Pippin, Beregond
Rating: General, mild allusions to something else
Summary: Set during Return of the King.
Feedback: Always appreciated - perhobfan@yahoo.co.uk
Disclaimer: All these characters belong to Prof Tolkien and his estate. No profit is made nor offence intended.
Pippin was hungry. He was always hungry, so this was in itself not unusual, but he felt his hunger keenly being, as he was, in a strange and unusual place.
Minas Tirith.
Gandalf had left him to his own devices that morning; he was hurrying off to attend a council with Denethor, the Steward of the City. The wizard had become charged with an energy Pippin had never seen before, as if his transformation after Moria had wrought more than a physical change. Now he was somehow bigger than before. Pippin sighed, wishing not for the first time that he had a way with words.
He also wished he had breakfast. Standing in the street of the White City, looking around him, Pippin missed Merry more than ever before. A chill pierced his heart as he thought of all the things that could befall his dear Merry, the dangers he might face and the hardships. Not for the first time did he curse his foolishness in meddling with the palantir at the camp on Dol Baran, the reason for his separation from his cousin.
He sighed again and set off down the street, sniffing the air for signs of cooking. As he walked he admired the city, which was really quite beautiful even where it was falling into decay. What a place this must have been, when its King sat on his throne and its pride was well-placed.
“Peregrin? The Halfling?” The man who thus addressed Pippin had turned out of one of the side streets. Pippin, at first startled, was more than happy to find someone to talk to, someone who might know the location of breakfast. And the man was kindly looking and very tall, of course.
“Yes, I am he,” said Pippin, cheerfully falling into step with the man of Gondor. He soon discovered that this was Beregond, son of Baranor, and he had been sent by the Steward, Denethor, to teach Pippin the passwords of the City. As he found out all of this, Pippin stole a glance at his new friend. He seemed quite old to Pippin, and yet had vigour and a beguiling curiosity about the outside world, and halflings in particular.
“For never before have we seen a halfling in this land and though we have heard rumour of them, little is said of them in any tale that we know. Moreover you are a friend of Mithrandir. Do you know him well?” asked Beregond, leading Pippin towards the mess hall.
Mention of Gandalf made Pippin remember his promise to call in on Shadowfax, stabled nearby, and Pippin begged leave to postpone his meal until he had ensured the magnificent steed was well housed. Once assured that this was indeed the case, the hobbit allowed himself to be led to his own feedbag.
On their way, the young hobbit found himself telling Beregond all sorts of things about Gandalf, Gimli, Merry and the others. His companion was so easy to talk to, so patient and kind. Kindness proven indeed when he led the starving Pippin towards good, honest food at the City buttery.
Packing the meal into a basket, the two ventured outside once more and ate their picnic on the battlements. It was if they had known each other for many years, not a matter of an hour, and Pippin felt himself relax.
For his part, the man of Gondor laughed as he watched the halfling gorge himself on the cheese and bread. Pippin beamed across his face, feeling truly happy for the first time in a long time. For a brief spell, as his stomach filled, he forgot his Merry. At last, with a contented sigh, he sat back on the cold stone seat, flicking the last apple core over the imposing white wall.
Beregond watched as Pippin stood on tiptoe to peer over the wall and admire the view that lay stretched before him as if wrought for his very own pleasure. The man had never seen such a creature as this halfling. Like in size to his own dear son, Bergil, the hobbit was nevertheless sturdy and manly. There was, too, a sweetness about him that Beregond marvelled could have endured through the hobbit’s many and perilous adventures on the road to the White City.
Pippin turned from his exhilarating perch and was disconcerted to find the man’s eyes on him. Beregond hastily looked away, his face curiously flushed and bemused. The hobbit jumped down and returned to the stone seat, clambering up beside his new friend. As Beregond turned back to him, Pippin found himself revising his earlier opinion – the man was younger and more fair than he had first supposed, perhaps no more than thirty five, about the same tally in years as Merry.
Merry.
Beregond was as different to Merry as chalk to cheese, being extremely tall and broad across the chest, his hair and beard dark. Moreover, the man of Gondor was possessed of a stillness that seemed to spring from deep inside. The Merry that Pippin adored, his Merry, overflowed with life and chafed at inactivity, longing to make his mark in the world. Yet they were so very similar, too. Both were gentle and kind. But Merry was many leagues hence, perhaps having adventures of his own; and Beregond was here, now. The man of Gondor seemed to have found his way into Pippin’s heart and why that should be, Pippin cared not.
They sat, side by side, for a while, companionable and still.
Beregond thought briefly of his wife, the mother of his son, Bergil. Many weeks it had been since last he saw her bright face. She had loaded the scant possessions allowed for the journey to the sanctuary in the hills upon the cart and smiled stoically as she kissed him farewell. When she discovered that Bergil would remain behind with his father, her smile had faltered but only for a moment. With the resignation of a proud woman of Gondor, she had straightened her shoulders and bade farewell to the two men in her life. At that moment, on the battlements, on the eve of war, Beregond wondered if he would ever see her again.
Pippin was thinking of Frodo and Sam. Were they alive? Would they succeed? And Merry? Was Merry well? Those eyes, so dear to him, did they still look upon the sun as Pippin’s did? Did Merry think of his Pippin?
Two hands clasped gently, and two hearts rested easy for a little while in the White City. The hands of a hobbit and a simple man of Gondor.
The End