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By: Dana
And so despondently Merry now stood and watched the mustering of the army. Bergil was with him, and he also was downcast; for his father was to march leading a company of Men of the City: he could not rejoin the Guard until his case was judged. In that same company Pippin was also to go, as a soldier of Gondor. Merry could see him not far off, a small but upright figure among the tall men of Minas Tirith. --The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter X, The Black Gate Opens
Pippin hadn't thought that it would be so difficult to stand still. He shifted slightly, transferring his weight from one to the other. He was unaccustomed to wearing boots, the feel of them, and their hard shape. He shifted again and leather creaked. The morning air was damp and warm. He could already feel sweat trickling down the nape of his neck. His hand kept twitching. He seized the hilt of his sword, wrapping his fingers around the hard grip as if he could find comfort, or courage, or at least a momentary calming of his nerves. Stay still, he told himself. His fingers clutched tighter at the metal. Nervousness - maybe that was what this was, and a moment passed, and Pippin was certain that was what bothered him so. He lifted his gaze. All around him, tall Men in armor stood, their swords long and burnished and hidden in their sheaths, their spears with their wicked heads shining, and their shields wide and bright. Marching to death and war, they were. Well, waiting to march, in the shadow of a new day, in the shadow of Minas Tirith. He would feel better if he was with Aragorn, if he could not be with Merry. But that was not a choice that he could make (and he had made a choice already, had he not?). Pippin swallowed and pushed his head high. He would stand tall while he was in their company, or he would not stand at all. Pippin turned his head, sought out the distant lines of the city's walls. Was Merry watching? he wondered. Good old Merry, and it was his time to be trapped in the city of stone. Pippin exhaled softly and was blinded for a moment by sudden tears, but he blinked them away and blamed it on the morning light that glinted coolly against the stark white walls. He was gripping his sword so tightly he could feel his fingers begin to numb. "Peregrin," and that was a welcome voice, a familiar face, and Pippin turned and cocked his head. He couldn't help but smile at Beregond, and Beregond was smiling back. Perhaps this was not Aragorn, and Beregond most certainly wasn't Merry, but if Pippin had been given another choice, he would have chosen no other. "Do not lose yourself to fear," Beregond said. Pippin nodded (a slight inclination of his head) and Pippin reflexively loosened and then tightened his grip upon the hilt, "Courage, Peregrin. Courage." "I shall hopefully not lose myself at all," and Pippin grinned. "And I should well find my courage, as well. I was told I would, you know. I'm not so sure that I understand it all yet." Beregond's smile did not fade. "You shall." His eyes were bright and dark and his face, beneath his helm, was pale and cool. He turned towards the city, watched the sunlight painting it in soft shades of grey and gold. It is a simple thing. And they will be marching to death and to war. Funny, that, how that doesn't near worry Pippin as much as it should. "A new day has risen," Beregond murmured. Pippin shifted, and the Men around him, tall and grim, did too, the groaning of leather and the clanking of metal and the soft murmur of voices that were being sent to their death. Pippin held his breath. It almost felt as though the air was frozen, too, waiting, expecting what next would come. The trumpets sounded and the air was split, left quaking, and Pippin, as well as the Men who were gathered near, let out their collected breath. He turned to the city, then, one last look, and thought of Merry, left there all alone. The trumpets had been sounded, and now to Pippin it felt as though the light was slipping away; not just the light against the towers of the city, but the light that gave them hope to go on. Pippin turned to the east and did his best not to think of what was yet to come, the sun slipping into hiding behind the cover of clouds. But whatever it was, it would still come. When they had begun to march, he hadn't even been aware of it, though his legs had, but his mind was far behind. His legs began to move and his feet were thinking on their own and it had all happened as if it had been a part of some dream; which was an odd enough thing, and Pippin was forced to march hard, though it was surreal enough, still, as it took two of Pippin's steps to match just one of the soldiers'. The hard clumping of many feet was beating against the ground, the heavy sound of metal moving and the shifting and the moving of many bodies. There was dust in the air and he tasted it with each successive breath. Oh, and the sun was glinting, breaking free of cloud cover, shining brightly now on sword and shield and spear. Pippin could hardly breathe for the light that was in the air. Pippin felt the weight of his sword fall from his hand, the sheath slapping against his leg. His hand was tired, nerveless, numb. He had never been fond of goodbyes and this might be his last, this march from the city, into the east.
Pippin's legs had long since begun to tire when they reached Osgiliath. The noon day heat was beating down upon their backs. Reached, and passed through, and Pippin watched what he could, and there were some craftsmen and workers who toiled in the growing heat. Though, and Pippin wiped his brow, the heat a warm buzz beneath the helm upon his head. At least the day was ending. Soon, he hoped, they would stop. There was the river, and Pippin knew it to be the Anduin, and they crossed in their long file. The water glinted. On the eastern shore, there were hasty defenses being built. They would have done well to listen to the heeding of an Ent, Pippin mused, as they crossed to the eastern shore. The road continued to stretch onwards to the east, and they walked until Pippin thought that he could walk no more. Then, they stopped, and it seemed as though the main vanguard continued on. Pippin listened to them as the footfall of their horses became no more. The day had stretched as long as it could. Pippin exhaled and shifted from one foot to the other. Botherso?e contraptions, these boots. He had walked across the length of the land (and he did not count the land that had passed underneath when he had been carried instead) and his feet were sore and he was miserable, in the growing dim. He shifted again and felt a light touch upon his shoulder. Beregond was there, still, a familiar face. He thought back to the city, and the ending of the siege. Did Beregond wish that things could change? That felt strange to think, almost silly, and completely foolish. Pippin looked to the mountains, in the far distance, the peaks colored with the light of the setting sun. The night was fast coming. And with the night, the silence lengthened. It felt strangely wrong to speak, when all was quiet and still. So Pippin held his tongue and sat and listened to the quiet and the sound of gathered breath. Not a word was uttered, not as the guard was set, and eyes watched. Pippin felt his skin crawling. It almost felt as if the very land was watching them, too. They did not build a fire, and their meal of rations was cold and hard. An added cruelty, Pippin thought. He stripped off his gloves, and dropped them at his side. The texture of the waybread was coarse and Pippin broke it in two. Nothing like lembas, not this, and there was a stirring of light in his mind. He ate it anyway and Beregond gave him water from his own skin. The stars were overhead, but could not be seen. They were lost in the bitter darkness of the night. Hopefully Merry would be given better fare than this, at least, that was what Pippin hoped. He was not set to the watch, and he pulled off his boots and then his helm, one last reprieve, and he went to sleep exhausted, hungry, and woke up the same.
Dawn had come. They reached the horsemen and the king long before the passing of the noon day sun. "The Cross-roads," Beregond had said, and Pippin was glad for his continued presence, his continued familiar face. It was a long day. Pippin felt that some evil had been here, and it pricked at his skin, and he could smell it, something that lingered in the light of the day. Aragorn road from the camp, and Gandalf went with him, and Pippin stood and watched. He felt littler than he usually felt, right then, and his heart felt heavy. He did not speak at all that day, even though Beregond often spoke of hearth and home. Beregond, poor Beregond, and they were doomed to this same fate.
He didn't sleep well. The day was overcast, and long, and northward they marched. He felt his heart sinking. He should not feel so, but he could not bear it. That day (it was their fourth) there was a skirmish. It came quickly - so quickly, that Pippin hadn't been given a chance to think or to even blink. Like a dark mass they came, and Pippin could not tell one face from the next. And he had been there with Beregond near to the head of those who marched. It was a quick battle, and it was fierce, and he felt a fool to have stood there, wide eyed, unmoving, with a bare sword in his small hand. Darkness was quickly coming. The enemy was driven east into the hills. Idle shifting. The Men were unsure. It had been a victory, but it did little to lighten the grim weight of their mood.
They continued to the north. The land turned. Darkened, like it was dead. Desolation such as this, Pippin had never seen. The idle shifting lingered, that is, the stirring of something uncertain in the soldiers' hearts. Pippin clutched at his sword, as if clutching at the possibility of faint hope. Hope. He had forgotten the feel of it. It had been different, and it had been easier to hold to, when they had stood in the shadow of great towers, instead the nearing shadow of the Enemy himself. Maybe it was more that than; it wasn't just hope of hope itself, but hope of courage. Pippin was tired, but it wasn't just a physical thing, something that he felt had become one with his self. And yet they continued on, still, a slow and stea?y march. They were waiting. Pippin watched the land blur to grey. What were they waiting for? Some sign. His heart was sick and his feet were weary. But no answer came and they came to the ending of the day, and there were those who had turned back. This road was not theirs. But it was Pippin's, and he knew that he would see it to the end. Camp was set. It would be, Pippin was told, their last. He did not know if he would sleep well that night. Fires were set, to ward off the chill of shadow, and to lighten the heavy load that was carried in each and every heart. And there he sat, near to Beregond, shedding his unwieldy boots and then he tried best to relax, which seemed odd, as he was clutching at the hilt of his sword. Pippin exhaled, and heard his name. He turned to face Aragorn, and wondered if they had really come so far. Because they had all changed; and while Aragorn, just as an example, was more than he had been when they had first met in a long-ago Bree, he was still the same Man. Only somehow, he had become something, someone more. "Strider? That is, my lord er, should I call you Elessar, now, or does Aragorn still do?" That at least, lightened the load, and Pippin felt his heart might burst and he might cry in relief, at the sound of Aragorn's deep and sudden laugh. It made him think of the light painting the White City in grey and gold; unexpected to see, but welcome, and now Pippin was glad to hear Aragorn's familiar laugh. "You shall see him again," Aragorn said to Beregond, and he acted, and reacted, and Pippin was blinded, again by the blur of sudden tears, and he blinked them away, but in the ending, he was unsure of all that was said. "But Peregrin, come with me now." His name, then, and he was to go. Pippin stood and followed after the king. They were watched, and the men were quiet. Pippin felt that his heart sickness had lightened and, despite his weary feet, jogged to catch up with Aragorn's much longer stride. "I had wondered if I would see you again." "You have marched long as a soldier of Gondor, but for this ending, I will have you ride as a member of our Company." And a light breaks through the clouds in his mind, and he's no longer a mathom forgotten at the back of the wardrobe, but instead a glove pulled onto a hand as it tightens round the hilt of a sword. He did not think of Merry until he was on the edge of sleep, in fact, and he sooner thought that he had forgot his boots behind, but he did not mind that, and he did not mind, either, that he had not yet thought of Merry, alone in Minas Tirith, and his dreams were blank like the starless sky.
And it was not long at all, in the grand scheme of all things, and if life was a song that was meant to be sung, then Pippin knew that he was reaching the end of his - at least, nearing the end of his verse. He stood there before the Black Gate and the ending of the world, as the enemy charged, blade of Nmenor clenched in his hand, grim like one who goes seeking death, having no hope. His story would be finished, he knew it, with the ending of this song. The last few pages had already been filled. He clutched the sword tighter, and felt that this was what he had waited for, what had bothered him, that it was eagerness to play out his ending and not his own nerves that had bothered him so. Pippin thought of Merry; he thought of darkness washing over all; he thought of goodbyes and how he could have given Merry better than he had; and he thought of Frodo, too, and Sam, and how they had been lost (and would be lost forever more, and Gandalf had sealed their fate, dooming them to torment and to death). But he would join them soon; and Merry would soon enough be following after. It was right, like that. There was no other way. And the enemy crashed forward and broke upon them like the pounding of a wave. Pippin hoped, at least, to do his best.
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