"And now our fates are woven together ... It was a bitter struggle, and the weariness is slow to pass."  

Aragorn, The Passing of the Grey Company

Gandalf had dismissed himself from Aragorn’s court early the next morning, taken, it would seem, by a sudden interest in Samwise Gamgee’s horticultural handiwork in the streets of Minas Tirith. No amount of persuasion on the king’s part moved him to stay and relieve the tedium of presentations, introductions, applications. It was time for the new king to stand on his own at last, the wizard said with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

Which left King Aragorn to his own judicial devices, already fraught with the various intricacies of diplomacy, long-standing grievances, and personality differences . He tried not to sigh too loudly as he dismissed the courtiers for the mid-day meal, feeling a sudden need to throw off the mantle of kingship for a good long hour of un-kingly repose. There was time enough to come for haggling and bartering.

The heat of the approaching noon penetrated even the cool stone of the White Tower, lending a slight moisture in the air that dampened any clarity of thought or any comfort of repose. As he stepped down from the dais, Aragorn glanced around to see who remained, his eyes resting on Pippin, standing as straight as his height could manage at the foot of the long flight of steps, quite conspicuous despite adopting the same blank expression as the rest of the guards that were positioned in the hall.

Aragorn cocked his head, frowning slightly in concern. In spite of a practiced neutrality, the muscles of Pippin’s young face betrayed a weariness and strain uncharacteristic of this most optimistic of the four hobbits. Indeed, the king reflected, the energy that usually radiated from Pippin like a flame had become rather muted these last few days, replaced by a pensive restlessness. Poor lad, he thought. Had Aragorn not seen Pippin in his more carefree days, he would have thought the hobbit stood around waiting for orders all his life.

But the Man of the West knew better. Instead of striding past the posted guards and flinging off the weight of the day, he pulled off his silver circlet and leaned forward to speak with a conspirator’s intent in his tone.

“I understand the larder in the Guard room has replenished their fare, enough for even the heartiest of appetites,” Aragorn posited. Pippin’s head turned automatically. “Do you not think a hobbit could show them how it should be dealt with?”

A bright grin from Pippin gave him the anticipated answer, a sign that the young hobbit was not so engrossed with his own thoughts that the prospect of a hearty meal would not deflect. Hand on the Pippin’s shoulder, they marched out of the hall, past sentries who looked slightly amused by the sight, past the shimmering White Tree, and down the main ramp into the lower levels of the city.

As they made their way through the streets to their destination, Aragorn watched how others greeted Pippin. The hobbit always had a certain air that pulled all eyes towards him – now the garb of the White Tree lent him an extra air of nobility and gravity. And moving out of the marbled great hall had changed him: in the sunlight, one would not think that Pippin was anything other than a native of Minas Tirith. The women he passed laughed with delight over his courtesies, children rushed to ask him to play; some insisted he carry them briefly. Pippin accepted it all with warmth and pleasure until they made the tiered streets ring with merriment. By the time they entered the storerooms for bread, meat, and large mugs of ale, the king began to wonder if it hadn’t just been the shadows of the somber halls that made the young man seem melancholy, but he had to find out for certain.

“Pippin, it does my heart good to know that the fellowship we had remains here with me in my beginning days,” Aragorn ventured, speaking ungracefully around a mouthful of fresh baked bread. Pippin laughed at the sight.

“I feel the same,” he replied with an equal amount of food in his own mouth. Ceremony was completely forgotten between the two.

“If I had seen an elf take gardening advice from a hobbit anywhere else, I would have thought I had crossed into some strange land.” Aragorn laughed over the remembrance of some of Legolas’ kin listening with sincere gravity to Sam pontificate the merits of pipeweed. So many memories echoed in that visual!

“Sam has that way about him,” Pippin replied. He leant back in the large chair to prop his feet upon the seat of another, gaining full advantage of the moment of leisure. “What surprises me,” he added, more somberly, “is that we are together at all.”

Aragorn sobered, watching Pippin’s expression. The shadows were not of marble origins after all.

“Go on,” he simply said.

“I feel …” began Pippin, chewing thoughtfully for a moment, then pretended to study the crust of bread in his hand. “I feel as a small pebble that had bounced just the right way into the right path, knocking just the right boulder into motion.” He glanced up once or twice at Aragorn as if what he said might cause the king to send him to the House of Healing.

And setting off an avalance, Aragorn added silently to himself.

“Well,” the king rejoined in careful words, “you must remember what Galadriel said to us, when we left Lothlorien … of how perilously close we were to falling to the wayside.”

“Aye, that I remember.”

“I’m in amazement, sometimes, when I think about it…how events took place.”

“Do you think it was mere circumstance?” Pippin asked abruptly, almost rueful.

Aragorn took a deep breath. What was bothering this otherwise unquenchable hobbit?

“I mean,” the hobbit stammered, “all of this. That you became king, that we defended Gondor, that Frodo made it to the Crack of Doom, that …Gollum actually fell in? Did it all just happen … like Bilbo said of his journey … out of mere luck?”

Ah ha, thought Aragorn. I think I see.

“Perhaps you want to know: was it prophecy, or was it chance? Is that it? Only the Valar know,” Aragorn said as Pippin nodded. His mind raced to discover which way the hobbit’s thoughts were flowing.

“And Gandalf?” Pippin asked.

“What about him?”

Peregrin shifted uneasily.

“What if … he hadn’t taken … I don’t know,” he trailed off, uncertain of his words. “I guess I thought it would all make sense by now.”

“Would what all make sense?”

“Our quest, to get rid of the Ring. How things happened the way they did.”

Aragorn sat in silence for a few moments, chewing up the remains of the meal, quaffing the last of the mead, collecting thoughts. Finally, he replied.

“Well, if you’re thinking of Gandalf, he did have much to do with what has gone before us,” the king began. “For as long as I can remember, he has always marveled how a chance meeting set him on the path of these final days of the Third Age. Finding Thorin just as he did on his way to gather up a final effort against Smaug the Destructor was truly an auspicious meeting. Bilbo coming across the Ring on his way, Treebird finding you and Merry in the middle of the forest. But…did Gandalf alone determine all of this? He himself would say absolutely not. He was merely an instigator. So, then, we have to ask: were all these meetings, these circumstances, as you put it, made by the stars, by fate?” Aragorn shrugged, a knowing smile flitting across his face. “I don’t know. You certainly were not the first pebble cast, if that is what is bothering you.”

Pippin grinned in slight embarrassment at Aragorn’s reference to the events in the mines of Moria.

“But my dear Strider, I think you know more than you are willing to let on … like Gandalf.”

“I think I know hobbits,” the king replied. Now it was time to aim true. “Four of them in particular, well enough to see when something is troubling them. And speaking as someone who has watched hobbits for a long time, seeing one in a state of despondency is a trouble to my heart.”

Pippin did not reply.

“I don’t think Gandalf’s involvement in events is what you’re wanting to know,” Aragorn added.

“It isn’t?”

“No. I think that home is calling to you, as well as Frodo. I don’t think you will comprehend the full meaning of it all until you are safe in your borough and surrounded by all the comforts you could wish.”

Pippin considered for a moment and then looked thoughtfully at him.

“It is. But not yet,” he conceded.

“I am glad you said that. I am loathe to let you go until I know for certain that your passage back will be a safe one.”

Pippin frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Reports of fighting in Lorien and distant Erebor leave me to think that such was the battle to end the reign of Sauron, not even the Shire could have escaped,” he explained, as gently as he could think to phrase it.

“Aye, I am concerned about that as well,” Pippin agreed, sitting up. “I cannot forget those South Farthing barrels we found at Isengard.

“That, among other things, gives me pause.”

“But … surely, there would not be very much to fear … would there? Rohan kept the Uruk-hai from spreading…and I know that Elrond would not have allowed the orcs to leave their mountains. With the Dark Lord gone, what more could possibly happen?”

Aragorn shrugged. “There may be some that will refuse to give up, even in the face of defeat.”

“If fighting did reach the Shire, there are plenty who would fend them off,” Pippin stated, less as a matter of fact than denial of the possibility. “My family, the Tooks, have long defended home and its borders. They will notice anything amiss, and deal with it accordingly.”

He stopped with those words, but the thought that it did not happen that way hung in the air between them. Aragorn only nodded, more out of a desire to draw the hobbit out than to debate his point of view.

“But, Frodo has begun to think of starting home,” Pippin added, apologetically.

“Our days together have not come near to closing, not, as your folk would say it, by a long shot. I have plans for everyone yet. At least, that is my hope,” Aragorn replied, smiling. “Gandalf has much to do with that as well.”

“Yes, it’s Gandalf’s fault,” Pippin laughed. “And yours.”

“So, tell me, Ernil i Pherrianath, what is troubling you? You haven’t said what is truly on your mind.”

Pippin stared at him momentarily, caught off guard by the directness of the question; then, with a frown, shook his head dismissively and stood to discard the crumbs of his meal.

“I’m sure it’s minor in the scheme of things, Strider,” he tried to say, but Aragorn caught Pippin’s arm as he moved, his own voice grave with command.

“Knight of Gondor, you stand beside me in the Court as my guard. This honor does not disregard the state of mind you are in. If there is something you would speak of, say it now.”

Pippin blushed and bowed, immediately apologetic.

“Forgive me, my lord. You have demonstrated time and again that friendship trumps duty or position … or even the Seven Stars of the West! If I demur, it is because I fail to find the right words. As Merry said to you once before, we hobbits hesitate to speak when light comment does not suffice.”

“Speak to me as you would your friend, not as your king!”

Pippin took a deep breath.

“I have heard much about the tales of legend since we came to Gondor. For instance, we knew the origins of the swords of the Barrow-downs, and we saw how that has spelled out its destiny to fall on Merry’s shoulders. Had we known what it would bring us, I doubt we would have entered the Old Forest at all.” Pippin’s thoughts tumbled out as he spoke. “Then there’s Frodo … well, Gandalf spoke of how it seemed the old stories all led up to the doorstep of Bag End. And Sam … I have no idea if it occurs to him how he is a part of the story … but I don’t think it matters to him. All he has ever known is service, and he finds much freedom in that service. But …” and Pippin’s voice trailed off, unable to put words to his own doubts.

“You want to know what your part is in all of this?” Aragorn asked.

“I want to know why my part. Gandalf’s only reason for our inclusion was friendship. Beyond that, it doesn’t seem as if there was any real purpose for my coming along. I realize I sound as if I can only complain of things I did or did not do. I sound ungrateful!” The young hobbit plopped back into his seat, despondent. “But I cannot help feeling as if I have just barely escaped. I cannot explain.”

“But we did escape, all of us. Just barely. And you have grown into a hobbit that many in your country will admire and respect. Your part in it has as much purpose as anything else that has come about.”

“You don’t understand.” Pippin’s expression regained its earlier moodiness.

“What, then?”

“Why did Gandalf bring me? Why was I allowed to come on the quest?”

“Should that matter, even now?”

“It matters when I keep dreaming about it!” Pippin burst as if he finally found the words to describe his thoughts.

“What dreams?”

“I dream I am back in Moria, dropping the stone into the well … and it … turns horrible somehow … and the palantir …”

“Do you still blame yourself for what happened in Moria?” Aragorn interrupted, sympathy clenching his heart. How could he reassure everyone in the fellowship that no one could claim that for themselves? Was it fate? Or was it chance?

“I suppose I must. I don’t know why else it would keep haunting me …”

A thought clicked in Aragorn’s mind, the image of Gandalf cradling the youngest hobbit in the dark of the valley of Isengard, frightened beyond belief that the power of the palantir had ensnared Pippin, locking him into a trance beyond his recall.

“Did you ask Gandalf himself?”

Pippin sighed.

“I tried to, but at the wrong time. The Blackness was covering us and the need for Faramir was dearly felt. I don’t think he quite caught what I wanted to know. And things happened so quickly. So I did not ask again.”

Aragorn opened his mouth to offer encouragement that Pippin attempt once more when they were interrupted by a young page, breathless from running so hard to find them. “My Lord,” he said. “The wizard, Gandalf, summons you to return to the Great Hall. He brings with him envoys from the North and wishes you to hear what they have to say.”

“Here, take a few moments, lad,” Aragorn said, grinning, indicating Pippin’s evacuated chair, then found another runner to go ahead of them to let the wizard know they were on their way.

“It is possible,” Aragorn told the hobbit as the two of them made their way up the final ramp to the courtyard of the White Tree, “that with this meeting, I can answer some of our questions, particularly about events in other parts of Middle Earth. But I still wish to speak further to you, as I do not feel the spellbinding we were all under has fully dissipated. I would wish answers for why you are still troubled by the past.”

“It is my wish as well,” Pippin replied, but he looked as if he did not relish the idea of further questioning.