Journeys of Honor
Closing the door quietly, escaping the noise of my family outside, I take a deep breath, thankful for the silence of my own room. As Thain, I have always had the privilege of being able to escape without question, and this evening I am grateful for it. There is much to think of, much to prepare for, for tomorrow will bring an ending. When Merry came this morning, something within me told me this, and indeed it was so. Only yesterday, the Master of Buckland received word that King Éomer of Rohan desired to see him again. He came today to see whether I wished to journey with him to fulfill the pledge he made to Théoden when he swore fealty years ago, only a few days before the king lost his life on the Fields of the Pelannor.
Neither of us is young, for Merry has just passed his 102nd birthday and my ninety-first is soon to come, but the years have been kind, and we are yet well enough to make this journey for the second and final time. We desire it also, to see again our friends of old and the countries to which we swore our loyalty. I am pleased to go, and I agreed most readily when Merry suggested we turn over our offices to our sons and set forth for Rohan.
I find myself smiling as I walk over to a chest at the foot of my bed. It has long been there, remaining unopened since I had first filled and closed it, sixty years ago now. It is difficult for me to believe, I decide as I draw out a key from my waistcoat pocket, that it has indeed been so long. They have been happy years, yes, but they have brought their own sadness too, as the seasons come and go as they always have in the Shire. Indeed, save the losses of old familiar faces and the additions of new ones, the Shire has not changed noticeably with the passage of so many years.
I wonder if the same can be said of Gondor as I open the chest, withdrawing from it the splendid tunic Lord Denethor gave to me that long ago day during which I pledged fealty to him and his nation. I can remember the words now as if I had only spoken them yesterday. How significant I felt, how honored that my service—even my own!—would be accepted by a lordly man such as Denethor!
Setting the tunic aside, I withdraw the small sword I carried in those days, the words playing again in my mind. I remember the feel of the blade in my hand as I spoke my oath, binding myself to the greater good of Gondor.
"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire of the Halflings."[1]
Thus I had spoken, in memory of Boromir, who had loved Gondor more than anyone I ever met afterward, save perhaps his brother. It had seemed but a small thing, to offer my services to the Lord of the City, in face of that great sacrifice that I could never repay. Yet even now, as I think of it with the benefit of years of hindsight, my pledge would undoubtedly have pleased Boromir more than anything else I had within my power to accomplish.
Standing, I place the sword aside to remove my coat so I may slide the tunic on. It is a tight fit now--how thin I was in those days!—but it has retained its color and beauty over the many years since it was put away. I recall in a rush of memory the pride I felt, and the sadness, as I came to understand all that Boromir had said about his city and his home. It was a strong and watchful country, so different from the Shire and anyplace I had ever known or expected to know. The tension of the years lay heavily on every stone of the great city of Minas Tirith as well as in the minds of her inhabitants. I saw the knowledge of the coming end, for better or for worse, as a great weight upon the soldiers who waited to protect their city and their country to the last.
Never before had I known such a people who, in the face of utter defeat, could fight on and cling to the knowledge that they were a strong people, a defiant one, who would not fall to the shadow without giving everything to prevent it. Boromir had tried to tell me of them in those dark nights we spent together on our journey south, as we spoke of our peoples and our differences, but I could not then understand what I was to realize in the later days of our journey.
Indeed it was for him, not for his people, that I made my vow to his father. Yet it was the days afterward that made me understand what such a vow meant. I watched men running into battle, determination glowing in their fierce eyes, eyes that could have been filled with despair. I saw the same men fall with the name of their beloved country as the last word to cross their faltering lips. I honored them for their dedication, I fought beside them as best I could, and I have never lost the profound respect for Gondor and her people that I found in those days, among those battles.
It is something that has never left me. I desired to learn all I could of these men, to discover the roots of that nobility and love I saw embodied in Gondor's people. It had diminished with the passage of years in exile, but remained strong and steady as a result of the years of constant warfare on her borders.
This is why, upon my return to the Shire, to the Smials, I began to collect manuscripts and parchments, learning all I could of Númenor and her downfall, of the long years of exile in Middle Earth, diminishing with all the rest of the world as her blood mingled with that of lesser men. The history called to me like I never imagined anything outside the Shire could, in the days before the long journey of the Fellowship.
I read them all faithfully, reverently, before putting them carefully away. There are not many in the Shire now, nor will there ever be, who are interested in them, but I have extracted promises from my son to keep them in good order and from decay. He, I think, understands their importance and, though he would never admit it, I have seen him there late at night sometimes, reading the old histories with as enraptured a look as I sometimes suspect myself of bearing.
Yet there is no time to ponder now. It is late; I am weary, and tomorrow we begin our journey. First indeed to Rohan, but then I shall go to Gondor. I shall renew my pledge, though I am too old to serve as I once did, and I shall pass the rest of my years within the strong circles of the city Boromir loved, the city to which the king returned, the city of all the nameless men who fell defending her gates, of all the women who waited within the circles for loved ones who would not return. The city at the heart of the country I adopted, the heart of the country I learned to love as much as my own home.
Perhaps I shall find a new tranquility fallen over the stones and people of that ancient city, and I shall love Gondor for her newfound peace and serenity. But if not, I shall settle for the strength and the tension I remember clearly, for that is the Gondor that I remember and first loved.
[1] ROTK "Minas Tirith"
Author's note: This was written for the July 2003 Challenge at the Tower of Ecthelion fanfiction archive. A link to the archive can be found on my author's page if you wish to read the challenge that inspired this. Please R&R if you have the chance! -Nat