamir, “though we will not see the light for another hour or two.”

“Yet dawn is ever the hope of Men.” Beregond said softly.

Aragorn nodded. “None knows what the new day shall bring him.” his smile gleamed like the sharp edge of a sword, fierce and, fell making Pippin’s blood surge and his heart beat faster with a strange excitement. “Sauron does not know his peril!”

***

They began to break up camp, though it was still dark as midnight, but by the time the last tent fell a glimmer of grey was showing at the fringes of Sauron’s shadow presaging the new day. Pippin found Merry looking up at the brightening sky. “Daylight at last,” he said with forced cheer. “I was beginning to think I’d never see it again.”

Merry nodded, eyes still fixed on the sky. “Not just day, but the last day.”

A shiver passed over Pippin from top to toe. That was so, this could be the last day of all for him and Merry, for the army, for the world of Men and Hobbits. Then he remembered Strider’s words; ‘Sauron does not know his peril’ and squared his shoulders. The enemy didn’t know about Frodo and the Ring - there was still hope. “The day that will see Sauron’s end.” he said.

Merry looked at him in surprise, then grinned. “Right you are, Pip!” he looked around, horses were being brought and the knights and Captains mounting up. “Come on, we’d better be getting back to our Kings.”

The Black Gates were, well, black. A massive barrier plated all over in dark iron with towers and battlements worked into sharp points like an Orc’s teeth. Pippin, seated on Gandalf’s saddle bow, had plenty of time to look his fill at the nasty sight as Aragorn and the Captains set their standards up upon two hills of stone slag, perhaps left over from the building of the Gates, and drew the host up in defensive array around them. When finally the last Man had marched to his place the Captains rode to join Pippin and Gandalf and the mounted knights and Rangers at the forefront of the army.

Though he could see no sign of movement upon the battlements or the hills and rocks around the Morannon Pippin felt evil eyes upon them and knew they were being watched. He looked nervously at Aragorn. “Where are they?”

The King didn’t answer in words but it seemed to Pippin’s incredulous eye that he almost smiled before spurring forward towards the Gates, Queen Arwen‘s banner flapping at his side. They all went with him; King Eomer with Merry behind him, the four Lords of Gondor ; Legolas and Gimli, and the Northern Rangers with the sons of Elrond and Beregond riding among them.

Strider looked up at the iron wall towering over him, no more impressed than if it had been a withy fence. “Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! That justice shall be done upon him for the wrongs he has done! Come forth!”

For a long moment nothing happened and Pippin could hear his heart thudding in the heavy silence. Then, slowly, the gigantic gates swung open - a little more that a crack - just enough for one horseman to pass through. The horse, if it was a horse, was covered with sharp edged plates of black iron and its eyes shone red through the holes of its mask and flames breathed from its dilated nostrils. The rider was equally fearsome; manlike in form, cloaked and hooded in black with a strange helm that covered all his face save for the mouth.

This moved, showing long yellow teeth stained with what might have been blood. “My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome.” there was mockery in his voice, but both mockery and contempt in the look Aragorn returned him. The Mouth didn’t like that one bit, his voice took on an edge - meant to bite - as he demanded: “Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?”

It was Gandalf who replied, speaking as herald for all the Peoples of the West: “We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed. Tell your master this: The armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return.”

Of course Sauron wasn’t about to do any such thing and they all knew it but apparently it was necessary - for some mysterious Man reason - to put the demand to him.

The Mouth swung his helmed head to look blindly and Gandalf and sneered. “Old Greybeard. I have a token I was bidden to show thee.” then, to Pippin’s inexpressible horror, Sauron’s messenger pulled out Frodo’s mithril coat and threw it at Gandalf.

“Frodo!“ he cried, or rather moaned. “Frodo.”

“Silence!” Gandalf snapped.

But Merry, peering around Eomer’s back for a look, cried; “No!”

“Silence!” the wizard repeated angrily, and the two Hobbits struggled to control themselves. But the Mouth made it difficult.

“The Halfling was dear to thee, I see.” he mocked. “Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host.” evil wonder tinged his voice. “Who would’ve thought one so small could endure so much pain?” then he spoke directly to Gandalf. “And he did, Incanus. He did.”

Pippin, clutching desperately at the fine mail shirt, felt the wizard tremble and knew Gandalf was as shaken and heartbroken as he. At least poor Frodo was dead and beyond pain, Pippin told himself desperately, whatever he had suffered it was finished now - as were they all with the Ring back on Sauron’s hand. The last hope had failed. It was over.

Then Aragorn moved past them, to confront the Mouth. The evil one laughed scornfully. “And who is this? Isildur’s heir? It takes more to make a king than a broken Elvish blade or a rabble such as this.”

Strider said nothing just sat his horse and gave the Mouth a dark terrible look, the like of which Pippin had never before seen on his face, with the Elendilmir burning like a white flame upon his brow - and the Dark Lord’s messenger quailed before him. “What terms does Sauron offer?” the King said at last. His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet Pippin shuddered at the sound.

The Mouth recovered himself. “Hear the terms of Sauron the Great, my master.” he proclaimed. “This rabble must withdraw at once beyond the Anduin and its leaders surrender themselves to Sauron’s judgement. All lands east of the Anduin will be Sauron’s forever and those west of the River his vassals and tributaries. These are my master’s terms if you desire his clemency.”

“And this is my answer.” said Aragorn, and Anduril flashed from its scabbard severing the Mouth’s head from his shoulders.

“I guess that concludes negotiations.” Gimli said with grim satisfaction.

The King wheeled to face his companions. “I do not believe Frodo is dead.” he told them, eyes blazing with that eerie silver brightness - echoing the light of the Elendilmir. “I will not!”

Hope warmed Pippin’s chilled heart despite the mithril shirt he held in his hands. He felt Gandalf make a movement of some kind behind him and Aragorn’s gaze softened as he looked over the Hobbit’s head. “Think, Gandalf. If Sauron had the Ring he would not have sent a minion to taunt us but come himself to enjoy his triumph.”

A sigh went out of the wizard. “That is true.

The Mouth’s headless body chose that moment to topple from the back of its mount. Pippin started nervously as it smashed to dust - armor and all - at their feet. The horse-thing reared, clawing at the air with its hooves, and gave an eldritch cry no equine throat could produce then it too crumbled to powder and the dust of both master and mount went skirling away, blown by the chill north wind.

“I do not blame you for your anger, King Elessar,” Eomer said heavily, with troubled face, “but the person of a herald is sacrosanct.”

Aragorn‘s eyes were kind as they rested on the younger King, but his voice was grim and unyielding: “I do not treat with the Enemy, nor waste honor and courtesy upon those who have none.”

“Elessar has done no wrong, Eomer King.“ Imrahil said quietly. “This is the same herald who falsely promised safe conduct to Earnur and betrayed him to his doom. Finally, after many long years, the Last King has been avenged.”

Eomer nodded, but by his face still harbored reservations.

Aragorn’s head turned sharply an instant before the great Black Gates began to grind open. “Pull back!” he ordered “Pull back!”

Craning his neck around Gandalf as they galloped back to the army Pippin saw the huge doors slowly swing wide and an uncountable host of black Orcs and Easterlings in their outlandish trappings pour forth. Behind them in the distance he could see a spike of black rock tipped by a sphere of red balefire that shed a lurid light over the marching host, and beyond that a dark mountain belching fire and smoke - the Mount Doom Frodo was trying to reach. As they neared their own army Pippin saw the Men were pale and fearful, twitching on the verge of panic - not that he blamed them!Hold your ground!” Aragorn shouted, “Hold your ground.” All eyes, including Pippin’s turned to him as he rode across the army‘s front.

“Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers.” he cried. “I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me.” then his voice changed, ringing hard and clear, striking Pippin’s nerves like bucketful of icy water. “A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the world of Men comes crashing down. But it is not this day! This day we fight!”

The army of Mordor marched on, encircling the tiny host of the West, yet Pippin saw and heard nothing but his King as Aragorn reined to halt in the exact center of the line and pointed Anduril, still unsheathed in his hand, at the ground. “By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand - Men of the West!” and he wheeled to face the oncoming enemy, a light like the sun and the moon mingled flashing from his sword as he held it aloft.

Behind him every Man - and Hobbit too - drew their own blades and raised them high in salute. Fear for himself and grief for Frodo vanished, Pippin felt light, almost hollow, as if he were a naught but a bubble of skin around a fierce, almost joyous, resolve to uphold the honor of the Shire and - of Gondor - to the death.

There was a brief confusion as they all dismounted and the horses were led away. Pippin stared in wonder at Aragorn, giving his last orders to the Captains. “He did it to me too,” he said in some bewilderment to Merry beside him, “Now more than anything I want a chance at those Orcs!“

“Just like King Theoden.“ his cousin agreed nodding.

“How do they do it?”

“No idea.”

A little fear crept back as the iron shod feet of Mordor’s host pounded the barren earth, surrounding them. Pippin looked at his sword, at the intertwining shapes of red and gold and the flowing characters of Numenor glinting like fire on the blade. *’This was made for just such an hour.’* he told himself. *’And I’ll smite some of this beastly brood with it before the end, but I wish I could have seen cool sunlight and green grass again!’*

Then he remembered an order Aragorn had given him way back before they’d left the City and looked round for Beregond. The Man was right where he belonged, at Pippin’s shoulder. “Remember, whatever happens stay close to me so we can guard each other’s backs.” the Hobbit said seriously. “I don’t want to have to tell Mistress Hiril I let you get yourself killed!”

“I would never inflict such a dire fate upon you, Peregrin.” Beregond replied with a straight face but a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

Suddenly the tramp of marching feet stopped. The black host had ringed them entirely but instead of attacking they just stood there, looking at the tiny army of Men. And the host of the West stood in their defensive circle staring back at the enemy for what seemed like a very long time.

“Strider,” Pippin said suddenly into the dead silence. “Do you really think Frodo is alive?”

“I am sure of it.” the King answered firmly. “How Frodo’s mithril mail came into Sauron’s hands I do not know but Frodo himself surely did not or Sauron would have had a far greater prize to show - and spoken not of one but of two.”

“Sam.” said Merry. “Of course! I can’t believe I forgot about Sam.”

“And one thing more,” Aragorn spoke now over Pippin’s head, directly to Gandalf. “Sauron’s Eye had strayed from us to something within his own lands.”

“Frodo!” Pippin breathed, and his last doubt vanished.

“By slaying his messenger I fixed the Eye upon us.” Aragorn continued.

“Upon you.” Gandalf corrected quietly.

Pippin looked over the heads of the Enemy’s army at the bale light atop the dark tower and shivered in recognition. He had seen the Eye before, glaring at him from the depths of a palantir, he could not mistake it now, small with distance as it was, between the horns of Barad-dur. He could feel its gaze upon them, like heat from a fire, and especially on Aragorn.

Suddenly Strider took a step forward, then another, the hand holding Anduril falling to his side. He was staring back at the Eye and a chill of fear passed over Pippin - if the King fell under the Enemy’s power they were lost - but then Aragorn turned to look back at them and his eyes were clear and there was a slight, almost gentle smile upon his face.“For Frodo.” he said, too soft for any save those closest him to hear. Then he turned and raising Anduril high charged towards the enemy.

For an instant Pippin - like everybody else - was frozen in his place with surprise, but only for an instant. In the next heartbeat he lifted his voice in a shout of “Elessar!” and pounded after his King.

“Elessar!” Merry echoed, running right beside him, and then the King’s name rose in a great roar of from six thousand throats as all the host followed after, soon overtaking and passing the Hobbits with their longer legs.

***

Unlike the Pelannor Fields the battle of the Black Gates was a dreadful scrum with friend and foe all jumbled together in a dense mass of struggling bodies. Pippin discovered his small size was an advantage rather than otherwise, most enemies looked right over his head and aimed their blows at Beregond, letting Pippin get in under their guard. The two of them managed to stay together but Merry vanished almost at once into the maelstrom and Pippin caught only fitful glimpses of the others; of Gandalf’s white cloak or Legolas’ uncovered golden head, Gimli of course was as invisible as Merry but no doubt staying close to Legolas as usual. From time to time Pippin saw Eomer’s horsehair crest bobbing above the Orcish helms and hoped Merry was with him. And sometimes the dark grey of a Ranger cloak would catch his eye.

They were, all of them, trying to cut their way to Aragorn. The light of the Elendilmir made the King easy to spot but he always seemed to be just a few yards ahead, slicing through the enemy ranks like a scythe through wheat with his burning sword. Strider didn’t look like he needed any help but Pippin was the King’s squire and he knew his place was by him - if only he could get there!

Then, chillingly, Pippin heard an eerie, all to familiar cry. “Oh no, please no.” he whispered to himself looking upward. But it was - four or five Nazgul on their hideous bat-winged beasts bearing down upon them. His heart contracted with dread as Beregond’s hand closed tightly on his shoulder. Instinctively he looked around for Gandalf - but what could the wizard do with his staff broken?

Then another cry, fierce and free, clove the smoky air like a lighting bolt. Looking upward again Pippin saw a quintet of great winged shaped swoop down upon the Nazgul. “The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!”

“Eagles?” Beregond echoed in some bewilderment.

“The Great Eagles of the Misty Mountains,” Pippin explained happily. “They’re friends of Gandalf’s. They saved Uncle Bilbo years ago at the Battle of Five Armies and now they’re saving us!” At least from attack from the air - no small favor. But on the ground things took a turn for the worse.

Through the ranks of Orcs there came striding, roaring like beasts, a great company of Hill-Trolls with helmets on their heads and bucklers on their arms sweeping Men away with great swings of their battle hammers - and one was heading directly for Aragorn.

Strider didn’t seem to see it at first - having plenty to occupy him nearer at hand. Pippin, desperately struggling forward against the tide Orc bodies, saw a Rider of Rohan, a Guardsman and two Rangers try to block the Troll’s path to the King only to be wiped out its way. Aragorn finally became aware of his danger and turned to face the Troll - which fortunately had lost its hammer as it fought its way to him. Anduril rang like a deep toned bell as it met the massive Orc-forged Troll blade but the Elf wrought steel held. The force of the blows drove the King backward until one lifted him right off his feet and flung him into the air to crash into the ground several yards closer to Pippin.

“Strider!” frantic now he ducked under the arm of an advancing Orc then dodged between two more. Aragorn managed somehow to stagger upright only to be knocked on his back by a great Troll foot planted in the middle of his chest.

The Troll bent over him, raising its sword, and Pippin saw a gap between the edge of its helm and its scaled corselet. He remembered Legolas balanced on the back of the Cave Troll in Moria, firing his arrows directly into the neck, and he remembered Merry and himself hewing bootlessly away at the same target and realized what they’d done wrong. *‘Don’t cut - stab!’*

He jumped onto the Troll’s stooped back and ran up it to thrust the point of his sword with all his strength into the gap between helm and armor. It gave a funny cough - just like the one in Moria - tottered and fell flat on its face, but fortunately not on top of poor Strider who managed to roll aside just in time.

Pippin pulled his sword, sunk to the hilt in Troll flesh, free with an effort and wiped the black blood off on his black cloak as Aragorn climbed shakily to his feet. He looked at the King in concern. “Are you all right?”

Old Strider stared at him for a moment in forgivable disbelief then broke into one of those rare grins of his. “Yes. Thanks to you - Sir Peregrin.”

Pippin grinned back in relief, not noticing the ’sir’.

They were standing like that, grinning at each other like fools while the battle raged around them, when suddenly the air was rent by a horrible scream - like a million Barrow Wights all dying at once - that went on and on. The ground quivered under their feet and Orcs and Trolls and even Men who made up the enemy army were all running, shoving the Men of the West out of their way as they fled.

Looking towards the Gate Pippin saw the great tower of Barad-dur collapsing in on itself with the Eye between the horns falling as it screamed. Suddenly, it winked out, and the rubble of the Dark Tower blasted outward in a great shockwave. Then the Black Gates began to fall and the very ground of Mordor to give way beneath the feet of Sauron’s fleeing minions.

It wasn’t until he heard Merry shouting; “Frodo! Frodo!” that Pippin realized what had happened. The Ringbearer had fulfilled his quest: the One Ring was destroyed and Sauron and all his works with it. Frodo had done it - just Strider had said he would.

Then the top of Mount Doom blew up - blasting fire and rock far and wide - an explosion nobody could possibly survive. Frodo....Sam.... Pippin collapsed on the ground and sobbed aloud in grief and despair. It wasn’t fair that they should die now - after saving them all - it wasn’t right!

Pippin was pottering around the King‘s tent - trying to keep busy - when a cry sounded outside: “The Eagles! Mithrandir returns.”

He darted out of the tent and squinted upward. Yes, there were the three Great Eagles flapping slowly towards the camp with Gandalf shining in his white robes on the back of the leader - and surely they were carrying something in their great talons, two somethings - or some ones!

They landed in the open space at the center of the camp, laying their burdens gently upon the ground. It was Frodo and Sam and they looked just terrible; bloody and bruised, their faces grey beneath the dirt that covered them.... And they didn’t seem to be breathing.

“Are they alive?” Pippin pleaded, “Are they alive?”

“Yes, my lad, they’re alive.” Gandalf answered, putting one arm around him and the other around Merry. “Alive but sorely wounded.”

Aragorn was on his knees, carefully examining the two small bodies. “They are far gone, but I will do what I can.” he said and gathered Frodo up in his arms. Legolas picked up Sam and they carried them into the King’s tent to lay them side by side on the big bed, the rest of the Company of the Ring following.

“Pippin, I need hot water.” Aragorn ordered and his squire hurried to put a kettle on over the brazier. While it heated Aragorn and Gandalf gently stripped off the injured Hobbits’ ragged clothes and washed away the grime of Mordor.

Peering anxiously over their shoulders Pippin saw Frodo’s ring finger had been cut or torn away. “His hand, what happened to his poor hand?”

“I don’t know.” Strider answered. “Get the athelas Pippin, they are in the green pouch in the small chest.”

By the time he’d found them and gotten back to the bedside the water had boiled and Merry was pouring it into the big golden basin. “Are these enough?” Pippin asked holding out a handful of the long, glossy green leaves.

“More than enough.” Aragorn smiled. He took three, breathed on them, then bruised them and cast them into the hot water.

The wonderful, heady athelas scent filled the tent soothing Pippin’s fearful heart. Old Strider had saved Faramir and Merry, surely he could save Frodo and Sam too. Everything was going to be all right - better than all right with Sauron gone forever and all the Westlands free - it had to be!

Gently Aragorn laved both Hobbits with the athelas water, giving special attention to the deep and bloody line carved round Frodo’s neck and to his wounded hand. Then he took the Ringbearer’s face between his hands and softly called his name; “Frodo, Frodo return to us. You have fulfilled your quest and the Shadow has passed away. Come back, Frodo and see the victory you have wrought.”

Pippin, tensely watching his cousin’s grey face, saw no change at all. He looked at Aragorn. The King’s eyes were hooded, almost closed, but his lips moved silently forming Frodo’s name over and over again. Pippin glanced around at the others for reassurance and found none. Gandalf looked grave, Gimli and Legolas deeply worried, and Merry - poor Merry - looked as scared as himself.

Then Frodo gave a sort of a gasp, a long inhalation followed by a deep sigh. For an instant Pippin was afraid it was the end, then he saw his cousin’s chest rise in a second breath, and a third, and gave a gasp - half sob - of his own. Color came back into Frodo’s face, flushing cheeks and lips, and he breathed deeply and regularly as if fast asleep.

Aragorn rose and moved around the bed to kneel at Sam’s side. Once again he cupped a Hobbit’s small head between his hands and softly called him by name: “Sam, Samwise, faithfully you have followed your master to the brink of death, now follow him back to the light. Samwise, Frodo lives and needs you, come back to him. Come back.”

And he did come back after Aragorn had called for almost a minute. Round cheeks, not quite so round as they’d once been, flushed with life and Sam gave a great sigh, just as Frodo had, and half turned on his side - one hand reaching out to his master.

“You did it, you did it, Strider!” Pippin breathed. The King smiled faintly but his face was drawn and as deathly pale as Frodo and Sam’s had been moments before. “Are you all right?” Pippin demanded, voice sharp with concern.

Aragorn nodded. “I am but weary. They had gone very far, farther than I have ever been.”

“You look a bit worse than ‘weary’ to me.” Merry said frowning.

“Right.” Pippin agreed. “Merry is there any water left in that kettle?”

“A bit, enough for a good mug of tea I’d say.” his cousin answered.

“Mulled wine -” Legolas began, only to be firmly interrupted.

“No. Wine’s all very well but tea is what we need now.” Pippin said authoritatively. “Luckily I have some in my pack. Strider you sit down and put your feet up, I’ll have a cup for you in a minute.”

A nice strong cup of tea bucked Strider right up, just as Pippin had know it would. He looked quite like himself again once he’d finished it, but all the companions agreed he must take a little rest. Overborne Aragorn reluctantly submitted and settled himself on the narrow cot where Pippin usually slept.

Legolas and Gimli stationed themselves outside the tent flap to hold all comers at bay while Gandalf and the two Hobbits busied themselves with finding beds and bedding for Frodo and Sam and setting up the two cots in the wizard’s tent where he could keep an eye on them.

“They are likely to sleep a very long time.” Gandalf cautioned Merry and Pippin. “That is quite normal and nothing to worry about but we must get some food into them - broth and the like - they are dangerously weak.”

“But how can we if they’re asleep?” Pippin wondered worriedly.

“Just spoon it into them, they’ll swallow it asleep or no.” Merry answered. “We had to do that for Uncle Merimac after that branch fell on his head in the Old Forest. He was out for the longest time and we were afraid we were going to lose him - but old Malkin pulled him through.”

***

After the Tower and the Gates had fallen the Orcs and Trolls had all run away as fast as their feet would carry them - and most of the Men too. But some had gone on fighting until killed and others had surrendered and sued for mercy. These last made it clear they were as glad as the Westerners that Sauron was gone and that they had served him unwillingly out of fear. Pippin felt sorry for them, and so did Strider. He’d accepted their parole and ordered their hurts tended. Many of the Gondorim grumbled that this was over lenient, even dangerous, but of course they obeyed the King.

The No-Man’s Lands were altogether different without Sauron‘s malice brooding over them; just barrens, unpleasant but no longer horrible. Nobody’d felt the least qualm about setting up camp practically on the battlefield.

“Still it will be well to keep careful watch,” Beregond commented to Pippin as he helped the Man raise the tent he shared with four Rangers, “some of these fugitives may become bold again once they have night to cover them.”

“Maybe, but the way they were running most must be leagues away by now.”

The Man laughed. “Very likely. Still, better to take unnecessary care than not enough.”

“Oh I agree.” Pippin said fervently. “I’m done with being foolish and reckless!”

“I have never known you to be either, Peregrin.” said Beregond.

“That’s because you haven’t known me for very long.” said Pippin.

***

He was in the camp kitchen, stirring up some chicken broth for Frodo and Sam, when one of Lord Elrond’s sons poked his head into the tent and said, “Ah - there you are, Peregrin. Aragorn wants you.”

Pippin looked at him in alarm. “Is it Frodo and Sam?”

“Oh no, something quite different.” the Half-Elf assured him. “You might want to take off the apron.”

“Oh - yes of course.” Pippin unwrapped the oversized covering, put back on his mail tunic and surcoat and followed whichever twin it was back to the King’s tent.

Aragorn was standing in front of it, brushed and dressed in his royal best with the Elendilmir on his brow and Gandalf on one side and King Eomer on the other with all the Captains and what seemed like half the army crowded round. Pippin’s step slowed uncertainly. What was up?

Elladan or Elrohir gave him a gentle shove between the shoulder blades and he advanced uncertainly, with every eye upon him, across the open space to Aragorn. “Err - you wanted me, Str - my Lord?”

The King’s face was solemn but his eyes held a twinkle. “Give me your sword.”

Now thoroughly bewildered Pippin drew his blade and handed it hilt first to Strider, glancing aside at Merry for some clue as to what was going on. His cousin was beaming so hard his face was like to burst but that didn’t tell Pippin much.

“Kneel Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire of the Halflings.” said Aragorn, and continued as Pippin obeyed: “Let all Men know that this Hobbit saved the life of his King on the field of battle, slaying a great Hill Troll with a single blow.” then he reversed the sword and offered the hilt to Pippin. “Take back your sword and rise, Sir Peregrin Troll-Bane, Knight of Gondor.”

Pippin took the blade automatically but, being all amazed, quite forgot to get up. “Oh my,” was all he could say, “oh my.” then: “Whatever will Dad and Mum say?”

THE END (continued in ‘The Field of Cormallen’)