And so, that afternoon, Arwen, Éowyn, and a good many ladies of the court met with the rulers of Khand to discuss peace, and while most men would be put out, Aragorn and Faramir took it as a reprieve from the pains of yesterday, and they knew that the negotiations were in good hands.  Sam had tracked down the pub with the Shire ale (as he called it), and hobbit, man, elf, and dwarf alike talked, and drank, and laughed long and deep.  After tea, though, Pippin excused himself to track down one more friend.

He found him eventually, at the balustrade where he and Beregond had luncheoned so long ago.  What he was thinking about, Pippin couldn’t say, but probably no one could say what went on in the mind of a wizard.  He stood next to Gandalf in silence for a few minutes, waiting for him to finish whatever it was he was doing and talk to him.  Eventually, Gandalf filled his pipe, lit it, and gestured for Pippin to do the same.

“You wished to speak with me, Pippin?”

Pippin nodded.  “I just wanted to ask… did you know?”

“Did I know what?”

“That Khand was ruled by women?  That the Uncatchable Thief was a bird?  That somehow, the priceless document that I shouldn’t have swapped and let Strider burn was in fact an unjust decree?”

Gandalf looked down at Pippin shrewdly.  “My dear Peregrin,” he said, “you give me far too much credit.”

“Then why did it turn out that way?”

Gandalf shrugged and puffed on his pipe.

“I thought you were supposed to be more forthcoming with answers now, not less!”

“You are assuming, my dear hobbit, that I have the answers.  You seem remarkably worried for someone who’s just had everything go right.”

“But Merry says things don’t actually work that way!” Pippin blurted out.  “And it got me to thinking,” he continued, quietly.  “About Moria, and about the palantír, and those things were so dreadful but the alternative could have been worse…”  He swallowed.  “What if my luck runs out?”

Gandalf chuckled.  “Pippin, if the continued survival of all good things in Middle-earth depended on something as slender as your luck, we should all be in a sorry state indeed.”

Pippin sighed.  Gandalf was right, of course, but what was he leaving out?

Gandalf rested his large hand on Pippin’s head, brushing it affectionately.  “Even the Wise cannot see all ends,” he said.  “If we are allowed to see even some of them, we are blessed beyond blessed.  Not,” he added, “of course, that you are one of the Wise, or ever shall be, Peregrin Took.”  He looked sharply at him.  “So I don’t know what it means in your case.”

Pippin snorted.  “You know, when I’m old and grey, I’ll write a book of aphorisms, just to prove you wrong.”

“Will you now?”  Gandalf looked wistfully out over the fields of Gondor, then blew one smoke ring south to the Sea.  “I should like to read it some day.”