Chapter Thirty-Eight

Not So Old Friends

At dawn the next day the White Wizard returned to Minas Tirith.

I saw him gallop in from the South, the cloaked rider and the great gray stallion unmistakable, even from the second level. By squinting, I could see that Shadowfax bore another passenger, set before the wizard and nearly covered by his cloak. Large, hairy feet peeked out, though, so it must be Merry or Pippin.

A cry of "Mithrandir, Mithrandir!" rose up from the Great Gate and suddenly I was yelling too, and waving Celetirmar. Nonplussed, Silmarien stared at me as I turned to grin at her. She was not a morning person, and I think my outburst had startled her.

It had startled me, as well. My feelings for the wizard were indifferent at best, and I had not been longing for hobbit company, but I suppose what I 'had' been desperate for was a familiar face, a member of the Fellowship, and news.

I gathered myself to go find them, but Silmarien grabbed my sleeve. "Hold. Duty cannot be thrown aside so lightly, even for old friends."

Stopping up short, I turned to her. "May I not go and greet them? I will return in a little while."

In her eyes, I saw kindness war with duty and duty win. She shook her head. "Morwen assigned you here until the noon hour, and here you must stay. But if you will wait a little, I think they will pass along this way."

I subsided and resumed proceeding with her, though I am sure I watched the street much more than I did anything below the City. The ten minutes it took Shadowfax to prance into sight were agony. Mithrandir sat proudly on his back, and before the wizard perched- "Pippin!"

The hobbit looked wildly around as I scrambled down to meet them. What he must have thought as an apparently mad Gondorian soldier ran up to him, I do not know, but as I neared them, he did recognize me. A caress for Shadowfax and a nod for Mithrandir, and I had Pippin off the horse and was spinning around as we clutched each other.

I had learned long ago that hobbits like to hug things, and this one was no exception He seemed to have grown a bit since the last time I'd seen him, doing battle that day on Amon Hen, but he was still Pippin. "Firiel!" he almost squeaked into my hair before I set him down to preserve both our dignities.

"We thought you taken and slain," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Both you and Merry. When we met Mithrandir in the wood, he told us you were safe, but still it is a joy to see you." Pippin beamed up at me as I beamed down at him.

Looking up at Mithrandir, I asked, "How went the battle at Helm's Deep?"

I did not like the smile that hid behind the wizard's eyes as he answered. "The Rohirrim triumphed, though at the cost of many lives."

"And how fares my lord Aragorn?"

The smile turned to a glare. "Speak not that name in this place. He was well when last I saw him, and Legolas and Gimli, also."

I started plotting my revenge upon the man who would be king, asking innocently, "He does not ride with you, then?"

"He rides now with Théoden King, though the Lady's words weigh heavily on his heart, and I think he will soon act upon them."

I remembered Galadriel's cryptic message about the Rangers and the path to the sea, and my heart hardened a little more toward Aragorn. "Then he does not mean to ride to Minas Tirith?"

"That I cannot say," the wizard said, though I thought he could have. His eyes drifted past me.

I looked over my shoulder to see Silmarien, and rolled my eyes, jerking my head back toward the ramparts, hoping she would take the hint and leave. She remained maddeningly steadfast.

Irritated, I turned to speak directly to Pippin. "I wish you well in your audience with my lord Denethor. When I come off duty at noon, you must find me, or I will find you. And no doubt some luncheon will be involved."

This drew a grin from the hobbit, and he nodded. I cupped my hands to help him clamber back onto Shadowfax, and with a final skeptical look from Mithrandir, they trotted off.

"You would do well not to be seen speaking to Mithrandir," Silmarien began as we turned back to the walltop,"if you wish to remain in my lord Steward's favor."

I shot her a disbelieving look and tried to keep pace with her brisk stride. "His favor? I've lost that already, I think." After checking for eavesdroppers, I related the events and words of yesterday morning.

When I finished, she shook her head, gracing the stones with a few coarse expressions, but could only stare at me.

"So you see what I mean when I say I can no longer claim his favor?" I pressed, looking away from her.

"My lady, those who fall from grace in the Lord Denethor's eyes enjoy the hospitality of Minas Tirith's dungeons, not her barracks. No, I think you bear the favor of one far greater and higher, though I am at a loss to name him."

'I'm not,' I thought, but kept my mouth shut as Silmarien changed her tactics. "My lord Boromir was no friend of the wizard's."

"I know," I said, gritting my teeth. "I am not so fond of him, either, but he sees everything." Galadriel had said he watched the movements of Middle-Earth like a man might watch the tides of the ocean. "I am so hungry for news; news of my friends and of what moves in Rohan. And of war, for war is coming."

"As are we all, my lady, as are we all." I suppose she felt the need to placate me, for I had nearly weaned her off using the title. "But the little fellow, he is one of your company?"

I grinned. "He is, though he would not thank you for calling him little. He is a hobbit, or halfling, and he is older than I am." 'The two youngest members of the Fellowship, and the oldest, together in the White City,' I thought. It could not be coincidence, but I wondered what we could do.

"The halfling from Lord Boromir's riddle?" Silmarien wanted to know.

I stared at her, though by now I had no reason to be amazed at the way news, especially secrets, traveled in the White City, and tried to think of a reply that did not involve Frodo or the Ring. "No, his kinsman. Pippin's father is a great, er, man in the Shire, which is the hobbit's country. It is far away in the north, and I have never been there. Pippin will tell you all you want to know and more besides, if you ask him, for only eating and smoking are dearer to hobbit hearts than talking, especially about their families. But yes, he is my friend, and was Boromir's." 'And I would be grateful if you'd let me off guard duty to go and speak to him,' I did not add, only watched the wagons that bore the last women away from the White City.

Silmarien let me go, and without even making me ask leave in mess. Morwen did find me as I sneaked out and told me that Pippin had taken up with a guardsman of the Third Company, so I might try their mess first, since the Company had duty until sundown. I nodded and thanked her, a bit miffed that Pippin had not been squired about Minas Tirith by a member of the First and best Company, preferably me.

The Third messed before we did, so snooping about their barracks proved fruitless. I did not think I should go anywhere near the Citadel, where Mithrandir and Pippin's guest rooms probably were, in case the Guard had special instructions from the Steward concerning my health, education, and welfare. I did go up to the sixth level, in case Pippin was paying Shadowfax a visit, and there I found them, the tiny, travel-strained figure holding up a lump of sugar to the great gray mearas.

"Hallo, Pip," I said, as Merry used to, slipping inside.

He looked up. "Oh, hallo, Firiel."

"Did you get enough luncheon?" I wondered what a hobbit had thought of the food in Minas Tirith.

"Nearly. I don't think they're used to feeding hobbits in Gondor. I don't know what we'd have done if Merry had come too." His face fell as he said the name, which puzzled me.

"Pippin," I asked, giving Simbelmynë a final caress, "where is Merry? Why didn't he come with you?" I couldn't think of a time I'd seen the two of them separated.

"Er," Pippin began, not looking at me as we went out, "he stayed with Aragorn in Rohan. Gandalf only brought me because- Oh, Firiel, I've been so awfully stupid!" And everything came out in a torrent of story and elliptical phrases, as only a hobbit could tell a tale, from the Orcs on Amon Hen to Fangorn to the Stone of Orthanc and the audience with the Steward that morning. "And now I'm in a bigger mess than ever," he finished, blinking up at me. "I've sworn an oath, and there's going to be a war."

I shut the stable door behind us. "I wish you better luck as the lord Denethor's esquire than I had, though maybe your service will be more to his taste than mine was." And, with a deep breath and as much circumspection as I could manage, I filled Pippin in on the bits of my story that he likely had not heard from Aragorn. The story was not much, and it did not sound great and adventurous to me, because I had been there and knew the truth. But I 'had' been there, and it was my truth.

Pippin listened intently as we ambled down through Minas Tirith, moving slowly in the muggy heat. My layers of mail and cloth threatened to smother me, and my hair, braided in a thick knot on my neck, weighed as much as a helmet.

People stared as we walked past, making us bows and salutes. I think Pippin most intrigued them, a legendary Prince of Halflings, as they had decided to call him, but I heard a few murmurs of "my lady". If either of us had had the energy to fidget, I think we would have. Had Boromir had to endure this when he strolled through his city? Had it made him nervous? I did not think so.

In the shade of the gate arch leading from the second level to the first, we stopped to buy mugs of cool, sweet tea from a vendor, and I thought to ask Pippin where we were going.

"Beregond, a man of the Third Company who was very kind to me this morning, said that his son stayed here in the Old Guesthouse, and that I might seek him out if I wished for company or a guide about the city." The hobbit looked about, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue protruding slightly from the corner of his mouth as he thought.

Slightly hurt, I opened my mouth to ask if I was not guide and company enough, but the affront seemed to occur to Pippin at the same time. He turned to me, his face falling. "We do not have to, of course."

I forced a smile. "No, it was a good idea." 'Petty,' I thought, 'petty and selfish, Firiel.' But I hate small children, have always thought they should be locked up and not let out until they can make intelligent conversation. I especially detest little boys of about ten or twelve who will strut about a playground hitting each other and playing King of the Rock. Perhaps he would be older. Perhaps a child raised in Gondor during wartime would be more mature. Perhaps.

Rath Celerdain led up to the Great Gate, but before reaching it, we came to the pillared gray façade of the Old Guesthouse. Boys played on the lawn between the building's two wings, and a few of them broke off and came to meet us in the street as we approached. The leader hailed Pippin and challenged him as a stranger, wanting to know his name.

The boy's entire demeanor changed, though, when I came up behind the hobbit. Morwen had not told me the exact rank indicated by the cables pinned to my tunic, and Silmarien would not, but upon seeing them, the boy made me a salute and dipped his head a bit grudgingly, possibly because he had also seen that I was female.

Before I could come up with a suitably imperious command, Pippin answered the kid's question, saying that he was a man of Gondor. "Come now," the lad scoffed, "if that is so, then we are all, ah, all of us are…" he trailed off.

I looked down my nose at the little squirt. "Is this the way you greet the esquire of the Lord Denethor? We seek the son of Beregond of the Third Company. If you are not he, then go and fetch him for us."

"I am Bergil, Beregond's son," the boy replied, thrusting his skinny chest out and trying to stand taller. "Do you bring me news from him?" His face fell suddenly. "Do not say that he has changed his mind, and that I am to be sent away with the women after all!"

Having fun, and on something of a roll, I went on, "Even were it so, your place is not to question the will of your lord and father. But no, we have been sent to seeking a guide about the city, for both Master Took and I are newcomers to Minas Tirith."

This was the wrong bone to throw the kid, who immediately resumed his superior attitude, now with overtones of tour guide. "Come, then. We shall go to the Gate." He and Pippin led the way, chattering on while I trooped behind, tugging at my clothes and wishing for air conditioning.

Apparently, the lords of Gondor's outlying provinces were due to arrive at any minute, and so the three of us joined the crowd headed to see them march in. Bergil and Pippin were getting along like a house on fire, conversation interrupted only when I prompted the latter to give the password at the Great Gate, deeply impressing the former.

Once outside, we took up our positions with the others in the great stone courtyard, straining to see southward along the road. My small companions fairly bounced with excitement, and while I was also concerned with the reinforcements, what weighed most headily on my mind—and shoulders—was the awful chainmail. While Pippin and Bergil pushed to the front of the throng to see the approaching dust cloud, I tried to scratch surreptitiously and let some air into the sweat-soaked layers of my uniform. Boromir had lived in his mail. How had he managed it?

Around me a great cheer rose up: "Forlong! Forlong has come!" and with it horns sounding and the rhythm of marching feet I tried to remember if Forlong ruled Lossarnach or Lamedon. Lossarnach, I thought, remembering Boromir's description of him as Forlong the Fat, though he was not so much fat as simply huge, wide-shouldered and barrel-chested, like Henry the Eighth. I expected him to toss a chicken leg over his shoulder at any minute, though he carried a spear larger than my own. Behind his horse marched ranks of armored men, bearing battleaxes. I tried to count them; there were about two hundred.

The convoy from Lossarnach was only the first of many that afternoon. Three hundred strong of infantry came from Ringló Vale, and five hundred bowmen from the Blackroot Vale. Behind them straggled hunters and fishermen from I was not sure where, looking nothing like soldiers except for their expressions of grim determination, and three hundred men in the green of Pinnath Gelin.

Boromir had mentioned his uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and the elite Swan Knights he commanded, and I suppose some part of me had been expecting them to come to Minas Tirith's aid, but the battalion of horsemen in gleaming armor took my breath anyway. They sang as they rode, and carried banners embroidered with ships and swans, like Crusaders, with foot soldiers behind.

The glittering cavalcade lifted all of our spirits, even distracting me from my mail problems, but I, like others, had been doing the math. Less that three thousand men had come: not enough. Not nearly enough. And no more would come.

Evening hung heavy around us, as if the sun did not want to set but was being dragged down. It lit Mount Mindolluin, thought the city was shadowed. I walked back in with Pippin and Bergil, all of us subdued, as the trumpet sounded for the closing of the gate. Leaving Bergil at the Guesthouse, we hurried upwards, not speaking, to our separate messes.

I was late, so, dusty and sticky, I scarfed down what was left, allowed Silmarien to show me to the women's bathhouse, and, finally clean, fell into bed. Not even my neighbors' snores could keep me from sleep, though I dreamed despairing dreams that I could not remember in the morning.