I bid Beregond a good night, setting his mind at peace that I could indeed find my way to Gandalf’s and my lodgings. I spoke a bit hastily, I soon found, as indeed the going was difficult with no lights abroad in the streets and none showing forth from the shuttered windows. I chuckled a bit as I made my slow way along. I had spoken hastily - that will always make me think of Treebeard now.

After a much longer time than should have been the case I found the house upon the north side of the citadel grounds where I am being allowed to lodge with Gandalf. Being allowed. That sounded so odd in my head. Like being a child or teen again instead of a tweenager only four years from coming of age. I’m once again not my own person but I’m under the authority of another. The boarding house was dark from without and barely better lit within. I was somewhat accustomed to the gloom by now and managed the broad stone stairs easily. Well, as easily as I can on these staircases built to fit the legs of grown Men. Our room, like all else, is shuttered and only dimly lit by a single small lamp upon the room’s sole table. With a sigh I acknowledge that the room is also empty, Gandalf is not here as I had hoped he would be.

I don’t feel right, not unwell but . . . not right. Merry is always on about “the unquenchable cheerfulness of Pippin” but my cheerfulness is as absent as he is. I clench my eyes a moment. I don’t want to think about that. About me being here and Merry . . . I’ve no idea where Merry is. Beregond and the men of his company, Bergil and the other lads, had been good company during the day and for a while my heart felt its usual self, but now I was feeling very much in need of a familiar face. I wanted to see Gandalf.

“He isn’t here. Most likely won’t be here any time soon, so you had just best get over it, Peregrin Took,” I tell myself aloud as I start to strip off. “Wash up like a good lad and get yourself to bed. You’ve been summoned, remember.” I interrupt my talk with myself long enough to pull my shirt off over my head. Why unbutton buttons I will only need to button again in the morning? “ ‘Summoned to the Lord Denethor’ Beregond said.” I sigh again as I finish taking off my trousers. Down to my short clothes I hang my clothes up on some hooks on the wall, above where my small pack sits on the floor, before going to the pitcher and basin. “Easy, easy,” I coach myself as I struggle a bit with the full, Man-sized, pitcher of water which I nearly lose hold of. The water is tepid which matches how I feel. I feel so strangely. I wish there was a bath. A nice warm, luxurious bath. Perhaps with bubbles. I grin for a bit at that thought, then it passes. Somehow, this doesn’t feel like a place where there would be baths with bubbles. No, too much old cold stone. Not a place of round soft things like bubbles. Nor hobbits.

Nor Hobbits.

I climb up to look out one of the windows. Yet another reminder that this isn’t the Shire, that I’m nowhere near the Shire. There is only more darkness outside the narrow window. Blacker than the blackest ink in any inkwell is the world outside yet I stay there on the bench until my eyes begin to ache with the effort to see something. Finally they close of their own accord and I feel about for the shutter, pulling it shut across the dismal dark. I turn my back to the wall to slide down it until I’m crouched upon the bench with my head upon my knees. My mind is spinning. Why am I here anyway? Is it this dark where Merry is? Is it . . . the bottom drops out of my stomach . . . Frodo and Sam. How long has it been since I’ve thought of Frodo and Sam? Dark. The darkness . . . I was thinking about the darkness, and it’s coming from Mordor and they were going to Mordor. I was wondering if it is dark where they are.

“Dark where they are. Now there’s an intelligent thought, Pippin,” I chide myself. “Dark where they are? Of course it’s dark where they are, most likely even darker than here, if that’s truly possible.” My brain spins on and on in sad imaginings of darkness and dread and loneliness. Frodo and Sam in the Dark Land. I tremble with unbidden memories of visions of that place seen in a glass ball and that takes me back to Merry. I’ve no idea where Merry is and that is because of that glass ball . . . and me. “My foolish Tookish curiosity!” The words burst aloud from me, half angry exclamation, half agonized moan. And yet . . . I still feel, deep in my soul, a yearning not my own that drew me into that act. A freezing touch inches down my spine as my head raises, my eyes lift, to look at the easterly wall of the gloomy stone room. Beyond that wall. Beyond the buildings and walls of Minas Tirith. Beyond fields and river and jagged peaked mountains - He is there.

With a sudden sharp shiver from head to toe my reverie is broken. I don’t know how long I’ve sat starring at that wall, but I’m now thoroughly chilled. “Bed. Yes, under the covers, warm and snug. Yes. I’ll feel better when I’m all tucked in. Safe and cozy.” I realize that there is a hint of panic in my voice. Why isn’t Gandalf here?

I have pulled back the bedclothes and hitched myself up onto the bed. It is small, I’m sure, for a full-grown Man, but has a lot of room to stretch out for a hobbit. But I make no use of all that room. I’ve curled into a tight ball with only the curls on the top of my head showing above the blankets.

And then I smelled it.

Home. I smell home.

I smell the scent of my bed linens at home, to be more precise. I inhale deeply of the scent. Lavender. A deep breath. Yes. Lavender and other herbs that I can’t name. Another deep breath. My mind is flooding with memories. Days stuck a-bed with colds in my chest. Helping my Mum put the linens away in the press at the Whitwell farm, watching as she tucked the wee pillows of herbs in amongst the folds of fabric. Laying my weary head down and breathing in that smell at the end of a day helping with harvest. The smell as part of warmed bedding in the winter and cool freshness in the summer.

And I’m walking down the last bit of road before turning down the lane that leads to Great Smials, smiling that I was paying good attention and hadn’t missed the turning as it’s easy to do. The fields are green with spring. The sky blue with puffy clouds and soaring birds. I hear them singing and whistle along. How beautiful is my home! The air about me is sweet and clean, scented with herbs. Scented with lavender. It caresses me with a tender touch and I stop to savor the feeling of it.

I round the curve and there is the round drive before the main entrance to the Smials. And my family. My Da, my Mum. Pearl, Pim and Vinca and their families. They are waving and shouting, “He’s back! Pippin is back!” But I cannot reach the drive. The closer I draw to them the further they are away.

“He’s back. Pippin is back.”

It is not so loud now, I have to strain to hear them.

“He’s back. Pippin is . . .”

But I’m not. There are covers, now clammy, clinging to me and smelling of fear. I startle into wakefulness. There is a soft glow shining through the curtain that closes off the nook where my bed is from the rest of the room. I’m in Minas Tirith and he’s back. Gandalf is back.