Hey there! Sorry about the delay in this one, I've had a rough two weeks, to be honest. Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter!
As ever, please forgive any typos here.
Chapter Eighty-Eight: The Madness of Denethor
It was the darkest noon that Pippin had ever seen. A dark cloud hung over the Pelennor Fields like a thick, black smoke, and what little sunlight filtered through was grey, and dim. Some of the men had lit torches in an effort to chase the darkness away, but the shadow seemed to cling around them, dimming their glow and making the flames look cold, and cruel. Gandalf said the darkness was a device of Sauron's, a way to allow his army to travel during the daytime.
If that was the truth, it had worked.
Mordor had reached them.
The army was bigger than Pippin could have ever imagined, and its front line formed an impenetrable wall around the city, arcing around to meet the mountains on either side. There would be no escaping Minas Tirith now, unless there was a way to flee back into the mountains. Not that Pippin was going to flee. No – he was a dwobbit of Erebor, and the folk of Erebor would never flee from a fight.
He wanted to flee. So, so badly – he wanted to turn and fly until the wind brought him home, until it delivered him safely to his dwarves, or his parents, or his cousins, but that was not an option. This was where he would stand – for better or worse.
This was where he would play his own little part in the war, where he would fight for his friends and his family and his freedom. After all, when he joined the conspiracy, he had not been expecting a picnic. This was his choice. His consequence.
And he was so, so afraid.
Pippin had never wanted to be in a battle, but he was starting to become sure that waiting on the edge of one that he could not escape was worse than the fighting itself. He stood on the great, outer wall with Gandalf, watching as the orcs moved their war machines into place. There were catapults and wheeled battering rams, and great towers pushed by armoured trolls, and they most definitely looked big enough to peek over even the tallest of the city's walls. Pippin shuddered.
"It will begin soon," said Gandalf heavily, putting a hand on the hobbit's shoulder. "Soon, the armies of Mordor will make their final advance."
"They haven't already?" asked Pippin weakly. As it was the orcs filled the Pelennor Fields – they looked immeasurable, unconquerable, and to imagine more joining them made Pippin want to shriek.
"Not quite," said Gandalf, nodding towards a prominent figure clad in dark mail. "The commander is keeping his troops out of bow range, for now. When he is ready, he will order them forward, and the assault on the city will begin in earnest, though it would not surprise me if we face some fire from their catapults, first."
"Wonderful," muttered Pippin, swallowing hard.
Gandalf gave a sad smile and turned away from the army, staring down at Pippin. "My dear young hobbit... Would you do something for me?"
"Of course," said Pippin, though he could not imagine what he would be capable of doing.
Gandalf crouched down and put his hand on Pippin's shoulder, meeting his eyes carefully. "I want you to go and guard Faramir. I fear for him – Denethor has not made nearly enough nuisance of himself while Imrahil and I readied his city, and I do not trust his absence."
"I – I can fight," protested Pippin reluctantly, and Gandalf's smile grew sadder.
"I know. You can, and there may be a time when you will have to, before this day is over. But the front line of battle is no place for a hobbit – especially not one in his tweens, and I need someone that I can trust to stay with Faramir. Please, Peregrin Took, will you do this for me?"
Pippin paused, his eyes drifting back to the army. More than anything, he wanted to leave the front line. If he was guarding Faramir he might avoid the worst of the fighting, he would be safer, but he would also be leaving the fighting to others. Dwalin always said that the greatest shame an able-bodied dwarf could bring upon himself was to cower and hide while others fought his battles. Pippin did not want to bring shame on his family – but he did not want to die, either.
"Pippin," said Gandalf gently, giving him a little shake. "You are not a soldier, my lad. That is not your duty, and no one expects it of you. There is no shame in doing what will be most useful, even if it is not the most valiant. Please. Do this for me."
Pippin swallowed, and then nodded, and Gandalf's smile grew a little stronger, and a little sadder.
"Thank you, my dear Pippin. Alas, I won't be sending you out of danger entirely, even if the battle never reaches the inner levels," he said, bitterness leaking into his tone. "I fear some butchered news or ill-meaning prophecy has reached the ears of the steward, though I know not how. I have not seen him, not since yesterday, but I hear that his mutterings are growing violent, and less lucid. He speaks of the end of his line, of the death of his sons, of the doom of his city, and he speaks of them as though they have already come to pass. Once, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, was a strong man. Now, I fear, he has been crippled by his own pride and stubbornness. You take care if you see him, Pippin. I know not what he will do."
Pippin felt rather like a glass of ice-cold water had been tipped down the back of his neck. "You think he might hurt Faramir?"
"I do not know," said Gandalf gravely, squeezing Pippin's shoulder. "Denethor loves his sons, and though he may not accept it he does love Faramir, but madness can drive a man far beyond the reach of love. But I give you two orders. The first is the lesser – protect Faramir. Keep him safe, and maintain the order of the healers. But you are to abandon this quest if it interferes with the second: take care of yourself. Do not put yourself in any more danger than you must, Peregrin Took."
Eyes drifting towards the army, Pippin crossed his fingers in his pocket and nodded. "I'll try, Gandalf."
A great cry rose among the men nearby and Gandalf leapt to his feet, twisting Pippin around behind him. Around them, the men raised their shields and cringed away, and Pippin heard a hailing chorus of metal hitting metal, and the sickening thud of flesh hitting stone, and then a missile landed an inch from his toes, rocking back and forth on the ground.
And then Pippin saw what it was, and he whimpered, clamping a hand over his mouth.
It was a helmet – but not an empty helmet. Inside it was the head of a man, his face still twisted in horror, his eyes as clouded as the grey sky above them.
"Go!" barked Gandalf, pushing Pippin back towards the inner city. "You have lingered here too long, Peregrin Took! Back to the Houses of Healing, hurry now!"
His eyes still fixed on the head, Pippin nodded and did as he was told, hurrying back along the wall and flying down the stairs to the street below. He could hear more heads falling, more soldiers crying out, but he kept running, making his way up through the city.
He was halfway up the second level when there came a thundering crash, and the ground tremored beneath his feet, throwing him off balance. He stumbled and looked back, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of one of the guard towers crumbling – Mordor were not just flinging heads anymore.
As he looked over his shoulder, he saw a great boulder hurtling towards the wall to the second level and he gasped, tripping over his own feet in an attempt to run faster. He stumbled, and then the boulder hit, and the ground beneath him shuddered and he fell. Winded, Pippin scrambled back up onto his feet, and kept running.
He kept running.
The city was eerily empty, but he passed a few frantic women and children scurrying deeper into the upper levels in a desperate search for shelter, and a handful of soldiers charging in the other direction, towards the lower levels. Towards the battle.
Pippin kept running.
Finally, with lungs fit to burst, he reached the sixth level and tore through the gardens into the Houses of Healing. There, he stopped running, and started to walk instead – as much to get his breath back as to avoid the wrath of the healers. He was still wheezing when he burst into Faramir's room, and when he did the soldier sitting by the bed leapt to her feet.
"Pippin," Rion breathed. "It has begun."
"Yes," he said, breathing heavily. "Gandalf, Gandalf told me to guard Faramir."
Rion nodded, and picked up a helmet from the bedside table. It was identical to the one worn by the head that had landed at Pippin's feet, and fear rose fresh within him as Rion put it on.
"You're going out to fight?" he asked. "I thought you were still healing?"
"Yes, I am going out to fight," said Rion, bowing low and giving Pippin a wry smile. "My wounds may slow me a little, but I can handle a bow as good as any, and my sword if I must. This is my home, and I must defend her. But I must thank you, Peregrin Took, from the bottom of my heart."
Thoroughly baffled, Pippin shook his head. "Thank me? Why?"
Rion glanced at Faramir, her smile softening into a look that Pippin knew well. It was the sort of reverence that Kíli would send Fíli's way, if he thought no one was looking. The way that Vinca looked at Pearl when she was onstage dancing. The way that Merry looked at Pippin. "If no one came to relieve me, I would be torn between my duty to my city, and my duty to my lord – but with you here, I know that Faramir is in good hands." She paused, and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, they stared straight at Pippin. "Take care of him for me?"
"I will," swore Pippin, patting the hilt of the small sword that Galadriel had given him. "I won't fail. But be careful."
Rion bowed again, her hand over her heart in a manner that looked almost elvish. "And you, my friend."
And then she was gone.
And Pippin was alone again, with a young lord he did not know.
For a while, he simply stood there a little awkwardly, unsure of exactly what to do, but then he sighed, and sat down on the chair beside Faramir.
"It's all getting a bit real here," he sighed, patting the young man's arm. "I never thought I'd ever be in a place like this – trapped in a strange city while Mordor besieges it… It sounds like one of Balin's old stories, like the tales of the elder days. The elves think that we don't know all that old history, dwarves and hobbits and dwobbits. They think we don't care, but that's not true." Pippin paused a moment, and then nodded his head slightly. "Well, I mean, it is for hobbits – hobbits don't care about any history that isn't family trees or the tale of pipe weed, but dwarves – dwarves remember everything. They learn their own histories by heart, and they keep the histories of the world close at hand. We learnt about the old wars in school – about Isildur and Elendil, and Gil-Galad and the Last Alliance. And in all of those stories, all of them, it seemed hopeless. As hopeless as this – more hopeless than this! But they came out in the end. With any luck, so will we…"
Faramir stirred in his sleep, and Pippin took it as an invitation to continue his monologue. He rambled on and on, filling the eerie quiet with his fears and his hopes, and describing half a dozen ways that things could be worse.
He had thought that the clamour of battle would be inescapable, but the great outer wall had to be half a mile away at least, and all he heard were distant echoes, and the constant drone unintelligible noise. A faraway roar, a roar whose voices and words were lost to space and distance. A roar that never stopped – a roar that he was sure would soon swallow them whole.
Pippin tried to steer his mind away with stories and tales of merrier times, and he was halfway through telling the unconscious Faramir exactly how Ori had taken down Smaug when he heard something else – something nearer.
They were footsteps, loud, booted, and hurried, and he barely had time to leap to his feet before the door burst open, and six fully armed guards strode in.
Before Pippin could say as much as 'Hello,' Denethor followed them inside, and horror ran down the hobbit's spine.
A far cry even from the grieving lord that he had met in the king's hall, Denethor now looked like a man possessed – his shoulders were hunched, and his hair dishevelled, and there was spittle at the edge of his mouth. He was breathing very heavily, almost twitching on every exhale, but none of that compared to his eyes.
They bore a look that Pippin had never seen before, but even so it was a look that he could not mistake. It was a fire, strange and frightening and fickle and fierce.
It was madness.
How? Pippin thought, even as dismay and fear rose within him. How could a man fall so far so fast? But then he gave his head a little shake – he had to focus. Gandalf said that Denethor might hurt Faramir, and upon a second glance, Pippin noticed that the soldier nearest the door was carrying a stretcher.
How on earth did you miss that the first time, Pip? scoffed a voice much like Merry's in his mind, but he shushed it.
"Good afternoon, my lord," he said slowly, giving a little bow. "Can I help you?"
Denethor made an odd noise in his throat, a strange mingling of a choke and a growl. "The halfling. Begone from my sight! Your riddles were what ripped my sons from me!"
"No one's ripped your sons from you, and I've never given any riddle," protested Pippin, doing his best to keep his voice calm and measured. He thought of Nelly, and drew his shoulders back a little, though he kept his face as meek as he was able to make it. "I'm just here to help."
"Lies!" Denethor hissed, taking a lurching step forward. Even as fear began to creep up his spine, Pippin stepped in before the end of Faramir's bed. The lord's eyes flashed. "I know what halflings are – I know they are treacherous and wretched and rotten to the core – you offer no help! Begone, I command you! Do not stand between me and my son."
Pippin flinched, and he knew that his fear would be showing on his face by now. He shook his head. "I won't, as long as you tell me what that stretcher is for. The healers said that Faramir shouldn't be moved."
Denethor's expression crumpled as though Pippin had taken a sledgehammer to it, but even through the anguished grief that wrought its way onto the man's face, the mad fire remained strong in his eyes.
"There is nothing more the healers can do to save Faramir," said Denethor softly, the change in his tone as sudden as a sword stroke. "He is dead. My sons are spent – I have seen it. But there will be no tomb for Faramir, no tomb for Denethor. We shall burn, as the heathen kings of old, and set a fire in our flesh!"
"You – you mean to burn him?" choked Pippin, his horror wrapping tight around his throat.
Denethor's face hardened again, and he snarled. "We shall burn together, and thus we shall conquer Mordor, and Gandalf, and the Dúnedain – we shall cheat them all! They will not have us. Mordor will not slay us, and we shall not bow to that Ranger from the North! You will not stop us."
"But he's not dead!" cried Pippin, shaking his head to try and hide his trembling. "He's not dead!" He looked frantically towards the guards, praying that one of them would do something, say something, but they stood silent and motionless as statues. Would they really burn Faramir alive at the whim of a man who was clearly mad?
"My sons are both dead," said Denethor, his voice breaking. "Boromir is dead, is long dead and will never know, will never know that Faramir rode alone, and Faramir – Faramir will burn with me, and be with me forever-"
"They're not dead! He's breathing, you can see he is breathing!" Pippin's voice grew more desperate, more incredulous as he pointed at the slumbering man, but the guards simply stared at him, emotionless beneath their helmets.
Denethor gave a strangled roar, and cast out his arms, jabbing his fist towards Pippin. "You – you will not separate me from my son! Begone, cur! Guards, take Faramir from this wretched place, now!"
The guards moved forward fluidly towards Faramir's bed, and Pippin held out his hands. "Don't – please, don't – listen to me, Faramir is not dead, you cannot burn him!"
One of the guards hesitated, but Denethor growled and he re-joined the others, carrying the stretcher towards the right side of Faramir's bed.
Unbidden, an image of Boromir sprang to Pippin's mind, an image of the woods, and the arrows, and the great man on his knees.
This was it.
This was his chance to repay his friend. To repay his debt.
He drew his sword.
The guards all froze, and the one who had hesitated looked to Denethor.
His voice trembling, Pippin drew their eyes back to him. "Faramir is not dead, and neither is Boromir – but Boromir very nearly did die, saving us – my kinsman and me. I cannot let you burn his brother. Not when there's still hope that he will wake up, not when there's still breath in his body."
"Hope?" snarled Denethor. "Hope? You fool – there is no such thing as hope!" He turned to the guards and spoke in a voice as cold as Caradhras. "Get that filth out of here, if you have not the guts to slay him! We are running out of time – the fire must be lit before the city falls, and oh, it will fall. All the 'hope' you have now lies in a swift death."
Two of the men stepped forward towards Pippin, one reaching out a hand for his collar, but Pippin ducked easily, and then jumped back onto the end of Faramir's bed.
"Get back!" he warned but even he could hear the fear in his voice. "Get away!"
"Come, little one," said the guard who had reached for him. "It does not have to end like this."
"No, it doesn't," Pippin agreed. "If you would kindly see sense and put down your weapons-"
"Put down the sword," said the guard, his voice hardening a little. "You are outnumbered. We will kill you."
Pippin's eyes flickered over the room, over the armed soldiers and their swords, over Denethor and his blazing eyes. The man was right. He could not win against six trained guards over twice his size. He was no Fíli.
He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, felt them survive his desperate attempts to blink them away, and he sniffed. Then, he took a deep breath. "I know," he said, his voice wavering. "But Boromir tried to protect me. And I have to try, too."
"Please, little one," said another soldier – this was the one who had hesitated. "We do not wish to harm you."
Denethor growled, stepping forward again. "Enough talk! Kill him, now!"
His heart pounding a desperate drum beat against his ribs, Pippin stared at the soldier who had hesitated. "You are not just going to harm me. You're going to kill me, and then you will murder Faramir. All because you won't think for yourselves or for your city – you'll just listen to the whim of a madman."
With a bellow, Denethor lurched forward, but Pippin was prepared for it, and he spun his sword around in his hands to grab it by the blade, bringing the hilt down hard on the lord's head. Denethor froze with a gasp, and Pippin hit him again with a loud thunk, sending him down to his knees. Already the guards were moving, surging towards him, but time seemed to slow for Pippin as he raised his sword like a golf club, and brought down one last strike to the side of Denethor's head.
Knocked him out cold.
And as Denethor fell, the foremost guard brought his sword down in a strike so fast that the young hobbit would never have had a chance of escape – at least, he would have had no chance if he had lived all his life in the Shire.
But Pippin was a dwobbit of Erebor, and defensive manoeuvres had been drilled so deeply into his mind that they were now pure instinct. He threw himself back down on the bed, feeling the rush of the air as the blade swung over his head instead of through his waist, and he gasped, scrambling backwards up the bed towards Faramir.
"Wait!" he begged, dropping his sword into his lap and holding out his hands as his back pressed against the headboard. "Wait, please, I'm just trying to help, please!"
"Help?" demanded the soldier who had struck out at him. His eyes were like a pool of dark blue ink, and his lips were drawn back in a scowl. "You murder our lord and call it help? I will have your head!"
He moved forward, but another guard grabbed his shoulder. "Wait, Amrod – he is too close to Faramir!"
"Please! Please, don't hurt me, I – I'm just trying to protect Faramir!" cried Pippin. "I didn't mean to kill anybody, but I couldn't let you burn him – he's still alive, his father meant to kill him!"
"What would you know of it that our healers could not?" demanded Amrod, turning to the guard holding his shoulder. "Captain Daeron, let me take his tongue first, if he is to add lies to his treason!"
"No!" cried a third guard, the one who had hesitated before, stepping towards Amrod. "Do not harm him – I fear he has seen more into the mind of our lord than we have."
Amrod's eyes bulged with incredulous fury as he turned to his comrade. "What?! That is orc dung, Beregond! Lord Denethor is the wisest man in the kingdom, and he is never without purpose. And this rat murdered him! Our law demands his life!"
"Lord Denethor is not dead," said a fourth guard, glancing up from where he crouched by the motionless man. "His heartbeat is strong – I am sure that soon he will stir."
"Attempted murder, then," spat Amrod. "The penalty is the same."
He turned towards Daeron, and Beregond did the same, both men staring intently at their captain. After a long moment, Daeron inclined his head. "By the letter of the law, the penalty is the same."
Amrod smirked, his eyes still smouldering with fury, and Beregond opened his mouth, but Pippin's terror was too great to be contained, and it tumbled out of him in the only threat he could imagine the men taking seriously.
"Boromir is coming!" he cried. "Boromir is coming, and if you kill me, he won't be happy! And neither, neither will Gandalf! If Gandalf finds out you've killed me you will burn too!"
Amrod's face blazed red, as though flames were biting it already. "You dare threaten us in our own halls?" he roared, storming towards Pippin and raising his sword. "Move! Get away from Lord Faramir now, and I will give you the mercy of a swift end!"
"No!" Pippin's protest came out as more of a whimper, but as it did Faramir stirred, his brows twitching down towards a frown as his face tilted towards Pippin. The guards drew hitched gasps of shock, and Daeron's eyes widened.
"Faramir lives…" he breathed, his eyes glued to the young lord. He hesitated, his sword lowering a little, and then he sighed. "Perhaps the Lord Denethor is mistaken. But we have orders, and we are men of Gondor – men of honour. And the law must be obeyed." He stepped past Amrod and raised his sword once more and stepped forward, so that the blade's tip hovered only a handspan away from Pippin's chest. "Come, little one. Do not make this more difficult than it needs to be."
This was it.
They were going to kill him.
This was how Pippin was going to die – alone and afraid, executed for trying to save the brother of his friend. The look on Daeron's face was clear – there would be no escape. Not even a trial.
The terror that coiled around him was so strong that he could not breathe, and his whole body trembled fiercely, and he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
His gaze fell upon the sword tip, and as it did, a memory appeared in his mind, as clear as though it were happening before his very eyes.
Curled up in the corner of the empty training arena, Pippin ran his sleeve across his nose. It was the third time he had failed his swordsmanship trial, the third, and he was the only one in his class that had even had to try three times. He had failed, miserably, and what was worse, his whole family had been there to see it. Merry had been insufferable afterwards, hovering around and constantly telling him that it was alright, that he had not done too terribly, that he had almost passed, but it just made Pippin want to scream.
And to be alone.
No one would look for him here. It was dark and it was supposed to be locked up, and it was the last place anyone would expect him to be.
The door creaked open.
The last place that anyone would expect him to be, except, perhaps, Fíli.
"There you are," the dwarf murmured, closing the door behind him and striding over to Pippin's corner as the young hobbit tried frantically to wipe away his tears. "Your mama's almost as worried as Merry is."
"Aye, because I can't take care of myself!" sobbed Pippin angrily, holding his knees against his chest as Fíli sat down beside him.
"Ah, now that's not true is it?" said Fíli quietly, holding out a handkerchief.
"I failed. You saw! You saw everything! I completely failed, I'm the worst swordsman ever! Even Pearl didn't need three tries and me? I'm – I'm useless!"
"You are not useless, and you are not the worst swordsman ever," said Fíli firmly. "You're not even twelve years old, Pippin, and this is just your first trial."
Pippin scowled. "My third first trial."
Fíli paused, and then he reached over, scooping Pippin up off the floor and bringing him into his lap. Pippin squirmed and protested, but Fíli held him tightly, and after a moment Pippin gave up with a sob. All his humiliation and sorrow burst out in a storm of tears and sobs, and Fíli shushed him gently, rocking him back and forth. Pippin cried and cried until his whole body felt empty and he could not cry any longer, and it was only then that Fíli spoke.
"Do you know why it was that you failed?" he asked. Pippin shook his head pressing his face into Fíli's shoulder. Gently, Fíli took Pippin's chin and forced him to meet his eyes. "It's because you didn't protect yourself. You were too busy trying to jump through the examiner's hoops and strike your target that you forgot to protect yourself. That is always your priority. Always. If anything ever happened to you, it would shatter this family, it would shatter me, and that is what you must remember when you fight. Your life is so important, Pippin. Protect it."
With a cry of pure desperation, Pippin thrust the man's sword away with his own, tumbling off the bed in the same movement. He hit the floor with a bang and rolled away, clambering to his feet and raising his own sword.
"Don't – don't come any closer!" he yelled, and though his voice trembled, his hand did not.
The guards continued to advance, but then Beregond growled and shook his head, throwing himself in front of Pippin and then turning his back to him, lifting his sword towards his fellow guards.
"Wait, Daeron, please! This is wrong, this is so very wrong. To follow our orders now is to help a man burn himself and his son alive – to burn Faramir, one of the best captains we have! If we follow our orders, we will burn the hope of our people alongside their lords. We cannot do this, and we cannot punish this boy for telling the truth we should have seen with our own eyes."
"Orders are orders," said Amrod, his voice hard. "And this rat just struck our lord, tried to kill our lord! This is treason, Beregond, and you know the consequences. Have you no honour?"
"The orders we were given are madness," said Beregond, leaning deeper into a fighting stance as Amrod stepped closer. "This is what is right – for the city, for our people, and for the wellbeing of both our lords – Denethor is not in his right mind, and this halfling may well have saved him, as well as his son."
"It is not our place to decide what is right!" snapped Amrod. "That is not the duty of the soldier! We serve, and we follow orders – how would we know better than our lord?"
"I do not wish to fight you, Amrod, but if you attempt to harm this halfling I will do all in my power to stop you, I swear it!" said Beregond, and Amrod surged forged. His sword was met mid-stroke by Beregond's, and a great, angry cry rang through the hall.
"Wait!" bellowed Daeron. "Amrod, Beregond, lower your blades. Now!"
"I-"
"Dammit, Amrod, if you are so devoted to orders then listen to mine, I am your captain. Lower your blades, now," Daeron growled. Slowly, the two men obeyed, bringing their blades down in an eerie unison. Daeron paused, staring intently at Pippin. "If the city has no lord, the city will fall."
"If the city's lord declares that the city will fall, he will fell it himself," replied Beregond, shaking his head a little. "Lord Imrahil and Mithrandir are acting as great lords indeed. We should be out there fighting with them, not holed up in here trying to slaughter this boy! Captain Daeron, you know I am right in this."
Daeron did not look at Beregond. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on Pippin. "Tell me, halfling," he said. "How came you to be alone in Faramir's room as battle raged outside?"
"Gandalf told me to watch over him," said Pippin, keeping his sword steady. "When, when I got here Rion was watching, but when I told her what Gandalf said she left to join the battle."
Daeron's eyebrows disappeared below his helmet. "Rion? He is loyal indeed, especially to Lord Faramir. I know of no truer a soldier – if he showed trust in you, then it is likely he had good reason to think you were not any enemy."
"I'm not an enemy!" said Pippin, his exasperation leaking into his tone, despite his best efforts. "How many times do I have to tell you?"
Amrod scoffed furiously. "He struck down the steward of the city! To whom do we owe our duty if not our lord?"
"How old is your son, Amrod?" said Beregond softly. "Fourteen summers? Fifteen? This halfling does not seem to be much older than Arron, to me. Would you see your son slaughtered for this?"
Amrod's eyes narrowed. "My son would not do anything to warrant it."
Beregond shook his head sadly. "Has the halfling? Yes, he struck down lord Denethor, but in doing so he may well have saved his life! He certainly saved Faramir's. Look at him, Amrod. Do you truly think he deserves to die?"
Pippin shivered as Amrod stared at him, but to his surprise, the man's furious face slackened into worry and grief.
"I do not," he said, looking to the Captain. "But does it not make us traitors, if we do not fulfil our orders, our duties – our laws?"
Daeron stroked his chin, nodding his head slowly. "It would – but I don't recall any laws being broken. I do not remember Master Halfling striking the Steward. As I recall, Lord Denethor was in quite a state – ranting and raving, quite overexcited. I remember that we all feared him slipping towards madness, for his words made little sense and seemed beyond desperation, but before anyone could console him, he fell and hit his head on the bedpost. Naturally, we took him to a secure healing room and restrained him there – so he could not harm himself, of course. That is how I remember it."
"It is what I remember," said Beregond at once, and to the utter astonishment of Pippin, the other three guards all murmured in quiet agreement. Only Amrod said nothing, his lips pursed and his eyes on Pippin.
"Amrod?" pressed Daeron. "What do you recall?"
"No one can ever know of this," said Amrod fiercely. "Of their lord's state of mind, our people have a right to know, should we come out of this alive, but none can know what the halfling did. What we have done. For the halfling's sake, and for yours, Beregond. No one can ever know – if word breaks of this we will be stripped of all duty and banished, and you'll be slain beside the halfling for turning a sword on your own people."
"No one ever will know," insisted Daeron, looking slowly around the room and meeting the eyes of every guard. Then, he looked at Pippin. "Not unless someone 'recalls' something other than what we all agree we saw."
"I won't tell!" swore Pippin, disbelief sending a shiver of unease up his spine. This was too easy – was his life truly to be won back with a promise?
"Very well," Amrod sighed heavily. "What order, Captain Daeron? What now?"
"We will take Lord Denethor to a secure room, and if we can find something to sedate and restrain him, until this madness has passed. Beregond, you will remain here with Faramir and the halfling, if he consents to continuing his duty as guard?"
"I do," said Pippin, lowering his sword and raising his chin. "I came here to protect Faramir and I'm not about to stop now. But my name isn't halfling – it is Peregrin Took, son of Lord Paladin of Hobbiton and of Erebor." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Though you can call me Pippin, if you like. Most people do."
"Very well," said Daeron, bowing slightly. "Master Took and Beregond shall remain here. When Lord Denethor is secure, I bid Amrod and Hirluin to guard his door from any who might cause him harm – including himself. The rest of us shall join the battle – our city needs us."
A murmur of assent ran around the room, and then the guards moved as effortlessly as a well-oiled machine. It seemed less than a moment before Denethor was gone, and the other guards were gone, and Pippin was left alone with Beregond and Faramir.
And in the absence of the men, the far-off, rumbling roar of battle seemed to grow louder.
It filled the awkward silence between Pippin and Beregond, and the more that he listened, the louder it seemed to become.
Trying desperately to ignore it, Pippin walked back to Faramir's side, adjusting the sheets where he had scrambled up the bed and fluffing up the pillow a little, before hoisting himself back up onto his chair, but he could still hear it. It never stopped.
"They must have been fighting for hours now," Pippin murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Surely it must be over soon…"
Beregond gave him a pitying smile. "If only, Master Took. Battle does not end in a matter of minutes the way it does in a fairy-tale. Besides – you speak of Boromir coming, of Rohan. For them to be of any help, we must hold out until they get here, and that may yet be days."
"Days?" Pippin breathed, his eyes widening as horror swelled around him. "Can the city really hold on for days?"
"I do not know," murmured Beregond, looking away. "If I were to make my very last wager, I would bet that we hold the city for a day or two. I would bet that we would fight till the very bitter end."
Pippin swallowed. "But you would bet that the city would fall?"
Beregond gave a sad smile and did not answer. Instead, he said, "The outer wall is strong. Very strong. If we are lucky, it will be a day or so before you have to use that sword, Master Took. That said, you have no need of it now. I will not harm you."
With a start, Pippin realised that he was still holding his sword. He felt himself go a little pink and ducked his gaze, quickly sliding the blade into its sheath. "Sorry." He paused, and then glanced back at the guard. "Is it true, what Amrod said? Would you really be executed if anyone found out that you had helped me?"
"Yes," said the man softly. "It goes against the most sacred of our laws to raise your sword against your brothers in arms, and any accomplice to an attack on the Steward would be punished severely."
"Then why did you help me?"
The man paused for a long moment, staring at Faramir. "Lord Faramir is the best man I have ever had the good fortune to meet. He cares more deeply for this country and its people even than Boromir, if that is possible. I could not follow any order that would harm him, much less kill him. I – I did not really believe that Denethor would… That any father could… And then there was you. You're not more than a child, are you?"
"I'll be of age in six years," Pippin protested uneasily.
Beregond's eyes grew even sadder. "No more than a child. And you would lay down your life for a man you had never shared so much as a word with, for the sake of what was right, and for your love of his brother. If I had not done something, and you had been slain and Faramir burnt, I would not survive this night either. If the orcs did not take me, then I would've thrown myself on my own blade."
Trying to swallow the lump in his throat, Pippin dashed the tears from his eyes and jumped down from the chair, bowing low in dwarven fashion.
"Thank you," he said. "I… thank you."
Beregond bowed back.
They did not speak much that night. Pippin dozed, on and off, and Faramir made some soft murmurings of dream speech, but he did not wake and the sounds of the battle did not slow. Every time Pippin woke, it was to see Beregond pacing, or staring out into the corridor, or listening intently by the window. At midnight, the man left to seek news, and to Pippin's delight, he returned with two small, hot pies. The word he brought with him was less welcome.
"A good number of orcs have swarmed the first level of the city already, thanks to their cursed ladders and towers – hundreds of them, no doubt. The streets are full of corpses, many of ours but more of theirs. They are yet to breach the Great Gates, and most of the ladders have been cast down. The towers are burning."
All through the night, the fighting raged on.
And the Great Gates fell at dawn.
I hope you enjoyed that chapter. Please let me know what you thought, I'm not too sure how I feel about it, to be honest, and I really appreciate the feedback.
Until next time, take care.