What's Right Before You

Pippin was glad he had learned how to climb, and climb well. Most hobbits wouldn't think of going any farther than the first few boughs of a large, well-set tree, and then only if they were no older than twenty-five. Not even Merry liked to climb very much. After all, he'd only made it to Treebeard's thighs, and that was with an orc after him.

Not that climbing was difficult. You just had to be short-sighted about it. Don't look down, to see how far you've gone; and don't look up, to see how far you've yet to go. Just look at what's right before of you, and take hold. Pull with your fingers. Push with your toes. And repeat. Until you get to the top. That's how he was taught.

It took all Pippin's will not to look down, of course, or look up; not that he wanted to scare himself, but, well, he wanted to look. He always wanted to look. That was the kind of fellow he was, and always had been: too curious for his own good.

But Pippin was also reckless, and did not fate smile on reckless fools?

The beacon of Minas Tirith was just a bit higher than the top of the White Tower, a thousand feet above the Pelennor. The rock face of Mindolluin wasn't particularly difficult to climb to those who knew how. It was steeper and taller than Pippin had ever climbed, admittedly, unless you counted the steeper stairs in Moria; but there were numerous footholds and handholds for a hobbit to hold on to, a hobbit with hobbit-smart fingers and hobbit-nimble toes with the strength of a young adult and the weight of a human child. Just keep your eyes on what's in front of you, and keep going until you reach your goal.

So he climbed up the spur of Mindolluin to the beacon of Minas Tirith, slipped out of sight of the guards on this forsaken duty, fortuitously knocked over the lamp filled with oil, and set it alight. And won't Gandalf be proud of me! And he climbed back down.

It was only when he was back on the street of the sixth level that he looked back up where he came. The great bonfire was blazing orange and crimson against the mountain's deep purple sides. People around him were speaking in barely restrained excitement, whether fear or pride he couldn't tell. The beacons! The beacons are lit! He felt a thrill, and sought Gandalf.

"Gandalf! Gandalf!"

But the old wizard seemed to have only half an ear for him. "The garrison at Osgiliath is under attack," said Gandalf, clutching his staff and peering across the high airs towards the ruined city on the river. "Come, Peregrin!"

And just like that they were off looking for Shadowfax. In the events that followed, the ride against the Nazgul, meeting Faramir, the awful scene with Denethor in the Hall, and then the Seige... it seemed unimportant. When, frozen, sword in hand and terrified, next to Gandalf before the Witch-king, he heard the horns of Rohan blow, he was so filled with awe at their coming that he cried and didn't even know it. He didn't put two and two together.

Who could blame him if it slipped his mind? The flames he thought about were the flames on Denethor, around Faramir, the flames all around him as he leapt onto the pyre to save the sudden friend he'd made, so like Boromir, yet so unlike as well.

And then he went out onto the battlefield and found Merry's cloak and realized, oh, no, Merry had ridden with the Rohirrim. He spent all day and all night searching for him before finding him under that corpse next to the fallen oliphaunt.

He brought Merry to the Houses of Healing, and did as he promised: he took care of him now. He was sponging Merry's fevered brow when he felt a shadow fall upon him and looked up to see the man he knew as Strider, but who the people of the city were now calling, in whispers, the King.

"Is he going to be all right?" he asked him.

Aragorn knelt and took Merry's hand. "I believe so. I have called him back from the darkness, and the athelas will calm both his body and his mind. Rest, and your presence, is the best thing for him now."

Pippin smiled. "Well, then he'll be right as rain soon. Because I won't leave his side."

"I believe you." Aragorn paused, gazing around the quiet ward. "Rohan came to Gondor just in time," he mused aloud. "I am glad the Steward ordered the beacons lit."

"Denethor didn't order them lit," Pippin said. "Gandalf did it."

"He gave the order?" Aragorn was bemused. "I was under the impression that he had not taken command of the city until Denethor was already far gone."

"He didn't order it at all," Pippin said. "He told me to climb up to the city beacon and light it." He didn't know what to make of Aragorn's stare upon him. "What? Did I do something wrong? I did the best I could."

But Aragorn was still staring. His eyes had grown wide. "You lit the beacons?"

Pippin nodded.

"You climbed up the mountainside?"

Pippin nodded again.

Aragorn gave a slow, wondering shake of his head. "Weren't you frightened?"

Pippin shrugged. He had looked up, and looked down; of course he felt fear. But that wasn't important. "If I had thought about it, perhaps I should have been," he said. "But I don't think that much," he added with a grin.

He was rewarded with a smile from his friend, though Aragorn's grey eyes were glistening. "Gandalf is always right," Aragorn said, as if reminding himself of a self-evident truth. "Hobbits are remarkable creatures." He turned from Pippin to Merry, sleeping quietly now, the arm with which he'd wounded the Witch-king lying carefully wrapped across his chest; and then back to Pippin. "When I saw the Halifirien fire, a weight lifted from my heart. Hope was kindled." He sighed, and then smiled again. "I was not aware that such skill in climbing could be found in the Shire."

"Oh, that?" dismissed Pippin. "It's not common at all; but I'm good at it. It's not about how far you've gone or how much farther you need to go; it's just to keep your mind on what's right before you, until the task is done. That's the key, as Frodo always said."

Aragorn's voice grew soft. "Frodo?"

Pippin nodded. "Yes, Frodo. Frodo was the one who taught me how to climb."

-ends-