by Elanor Gardner |
Dedicated to the victims and
survivors of Hurricane Katrina,
and to the great city of New Orleans
Special illustration insert
"Remembering Ashes" by Wyna Hiros
Everything ached. He was, in fact, one big ache, with a few twinges,
and a definite pain in his shoulder -- right where he could not, by
any means, reach to massage it away. And anyone else who could do
it apparently had picked this particular moment to be off somewhere or
another. He shrugged in defeat and winced when the pain flared up
again. It must be the weather. It did seem a bit grey and
dreary out, with a definite trace of moisture in the air. Lovely
weather for fish and ducks, but Pippin Took wanted to bake his bones
beneath a bit of bright, warm sunlight.
As if in response to his thoughts, a beam of light slipped through the
shutters and brightened the dim room, dancing across his hauberk, draped
over the table, and highlighting the cake crumbs on the tiles beneath his
chair. Pippin grinned. It had been an excellent cake --
full of pieces of some kind of exotic fruit from the South. Just
another of the gifts that kept showing up at the door for the beloved Pheriannath -- as soon as Minas Tirith had discovered the way to any
hobbit's heart was through his stomach. The sunlight struck his foot
and the warmth stirred him to move. He slid off the chair, groaning
as his body protested briefly, then gritted his teeth -- a battle-hardened
Guard of the Citadel could manage a walk to the back of the garden at
least. That wide, sun-baked stone wall that overlooked the next
level was always warm and toasty at midday. Bolstered by the fine
cake and a bit of sun, he might just manage to ignore the aches and pains
and finish polishing his armour.
The air that greeted him as he stepped out the kitchen door and into the
garden was moist but thankfully warm, and he shut his eyes, turning toward
the sun like a flower, basking in the heat for a moment before he set out
on the familiar flag stone path. Sam had been here recently.
The beds showed the signs of careful tending and watering -- blooming with
vibrant colour and scent. Likely the gardener was off with Merry
again, investigating some strange and unlikely herb that another Gondorian
goodwife had brought to their attention. Pippin was still a bit
taken aback at the sudden interest that Merry had taken in herb lore since
his stay in the Houses of Healing. The ladies in the households
around their temporary abode had quickly learned that they could lure at
least two of the famous Pheriannath into their homes by mentioning some
unusual plant or another languishing in their kitchen garden and then,
invariably, trotting out some prized recipe and a bottle of precious old
wine once they had Merry and Sam in their clutches. Grinning, Pippin
had to admit that the unlikely pair always came home with their arms full
of provender, in addition to the precious cutting or twist of seeds or
potted plant that one or the other of them carried.
The muted sound of construction in the streets below and above their
little house reached his ears -- the men of Gondor working to repair the
damage done during the siege. Hammering and shouting, and sometimes
the rattling of carts that hauled away the debris, provided a constant
background of noise during the daylight hours. That noise, and the
fact that even Pippin, given the right circumstances, could be quiet when
he wanted to be, kept Frodo from hearing the sound of his cousin's
approach. And that was something Pippin had been hoping for since
the Coronation -- an opportunity to observe his elder cousin unawares.
"He's much improved, Mister Pippin. Every day that passes, he's
more like to his old self and less--" Sam had hesitated, struggling for
the right word.
"Less what, Sam?" Pippin had whispered back anxiously, watching as Frodo
laughed gamely in response to one of Gimli's atrocious stories.
"He's less something, that's certain. I know that every healer in
the city has looked in on him, but--" Then Frodo had turned and
gazed at them, and Pippin hadn't needed to voice the rest. Perhaps
Frodo had everyone else fooled, but he knew that Sam, at least, could see
right through that brittle smile.
Frodo wasn't smiling now as he reclined in the sun on the wide wall at the
back of the garden, bracing his arms on the raised edge and resting his
chin there to gaze at the street below. Pippin felt a frisson of
fear when he saw the expression on Frodo's face. It was one thing to
suspect that a goodly part of the smiles and laughter were a bright
deception on the part of his cousin, but to see the evidence was another
thing altogether. The bland expression that Frodo had been wearing
for weeks was gone and there was such a look of pain there that Pippin had
to bite his lip to stifle a sound of dismay.
There had been a period of days just after they had come to Minas Tirith
when Sam had seemed reluctant to let Frodo get close to any high walls or
window ledges -- when Frodo had seemed even more fragile, more detached.
Not too long ago that had seemed to change and Pippin had rejoiced when
Sam had stopped dogging Frodo's every step and Frodo had appeared to be
just a bit more anchored in his skin. But still, Frodo tended
to laugh at jokes just a little late and remain dry-eyed in situations
when even the stoic Gimli was moved to tears. Pippin thought that
his elder cousin seemed brittle and broken -- and balanced on the edge of
something.
Pippin was pleased when he managed to scale the steps to the top of the
garden wall and sink cross-legged beside Frodo with only the slightest
grunt of pain. He was gratified that Frodo didn't turn away from
him, or, in fact, even flinch. Perhaps Frodo had known he was there
all along -- which shouldn't really surprise Pippin at all.
Frodo remained completely still as Pippin slid his arm around the too thin
shoulders and leaned forward to see what Frodo was watching so intently
below. The street beneath them was a bustle of activity. A
shop selling bread was just down to the right, almost hidden by a dusty
tree that shaded the entrance. Pippin could see that the shopkeeper
still had the door closed to keep out the powdery dust and ash that filled
the air -- unusual in Minas Tirith where doors were normally replaced with
decorative bead curtains during the day. It must be stifling in
there, what with the heat from the huge ovens in the back, Pippin thought.
But at least there was now enough flour and enough bread -- for a while
there everything had been horribly scarce.
Pippin could hear the sound of water from the fountains that he knew were
just below them and to the left. If you leaned forward just enough,
you could see the columns surrounding the washing pools, now hung
haphazardly with old blankets to keep down the dust. The absence of
chatter and laughter told him the women had finished their morning washing
and likely departed carrying baskets mounded with clean linens and towels
-- after exchanging every bit of gossip available to them as they walked
their laundry up and around the cascading water. Pippin had actually
gone down there, after Gimli had remarked on the design, just to watch as
the ladies used the lowest pool, just above the drain, for washing, then
gradually worked their way up to the fresh, clean water flowing in from
the spring for the final rinse. The pools even had corrugated
washboards cut into the edging stone. He smiled remembering how long
it had taken the giggling women to get past the fact that the famous Ernil
i Pheriannath was just sitting there watching them do laundry.
But across the road from the fountain, the siege had done its worst.
A fiery missile launched by some ugly war machine on the plains below had
obliterated half of a row of shops and the homes above them. That
was where the workmen were busy carting off debris, setting aside stone
for reuse, and chopping up partially burnt timbers and furniture -- likely
for firewood. The stench of charred wood and burnt paper and singed
leather was very strong in the air today. And Pippin realized what
had drawn Frodo's gaze, and shaken his cousin's fragile composure.
Two figures knelt beside a wooden pallet that had been placed in front of
the shop -- or what was left of the shop. One was a woman dressed
head to toe in dusty black. The other was a young girl -- barely a
teen he thought, but he still wasn't as good with human ages as he could
be -- also in black garb, but with nothing covering her frizzy, braided
hair. As he watched, one of the men, covered in soot and dust,
emerged from the shop carrying something heavy in his arms. He
placed his burden on the pallet, glanced at the women, and then went over
to a hook on the wall to retrieve a ladle. Wiping his eyes and
pulling down the kerchief that covered the rest of his face, he crossed
the street below them and went out of view. Likely to get a good
drink of fresh water from the fountain below, and pour some over his head
as well.
The pallet was already stacked high with books and parchment -- black with
soot and singed by flames -- some irretrievably ruined. The woman
and her daughter -- Pippin assumed -- were going through the stacks, piece
by piece, and carefully examining each item to determine if it could be
saved. Some were set back on the pallet, pages crumbling to ash.
Some were handled with reverence, dusted cautiously, and placed in a
wooden crate.
A bookshop. Pippin saw the singed sign now, propped against the
wall, a corner broken off and fresh wood showing through where it had
likely hit the cobbles or bounced off the wall below when the shop was
struck. It was barely legible, but, with a cold thrill of
recognition, he saw the name: Amon Dīn -- in letters
that had once been flame red --
Books and Prints. Amon Dīn.
It was obvious to him now, knowing what to look for in the dusty depths of
the building, that the shop had been quite well stocked with shelves and
cases full of leather-bound books and art prints and empty journals -- and
likely ink and quill pens and paper. There
was a nice shop like that in Tuckborough, and in Bywater as well, if he
recollected correctly. He squinted to peer through the dusty shafts
of sunlight piercing through the remains of the top floor to the first
floor. Far back in the shop, likely where the best stock had been
kept behind the counter, there was a splash of colour, vivid against the
oily grey soot.
Flowers. A bouquet placed reverently on the floor in an area that
had been cleared long before -- likely in those dark days following the
siege when there had been desperate excavations to find the living and to
retrieve the dead. Undoubtedly the shop owner had barricaded himself
in the shop and sent his family up into the higher levels of the city, or
they had somehow otherwise miraculously escaped the horrors of that night.
As he watched the widow and her daughter sorting through what was left of
their life, Pippin remembered the fire raining from the sky and the
screams he had heard in the city streets around him that night. He
hoped it had been the initial impact that took husband and father from
them in one blow.
"Pippin?"
He realized that Frodo had felt him shiver and looked over to see those
hollow eyes turned to his questioningly.
"I-- I was remembering that night. The night--" Pippin began, then
looked back down at the shop. "The night so many died in Minas
Tirith."
"They are left with only ashes." Frodo's voice was flat and
defeated.
Pippin swallowed, remembering the taste of oily smoke -- and fear.
"I saw the sign and for just a moment I could smell The Dusty Tome
in Bywater -- that scent of old leather and new ink and paper and book
dust," Frodo went on. "Then
I realized, even if they do rebuild, it will always smell of ash and soot
-- charred and oily. It gets up your nose and you can't be rid of it
-- you are never really rid of it."
Pippin looked back down at the sign, recalling the horrid smell in the
tombs that awful night. He would never forget that stench and how,
for days afterward, he had snorted water up into his nose trying to rid
himself of the stink and the memory. Then he looked at Frodo and
thought of the Mountain that stood to the east -- smouldering and cooling
slowly -- no longer belching sulphurous fumes.
"It will take them so very long to rebuild," Frodo went on. "There
cannot be enough men or raw materials to repair so much damage. And
some things are just-- You cannot replace some things. They are gone
-- forever." Frodo lowered his chin back to his arms once
more, gazing at the sad scene below them.
Pippin thought about the ash and soot in the shop and in the street and
the black-garbed figures below and that accursed Mountain, then grimaced
and steeled himself. "You know, Frodo, you promised me that -- when
you felt up to it -- you would take a stroll to see the bits of Minas
Tirith you haven't seen yet. Remember? You seem rather fit to
me today, so let's go for an amble about."
"What?" Frodo lifted his head, blinking owlishly up at him.
"I said," he grasped Frodo's arm. "There is this vendor up on
the top level that sells these flaky sweets -- layers of pastry with nuts
and sweet syrup and spice and I am mad for one, but I don't want to hike
up there all by myself."
"Pippin, I--"
"Need to get out and about a bit. You know that Ara-- I mean, the
King said that you needed to get out and move about a bit more and that he
would have all our hides if we didn't see to it that you did, and I, for
one, prefer to keep my hide, scarred up and stretched out though it may
be, so you are going with me on a walk."
"I really don't--"
"Want to. I know. But will you please anyway? I really
am desperate to get out of this place and there is a view that you really
must see." He tugged anxiously on Frodo's arm. "And now that I
have thought of them, I may expire very soon if I don't have one of those
pastries."
"Pippin, really--"
"Please, Frodo? I never get you to myself any more. Sam is
always about. Or Merry." He put on his best 'poor neglected
tweener cousin' face. "We never have any time together, like we used
to before--" Pippin frowned, "I just want my favourite old cousin back for
a bit, that's all."
Pippin winced as a pained look crossed Frodo's face. "I-- I suppose
it is a--" Frodo seemed to make up his mind and smiled resignedly.
"All right then. We will walk for a bit." The brittle smile
was back, but at least Pippin knew his cousin
was in
there -- somewhere.
***
Pippin took a big bite out of his pastry as they stood on the landing of
one of the terraced staircases that wound from one lane up through the
walls of houses and shops to the next above. This particular set of
stairs was well tended by the surrounding householders -- the pavestones
were immaculate and the landing held huge clay pots full of blooms.
In addition, there was a lovely view of the city below from here -- a part
of Minas Tirith that had been repaired early on because of its proximity
to the Citadel. And there was a gaggle of children
running about in a side yard below them, playing some game that didn't
appear to have any rules at all except tag and run and laugh and tag
again.
So far his hip hadn't twinged at all, and even Frodo seemed to be holding
up well to their little trek. Still far too pale and hollow-eyed,
Frodo did seem to be getting his old wind back as the days passed -- and
he had actually conceded that the exotic pastries were delicious,
just as Pippin had promised. Frodo stood on the landing in the
sunshine nibbling on his second.
Pippin watched his cousin thoughtfully. Frodo had even gone so far
as to promise the shopkeeper that they would stop back by on their way
home and take a bag of the pastries 'to the other brave Pheriannath'.
Yes, this trip would definitely be worth any aches or pains that resulted.
Pippin looked back up the stairs and grimaced, rubbing at a sudden kink in
his back. If he recalled correctly, it was one turn north, then back
west again then two more turns to their goal. He thought about the
streets and back alleys that he had learned far too well in the days
before and after the siege. At least they had only been required to
go through one of the tunnels, the way he had worked out their little
'stroll'. Frodo and Sam both seemed averse to going near tunnels in
general and equally reluctant to explain why, but the tunnels through the
great rock were well lit in both daylight and dark and Frodo seemed to
have become accustomed to them.
They turned at the head of the stairs, Frodo following Pippin without
saying a word, fascinated by the sights around him: an old woman
sitting in a doorway doing embroidery, a youngster sprawled on a step
attempting to whittle some animal-like shape, a young woman carefully
planting seeds in a window box, and a hen squawking wildly away down the
cobbles followed by a red-faced girl.
Pippin heard the whispers and saw the faces appearing at windows as they
passed, but was relieved that no one tried to stop them or offer them
gifts. There had only been a few faint shouts of "praise to the
Halflings!" and "long live the Ringbearer" on their trek thus far -- and
thankfully no one had bowed deeply or touched their foreheads in
reverence, which invariably disturbed Frodo.
Pippin led them left into a wide alley and looked up in surprise.
Colourful apparel was strung from window to window above them,
crisscrossing the street like so many flags. Flowers spilled from
every possible nook and cranny and trailed from the windows above as well.
He tilted his head at what sounded like the faint ring of chimes in the
breeze. Hearing Frodo make some noise, Pippin turned expecting to
see his cousin enjoying the wild display of clothing, but instead Frodo
was looking up the alley.
Pippin followed his gaze and they both watched as a brightly coloured ball
that jingled and chimed as it rolled came to a stop in the middle of the
alley. It was followed closely by a giggling blur of colour that
seemed to be jingling as well, and turned into a wiry, dark-haired toddler
of indeterminate age wearing a vest trimmed with coins. The
youngster caught sight of the two unusual creatures standing nearly on his
front porch and snorted in surprise, startling himself so much that he
almost fell down, his eyes turning into great round saucers and his lower
lip trembling dangerously. Frodo made an odd noise that Pippin
realized was a strangled laugh and then smiled a smile that startled both
the boy and Pippin with its brilliance. The youngster relaxed and
smiled tentatively back, then stooped to retrieve his ball, never taking
his eyes off them both as he ran back into the doorway. Frodo looked
up then, almost laughing as he spied the laundry that they were walking
beneath. Pippin smiled broadly as a small dark face peeked out of
the decorative beading in the doorway as they passed. A firm whisper
in a language that Pippin had only heard in court came from the room
beyond, but Pippin did recognize the word for
Halfling and watched as the boy's dark eyes grew wide.
"So, how much further?" Frodo asked after a moment.
"Are you tiring then, old cousin?"
"No, not really. I-- I didn't realize there were so many
faun-- I mean children in Minas Tirith," Frodo
responded. "It is-- I enjoy seeing them."
"Well, you attend only official functions and feasts and then you stay in
the house all the day. What do you expect? The city is full of
children," Pippin responded matter-of-factly, knowing that Frodo hadn't
really seen any younglings for months.
Frodo seemed to remember that he was holding a half finished pastry in his
hand and bit into it with some enthusiasm. As they turned into the
street above, Frodo finished his pastry and licked at his fingers, then
dusted them off.
"You see, I was right -- you need to get out and about more. It
definitely improves your appetite and I know that A-- that the King will
take to force feeding you soon if you don't start gaining back some
weight." Pippin said, ignoring Frodo's grimace. "I know some
other wonderful vendors in other parts of the city -- and not just
sweets."
"I am surprised. There was such a shortage of food when we first
arrived here," Frodo responded solemnly. "People were lined up for
flour and there was foul water in some places. I remember that there
was very little milk for a while. It felt wrong to have cream in our
tea or even a proper bath, when bairns--"
"That was just temporary, Frodo." Pippin frowned. "Foodstuffs
have been pouring in. The port is open and ships are coming from all
over. Oh, there are some things still in short supply, but--" He
looked at the bewildered expression on Frodo's face. "People from
everywhere have been sending gifts of grain, milk cows, fruit, game.
And everyone has sent workers and supplies to help rebuild."
Pippin took Frodo's arm, ignoring the look on his face as they walked on.
"Why, I have heard Fara-- I mean the Steward -- speak of rebuilding
Osgiliath. You should hear him talk about the grand festivals they
had there once -- music and dancing, feasting and even fireworks, like
Gandalf's! And shows with jugglers and acrobats and magicians and
all manner of strange and exotic beasts as well."
Some of the stately houses and buildings they were passing now showed
signs of having been empty for quite a while. But there were small
ornamental trees in carefully tended pots lining the walkway in front of
one newly painted building and boxes of flowers hung from the windows of
another. Muted sounds of conversation and laughter came from behind
the partially opened shutters, and the smells of something spicy and
delicious wafted out an open door, blending with the sweet scent of a
garden in bloom.
The vastness of the great rock rose back to their left, rising up to the
final level of the Citadel, with the White Tower just barely visible above
it and the great cliffs of Mindolluin rising ahead of them. If
Pippin had his bearings, it was just one more lane over.
"The view from somewhere near here must be quite breathtaking."
Frodo was looking up.
"It is," Pippin replied. "Through here." They cut down a lane
between two of the empty houses, past gated-walls enclosing plots of
freshly tilled earth and carefully tended rows of green plants. Wild
vines spilled into the roadway and crawled up the walls, heavy with red
trumpet-shaped blooms and humming with bees.
The lane split, one path leading downward and the other up a series of
rough stone steps cut just slightly too tall for a hobbit's legs.
Frodo turned and looked at Pippin questioningly.
"It's not far up there, really! Merry actually found it on one
of his garden expeditions. The view is quite worth the climb."
Pippin suddenly remembered with a shudder the stories of the horrible
crawl up near-vertical stairs and the trek over razor-sharp rocks that Sam
had shared and hoped that he hadn't made a terrible mistake bringing Frodo
this way. Perhaps he should have led them up to one of the Citadel's
more manicured viewing spots on the rock above.
"Well -- if Merry climbed it, then I certainly can." Frodo said
matter-of-factly, turning to go on, and Pippin breathed a sigh of relief.
Taking their time, they managed to scramble up the steps to emerge onto
what appeared to be an outcropping between the great wall of rock and the
lane below. It wound upward along the rock and turned into a narrow
balcony of flagstone, arching above the houses and gardens beneath.
The flowering vine covered everything, and seemed to have been carefully
trained to do so. There was a bench cut into the stone and a
carefully tended container of flowers as well. Clearly the balcony
was designed just for what they were there to do -- and the view was, as
Frodo had guessed, breathtaking. It afforded a view of the cliffs of
Mindolluin above, the city below, and the plains beyond without any
obstruction.
Pippin stood leaning on the wall, breathing harder than he should be after
just that small ascent. It had been from a lane just below them that
Gandalf had sent him off to climb to the beacon, Pippin remembered with a
pang. How very terrified he had been that day, and how determined to
prove himself -- to rid himself of the feeling that he had done nothing to
help and much to hinder the quest, that he had endangered his own kin and
all of Middle-earth with his blunders. Perhaps this was yet another
mistake, bringing Frodo here.
"Oh," Frodo said simply, turning to take in the view behind the city that
they had rarely seen in daylight, and never unobstructed -- until now.
They were quiet for long minutes as Frodo gazed at the ornate stone
buildings in The Hallows. Muted sounds rose to them from the streets
below: the laughter of children at play, the sounds of construction,
a woman singing as she worked, some kind of fowl muttering in a yard, and,
from somewhere, a penny whistle.
Pippin closed his eyes and just listened. The tune wasn't familiar,
but just the sound reminded him of his own penny whistle, tucked away long
ago in a carved wooden box of treasures somewhere in his room at home.
Treasures -- precious things and memories and -- loved ones. The
forlorn figures in front of the destroyed bookshop had made him, for just
a panicked moment, envision Great Smials in ruins -- smoking and gutted.
It was a vision that had dogged him since Fangorn. He sent a fervent
hope heavenward once again that the Shadow had never reached the Shire,
that no oily ashes drifted across his homeland. Opening his eyes, he
caught his breath at the look on Frodo's face as a flock of birds rose up
from somewhere below them and circled up toward the mountain. Pippin
watched as Frodo's eyes followed them up and up.
Then Frodo went suddenly pale. Pippin knew what he had spied in the
distance.
"You-- You climbed up there, Pip?" Frodo choked out, staring up at
the distant stone parapet.
Pippin turned to face him. "Yes," Pippin replied simply, gesturing
upward. "Back when I told you about it, you asked me to bring you to
see it. So, here we are."
Frodo suddenly backed up and sat down hard on the bench, gazing down at
his hands.
Pippin followed anxiously, kneeling down and grasping Frodo's arms.
"Frodo?"
Oh dear. He had done it again.
"Promise me something, Pippin," Frodo said in a strained, thin voice.
"What?" Pippin knew his voice sounded tight and tense.
Frodo lifted his eyes to Pippin's and cupped Pippin's face with his
fingers -- his very cold fingers. Pippin quickly lifted his own
hands to cover Frodo's.
"Do not ever do anything like that again. Ever." Frodo
recited flatly.
Pippin smiled with relief. This he could handle. About
the only way to deal with Frodo's guilt was to smile inanely and keep
smiling. It seemed to dissolve all the arguments and discussion
points that followed, invariably leading to the fact that Frodo
caused Merry's injuries (not the Witch King), Frodo nearly killed
Pippin (not the troll), and Frodo almost led Sam to his death (Sam
had nothing to say about the matter). Pippin was fairly certain that
Frodo only conceded those arguments to avoid the more important one -- the
one about Frodo
saving Middle-earth by accident. However, Pippin was aching again
and really didn't want to kneel on the blasted cold rock while they went
through it all one more time.
He leaned forward, pulling Frodo's hands down to his lap and covering them
with his own.
"I will promise. But only if you promise me something,
cousin."
Frodo frowned at him.
"Promise me that you will not climb up any more mountains
belching fire and ash -- oh yes -- and spouting lava -- or dress up
as an orc in the middle of Mordor -- or ride about on a giant eagle
with all these flaming rocks flying through the air --"
Frodo blinked.
"Or consort with masked men in the forest -- armed masked men -- or
decide to have a picnic right in the path of stampeding oliphaunts
--
or--"
Frodo's lip quirked.
"Get yourself thoroughly skewered by a cave troll -- or--" Pippin
leaned forward. "Hide in Pearl's clothespress to see if she really
does
have a mole on her--"
Frodo snorted in spite of himself and his eyebrows went up.
"Pippin!"
Pippin grinned. "Well, that is a dangerous thing to do."
He poked at Frodo's chest with his finger. "Old cousin."
Pippin was pulled up onto the bench and quite thoroughly crushed in a
surprisingly strong embrace before he could respond. Then he was
kissed -- quite chastely -- on the nose; Frodo couldn't quite reach his
forehead since he had grown so.
Pippin frowned, resisting the urge to scrub at his nose.
"Oh Pippin. If you fell from the top of the White Tower all the way
down to the Great Gates you would likely bounce up and laugh to tell of it
later."
Pippin was startled to see tears in Frodo's eyes, but Frodo was
smiling -- rather broadly in fact. That was a relief.
"Well, I do not plan to try that any time soon," Pippin responded
and grinned. "At least not before tea."
Frodo ran a gentle finger down Pippin's cheek. "I do love you,
Peregrin Took. Have I told you that lately?"
Pippin covered the cool fingers with his own. "Not enough, but
perhaps I shall have to work at hearing it more." He smirked and
kissed Frodo firmly on the lips.
"You are what Uncle Bilbo would call an incorrigible scamp," Frodo said
quickly when Pippin pulled away.
"And proud of it."
"Now, what did you really bring me here for, besides extracting all
manner of promises from me--"
"That you undoubtedly will not keep."
Frodo snorted and shook his head, leaning back.
Pippin looked up at the distant parapet and saw tiny figures moving about,
as promised.
"Aragorn--" he shook his head, "I mean the King told me that they
were renovating the beacons and that he would be recruiting and training
Wardens once more for all of them. The whole structure -- the way it
worked and the tending of the beacons -- had fallen into disrepair.
It was amazing that it worked at all." Pippin did not want to think
about that too closely. He gazed up at the distant figures, busy at
work. "He thought I would want to know. You know, he was the
one who saw the beacon in Rohan." He smiled, remembering Aragorn's
enthusiastic response at hearing that Pippin had been the one to scale the
cliffs and light the beacon above Minas Tirith in defiance of the Steward.
The King had knelt down and grasped Pippin's arms firmly in his big hands,
squeezing a bit too hard -- 'I am not in the least surprised, my
foolhardy hobbit. Not surprised at all.'
"Renovating them? But--" Frodo stood once more and went over to
lean on the wall, peering up at the distant outthrust rock. "Why?
Does he anticipate needing them again?"
Pippin followed, standing behind Frodo and leaning over to wrap his arms
around him from behind, resting his chin gently on Frodo's shoulder.
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