Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was in his dreams again.

The long approach, the beckoning edge, the soft scrape of the pebble as he pulled it into his palm. He looked up to see if he had been noticed, the cold fear at his fingertips welling like drawn blood into his face.

Gandalf debated with Boromir and Aragorn. Legolas meditated, Sam bustled, and Merry was preoccupied with his own pack. Frodo ignored them all.

His eyes returned to the dreadful well, questions flitting through his mind as emotion rather than pure thought. The unknowing had nagged him since they entered this terrible room.

And in the dream, while his heart hammered for his muscles to stop, he watched his small hand, a hand he could scarcely call his own, reach out over the abyss…and release the pebble. It fell in a trail of regret.

This time, Gandalf did not hear the cold impact of stone on water. This time, Gandalf did not yank him to his feet and scold him. This time, the sound itself reached up … and up … and up…

He squirmed, trying to push away from the edge, muscles thick like treacle, but the echo became soft lights burbling from tragic depths, roiling….lights of echo?…pulsing stronger…

Pippin felt his mouth drop in wordless terror, unable to breathe or sigh, for in the rising bile of dismay, he felt the approach of a familiar question:

‘who are you?’

*******

Perhaps it was the glowing colors of the sunset behind the mountains where Minas Tirith had braced itself that gave Peregrin Took pause for thought, or the idle chit chat between Frodo, Gandalf, and King Aragorn. He had led them to the same embrasure he and Beregond took refuge on his first day in the City, perched as it was above the spread of the city, its posture like an eagle content with its brood, now that the Dark Lord had been defeated. Gimli had excused himself to the armory, Legolas to the remaining elves, and Merry? Where was that rascal? Sam still puttered about in the gardens that sprung up in the corners and avenues of the city, encouraged by the peoples’ enthusiasm for herbs and flowers.

Peregrin did what he learned to do on that first evening and stood tiptoe upon the bench against the sill, his gaze following the rays of the sun to their end where Minas Ithil hunched, defeated and forlorn. Warm breezes of the summer wafted over the Pelennor, subtle with river-mist and sunshine, no longer tainted by the stench of war, which in the soft gold of the evening, seemed so far away in memory.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Frodo glance up at him.

No, not for Frodo, he thought. Pippin could see it in every line of his face. Haunting flashes of pain. Sam had said the old Frodo that they knew and loved was "returned", something he meant as an encouragement, to be sure; but somehow the assurance pained Pippin in a way he could not name. He could only imagine what Sam witnessed as he described their journey to the Crack of Doom.

But does Frodo still see it, the Ring in its Firey Glare?

In moments of unguarded and unexpected silence, Pippin could almost see confirmation of that. But someone would pick up the conversation and the ghosts were lost in another venue of thought.

Pippin suppressed a sudden shudder, his mind turning over the images of his dream. It had been weeks since he had dreamt anything memorable; and, since the fall of Barad-dur, it was unimaginable that evil could still reach out, veiled though it was in nightmares. This, in itself, was a bit frustrating to him, since Frodo’s trials were over, Merry’s arm was healed, Sam had the energy of a hobbit-lad in spring, and Gandalf laughed more than talked.

The dream was as livid as anything he had experienced since the palantir, exhuming fears that the victories over Mordor should have dispelled. He should be happy. He should be at rest.

What was wrong with him?

"Pip?" Frodo climbed up onto the bench to imitate his slouch against the wall, his face tilted in such a way as to suggest that Frodo recognized his unusual mood. There had been a few days of uncertainty after their reunion, each one of them trying hard to reconcile the hobbit they had known before with the hobbit that remained. Whether it was the long influence of the Ring or the blessed nature of their Elven friends, Frodo had developed a knack for honing in on more sensitive thoughts.

In response, Pippin turned on one of his brighter smiles, more out of self-defense than welcome. He loved Frodo too much right now to break the thin skin of peace.

"Minas Tirith is just as Boromir said it would be…in the sunset," he answered, then regretted it, for Frodo’s face blanched slightly at the mention of the former Walker.

Frodo covered it quickly with his old amused expression, one he always seemed to have on his face when dealing with Pippin. He used to think it was condescending, but in the joy of finding all four of them alive, Pippin decided the expression was now the most wonderful thing he could see on his cousin’s face.

"Yes, I remember his description. I remember wanting to come to Minas Tirith. That he wasn’t with us when we finally arrived makes it that much more…." He floundered, moved by the dying light of the city.

"More beautiful?"

"I meant bittersweet, but yes, beautiful, too."

"In a way," Pippin replied. "I am glad he did not see it when…when the horror crossed the River." He paused, not wanting to sound plaintive. "I am glad for many things."

"Then why so glum? I have never seen you like this," Frodo pressed, voice quiet. Gandalf and Aragorn moved away, oblivious to the hobbits now in their conversation. The wizard teased the new king of falling into the speech pattern of Strider’s day, something that the people of the city found amusingly common when the hobbits were present.

"I’m not sure what I was thinking…" Pippin began, realizing that to tell Frodo of his dreams was asking for further analysis…and he was not ready for that. "Something Bilbo said Gandalf had told him at the end of his quest, about how it could not possibly be our sole ambitions that brought us where we are…that there is some greater destiny. I used to wonder at that."

"Sam said something very similar when we were in Mordor. It helped me a great deal," Frodo said, nodding.

"I think, perhaps, I am still wondering what I have to do with it all, with all that I have done." There I go. It would come out, anyway. How had Frodo learned to uncover uncomfortable thoughts since Crickhollow?

"Besides outwit an orc, converse with trees, rummage through wizard’s belongings, and defend the stricken son of a Steward? Not much at all, I would say!" Frodo jested, laughing.

"I did not tell you everything."

"No, but Gandalf did."

It was Pippin’s turn to wince.

"It won’t go from me. After all that has happened…" He trailed off. All right. Stop it, Peregrin Took.

Frodo rubbed thoughtfully at the nub where his ring-finger had been.

"You know," he admitted, voice lower now, almost wistful. "I can still feel it, like an echo of what had been. It is almost as if it is a ghost that shouts for attention."

It was on Pippin’s tongue to ask if it were the Ring or the finger Frodo referred to, but he quelled the impulse to ask.

"We’ll never be the same," he stammered instead. Frodo turned a very loving expression on him, and placed his arms about his youngest cousin.

"No, Pip. It is the end of the Third Age, and the echoes will die away, but not because you have forgotten. You and Merry will only direct them elsewhere."

"And what destiny will that have?"

Frodo clapped Pippin on the shoulder as if to nudge him out of the mood.

"That I cannot say. But! I see a brave and noble Peregrin Took before me," he said. "One worthy of the title of Thain. And that is the destiny I am looking forward to seeing."

Pippin turned away acutely reminded of Frodo’s ability to see past his words. He needed to think this one out before he spoke again.

Which would be a first, Merry would point out.

But then, Merry knew what he had been doing when he disobeyed King Theoden.

Chapter Text

Gandalf had dismissed himself early this morning, taken, it would seem, by a sudden interest in Samwise Gamgee’s horticultural handiwork in the streets of Minas Tirith.

Which left King Aragorn to his own judicial devices in the court. He sighed as courtiers left the room for the mid-day meal. The heat of the day was beginning to encroach and the Man of the West wished it were closer to evening.

He glanced around him to see what Guards remained, his eyes resting on Pippin, as still as stone in his position at the dais, the muscles of his face betraying a weariness and strain uncharacteristic of this most optimistic of the hobbits. Indeed, the energy that usually radiated from him had been rather muted these last few days, replaced by a pensive restlessness he tried to hide behind the flash of Gondorian armor.

Aragorn pulled off the circlet around his head and laid it on the chair behind him, leaning forward to query conspiratorily,

"I understand the larder in the Guard room has excess amounts of fare for even the heartiest appetite. Do you not think a hobbit could show them how it should be dealt with?"

This elicited a quick grin from Pippin, not so engrossed with his own thoughts that the prospect of a hearty meal did not register. The stiff reserve he was learning so quickly to uphold in the Court of the King disappeared.

As they made their way through the streets to said larder, Aragorn watched how others greeted Pippin. The hobbit had a certain air that pulled all eyes towards him, and the women laughed with delight over his courtesies. Children could not refrain from touching him, and he accepted their embraces and tackles with warmth and pleasure. They were soon making the tiered streets ring with merriment. Peregrin Took had found a niche in which he could flex his full personality without penalty.

Perhaps it was the shadows of the hall that had made him seem so glum, Aragorn thought, as they finally settled on a bench in the kitchen of what was to be his home.

"Do you know, it does my heart good to know that the fellowship we had remains in the city," Aragorn ventured, speaking around a mouthful of fresh baked bread. "If I had seen an elf take gardening advice from a hobbit anywhere else, I would have thought I had crossed the seas into a different world."

Pippin forsook table manners as well, leaning back in the large chair to prop his feet upon the seat of another, gaining full advantage of the moment of leisure.

"What surprises me," the hobbit rejoined, "is that we are together at all. I feel as a small pebble that had bounced just the right way into the right path, knocking just the right boulder into motion."

And setting off an avalance, Aragorn finished, to himself.

"Well, you must remember what Galadriel spoke to us, how perilously close we were to falling to the wayside," Aragorn replied, not at all taken aback by the directness with which Pippin faced the conversation.

Pippin’s gaze turned sharp, almost rueful.

"Do you think it was mere circumstance then?"

Aragorn took a deep breath. What was bothering this otherwise unquenchable hobbit?

"I mean," the hobbit stammered, taking the puzzled look on the King’s face for amusement at his expense. Poor Peregrin...reflex. "I mean, all of this. That you became king, that we defended Gondor, that Frodo made it to the Crack of Doom, that Gollum, that horrid creature, actually fell in…"

Ah ha.

"Was it prophecy? Or was it chance? Only the Valar know," Aragorn cast out the most obvious reply, mind racing to discover which way the hobbit’s thoughts were flowing.

"And Gandalf?"

"What about him?"

Peregrin shifted uneasily.

"I shouldn’t speak without him present to defend himself," he began. They sat in silence for a few moments, chewing up the remains of the meal, quaffing the last of the mead. Collecting thoughts.

"Gandalf had much to do with what has gone before us," Aragorn said, breaking the silence. "For as long as I can remember, he has always marveled how a chance meeting set him on the path of this the final days of the Third Age, where the Dark One is ultimately defeated. Finding Thorin just as he did on his way to gather up a final effort against Smaug the Destructor was truly an auspicious meeting, but was that a meeting made by the stars?" Aragorn shrugged, a knowing smile flitting across his face. "I do not know. Personally, I do not think you were the first pebble cast, if that is what is bothering you."

Pippin grinned at Aragorn’s turn of phrase.

"Dear Strider! I think you, as well as Gandalf, know more than you are willing to say."

"I think I know hobbits," the king replied. Now it was time to aim for the heart. "Four of them in particular, well enough to see when something is troubling them. And coming from one who has watched hobbits for a long time, one in a state of despondency is a trouble to my own heart. I know that you, Frodo, and the others care to return to the Shire. I myself am curious to know what has transpired there."

Pippin frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Aragorn almost wished he had not said anything. Apparently, the Shire was still untouched in Pippin’s mind.

"Reports of fighting in Lorien and distant Erebor leave me to think that not even the Shire could have been missed," he explained, as gently as he could think to phrase it.

"Aye, I am concerned about that as well. But surely, there would not be much to fear. If fighting did reach the Shire, there are plenty there who would fend them off." Pippin stated, matter-of-factly. "My family has long defended the Shire. They will notice anything amiss, and deal with it accordingly."

Aragorn nodded, more out of a desire to draw the hobbit out than to debate his point of view.

"But I know Frodo has begun to think of starting home," Pippin added, apologetically.

"Our days together have not come near to closing…or it is my hope," Aragorn replied, smiling. "Gandalf has much to do with that as well."

"Yes, it’s Gandalf’s fault," Pippin laughed.

"So, Master Took. What is troubling you, if not the destiny of the Shire?"

Pippin shook his head dismissively, gathering up the crumbs of his meal to discard.

"I’m sure it’s minor in the scheme of things, Strider." He got up from the table but Aragorn caught Pippin’s arm and eye and held them, voice now grave with command.

"Knight of Gondor, you stand beside me in the Court as my guard. This honor does not disregard the state of mind you are in. If there is something you would speak of, say it now."

Pippin blushed and bowed, immediately apologetic.

"Forgive me, my lord. You have demonstrated time and again that friendship trumps duty or position…or even the Seven Stars of the West. If I demur, it is because I fail to find the right words. As Merry said, we hesitate to speak when light comment does not suffice."

"Speak then, O Ernil i Pheriannath!"

It was Peregrin’s turn to take a deep breath.

"I have heard much about the tales since we came to Gondor. I have not a head for details, but I remember what bears repeating. For instance, we knew the origins of the swords of the Barrow-downs, and Elven memory has spelled out its destiny to fall on Merry’s shoulders. Had we known what it would bring us, I doubt we would have entered the Old Forest at all." Pippin’s thoughts tumbled out as he spoke. "And Frodo, well, Gandalf spoke of how it seemed the old stories all led up to the doorstep of Bag End. And Sam, I have no idea if it even occurs to him how he is a part of the story. I don’t think it matters to him. All he has ever known is service, and he finds much freedom in that service. But…" and Pippin’s voice trailed off, unable to put words to his own doubts.

Aragorn nodded in encouragement. "You want to know what your part is in all of this?"

"I realize I sound as if I can only complain of things I did not do, or did at the risk of life and limb to others. I sound ungrateful!" The young hobbit plopped back into his seat, despondent. "But I cannot help feeling…feeling as if I have just barely escaped…I cannot explain." Pippin ended, miserably.

"But we did escape, all of us. Just barely. And you have grown into a hobbit that many in your country will admire and respect."

"That’s not what I am thinking of."

"Then, what?"

Pippin’s expression regained its earlier moodiness.

"Why did Gandalf bring me? Why was I allowed to come on the quest?"

This time, Aragorn was taken aback.

"Should that matter even now?"

"It matters when I keep dreaming about it!" Pippin said. "I dream I am back in Moria, dropping the stone into the well…and it…turns horrible somehow…and the palantir…"

"Do you still blame yourself for what happened in Moria?" Aragorn asked, sympathy clenching his heart. How could he reassure everyone in the fellowship that no one could claim that for themselves? Was it fate? Or was it chance?

"I don’t think I really started doubting it until….until…"

A thought clicked in Aragorn’s mind, the image of Gandalf cradling the youngest hobbit in the dark of the valley of Isengard, frightened beyond belief that the power of the palantir had ensnared Pippin, locking him into a trance beyond his recall.

"Did you ask him yourself?"

Pippin sighed, as if that was all Aragorn needed to ask.

"I did…at the wrong time. The Blackness was covering us and the need for Faramir dearly felt. I do not think he quite caught what I wanted to know. And things happened so quickly. So I did not ask again."

Aragorn opened his mouth to offer encouragement that Pippin try again, except that a messenger from the Court hurried into the kitchen, breathless and red in the face. Bowing hastily, he waited for the king to acknowledge him.

"My lord, you must return to your council, for there have arrived emissaries you sent forth hence to Hollin…" he stammered. Aragorn stopped him in mid-sentence with a raised hand and motioned for Pippin to follow. The hobbit settled his face back into its neutral expression, although he couldn’t miss the glint of gratitude in his eyes for the interruption.

Perhaps those from Hollin will be able to give him relief, the king thought, but neither he nor the hobbit said anything more as they made their way back to the Court.

Chapter Text

When he and Aragorn entered the cool shadows of the Hall, the stone pillars and walls rang with the many voices of those who had rushed in, a collective of men and elves who were talking excitedly and with a great deal of anxiety in their faces. Gandalf swept up to both king and hobbit.

"I must have your attention," he said, ignoring Pippin. Expression neutral, Aragorn gave a slight nod and instructed Pippin to close the front doors.

Adjusting his own features to resume Court demeanor, the hobbit dutifully marched to the huge oak doors and began shoving them closed.

As the doors swung to the locks, Merry sprang through them, slightly out of breath, and, oddly, out of uniform. Pippin’s expression must have reflected his bemusement, for his cousin and fellow wayfarer grinned and flung his arm around his shoulders with familiar camaraderie.

"I hear you’ve been skulking too much around the Courts," he announced, a little too loudly for Pippin’s comfort. Some in the Gondorian guard turned with interest toward the two hobbits, as Merry led…no, dragged Pippin through the doorway and into the open yard. Gandalf and Aragorn watched them leave, and did not signal for Pippin to remain, despite the pleading look he gave them as they departed.

Someone else closed the door for him.

Inexplicably annoyed, Pippin yanked himself out from under Merry’s grasp and straightened his skewed tabard.

"Unlike some hobbits, I take my duties seriously," Pippin charged, thumping the Brandybuck on the shoulder. Merry laughed. "Are you released from yours today? Or did you pull your old trick of disappearing when they looked for unwary victims to clean the stables?"

"No! I would never do that!" Merry protested. "I told them you were eager for it, since you know Shadowfax so well." He grinned at his cousin, mischievously.

"Thanks!" Pippin grumbled, then smiled in spite of himself over the jab at his infamous ride. Merry had a way of making him feel better. "But Gandalf relieved me of that duty long ago."

"What a pity. I think that beast rather liked you. Besides, I’ve missed my drinking partner!" Merry said, marching his cousin towards the tunnel that led into the next tier of the City.

"Oh? Where are we off to, then?"

"The tavern in the lower ring. Gimli and I were on our second pint, but then I thought, how could I quaff another brew and tease the tavern girls without my Pip nearby, eh?"

"And so you immediately fell out of your chair and staggered all the way up here, riddled with guilt, just for me?"

Merry nodded.

"Rather generous of me, isn’t it?"

Pippin smelled a ruse.

"Who put you up to this?"

Merry feigned shock, not a very convincing shock at that, by opening and closing his mouth a few times and then, with an air of offense, made for the pipe and tobacco pouch in his weskit.

"Aside from the fact that you were never handy with the tavern girls without my presence, you don’t need me around to drain Gondor of its finest beer!" Pippin added.

Merry ignored him.

"Frodo will be there, and Sam," he informed, as if Pippin had asked an altogether different question. "At least, I hope Sam is there. He’s quite taken with the city. I could swear he sees it as his own personal garden. Frodo may not be able to lure him away and have to hire Lotho to take his place!"

Pippin made a face at the mention of their old hobbit nemesis. Merry broke into laughter as a thought struck him.

"Can you imagine? Lotho Pimple shoveling manure!"

Pippin laughed again, thankful that Merry knew how to cheer him up.

"Let’s go, Master Sluggard," he rallied. "But first to my quarters. I am not about to venture into an evening without my own pipe!"

*******************************

Gandalf found all four hobbits wedged into a corner of the tavern, Frodo rosy-cheeked and placid with ale, Sam snoring as he rested propped against the wall and Merry and Pippin intent on a game with pebbles and sticks on the table among a forest of tankards. Gimli sat chatting and nodding with some elves who lounged nearby. Despite its reputation for raucous patrons, the tavern itself was half empty and possessed of the kind of buzz that settled after midnight.

It was only supper-time.

One of the elves rose to greet him, but Gandalf waved him down. No one looked as if they were of the condition to perform the usual greetings. Frodo grinned at him, then slumped against Sam and began to join in the snoring. Merry and Pippin did not even pause.

"Gandalf, we saved a place for you," Gimli moved to show the wizard where he could sit. Gandalf nodded his thanks but deferred.

"I came to retrieve the Prince of Halflings to his post," the wizard said. Pippin looked up, startled, and began to extricate himself from his seat.

"I had not expected to go to night duties until tomorrow night," Pippin said, dropping half his bounty on the floor. Merry surreptitiously swept up the remainder into his pile and continued counting as Pippin bent to retrieve his spill.

"A number have been sent home or other post duties. The king does not feel a need to surround himself with a whole legion. Besides, I think Aragorn suspects talk of the Fellowship disbanding and he wants to make sure you don’t escape too soon," the wizard smiled down at Pippin.

"That’s not likely, if the King’s people keep finding new things for us to do," Merry rejoined, grinning at Pippin. "What do you think he will have you do this time?"

"He’ll show me how to skewer thieves like you, Meriadoc!" Pippin retorted, slapping Merry’s hand from the spoils of the game. The elves laughed at the comical surprise on the hobbit’s face. "I counted more than you, scoundrel. I was winning."

"No thanks to Frodo here," Merry, in classic form, turned the jest to the groggy hobbit nearby. "You used to be quite handy at distracting our Pip. You’re getting slack in your old age, Frodo. Why weren’t you keeping an eye out for me?"

"I recall someone saying we had yet to find brighter wits," Gimli put in, causing Pippin to laugh heartily.

"That’s a contest still yet to be decided by these two," Frodo interjected, now awake and stretching out a yawn. "Although wits of any kind in a tavern is something of a rarity."

"You’re one to talk, Mr. Frodo," Sam put in. Frodo looked at him. Merry snickered.

"Dear Merry," Frodo continued as Sam, Pippin, and Gandalf chortled. "You are a man of Rohan now. Who am I to tell a Knight of the Green how to win his pints?"

"If it involves jumping over the moon, Mr. Underhill, no thanks!"

After watching Frodo and the others stumble off into the night, Pippin followed Gandalf until they entered the darkened courtyard of the King’s House, now ghostly blue in the moonlight and silent as the tombs.

Gandalf paused before approaching the large oaken doors of the Hall, turning to gaze thoughtfully at Pippin, who lagged behind, growing ever sleepier in the dim light. Then, as if he thought better of entering, he swept over to the edge of the fountain and sat on its edge, beckoning the hobbit to do the same.

The barren White Tree in its fountain dripped constant tears, mourning the Ages that had been.

"I am sure it has occurred to you why you were dismissed this afternoon," Gandalf began, hesitation in his voice. Pippin’s young face was planed by the moonlight into the ghost of the adult he was becoming, mouth set in a new firmness that told more of his growth than any year could explain. The green eyes widened in curiosity.

"No."

"Do you not wonder then, what it was that greeted you when you entered?"

"I do wonder, but as an esquire, I am not in a position to ask questions. Indeed, I am often asked to consider myself deaf and dumb."

"I think perhaps, you will feel differently when I tell you why you should know this," Gandalf hedged, laying his staff across his lap, a staff he now carried out of a sense of duty and position than need.

Pippin’s puzzled expression deepened, the beer-induced haze in his eyes clearing somewhat.

"Tell me, then."

"I have endeavored to give you and the others what information I have gained over the last few weeks concerning the War. Battles at Erebor, Lorien’s defense, the utter chaos that people throughout Middle Earth experienced with the minions of Sauron. In all of this, I hope you do not think Aragorn ignored yours and Frodo’s concern with what was going on back in the Shire?"

Pippin huffed.

"On the contrary, I am aware that he thinks of it almost as much as we do. Indeed, probably more."

"Then what those messengers you saw gathered in Aragorn’s court shared with us should relieve some of your concern," Gandalf said. "Peregrin Took, long have the Dunadan watched the North Kingdom, patrolling it to ward off the evil that crept ever closer. You saw that at Bree and at Weathertop; and you, even you, foolishly ignorant of the finer points of our Quest, had some knowledge of this because of the watch your family keeps on the southern borders of the Shire. And you have been taught how much Aragorn and the others have so treasured the Shire, that the true nature of danger rarely made itself known, not even to the Thain.

"But as the future Thain of the Shire, you should be aware of this now. Those messengers were among a group of soldiers who encountered Sauron’s orcs approaching the Shire and Bree at rapid pace, orcs accompanied by half-breed men whose purpose was to establish a final blockade against the defense of Rivendell. Should the Ring have fallen into the Dark Lord’s hands, they would have been well ensconced in the country-side to prevent any aide from coming to Elrond as Sauron swept in from the East."

Pippin rose to his feet, his face drained of all color now, even in the vague light of the moon.

Then, his face hardened. "How can you say this will give me comfort?" he cried.

"Because Pippin," Gandalf answered slowly, "those soldiers struck fatal blows to much of that company. There is a large mound now somewhere south of Bree, soaked with orc blood and burning with the fires that they set to their corpses. Some escaped, but not without injury and not without the leadership they needed to set themselves against the elves of Imladris. There is mischief yet to be discovered, but it is my satisfaction that whatever Sauron had planned was put to serious rout."

"Then the Shire is, finally, out of danger."

"Do not assume that to be the case, Pippin! You can be certain, there are more on the way, but only because Saruman has seen to that. As in all else, Saruman began by only following Sauron’s orders. When Saruman began to feel he would not need the Dark Lord, he sent his own contingent, before Treebeard and the Ents came upon Orthanc. Do not think that because he was trapped within the tower he could not access the movements of his troupes."

Pippin’s face was paler than the moonlight.

"So it is Sauron’s deceitful work, anyway? We have to go back soon!"

Gandalf sighed, hoping all of this would make sense at one point or another.

"It is also likely," he continued, "that Wormtongue’s impulse and your handling of the palantir was part of the reason why Sauron forsook any further forays towards the Shire. For that, you should feel very fortunate, despite what Saruman may be doing now. Recall, if you will, Sauron’s almost immediate response. That, and Aragorn, I think, drew his attention away from the Shire at last."

"It doesn’t matter, now, does it? I mean…" Pippin began to argue, but Gandalf cut him off.

"He not only thought you had the Ring," he pressed, "he must have concluded that the son of the Thain was its proper hobbit guardian," Gandalf concluded, meeting Pippin’s eyes with a look of meaning.

"But how would he know…?"

Gandalf shook his head, giving the hobbit his kindest smile.

"Do you really wonder at that, having felt the power of the palantir…and how the Dark Lord corrupted it?"

Pippin sat hard once more on the rim of the fountain.

"I am a fool!" He moaned. "I should never have left the Shire!"

Gandalf thought for a few moments of the words the King had shared with him about Pippin. Of all the others, this hobbit had been the most risky of his projects, a fortuitous bet against the more hidden Shadows that the Dark Lord threatened. His tale had certainly not been without its own twists and turns.

Was it random, or was it destiny, Mr. Took? With your clan, one never knew.

But it was that one stone he, Gandalf, threw into the company of thirteen dwarves so long ago, hedging bets on the Tookish strain to bring Bilbo to his choice; it had been one tumultuous ride since.

Gandalf sighed, wondering how much he would miss the hobbits, tumbling as they had into the histories of Middle Earth. Pebbles, indeed. He wished he had the time to share all the tales he knew, to comfort Pippin with an assurance that he was, for all disparate purposes, a pebble that steadied the cornerstone. But he would have to leave it to Aragorn to explain.

"I have to disagree with you, Peregrin," he said, finally, gently. "It made my heart glad when you volunteered to come along, though Elrond argued against it. A true Thain of the Shire would have done no less."

Pippin did not answer. His head was bowed into his hands, mind reeling with what could have been. Gandalf understood his silence to mean he had said enough.

"Well, well," the wizard murmured, conscious that Aragorn was waiting. He stood up and patted the hobbit’s tousled ginger hair with familiar affection. "Go now. You must speak with the King about this. After all," Gandalf added, before turning away into the darkness of the City. "He looked into the palantir as well."

Pippin did not look up, although the shifting of his shoulders showed that he was listening.

Chapter Text

The long approach, the beckoning well…rock and pipeweed…barrels…pressure…foundering, steam… the sound of trees marching…and water, everywhere…

Pippin’s mind never ceased its debate over the images of his dreams, try as he might to shove them aside while in the tavern. Even as the heat of the crowd and the lull of music and the cheerful faces of friends distracted him, the thoughts replayed as background noise, almost to the point of frustration.

Still, it felt good to see Merry up to his old antics, and hear the elves sing. He had been right: there had been a plan to roust him from the fit. Frodo confessed as much when he and Merry walked in and Pippin hugged him for it. Frodo, to the last.

But now, as he made his way through the darkness of the Tower Hall towards the post he was to keep for the night, the echoes murmured the noisiness of his thoughts . He almost missed sighting the lanky form of Aragorn sprawled on the dais, puffing at his pipe. Pippin found his way to the rear quarters blocked, not by the new King of Gondor, but by Strider, of Bree, who lounged, wrapped in the darkness, watching for the slightest misapprehension.

Pippin stopped in a beam of moonlight pouring in from an open transom to stare at the man expectantly.

He could talk to Strider.

"Gandalf has not lost all his familiar ways, I see," said the former Ranger, smiling at the hobbit. "You look as if the Wraith King himself had arisen."

Pippin did not trust himself to answer. He instead chose to sit on the steps next to Aragorn, pulling his cloak around his feet to keep them warm. His sidelong glance told the king everything he should know.

"I shall not keep you in a night watch, Peregrin," Aragorn said. "There is still much to prepare for your journey homeward. I would not want your last days in Minas Tirith to be that of toil."

Pippin could not stop the look of disappointment from reaching his face.

"If it is your wish, my lord," Pippin said, with a deferential nod of his head.

Aragorn leaned forward, pipe in hand.

"What is it you fear, Pippin?"

Pippin opened his mouth to protest, but in the vague light of the room, he saw Strider, the same as he had been in their room in Bree, unmoving in his purpose. Strider had something to say and Strider would not be denied.

"I don’t …" he began, but Aragorn shook his head as if to say Pippin’s attempt to brush away the subject would not work. "I have had some fearsome dreams,"he confessed, with some relief. "But they are not important," he added, trying to sound nonchalant in the shadow-laden Hall.

"Is that why you requested night watch?"

"In part. Also, to fill in where Beregond left off. You did send him off to Ithilien, taking a generous companion away from a very grateful hobbit," was Pippin's half-hearted jest of Beregond’s new station in Ithilien. "I felt it only right to do so when the men brought me so kindly under their wing."

Smiling, Aragorn produced a reserve pipe and pouch for Pippin and puffed on his own in silence.

Might as well have this out, Pippin thought, suddenly weary of the gloom.

"Gandalf told me you had looked…." His voice trailed off, a certain horror of that thought choking him off.

"Yes." Aragorn did not need for him to finish.

"Strider, were you…frightened?"

Aragorn let out a breath, sensible of joy at the use of his Bree name. Used by any other person, it would have been a slur. From the hobbits, however, the name was indication of their absolute trust.

"Terribly. It was almost more than I could bear. Had it not been for the knowledge that others were at stake, I do not think I would have succeeded in confronting his will."

Pippin flinched, the memory of that will bringing a metallic taste to his mouth.

"I cannot forget it. I try, but my dreams…there is no escape."

"Even now, when Sauron is defeated?"

"It is only what I remember, what I saw…that night. He laid me bare."

Aragorn nodded, not wishing to recall those images himself. Pippin, however, needed reassurance.

"What did you see?" the hobbit asked, finally.

Aragorn sat back, wondering if he could verbalize the actual struggle. He had explained indirectly to Gimli and Legolas the intensity and the dismay. Not even Gandalf had an idea just what presenting oneself to the Eye was like. Words did not suffice.

Pippin knew, though.

"I saw the Dark Lord," he began, the images still something of a trial for him as well, "an unbearable presence, a malice that pulled like a great tide. I, too, was laid bare, but that alone did not threaten me. I revealed to him my true self, my true purpose for using the palantir, and thus struck weakness within him." Aragorn let out a breath he had been holding. "But it was a drain, a disheartening drain. The Eye never relented. And so, too, I recieved some impression of his power through the Ring."

"My poor cousin…" Pippin whispered, lost in thought. How much more bare was Frodo while he carried the One?

Aragorn turned to him with a sudden thought.

"Did you not tell Gandalf everything that night?" the king queried. Pippin reacted as if stung.

"Yes! It was as I said…he looked and I understood."

"Understood what?"

"Everything. All his will, all his desire. And he …pulled something out of me…how… I despaired of ever returning. He gloated over that, along with the fact that he thought he would have the Ring at last. Aragorn, I should never have left the Shire!"

"Should you not have? Could you have forseen what was going that way and defended against it if you had done as Elrond desired?"

"No…perhaps I…I don’t know," Pippin fumbled.

"Yet here you are, after all that you have done, wondering if you were any part of my kingship! Do you know, Gandalf reminded Elrond of your future as the Thain of the Shire, and how that may assist the return of the king. That alone should indicate how important you are to the destiny of the Fellowship."

"I didn’t know that," Pippin said. "But…how could I have anything at all to do with your becoming king? My family has no bearing upon royalty! If anyone fulfilled a destiny, it was Frodo. As I said before, all I am is the random pebble."

"There you are wrong, but even random pebbles have a way of falling into the right chink. And your heritage was closer to helping the kingship than you think. I must confess, I did not see it myself until you looked into the palantir."

Pippin's expression must have been incredulous because Strider nodded his assurance.

"I am the rightful heir to the palantir," the Ranger from Bree continued. "By the Kings of old, and their Stewards, the line of Numenor gives strength to use the palantir for what they were wrought: to share knowledge from afar, to converse in the mind that which needed to be conveyed. But it was not for kings alone. Very often, they would appoint one to use it in their place, when the mundane vagaries of life and circumstance prevented more direct communication."

Pippin stared at him in confusion. What was Aragorn trying to tell him?

Strider opened his mouth to continue, then changed his mind, choosing instead to tamp the contents of his pipe into a nearby crockery, grinding the smouldering ashes into dust. He stood up and indicated Pippin to follow.

Not so eager to relinquish the fragrance of the pipeweed, Pippin tucked the pipe’s mouth into the corner of his mouth and followed Aragorn out of the Hall and into a dark corner of the dais. There Aragorn opened a door to a spiraling stairwell. They climbed, with Aragorn taking up a small torch to light their way. Halfway up, the pipeweed ran out. Pippin felt he could climb no more, and would have made a joking reference to their trip through Moria, when they turned the last curve, and came upon the landing at the top.

Well, less of a landing, the hobbit thought. A round room with square windows opened up to the cold night, where the blackberry mountains of Mordor glittered in the moonlight. Aragorn tripped a hidden lock and a second, but more brief, stairwell appeared. At the top, a great iron hatch barred their way to a secret room above.

The jest faded from his thoughts, and he placed the cooling pipe on the floor.

Aragorn turned to him, the lamplight throwing the hardened planes of his face into a contortion of light and shadow.

"Will you trust me?"

"What’s behind that door?" Pippin asked warily.

"Nothing more than old mysteries. Nothing to hurt you," the king reassured, kindly.

Pippin nodded and his friend pulled the latch. The thick wooden door creaked as it opened, as if to protest their invasion, and they climbed inside.

Pippin stumbled backward as a rush of cold air hit his face. The familiar shadows of his dreams rose up in his chest as a sudden fear, and his sight focused on a carven pedestal in the center of the room. Nothing sat there, although a deep depression was scooped in the center of its flat top.

Red lights, searching…despair and desperation…will…terrible will…

"Pippin!"

The hobbit shuddered out of the reverie, taken as he was by the ghosts of his dreams. Aragorn steadied him with a strong hand on his shoulder.

He stared up at his friend, anger welling in the pit of his stomach.

"What are we doing here?"

"This is where your nightmares will end," Aragorn stated, voice firm and deep in the dark. He assisted the hobbit with completing the entry, and turned, pointing at the pedestal.

"There rested the palantir of Denethor’s watch, one that Gandalf suspected was in use, but had no confirmation, until that night in the Silent Streets. This tower is where Denethor wrestled with Sauron, and became infected with a gloom too great even for him to defeat. What must he have struggled with, what coldness of purpose led him to despair! Yet, we cannot fault him, breaking as he did the tradition of old: to not use the stones without knowing what lay on the other side. With Mordor gathering its shrouds of death to fling upon Gondor, what must Denethor have seen as a choice of lesser hazard, to expend every muscle of resistence against unassailable powers? Or wrestle wits with an evil that gave no quarter? And there is no doubt in my mind that he guessed at Saruman’s work and sought to counteract both."

Aragorn’s hand traced the edge of the depression where the palantir had rested, face drawn in a deep sadness. Pippin edged closer, feeling the fear subside, remembering keenly the old Steward’s face and voice.

"Without a directive to act, and without outside hope of assistance, Denethor did what he must," Aragorn concluded.

"But my dreams are about Sauron, not Denethor," Pippin broke in. "I touched the Orthanc Stone, not the one here."

"You are correct, but I believe this has more to do with what the palantir took into itself. You see, it has the power to retain the thoughts of those who touch it. Even though the Stone of Minas Tirith is forever scalded and ruined, it retains that which Denethor put into it…and because of its connection to Sauron, Saruman as well. You, my dear hobbit, were caught in the middle."

"That’s an understatement," Pippin remarked, with a sigh. "But I still don’t understand. What has my looking into the palantir got to do with becoming Thain?"

In reply, Aragorn withdrew an item from another pouch belted to his side, a small bag that revealed its contents as dried leaves of athelas, and pinched several portions into his palm. Reaching over to a small table in the shadows, he then brought forth a small pitcher of water, and poured it over the crushed herb. Despite the chill of the water and air, a fragrance wafted up into the room, making Pippin blink as if he had just been awakened. Aragorn rubbed the moistened athelas between his palms, intensifying the aroma, until his hands were dry.

"I have plans to apprise you of that soon, my dear hobbit," the king said, pulling at a necklace that lay hidden underneath the elegant folds of his robes. It was the Elf-stone, the Elessar, for which he had been named, artfully mounted within the outspread wings of a silver eagle. The beryl shimmered like a green star in the dark, propitious in the heavy shadows.

"First, the hands that have healed shall remove all that the palantiri have impressed upon you, my friend," Aragorn continued, leaning to bring his face more level with the hobbit’s. "But it will require one more thing of you, something that even Gandalf was hesitant to agree upon, because of what my next action will pose for you and so I ask you once more: do you trust me, Peregrin Took?"

Pippin stared back at his friend, the king, the ranger, the captain, wondering how he could have ever mistrusted him, in Bree or in the wild. There had been so much at stake, and so many choices that could have been made without ever factoring the ‘excess baggage’ that Merry had sardonically named themselves. Could he trust Aragorn, now king that was returned?

"With all my heart," the hobbit answered. He held out his hand to clasp the Ranger’s. "By the Shire, with all my heart."

Smiling, Aragorn disengaged and turned to reach into the darkest corner of the room, hiding his movements until he rose up and turned.

His hands cradled a cloth-covered item, a cloth which fell with familiar dread.

Now inert, the palantir he had taken from Gandalf’s very grasp came to rest in the pedestal, its dark depths forsaken of its infamous charm. Pippin found himself torn between bolting for the door, and reaching out to clasp it to him once again.

Aragorn’s hands interrupted his vision as he motioned for Pippin to bring his hands to the orb. The king took his hands and placed them firmly against the curve.

"Now," Strider said, "the stone must let you go."

Chapter Text

It was disconcerting, Pippin realized, to see the glow of the single torch become replaced by the radiance of the palantir, the depth-borne lights spreading from a nameless heart towards their splayed fingers. Pippin noticed the green stone Aragorn wore more openly now as king, the Elessar, gleaming in sympathetic rhythm as the Dunedan coaxed the palantir forward to their purpose.

More than disconcerting, Pippin found himself attached to that light, unable to dismiss its pull, and he braced for the inevitable panic and desperation. Shadows shifted, as if disturbed by his confusion.

A low groan of regret escaped him, and his fingers jerked to pull away. I’ve learned my lesson, Gandalf! I shall not touch one, even if a thousand were laid before me…

Aragorn looked up, the fragrance of the kingsfoil wafting like vapor in the static air.

"There’s no other way?" Pippin squeaked, wondering if Aragorn would forgive him a lapse (or two) of trust.

Aragorn’s grey eyes were unreadable. The hard-planed face and long straight nose in the low light reminded Pippin keenly of their meeting in Bree.

"There are always options, Pippin. You knew that from the start."

"And what are those, please? For conversations’ sake, of course," Pippin stammered.

"It is possible," Aragorn said, breathing in patience, "that you could go to your room and resolve never to return to Gondor, in full knowledge that where I am, the palantir is also, for each time you remember it, the memory will be one of despair.

"Or, you may stay and banish that which has plagued you for the last few days."

Pippin stared back at him, doubt playing over his own elfin features.

Aragorn’s fingers tightened over his. "Do not fear," he added. "There is no Eye here, no power to disarm you. There is much more to this than your dreams and I will not let you be taken."

The king’s grey eyes widened. Pippin followed his gaze to their hands.

"See! The palantir answers our call."

The movements were less swirling shapes than acute perceptions beneath the glossy surface of the palantir, flashing as momentary transfers of ideas, images, and discourse as they curled in upon themselves. The very shape of it appeared in danger of spilling what lay beneath.

Pippin hunched over it, transfixed. Within the cold bounds of the orb, memory upon memory shifted rapidly, layering, sprouting in many directions, each thought trailing, pulling, tugging the mind in amplified directions, each thread so strong, so strong! The leads of his own thoughts were sinking, ebbing towards the maelstrom, fragmenting, spinning as his mind sought to absorb as much as it released, and the hobbit began to realize this was nothing like staring down the intense focus of Sauron.

It was worse!

Aragorn’s hands gripped his fingers with a sharp tension and Pippin felt the tug upon his mind break like a taut string.

Athelas drifted into the blood pounding in Pippin’s ears.

The strain of the flickering intensified until Pippin was certain that the ball quivered like a living thing. Now he only saw images as they eddied into a controlled flow and Pippin noticed Aragorn muttering in Elvish, almost sing-song, his eyes glazed over in concentration.

Then, not unlike the moment fixed forever in his soul, clarity. I looked and I understood….

…through the gaze of one who, hearing it, gave letter to it, and passed it on, a scene, vague and hazy, on the borders of fine sight, telescoping backwards to the thoughts of one who sought it out…

Denethor, in the library of Minas Tirith, shuffling manuscripts that had known a thousand hands, reading, scouring, scowling…

To my Lord and Captain, 1978
Sire,
I am counseled to write to you on behalf of the Dunedain of the North Kingdom who, having hardship in the battle against Angmar, thank you for your assistance once more. The Witch King is vanquished, but disappeared into the Ettenmoors. We guard against a resurgence of his minions, but these three years past has revealed no sign of his movement. My suspicions argue against that, but for now, life is returning.

Arvedui, as you know, was lost to the fell waters of Forochel, taking with him the palantiri of Annuminas and Amon Sul, His son, Aranarth, has submitted to the decision of Gondor to deny Arvedui the claim to Isildur’s crown, declaring himself, instead, Chieftain of the Dunedain. I do not think your Lord would find that disagreeable, as it is an arrangement best for the lands here, for the Witch-king and all the shadow that accompanied him has devastated the land beyond any ability of stronger enforcement. That includes lack of forces from Gondor to reinstall what once was a strong kingdom. Rumors suggest this perhaps is the way it shall be for some time, as Angmar’s dread may be recollecting elsewhere and closer to Gondor’s feet. Prepare your men, for much is going on that would not be seen in the light!

But I write to you of that people you so fondly remarked upon in your travels here, the Halflings of the Shire. Their losses in the war were deeply felt as well, for those people had volunteered archers, valiant archers who perished, no one knows where. They have not returned. It was because of this Aranarth sought them out for parlay, for their allegiance to the king in the North was as stout as their hearts, and the Chieftain of the Dunedain meant to assure them of their protection. I believe your interest was inspired by their ties with Amon Sul...

Focus shifted to new words.

He met a Halfling who appeared to be regarded with high esteem among his own…

Image melded once more for Pippin and the sensation of looking through a long lens became stronger. He felt a strange impression, much older than Denethor, a messenger's imprint...

A tall man, a brief figure…hobbit? Both bowing to each other. Green fields, and a river in the background. One man, with proud features and eagle-sharp eyes….

Of your people’s valor we know much, said the man. I am Aranarth, Chieftain of the Dunedain, who shall guard these lands and afford what we may in place of the King that once was.

Bucca, of the Marish, I am known, said the smaller figure.

Bucca Oldbuck, the first Thain!

You summoned us to meet with you because of the loss of the King. That was three years ago and the Shire is returning to prosperity. Yet you say there will be no return of the King? Are we to become friendless should Angmar rise again?

The man, Aranarth, looked abashed.

Do not say ‘no return.’ Rather, I would have you see the Kingdom of the North in fallow, as a field would be for winter. Arvedui once tried to make his claim to the throne, but other decisions ruled against it, and the Dunedain are grateful to have what few we may in this time. We cannot argue with Gondor, and my heart tells me it would be folly to try. Instead, we choose to become cloaked by change and wait for the return of a King. The line of Isildur is not completely lost.

Bucca looked at him, thoughtful. How much like Merry he is! Pippin mused.

This is not good news, Bucca replied, although, I cannot help but observe that we hobbits are more than in your debt, despite what Gondor thinks of your right to the crown. Shall we then see you as our King?

Nay! Aranarth laughed, apparently surprised by Bucca’s candor and insight. Those who dwell in Cardolan, Arthedain, and Rhudaur must now rely upon themselves to ensure their own peace. I name myself Chieftain because my lineage must necessarily keep to that which gave birth to it. And we will not forget your people, even as our hope is to nurture that which is dearest, and there can be no return of the King if we do not.

But the Halflings now must choose their own method of safekeeping, for you will not see much of what we do, and we would feign seek control of your lives when ours is so precious. Did not Arvedui appoint some of your people to hold title in the stead of the King?

Bucca pursed his mouth, nodding.

There are those of us who were liege holders ready at his command, he replied. There are those of us who traveled to Amon Sul as stewards, before the war.

Aranarth looked in askance at Bucca.

You?

I was to be, Bucca replied, shortly.

Then I say to you, Bucca of the Marish, choose one or many among your people to uphold that title, as I hold my claim as leader of the Men of the North. Have them govern as those stewards, awaiting for news of the King’s recall. In this you will keep the promise of that return alive, and in time of need…

The image dropped suddenly, as if the viewer left off reading, perspective swiveling round with nauseating speed.

Pippin found that Aragorn had released his hands and the hobbit rocked back on his heels, trembling.

"Denethor has more to tell you," Aragorn said, simply.

***

He passed from the musty sensations of the archives into the shadowed hall of the Steward in the base of the Tower, a brooding blackness drifting along. Perceptions then rose upwards to the palantir, causing the inward lights to flash a violent red. Pippin gasped but Aragorn held steady.

Gandalf coming…who is the other with him?…Stormcrow…he knows!…Stormcrows know when the beast is flailing…know when the end is near…who is that?…Isildur’s Bane…and the ruin of this city. NO!…no…a halfling bearing the doom, but not this one. Not this one. But who is he? Why…

Pippin felt Denethor scowl deeper.

He knows I won’t believe him. Knows I must have proof. Is he the proof? That little ...child? A Prince of Halflings? To be what he called a 'thain?!'

Gandalf! A spy you bring, and for what…a Ranger! A ragged vagabond of the North. You bring no proof! You bring lies and deception…and a snippet who meddles in the affairs of wizards as if he were appointed. Ha! No mere halfling is he…but he is not proof enough, Gandalf. Not proof enough…

"STOP!" Pippin yelled, scrambling away from the orb, face heavy with the emotions discharged from the palantir. Aragorn sat back as well, sympathy wringing his features.

"Denethor haunts this room," the king said, merciless in his pursuit of the subject. "He haunts Saruman’s palantir through the one he holds with him, in the Silent Streets."

Pippin blanched. He didn’t want to think of that.

"I want no more of this," the hobbit breathed, pulling his knees up to his chest. "I will return to the Shire. I will have no more dreams."

Chapter Text

In later years, Pippin became quite adept at recounting the various events of the war, describing their first meeting with Treebeard with as much the enthusiasm and wonder as he initially experienced. He was a natural storyteller and became a favorite feature in taverns and at parties.

However, when it came to the palantir, he would fall silent, surpressed either by the memories of Sauron or the look on Merry’s face when the subject came up. No words, by Common Speech or Elvish, he decided, could impart the feeling of shattering expansion and constraining focus he experienced here, hunched over the ball once more, every instinct screaming for refusal. He had been here before…

Memory upon memory shifting over each other rapidly layering, sprouting into so many directions, each thought trailing pulling tugging the mind in its direction, each thread so strong, so strong…

Aragorn’s hands held fast and the drift of athelas mingled with the blood pounding in his ears.

The strain of the shadows flickering intensified until Pippin was certain that the ball quivered like a living thing. The itching he had known before in first touching it made his hands numb.

Denethor, by the well, looking down into the black void, grim-faced and morbid, as if considering the depths with much the same curiosity he had felt.

“A storm has come over us!” The Steward said, looking up at Pippin, as if the hobbit had approached him. “Boromir gone…will Faramir not reply? O, Faramir! What chaos has been wrought!”

He advanced on Pippin, his eyes a frightening black, a nothingness hovering over him like mourning shrouds.

“My lord, Faramir lives!” Pippin cried. “I only wanted…I only….” The hobbit faltered, the emotions of all he had done and seen filling his mouth and closing it.

“Of course. There were many reasons why you came,” Denethor soothed, his face drooping with age and long forbearance. Then, momentary softness hardened. “But I see what Gandalf intends! He brings naught but lies. And he will not win. Not by any design of Numenor, not by any halfling spy. Explain to him that he will not win!”

Pippin swallowed. Something was not right. Was this Denethor, who lay in ashes in the Silent Houses, with the pall of a burnished palantir upon his breast?

“Where is Faramir? Why isn’t he come?” Denethor broke into a sob, wandering into the darker shadows of the chamber, away from the well. He seemed to have forgotten that Pippin was there. Pippin sensed him bumping his way through the chamber, an empty chamber, as if the Company had left mere minutes ago.

A hot flash of thought compelled Pippin to wander after him. Does Denethor have the courage to drop the stone into the well?

“Throw the stone in, my lord,” Pippin said, and found himself offering the same pebble he had dropped.

Denethor took the stone and looked at it, as if it were an alien object dropped from the sky. He moved mechanically over to the rim of the well, staring down once more in the same agony of amazement. He looked back at Pippin, frowning.

“What am I to do with this?” He held up the stone, a mild contempt flashing over his face.

“Drop it in, my lord. It …it will save you,” Pippin heard himself explain, although a part of his brain wondered where he derived this logic.

Denethor sneered in derision, but clasped the stone to his breast.

“It is far beyond what we can do, Master Halfling. There is naught but to wait for it,” he scoffed. “Better to burn, for burn we must.”

A rolling Boom…

Denethor wept into the well.

“He calls for me.”

Two patches of cold filled the room and took Denethor by the arms. He did not struggle, only fixed Pippin once more with the nothingsight.

“I will not be your tool. I will rule to my own end.” he said as they carried him away.

“Wait! Wait!” Pippin cried, running after them. “Drop the stone! Throw it down the well!”

He saw Denethor shake his head, outside some entrance into a void Pippin never wanted to see again, words from his lips turning to lies he could not remember.

“Fight! You must!” Pippin begged…and found himself caught, webs in Khazad-Dhum…great clinging threads filling the pillared halls…the thuds of Denethor’s capture disappearing. He struggled to break free, but the threads kept multiplying.

Light, like water from the well, broke them all.

***

“He’s comin’ around,” the presence at his ear breathed, then shuffled away.

Pippin felt a hand, slender and strong, wrap around his own. The effervescence in his mind filtered into gentle flutters. He tried to chase after it, but there was no tangible way of holding onto it. The pure warmth broke ardent and soft onto his face, then melted like sunshine on the waters.

“His heart is brightening,” said a lilting voice. “He has followed the Star of Earendil and he wonders now where he is.”

Legolas!

Pippin’s eyes flew open to see shadows dancing upon the ceiling, a ceiling that was not the tower…a ceiling strange and low...

...and flat.

He was back in their guest house.

“Master Peregrin,” said the elf, touching his breast and extending his hand to clasp the hobbit’s shoulder. “Pippin, we have awaited your return to the day.”

Pippin sat up, to find not only Legolas staring at him, but Sam and Merry hunched on the edge of the second bed in relieved silence.

Frodo stood next to Legolas, blue eyes ghost ridden with concern. In his Ring-forsaken hand, he clasped the flask Galadriel had gifted him, its clear form gleaming in the dimness of the room. The curtains were drawn, but he could see the full force of the sun straining to break through the woven cloth.

Legolas seemed the least troubled. Glancing around at the other hobbits, he grinned at Pippin and gently coaxed him back onto the pillows.

“Aragorn brought you home after your duties in the Tower, although he may have exercised you quite well enough if I were to judge how you came to be so deep in sleep? But nay,” he added, motioning Frodo to sit. Frodo ignored him. “You had not so much taken one tour.”

“He…took me up…” Pippin faltered, realizing his throat was sore. “I had…audience with a glass ball….” The looks exchanged between Legolas and Merry made his head spin.

Sam and Frodo looked in slight bemusement, Merry muttered something incomprehensible, and Legolas cocked a brow, eyes bright with knowing.

Pippin sat up once more, flooded by a sudden defensiveness of Aragorn and himself.

“He was explaining some things to me, some things that I needed to know. I wanted to know…you see, there were messengers in the Court, and they…”

“Yes, we all know about that,” Merry said, getting up to face Pippin. “Gandalf told me that Strider was going to get to the heart of this." He turned too-bright eyes on his cousin in consternation. "You silly Took! Why didn’t you say something to us, about these dreams? Just because the War is over doesn’t mean…” he faltered, seeing Pippin’s expression of regret. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.” Pippin’s gaze fell on Frodo, still and silent. “You helped.”

“The phial helped. Gandalf said I might have need of it once more,” Frodo replied, handing it to Pippin. A flush of warmth came into Pippin’s palms as he took it.

“Yes,” the hobbit said, admiring the sheer crystalline form. “Yes, it did. Thank you.” He handed it back to his cousin with a sigh.

Silence.

“Oh, all right!” Pippin grunted, swinging his legs out of bed to get dressed, blushing slightly at the thought that whoever had brought him back had disrobed him enough to put him in simple linen bedclothes. “If you’ll help me locate my uniform, I’ll answer any question you so desire.”

“Does that include how much you actually drank last night?” Legolas queried, trying to lighten the tension in the room.

“No, that’s one question I don’t want to answer,” Pippin admitted.

“If Master Pippin doesn’t mind my asking, I’d like to know if those messengers said anything about the Shire itself and what we might expect to find out when we get home,” Sam interjected. "Strider gave us the news as well," he added, the blush in his cheeks spreading.

"I’m sure that whatever Saruman sent their way was stopped by the contingent Aragorn sent after them. They were stopped before they got to Bree,” Frodo replied. “Sauron’s minions are easily scattered now. And if they did reach the Shire, the Tooks and Brandybucks will have taken care of them,” he added, with a nod to the present title-holders of those names.

“That’s what I said, but Gandalf seemed to still have some worries in that direction,” Pippin said. “And those barrels of Southfarthing are something to think about, right Merry?”

His Brandybuck cousin, however, was still focused on different concerns.

“We’ll likely see more of the Dark Lord’s reach before we ever get back to the Shire,” he said, a bit brusque. “But Aragorn once said it even that small matter may be out of our reach at present. What could we do that isn’t already being done?

What I want to know is this : what took hold of you, Pip? I’ve been afraid for you ever since that…that night. I was worried something might have possessed you.”

All eyes turned toward Pippin.

“It had. But I’m all right, I assure you. Aragorn…showed me.”

“Showed you what?” Merry persisted, unrelenting. Pippin could see there were still some issues there to resolve.

“The ghost that insisted on visiting you,” Frodo said, sensing the Brandybuck's concern. “An echo of what had been. But it can’t reach you anymore, Pippin. It let you go and the Phial of Galadriel helped.”

The image of Denethor over the well flared up in Pippin’s mind, his pleas to drop the stone....

“I dreamed of Denethor," he said, wondering if he had the strength today to speak it yet. "He…Aragorn said his ghost still clung to the palantir, still wished to reach out. The palantir holds memories…many memories, and when I…took it that night, it held a memory of me, a memory that he clutched at as he lay dying. And…and…”

“But what does that have to do with you? It was Sauron who saw you, not Denethor,” Merry asked.

“The palantiri are what connected the men of Numenor, of the Kingdom that was,” Legolas informed, breaking in. “As Pippin and Aragorn found out, it was strong, a strength only the evil of Sauron could swerve to his purpose. It is far reaching in many, many ways. They were made by a power beyond Morgoth, beyond the reach of Middle Earth. Whoever used them could not escape an imprint. Fortuitous, indeed, that you used it, Pippin. But there was something more that Aragorn saw. Am I right?”

Pippin found he could not reply.

Legolas smiled and motioned for Pippin to continue dressing.

“You need not answer directly. Indeed, it will all be answered tomorrow. Aragorn left his regrets this morning when he brought you. He had promised to reveal all, but then realized there was a more effective way of explaining. So he asks that you prepare yourself for a special day. Tomorrow. In the Great Hall.”

Chapter Text

chapter in progress, LAST chapter

Bells, chiming bells, glorious bells; bells that pealed a song to greet the day as it broke over the eastern edge of the horizon.

At the sound, four hobbits in the main room of the guesthouse hastened to the open window looking out over the Pellennor Fields. They had been up for an hour hence, each helping to don the formal garb for ceremonies later that day. Frodo and Sam wore their new clothes of linen and velvet, while Pippin and Merry fussed over their armor and helms, trading good-natured insults over which one was the most soldierly.

Pippin leaned into the fall of light in the sill and beamed back at the purity of the sunshine, not caring if he looked silly while doing it. Anything that sang its triumph over the dark of the War would make him smile till his ears fell off.

Meriadoc Brandybuck seemed to have a more light-hearted perspective on the mood of the day.

"Well, Mr. Took, you look and act as if you will be insufferably pleased with yourself for the next several weeks," he teased, nudging Pippin into laughter. The grin on Merry’s warred with a soft look of pride and happiness.

"No doubt Mr. Merry is conspiring of a way to tell this for when we get home," Sam interjected behind them. "Such as how Mr. Pippin began with pestering a wizard about coming along and ended up getting plonked on the shoulder by a king." He rolled his eyes at Merry for Pippin’s benefit. "All at the behest of a Brandybuck, no doubt!"

"And you doubted that? No, the night before last was pick on Meriadoc night," Merry replied, loftily, as Frodo and Pippin chortled. "We’ve done teasing Frodo, for now, and Pippin’s getting off easy, for now, so that leaves you, Mr. Gamgee. Yes, tonight shall be an inquiry into The Absence of Mr. Gamgee. Why is it that you’ve been spending so much time beautifying Minas Tirith? Avoiding the inevitable? It’s a long road back to the Shire, yet, my gardener friend!"

"Yes, Sam, I have yet to tell my dear cousins of the time you led me into a ravine and almost left Galadriel’s gift dangling in the wind," Frodo smiled, biting into an apple.

"Sam?" Pippin cried, jumping onto the subject with merriment sparkling in his eyes. "After all that grousing about not having a rope, and you left it behind?"

"Aw, now that’s skewing it a bit, Mr. Frodo, isn’t it? You’re forgetting that I called Galadriel’s name and it came. When you tell it, Mr. Frodo, don’t be forgetting to point that out."

"I still wonder at that, Sam. The power of Galadriel or Sam’s vaunted roping skills? I’d like to hear how you explain that one your grandchildren."

"I’ll warrant you’ll have to ask that of Galadriel herself when she meets with us," Sam dared Frodo, blushing. "As for me, I don’t doubt her powers at all."

Merry and Pippin laughed at the emphatic way Frodo shook his head in rejection of that prospect.

"Bells or no, Mr. Pippin, you should hurry with that suit," Sam went on, handing the hobbit his custom-made helm. "There’s yet another feast brewing at the Hall and I don’t want to be late because you are insufferably pleased with yourself." With as much care and gentleness as he had handled Frodo, he settled the helm on Pippin’s head, and fidgeted with the stiff white feathers of its decorative wings. The room went silent.

"Bells or no, Mr. Samwise, you’d be a lucky hobbit to get there before me," Pippin rejoined, not sure he could take these joy-filled moments for very long. The heart seemed too little for them. "Well. I’m dressed. Anyone for breakfast?"