Pippin stood staring at the White Tree, for even in death it was sadly beautiful. The high and writhed branches grasped out, as if to catch the last wisp of life that fled from it, before it froze in its desperate position. The twisted stems played as cruel reminders of its weary fate. The pallid color to it was not the strong and proud white of a pure and courageous city, but a pale shadow, a sickly shade, worn and weathered, like to a soldier too weak to fight any longer, but resigned to simply lay in the grass and wait for the outcome of battle. It was as if the old tree was the very soul of the city itself.

Tears brimmed his eyes, large and green as the yonder hilled country he came from, as the sad thing seemed both dead and lonely; and he wondered if someone could be both. All at once the morbid thing seemed to thrust upon him memories of his friends so far away, the home he missed, and the powerlessness he was to it all. Its gnarled finger-like branches twisted in some silent, frozen agony reminded him so starkly of his loved ones, and how they too could be snatched from life and thrust into this voiceless, motionless death.

Hot tears nearly spilled down his cheeks as images of his two most beloved cousins flashed through his mind as they once had been, as he’d known them for so long; happy, careless. Their laughter rang in his ears so joyous and gay that he could not handle the memory, as it had become such a painful reminder of what was so recently gone, that he covered his ears to block it away. He pressed his hands tightly to his face, closing his eyes, wishing, not for the first time, that this was all a nightmare to be washed away.

But when their laughter died away and he opened his eyes he felt none the better, looking back up. Almost in surprise he started anew at how terrible the aching white branches seemed to stand, lifeless yet tired. And then, where the resent for the loss of his kin had ached, loneliness for their absence flooded in and took its place, filling his small soul with a sadness too heavy to withstand.

Oh, where are you my two brave, brave cousins! Oh, Merry! Frodo! Where have you gone to that I am not, and can no longer look after you?

Tears trickled down his face, when he realized how lonely he was. How he wished his cousins were not so alone as he! – But he knew that they were.

But then, the Tower’s littlest guard saw upon the lifeless branches suddenly, in his young and hopeful heart, thick green leaves bloom, laced with rich and shining silver, and trimmed with white blossoms danging heavily, blowing like gossamer in the wind. His heart rose then for an instant, and his large eyes, filled with some strange void in place of the innocence that was slowly escaping him, seemed glad, if only the next instant to be dimmed when a great rumble of thunder cracked somewhere above him in the dark sky, and brought the illusion to be nothing more than exactly that.

He scowled at the thing, and somewhere inside of him a deep resentment came for it, and he wondered suddenly, why they should not chop it down, if it should be so terrible a reminder of what was not?

He then turned his back, not wanting to face it, and for it to stand there silently foreboding and cruel. Running to the edge of the stone barrier Pippin’s hobbit feet made a loud slap slap! noise, hitting against the cold stone of the citadel, making his small form sound larger and more important than he truly felt. He stopped running a few feet short from the edge, where the treacherous drop plummeted seven levels down. His stomach twisted in his body as he thought of the height he stood at, for all that he was a Took, he was far higher up than any tree he had ever climbed so fearlessly!

Glancing back over his shoulder, he looked to see if any of the ever-present citadel guards watched him. Though they stood so bold and powerfully around the White Tree, and Pippin knew they were not to ever move, he was still slightly embarrassed to be garbed in the same dress as those who must be such honorable men, and did not want, even for all his current misery, to be caught seeming foolish or cowardly in the face of something so trivial as a little height.

But taking two cautious steps to the edge, and getting a small view of the great drop below him, his former dignity and pride were forgotten as he stumbled back, checking that his two feet where planted flat, safely on the cold stone ground.

He stood, not knowing what to do with himself, and glanced up to the ever-darkening sky. He felt a chill run through his small frame, and suddenly the armor resting on his body felt so heavy; unfitting and wrong. He switched his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. Looking down to his side, his eyes rested on his scabbard. With the sudden impulse to pull his sword from its sheath, he grabbed the pommel of the dagger, and drew the weapon. It seemed to shimmer, reflecting even the most sallow light of the darkened day. He brought it close to him then, holding the blade carefully, and looking hard at it.

Just then, the sound of laughter broke his morose thoughts, and he looked up, searching for its proprietor. Glancing ‘round the citadel he could find no one but the frozen guards, uncannily still, and the mangled branches of the tree, illuminated all the more terribly by the smoke-black sky. A horrible image came to him then, and he gave a yell of discomfort as in his mind’s eye he saw again the sight of the White Tree wreathed in flame, its old limbs crackling as the fire consumed them, smoke rising from its ashes to join the polluted sky that hung like a dark curtain above.

Stumbling backwards, away from the horrible image, his hands clutching his sword, his back collided with the stone wall, startling him away from the eerie picture given to him by the palantir. Losing his balance he managed to grasp the barrier, but not before the better part of his upper body dangled helplessly over the edge of the gruesome precipice. Clutching the wall for his dear life, stricken with a sudden nauseating wave of dizziness, he managed to pull himself back over.

Stepping back, his heart in his throat, his feet as wobbly as jam, he picked up his dropped sword.

What a fool I am! Boromir said, the most important rule to remember is, 'never drop your weapon'! It could have fallen over the edge, then what would I have done?

He scolded himself mentally, brushing off the steel and replacing it safely in its sheath. Looking back over his shoulder, his face flushed at the scene he just created, but upon further thought, he looked to the distance at the motionless guards in indignance. Even though he knew they were not to move, he was quite put out by the fact that they would have let him topple to his death, (though it was prone to his own foolishness, he admonished to his credit) had they noticed at all!

His equilibrium thankfully back to normal, he swallowed, and stepped to the edge, determined to at least conquer his fear of height today. Looking down upon the city he was amazed at the view, so beautiful, a giant city of stone, like a grand inflation of the stone memorials made for great heroes and warriors.

Look how far down it is! My, my Peregrin Took! Just think, you could have lost yourself down there, and you would have never been able to find Merry or Frodo, or Sam for that matter, at all! Imagine how bored they'd all be, with no one to make the jests, then? They can all be so terribly serious sometimes!

Pippin’s eyes traveled far below, trailing the streets and roads of the first levels of the city, seeming like little doll’s streets and houses from his place at the citadel. He saw the banners of Gondor hanging mournfully still, as there was no wind, and tried to imagine how it was that Boromir saw the city; his city.

Pippin imagined a great sunrise and the wind billowing in from somewhere in the south, the warmth of the day meeting his face, and birds singing their song high above the city walls. The banners of Gondor flapping proudly in the breeze, the white tree standing tall above its city of stone and warriors. Pippin looked then as far as he could see, and imagined Rohan in the distance, then he turned about and shuddered as the fire-mountain rumbled in that evil land, which held his dear, dear Frodo.

The laughter that had moments before almost caused his untimely demise rang again, and this time, out of aggravation as well as curiosity, he was determined to find who was laughing in such a dark and terrible hour. A small frown of disprovement on his bow-shaped lips, he realized it was coming from someplace below him, and tightly grasping the stone, he looked down and scanned the next level.

When he discovered its source, his former ill-will dissipated and he felt suddenly ashamed for his thoughts, chiding the glee of those who still had it. They were children, giggling, their mother pulling them desperately along. Probably one of the last to be taken to safety (if there was such a place), he thought. A lad and a young lass, their laughter rose above the dismal aura about the city, and did not disappear behind the thundering of the sky. He watched as their mother stopped to quickly scold them, they hushed, abashment on their small faces, and then there was sudden quietness.

Pippin felt instantly pained for the loss of their smiling faces, their happiness destroyed, hushed by the demanding hand of war. He watched until he could no longer see them, then turned, saddened again and reminded of his homeland where happiness still dwelt, not yet ruined by the solemnness and sadness that war spread like a terrible plague.

His heart was stronger then, filled with the love for his family and friends, and his courage grew a bit more, as determination to help in the small way he could shook his sturdy resolve, and rang in his heart like the roar of an army to a black and evil force.

He would not fail them. And as the memory of the children left him he was struck then with the notion that he was not a child any longer – or could not be. Not now, he thought.

He turned to face the great White Tree and understood then, that it was sad and lonely, yes, but it was a reminder of what once was, a goodness that had been in some distant day, now just a scroll in history.

A happiness that could only be saved for those that would grasp it if the darkness before them was finally felled; and young Peregrin Took tightened his grip on his sword once again.

With his fear then not forgotten, but overshadowed by his courage, he thought to himself, as he stood there staring out past Minas Tirith to the black land of Mordor.

I will try then; for them all. I will try.