Chapter Text
The pale sun reflected off the tower of Echtelion, making the walls of the White City sparkle. As Gandalf’s majestic horse entered the paved courtyard, men hurried toward him, calling out as if he were a harbinger of good fortune. But the Wizard waved them off with a grave air, telling them that, no matter what was to come, it was the end of Gondor as they all knew it.
This offered little comfort to Pippin, half-asleep and disoriented from their three-day, three-night journey. No sooner had he closed his eyes, jostled by the horse’s gallop and the wind pushing the hood of his cloak back, than the terrible vision of Sauron appeared in his mind—an unblinking fiery eye that kept him awake, shivering, and anxious.
The Citadel was magnificent, and its enormous architecture made him lift his gaze to take it all in.
He had never seen anything as impressive as Minas Tirith. Isengard was huge too, but it lacked the royal gravitas that radiated from the City. As he gazed upon it, Pippin thought, without knowing why, of the Argonath—so majestic and solemn. It was as if the White City were built upon memories of old, ancient sovereigns and kings revered in the eternity of death, almost worshiped as much as the living…
“...avoid mentioning Frodo, or anything related to the Ring. Nor Aragorn… In fact,” Gandalf added after a pause, “it would be best if you spoke not at all, Peregrin Took.”
Pippin nodded, slightly impressed—who was Denethor that so many things had to be avoided in his presence?—before asking:
“Why not mention Aragorn?”
“Because he is the one who will claim the kingship of Gondor,” Gandalf replied, lowering his voice.
“Strider ?!”
Pippin’s eyes widened, unable to see what their friend the Ranger had to do with it, let alone as king.
“Denethor is not the king of Gondor; he is only the Steward. If you have walked these past days with ears closed and mind asleep, wake now—but keep your mouth shut!”
With that, Mithrandir moved toward the great doors at the far end of the plaza. They opened by themselves, as if no one were there to operate them.
The chamber they entered was immense. The floor was polished stone, gleaming white. There were no tapestries along the walls, but between the marble columns stood a silent company of tall statues carved from cold stone.
At the far end of the hall, on a dais approached by many steps, stood a high throne on a marble platform. But it was empty. At the foot of the dais, on the lowest step, there was a stone seat, black and unadorned.
An old man sat there, eyes downcast. With solemn steps, Gandalf, followed by Pippin, walked up the aisle and stopped three paces from the footrest.
“I greet you, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith! I bring counsel and news in this dark hour.”
Denethor lifted his head. Pippin could now see his chiseled face, proud features twisted into a bitter, threatening grimace.
“The hour is certainly dark, and it is in such times we are accustomed to seeing you, Mithrandir. I have been told you bring someone who witnessed my son’s death. Is it him?”
“Yes,” said Gandalf. “One of the two. The other is with Théoden of Rohan, and he may come. They are Half-Men, as you can see, but he before you is not the one spoken of in prophecy.”
“He is no less a Half-Man,” said Denethor sternly, “and that name is not sweet to my ears, ever since those cursed words disturbed our councils and led my son on a mission that cost him his life. Ah! My Boromir. How we need you now! So,” he added, eyeing Pippin, “you were there when he fell? And how could you escape a fatal fate while he, valiant warrior, could not?”
Pippin looked the old man straight in the eye; a curious swell of pride rose in him, wounded by the contempt and suspicion he perceived in the icy voice.
“The bravest of men may die from a single arrow, and Boromir received three. I honor his memory, for he was very brave. He died to save us—my cousin Meriadoc and I; and if he fell and failed, my gratitude is no less. To the eyes of a great lord of Men, a Hobbit’s service may count for little, but I offer it nonetheless, in repayment of my debt.”
A pale smile, like a cold ray of winter sunlight, passed across Denethor’s features as Pippin knelt nervously.
“Then give me your account,” he said mockingly. “Words are welcome indeed from one so highly regarded by my son.”
Pippin would never forget that hour in the great hall under the Steward’s piercing gaze, harried by his skillful questions. He felt every word he spoke would be remembered by the old man, and perhaps used later. He hated the moment, feeling anxiety rising in his stomach along with his hunger.
Finally, Denethor sounded a gong.
“Take Lord Mithrandir to the lodgings prepared for him,” he said, “and his companion may remain with him for now, if he wishes. But know this: I have now made him swear allegiance to my service. He shall henceforth be known as Peregrin son of Paladin, and he will know the minor passwords.”
With that, Gandalf and Pippin left. A guard led them to a small house on the edge of the wide plaza, with a simple room containing two beds, a table, and a balcony.
“I must go, Pippin,” Gandalf said as the Hobbit explored the space. “There is one I am keen to find: Faramir, the new heir of Denethor. You, free to go where you will in this city, see if you can find his sister; she is the only sane one left in this line, since one brother is gone and the other untraceable.”
With that, Gandalf withdrew; and at the same moment, the clock struck nine. The sun now shone bright and warm—the perfect hour for breakfast, Pippin thought as he opened the door, standing atop the stone stairway leading to the lower levels, looking around.
Standing before the doorway, unsure, he spotted someone walking along the plaza: a girl in a long black dress, carrying a large wicker basket under her arm.
She crossed the aisle toward him, and Pippin realized she was staring at him. Thinking she was a servant going down the stairs, he watched as she paused before him, squinting against the sunlight. She raised her free hand as a visor to shield her golden hair.
“You are Gandalf’s companion?”
Pippin nodded.
“I have things for you,” she said, stepping into the house. Pippin realized she was very tall—almost twice his height.
She placed the basket on the table in the center and went to open the balcony curtains. Sunlight flooded the room. Then she returned to the table, removing sheets from the wicker basket.
“What’s your name?”
She smiled; but she had dark circles under her eyes.
“I’m Pippin.”
She nodded and finally took out one last thing from the basket.
“Then this is for you.”
She stared at what she held for a moment, as if hesitating, then laid on the table Gondor’s black-and-silver uniform; she unfolded it to reveal the tree with six embroidered stars, and the chainmail, which looked very heavy. And most importantly, a sword in its scabbard.
Pippin looked at the gear, throat tight, already regretting taking service under Denethor. It all seemed too beautiful, too prestigious—for a Hobbit.
The girl noticed his dismayed look; she, who a moment ago wanted desperately to leave the room, felt a sudden wave of guilt.
“Do you want me to show you around?” she asked. "Minas Tirith, I mean."
He lifted his head, blinking, completely overwhelmed.
“Yes… yes, please.”
She circled the table, looking down at him. Her voice and smile were much softer when she told him to follow.
Her name was Aileen; she was Denethor’s daughter, sister to Faramir and Boromir. He should have guessed, Pippin thought after she mentioned the Steward as her father. Luckily, he had made no slip regarding Boromir. He wondered if she knew exactly who he, Pippin, was—and that he had witnessed her brother’s death. He hoped not. She would not be so kind if she knew he had seen her brother die before his eyes, powerless to intervene, for he had died for Pippin and Merry.
So Pippin said nothing on that subject, for this girl was the first to smile at him in ages. Yet she seemed tired, pale as someone who had spent nights crying. When neither spoke, she gazed at the horizon darkly.
Aileen showed him through the countless streets of the citadel, passing the kitchens for bread and apples. They ate on a granite bench before the ramparts, Anorien stretching at their feet.
She wanted to ask questions—where he came from, who he was. She had never seen a Half-Man in her life but was already eager to know more about Pippin, who fidgeted nervously and had lunged at the food she offered as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. His clothes were too small, but he insisted on keeping his blue coat and small scarf beneath his strangely elven-like cloak. How could his strange big-footed people be so invisible among all others? She had never read anything on Hobbits in the Gondor library. And here was one before her, whose friends would forever change Middle-earth’s fate. She wanted to know everything he had lived, not realizing this little man, out of place in war, had in fact lived much more.
She suddenly asked, “How old are you?”
“Almost 29,” Pippin replied immediately.
Aileen looked at him, perplexed.
“You’re an adult?”
“No. Adulthood comes at 33 in our lands.”
She parted her lips slightly, then nodded.
“Oh. Alright.”
As Pippin wondered if she would keep staring at the horizon much longer, he noticed people and convoys leaving the city through the great gate, along a road.
“What’s that?”
“That’s the road to the Tumladen and Lossarnach valleys, mountain villages, and beyond, to Lebennin. The last wagons are taking the elderly, the children, and the women who must accompany them to safety. They all need to be a mile from the Gate and the road cleared by noon.”
“Why aren’t you with them?”
Aileen squinted at him.
“Why should I go?”
Pippin opened his mouth, uncertain. But as she continued to watch him, he blushed and fell silent.
Finally, Aileen sighed and brushed a hand across her face.
“Sorry. I know I’m not the best company. I’m tired and weary of all this. You may return to your quarters if you wish. But I doubt Gandalf will be back soon. As for me, I can no longer bear not seeing Faramir arrive. I can show you my quarters if you want. What do you say?”
She rose, and Pippin did the same. He should have said something polite, but all he found to say was that he too had been separated from those he loved dearly, and hoped they were still alive.
He expected Aileen to look at him coldly, but instead, she smiled.
Indeed, Gandalf was not there, leaving no message. Pippin accompanied Aileen, who on the way to her “quarters,” taught him the city passwords and how the guard towers worked, which he would have to manage starting the next day. They passed men of the Companies wearing Gondor’s livery, bowing as they went by. The rumor had already spread through the Citadel about Gandalf’s Companion, and it was said a Half-Man prince had come from the North with 5,000 swords, Aileen told him with amusement. Everyone called him “Ernil i Perriannath.”
He was held up for a long time by the inhabitants, who wanted to meet the bearer of this humble title; they thanked him for coming among them and offered him food and plenty of ale.
By late afternoon, Aileen and he returned to the top level, the White Tower. They ascended a grand staircase entering hallways far nobler than any he had seen; all the walls were white stone. Aileen slid open a large wooden panel and they entered a fairly austere sitting room with chairs and a large, empty fireplace. Large windows looked out over the surroundings. She crossed the room without pause and they arrived at a grand library. At the back, a door lay behind a curtain.
“Is this a secret passage?” asked Pippin, impressed.
“If you like. I just don’t want the old scholars studying here to find their way to my room.”
It was indeed a room. A very large four-poster bed lay at the back, with silk sheets; a rug was spread on the floor with two velvet chairs facing a fireplace with a bright fire. There was also a dressing table near the bed, and under the window, a large oak desk cluttered with parchments and books—reminiscent of Bilbo’s study. The window seat and a small bookshelf on one wall were likewise piled with papers and books.
Aileen shrugged off the shawl she wore and tossed it casually on the bed before moving toward the desk. As she prepared tea from seemingly nowhere, Pippin, unsure where to sit, sank into one of the chairs. It was so comfortable he could only sink deeper.
“All the rooms are yours?” he asked as she put the teapot on the stove.
“No. The first is my father’s sitting room, rarely used. The library is just a pale copy of the one in the city’s basements, and besides me and Faramir, only a few privileged people use it. Here,” she gestured around the room, “is mine. Want some sugar?”
He nodded, and she handed him a cup.
“Then, tell me everything now.”
Caught off guard, Pippin fidgeted, uneasy, weary from already having recounted his adventure to Denethor.
When he finally began from their departure to Rivendell, Aileen shook her head, interrupting him.
“No, no, not that. I don’t want to hear sad things. Tell me about where you come from. Do you have siblings?”
“I have three sisters,” he stammered, surprised.
“What are their names?”
“Pearl, Pimpernel, and Pervinca…”
“All names start with P in your family?”
He smiled despite himself.
“Yes. We have many traditions…”
“And are you all as small in your land?”
Pippin didn’t know why she asked so many questions, but he enjoyed talking about the Shire—it was a welcome change from war stories he’d heard for weeks.
“Yes, but in my family, we are among the tallest.”
Aileen fell silent, listening. Her delicate hands, adorned with rings, were wrapped around her cup. Encouraged by her absorbed expression, he continued:
“One of my ancestors was so tall he could ride a horse. He led a great battle that way—and won. I drank a peculiar drink with my companion, and we gained a few inches. I think we even surpassed him. But now, I think I won’t grow taller, except in width…”
Thus, Pippin forgot where he was and spoke to Aileen of the customs of his land, his family, and proudly told her that his family was one of the most important, his father being the military chief of the Shire, a role he would inherit later. He spoke of annual festivals, ponds, and pipe-weed, saying that Hobbits were the ones who cultivated this herb now known to all. He even boasted that his people mastered this ancient art better than anyone. To emphasize, he tried to blow smoke rings but choked, wasting his old Toby just to impress a girl—a move Merry would have strongly disapproved.
Finally, Pippin joked if she would record everything he had told her, so focused did she seem. Aileen replied very seriously that she would, if he agreed. She wanted to write about the Shire, proud to be one of the first to meet a Hobbit, and she was very interested in the histories of different peoples and wanted to enrich her research. She gestured vaguely to the piles of books on her desk.
Pippin wondered if she knew Bilbo’s story. He would have happily told her, but night had fallen, and he was very hungry. So he returned to his little house, feeling the city cold after the warm fire and Aileen’s rosy cheeks he had left behind.
Gandalf had returned, pacing and murmuring in his beard. He informed him that Faramir had still not been found, having left days ago. With this grim news, he advised Pippin to rest while he still could.