For Pippin, it was disconcerting to see the glow of the single torch become
replaced by the radiance of the palantir, the deep lights spreading from a nameless heart towards the splayed fingers of the hobbit and man.  Pippin tried to focus on the green stone ring known as the Elessar that Aragorn wore more openly now as king, the Elessar.  It gleamed as the Dunedan coaxed the palantir forward to his purpose, until the hobbit found himself attached to the flickering lights, unable to dismiss its pull.  His hands shook and he pulled back in panic and desperation, but Aragorn grabbed them and held them to the stone.  Shadows mingled with the light and shifted as if disturbed by their attempts to draw it forward.

A low groan of regret escaped Pippin’s lips, oaths striving to come forward: I've learned my lesson, Gandalf! I shall not touch one, even if a thousand were laid before me! Aragorn looked up at him, the vapor of the kingsfoil wafting in the air. “There's no other way?” Pippin whispered desperately, hoping Aragorn would forgive him a lapse of trust. The grey eyes of his Ranger friend were unreadable, the hard-planed face and long straight nose highlighted in a way that took Pippin back to the tavern in Bree.

“There are always options, Pippin,” Aragorn answered.  “You knew that from the start.”

“Yes, well, right now, the ones I’m thinking of involve me hurtling down those stairs and never looking back.”

“That would be the easy way.  But not for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is possible,” Aragorn replied, “that you could go to your room and resolve never to return to Gondor, in the full knowledge that where I am, where I claim my kingdom, there the palantir is also for each time that you remember it, it will be a reminder of despair.”

“You know, Gandalf’s been a much cheerier person to be around these days,” Pippin joked, but Aragorn’s hands held his fast to the palantir.  He could see beads of sweat forming on the king’s forehead – the effort it was costing him to control what was inside the palantir was obvious.

“I can help you with this, Pippin,” Aragorn’s tone was rougher this time and Pippin knew jesting would not be wise.  The man took a deep breath and was silent for several long moments.  “I can help you distangle from what has you in its grip, banish that which has plagued you for the last few days, but you must concentrate as well.  Do not fear.  There is no Eye here, no power to disarm you. There is much more to this than your dreams and I will not let you be taken.” Pippin looked doubtfully down at the palantir and the thrum of its power shifted.  The king’s grey eyes widened.  “See! The palantir answers our call.” The movements inside the sphere were less visible shapes than perceptions beneath the glossy surface of the palantir, flashing as ideas, images, and discourse as they curled in upon themselves.  Pippin hunched over it, transfixed.   Memory upon memory shifted rapidly, layering, sprouting in many directions, each thought trailing, pulling, tugging the mind in amplified directions.  His own thoughts sank with them, ebbed towards the maelstrom, fragmenting, spinning as his mind sought to absorb as much as it released.  The hobbit realized this was nothing like staring down the intense focus of Sauron: it was worse! Aragorn's hand’s slid to the side, gripped by his own tension, and Pippin felt pull break like a taut string, sensed the athelas once more in a new sharp waft.  Now the images eddied in a controlled flow and Pippin heard Aragorn mutter in Elvish, almost sing-song, his eyes glazed over in concentration. Then, not unlike the moment he first saw Sauron, there was clarity. I looked and I understood?

... he felt himself on the borders of fine sight, telescoping backwards to the thoughts of one who sought it out .. sought what out? Denethor, in the library of Minas Tirith, shuffling manuscripts that had known a thousand hands, reading, scouring, scowling...

To my Lord and Captain, 1978

Sire,

I am counseled to write to you on behalf of the Dunedain of the North Kingdom who, having hardship in the battle against Angmar, thank you for your assistance once more. The Witch King is vanquished, but disappeared into the Ettenmoors. We guard against a resurgence of his minions, but these three years past has revealed no sign of his movement. My suspicions argue against that, but for now, life is returning.

Arvedui, as you know, was lost to the fell waters of Forochel, taking with him the palantiri of Annuminas and Amon Sul, His son, Aranarth, has submitted to the decision of Gondor to deny Arvedui the claim to Isildur’s crown, declaring himself, instead, Chieftain of the Dunedain.  I do not think your Lord would find that disagreeable, as it is an arrangement best for the lands here, for the Witch-king and all the shadow that accompanied him has devastated the land beyond any ability of stronger enforcement. 

That includes lack of forces from Gondor to reinstall what once was a strong kingdom. Rumors suggest this perhaps is the way it shall be for some time, as Angmar’s dread may recollect elsewhere, perhaps closer to Gondor’s feet. Prepare your men, for much is going on that would not be seen in the light!

But I write to you of that people you so fondly remarked upon in your travels here, the Halflings of the Shire. Their losses in the war were deeply felt as well, for those people had volunteered archers, valiant archers who perished, no one knows where. They have not returned. It was because of this Aranarth sought them out for parlay, for their allegiance to the king in the North was as stout as their hearts, and the Chieftain of the Dunedain meant to assure them of their protection. I believe your interest was inspired by their ties with Amon Sul...

Focus shifted to new words. He met a Halfling ...

Image melded once more for Pippin and he felt a strange impression, much older than Denethor, a messenger's imprint ... A tall man, a brief figure, hobbit?  Both were bowing to each other. Green fields, and a river in the background.  One man, with proud features and eagle-sharp eyes, the other as if Pippin were looking into a kindred face.

Of your people's valor we know much, said the man. I am Aranarth, Chieftain of the Dunedain, who shall guard these lands and afford what we may in place of the King that once was.

I am Bucca, of the Marish, said the smaller figure.

Bucca Oldbuck, the first Thain!

Pippin found he could look up at Aragorn after all, pleased and surprised, but the king had his eyes tightly closed.

You summoned us to meet with you because of the loss of the King, Bucca was saying.  That was three years ago and the Shire is returning to prosperity. Yet you say there will be no return of the King? Are we to become friendless should Angmar rise again?

The man, Aranarth, looked abashed. Do not say 'no return.'  I would have you see the Kingdom of the North in fallow, as a field would be for winter.  There are no claimants to the throne now and the Dunedain are grateful to have what few we may in this time. We cannot argue with Gondor as they take up rule and my heart tells me it would be folly to try. Instead, we choose to become cloaked by change and wait for the return of a King.  Take heart, the line of Isildur is not completely lost, but the true King is not yet able to make his claim.

Bucca looked up at Aranarth thoughtfully. How much like Merry he is! Pippin mused.

This is not good news, Bucca replied, although, I cannot help but observe that we hobbits are more than in your debt, despite what Gondor thinks of your right to the crown. Shall we then see you as our King?

Nay! Aranarth laughed, apparently surprised by Bucca's candor and insight. Those who dwell in Cardolan, Arthedain, and Rhudaur must now rely upon themselves to ensure their own peace. I name myself Chieftain because my lineage must necessarily keep to that which gave birth to it. And we will not forget your people, even as our hope is to nurture that which is dearest, and there can be no return of the King if we do not. 

But ... and here Pippin could feel the concern and regret emanate from Aragorn’s distant brother in arms, the Halflings now must choose their own method of safekeeping, for you will not see much of what we do, and we would feign seek control of your lives when ours is so precious. Arvedui appointed some of your people to hold title in the stead of the King.

Bucca pursed his mouth, nodding.  There are those of us who were liege holders ready at his command, he replied. There are those of us who traveled to Amon Sul as stewards, before the war.

Aranarth looked in askance at Bucca. Were you among them?

I was to be, Bucca replied, shortly.

Then I say to you, Bucca of the Marish, choose one or many among your people to uphold that title, as I hold my claim as leader of the Men of the North. Have them govern as those stewards, awaiting for news of the King's recall.  In this you will keep the promise of that return alive, and in time of need ...

The image dropped suddenly, as if the viewer left off reading, perspective swiveling round with nauseating speed. Pippin found that Aragorn had released his hands and the hobbit rocked back on his heels, trembling.

“Denethor has more to tell you,” Aragorn’s voice was strained, weakened and the history Pippin had been watching was washed over by a musty departure of the archives, through the shadowed hall of the Steward and into the base of the Tower.  A brooding thick blackness came over him.

Gandalf coming ... who is the other with him?? Stormcrow knows! Stormcrows know when the beast is failing ... know when the end is near... who is that? Isildur's Bane, and the ruin of this city.  NO? A halfling bearing the doom but not this one, not this one.  But who is he? Why? Pippin felt Denethor scowl deeper. He knows I won't believe him.  Knows I must have proof.  Is he the proof?  That little child?  A Prince of Halflings?

Words flung out at Gandalf when he stood with the wizard in the great hall rung through Pippin’s memory, planted themselves into the palantir.

Gandalf! A spy you bring, and for what? A Ranger, a ragged vagabond of the North!  You bring no proof! You bring lies and deception and a snippet who meddles in the affairs of wizards as if he were appointed.  Ha!  No mere halfling is he, but he is not proof enough, Gandalf.  Not proof enough ...

The blackness that had descended upon him now wrapped itself around him and began to choke, angry and full of desperation.  More memories began to fall out from Pippin, as if the palantir eagerly soaked up all that Pippin held within, and a presence there, Denethor, began to search again, for something within him, to pull himself up out of the depths of the palantir.  Flame followed him and Pippin could smell the burning wood.

“STOP!” Pippin yelled, scrambling away from the orb. Aragorn sat back as well, sympathy wringing his features.  “No more, Strider no more ...,” he gasped.

“Denethor haunts this device,” the king said, merciless in his pursuit of the subject. “He haunts Saruman's palantir through the one he holds with him, in the Silent Streets.  He tries to reach out through it.”

Pippin sat shaking, trying to close the hole that the blackness had tried to open.  “I want no more of this,” he groaned, pulling his knees up to his chest. “This is too much, Strider.  Let me return to the Shire and I will have no more dreams.  I promise: no more dreams.”

“No,” Aragorn agreed.  “You won’t.  But Denethor must be made to know: his time is at an end.  He still disregards my claim and seeks you out, the one he knows has held the palantir.  It is because of this he clings to the hope that he can control what happens.  He knew of your meeting with Sauron and even in death, he clings to it.”