Verse V
Call for me
Scream for me
Cry for me
And the silence will not listen
„He is not dead!"
Pippin stared in terror at the scenery before him, that could not have been more grotesque. A pyre had been built, bundles of wood surrounding the stone altar in the middle of the Halls of the Dead. Upon this pyre lay Faramir, son of Denethor, still breathing, surrounded by guards, that filled up the pyre with more material. Denethor, son of Ecthelion, stood upright, surveying the works as if he were supervising the construction of a monument. His stature was proud, his jaw set, his gaze unbroken, and yet Pippin saw the lingering madness behind it. He shuddered, but his fear for the Captain of Gondor was stronger.
„He is not dead!" he insisted, louder this time, and raced towards the scenery, trying to get past the guards, that, expressionless as usual, blocked his path. „He is breathing!"
The hobbit ducked under the hands of one of the guards and slipped past them, running towards the pyre. He stretched out his hands to the cape of the Captain and found it wet. A strange smell emerged from it, and he did not understand at first what it was, that he was smelling. But when he did, he gazed at Denethor in horror.
„No, my Lord!" he protested and violently shook his head. „You must not do this. He is not dead!"
But dead were the eyes of Denethor, as at last, he seemed to take notice of his newest guard. He stepped towards the Shireling and lifted him up without showing so much as an effort.
„Hereby, Peregrin, son of Paladin, I release you from my service." The guards stepped aside, as Denethor dragged the wriggling hobbit towards the portal. „Now go and die in whatever way seems appropriate to you."
The doors opened, and Pippin found himself lying on the steps of the Silent Street.
With a loud clang, the door closed behind him, trapping inside those, that did not want to see another morning – and those, that were not given a choice.
Pippin buried his head in his hands for a moment and tears of anger ran down his cheeks. His mind raced, jumping from possibility to possibility as Minas Tirith burned beneath him.
Only one possibility remained.
Gandalf.
Pippin turned and raced back down to the lower circles, where the fires and cries told, that the battle had reached the insides of the city. But he was not afraid for himself. High up in the Silent Street, a lost mind was burning what was left of his life.