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6 Fourth Age: Returning Home; [ Open ]
Topic Started: 14 Oct 2008, 07:06 PM (664 Views)
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Ten months had passed in what seemed a flash. A journey to Weathertop had ended in Minas Tirith. Milo Brandybuck had no delusions that he’d done as Bilbo had, gone there and back again. To him, the path to Minas Tirith had been an interesting bend in the river. He’d not done any great and miraculous feat to save Middle-earth. Though there was something to be said for saving oneself, and that Milo had done.

He crossed the threshold into the Green Dragon with confidence that all but disappeared when twenty pairs of eyes turned in his direction. He heard the whispered adjective he had tried to avoid for so long. Took-ish. Milo’s head slumped down, like a turtle escaping into its shell. But when he remembered what he had seen, where he had gone, and who he had met, he stood up straighter again.

Milo Brandybuck had dreamed of leaving the Shire his whole life. He had finally done it. What shame was there in following ones dreams? He let his pack slide off his shoulder and onto the floor. Reams of paper poked out the top, just as they did every time he traveled around the Shire mapping places that had been mapped a hundred times before. Except today, the papers did not contain drawings of the Shire, but of Eregion, Rohan, and Minas Tirith.

“A flagon of your finest and some hearty stew,” he ordered, reclining in his chair. A sardonic smile passed over his face, and he added, “I’ve had a long walk.”

 
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Ah yes… Old Green. Pippin ambled his way into the tavern, his steps solid and full of confidence. He peered around, his eyes content to see visitors enjoying themselves over a drink of their choice. The Hobbit was certainly glad that the inn was no longer the desolate place that he and the others had returned to after their journey. It had taken some time, but the Green Dragon was eventually restored back to its jovial self.

The inn was packed with hobbits. There were hardly any Big Folk that had any impetus to travel this far to the west end of Middle-earth and, when they did, they usually stopped at Bree and went no further. Even so, most of the tables were filled, save for one off to the side of the entrance. As if doing an old routine, Pippin sat down, his hands brushing over the fine table top once before giving it two solid pats with his right hand as if saying hello to an old friend.

As always, a few pairs of eyes followed him as he settled himself down – gazes that disappeared as soon as they connected with Pippin’s. However, the Took seemed to be impervious to their looks and muttered gossip. Needless to say, a majority of the scrutinizing had ceased after he had become Thain. Of course, it was just a title of recognition, but Pippin had grown a bit fond of it after awhile although he did nothing to call attention to it. He donned simple, ordinary hobbit clothes: a light cream-colored tunic, its sleeves ending at his wrists, and a pair of traveling pants to go with it. The only thing that was abnormal was his Elvish cloak which, just like his name, was something he had grown attached to.

At last he looked off to the side and caught sight of a rather curious hobbit. With the hobbit’s pack and provisions, Pippin had nearly mistaken him to be Bilbo at first (although there were certainly some distinctions between the two of them). He definitely reminded him of the old hobbit. Not that they are the same, he quickly added. He took half a second to think before sidling over by the stranger. He seemed to have been through a long journey, which inspired some interest in Pippin. Well, that and they both seemed to be a bit devoid of any company at the moment. For Pippin at least, that surely would not do - especially on a comfortable night such as this.

“Good day there!” he greeted. “Or should I say good night? Peregrin, son of Paladin is my name. Of course, many just call me “Pippin” for short." He offered a grin before adding, "Where has the road taken you, friend, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
 
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With tankard now in hand, Milo took a long drink of the familiar Hobbit brew. It was better than the watered down drink they had in Gondor, that was for sure. A shadow fell over his table, shortly preceded by a greeting.

“Greetings to you, Pippin. Milamac, son of Mungo, at your service, though I’ve gone by Milo since I was a boy.”

Milo thought back to his younger days. He had seen Pippin before, of course. Who didn’t know the Thain of Tuckborough by sight? But he couldn’t remember ever meeting him before. Milo was a notorious recluse who ventured out only to draw his maps, then retreated inside again to illuminate them.

“The road took me somewhere I didn't intend. I went south to Minas Tirith.”

As if to prove that his claim was true, he reached into his bag and took out a scroll as wide as the table, but only half as long. Smoothing out the rough parchment and weighting the corners, Milo revealed his rough drawing of the seven levels of Minas Tirith. Labels in his normal hand, which would become calligraphy when he was finished, pointed out notable sites and buildings.

“What do you think, Pippin? Is it an accurate map of the Minas Tirith you remember?”

 
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Pippin thought about the Hobbit in front of him… Had he seen him before? If he had, he couldn’t remember. However, he was glad that Milo was not as uneasy around him as the others. His height was a bit intimidating after drinking Treebeard’s draught, but he supposed that travelers and wanderers alike stuck together. If they were to mingle in with the “normal” folk of their hometown, they would easily come together like rubber bands. Of course, Pippin did not think of himself higher than any other hobbit of the Shire, but he couldn’t help but feel a small rift go between neighbors he had known so well before… apart from Merry and Sam, of course.

No matter; it was good that other hobbits were setting out into the wild. It was an experience that anyone and everyone should endure, should they have the courage to set out and actually do it.

“The road took me somewhere I didn’t intend. I went south to Minas Tirith.”

The Thain smiled at Milo’s first words. They sounded so familiar - well rounded, even. He thought for a brief moment, collecting his thoughts. Ah, he thought at last. Yes, it sounded like something Bilbo would say… Dear Bilbo… I wonder what he is doing now…

The fact that the Hobbit had journeyed as far as Minas Tirith surprised him to say the least, but then he nodded knowingly. It wasn’t impossible – even he had journeyed to the West in the realm of Gondor. For a moment he wondered if Milo had met with Stri– Aragorn but before he even had the time to ask, the Hobbit had already whipped out a parchment with a flourish, letting it rest upon the table.

Pippin leaned in, all the while noting how Milo’s hands handled the document dexterously. Hobbit hands, he thought with some amusement and pride. The drawing was indeed epic with its scrawny detail, its precision of the White City’s edifices. Milo had talent… Once again, the Hobbit had made him think about just how much he resembled Bilbo. He pored over the question Milo offered with a small grin.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Nothing’s been altered too much, apart from a few buildings on the third level.” All those years ago, he had predicted their reconstruction on the Fields of Pelennor, knowing how the first to fourth floor had been hit especially hard by the might of the Dark Lord. Pippin looked up at Milo. “Have you been to the top of the White City?” he asked, suddenly remembering the white tree – the shining emblem of Gondor that he had seen wreathed in flames in his mind so very long ago. “Did you meet with King Elessar, or Prince Faramir?”

The questions came out in a torrent, and once he had the time to catch his breath, he stopped with a small frown on his face. Had he really been so deprived of news from the realm of Men? Again, he thought about leaving the Shire to journey to Gondor and Rohan and the lands beyond the rolling hills, but he once again concluded that his place was here. He let slip a small sight of nostalgia as he traced the lines of the illustration with his eyes, citing the places he knew from memory.
 
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Milo beamed with pride. Pippin knew Minas Tirith well, and his approval of the map was as good to Milo as if the original architect of the city had lavished praise on this map. He made a mental note about the third level and to pay special attention to the details.

“Some of the city has clearly been rebuilt, but other parts blend in well to the original walls. I had not known the third level was so damaged. They have done a remarkable job in reconstructing.”

Milo smiled lightly at the other Hobbit’s eagerness to hear news from the south. Once smitten with the idea of adventure, it seemed, a Hobbit was never left to live peacefully in the Shire again. He felt the same pull to explore new lands already. It began as a question—What does Fangorn Forest look like? or How fast do the Falls of Rauros flow?—and gradually morphed into a burning curiosity.

“I have been to the seventh level and looked out over the Pelennor. It is a majestic sight, to be sure, but it was not my favorite part of the city.” Milo laughed lightly. “No, Thain Peregrin, I did not meet with a King or Steward. I am not an important enough Hobbit, my friend. I did meet an elf, however.”

 
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”Some of the city has clearly been rebuilt, but other parts blend in well to the original walls. I had not known the third level was so damaged. They have done a remarkable job in reconstructing.”

Pippin grinned at what Milo said, glad that the onslaught of Minas Tirith had not been the mark of its downfall. He had been worried in the aftermath of the battle, but once the great plains of the Gorgoroth had split before his very eyes and after the dark tower had crumbled into ruins, his doubt diminished and his hope had been restored. “They have,” he agreed, “and your drawing is testimony to their skill.”

“I have been to the seventh level and looked out over the Pelennor. It is a majestic sight, to be sure, but it was not my favorite part of the city.”

“Ah yes,” the Took replied, his eyes glimmering at the thought of the peak of the White City. He could imagine the white tree there now, standing as a true emblem of Gondor, embodying the valor and sheer strength of its people. When he had set eyes on it for the first time, the sight bode ill news. Now that he was no longer troubled by the frightening image of its burning boughs, he was eager to see it once more. Funny, he thought, how time can change one’s outlook. “So what was your favorite then, Master Brandybuck?” he inquired with curiosity. He didn’t exactly have that much time to explore the city on his own once he arrived at Minas Tirith, and was rather curious to know what other sites he had overlooked.

“No, Thank Peregrin, I did not meet with a King or Steward. I am not an important enough Hobbit, my friend.”

Needless to say, Pippin was rather startled at the use of his title. Always he managed to forget his newfound position at least once a day. A way to keep me on my toes, he mused. However, the Hobbit was slightly disappointed that Milo could not bring him news of Aragorn or Faramir, although his reasons were quite understandable. He supposed that nobles and royalty were treated much differently than the ones in the Shire.

His ears perked up at Milo’s mention of an elf. “Curious,” he replied, arching an eyebrow. “I would think that the sight of an elf would be rare nowadays…” He grinned, remembering his encounters with the various elves he had while on his journey with the Fellowship. “Why, it must have been a rather enlightening chat for you, no?”
 
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Milo was pleased to hear his map praised, again. He tried to keep any traces of conceit out of his expression. Many people complimented him on his maps, but they were all of the Shire and places he had drawn a hundred times. It wasn’t often that the Hobbit was able to create a worthy map of a new city.

“My favorite is the first level, the courtyard just within the gates of the city. It is not as majestic as the Tower of Ecthelion or the White Tree. But, for me, it will always remain the place where I discovered, if you’ll excuse the phrase, the Took-ish part of my blood. I think I will not stay in the Shire for long. There is more of the world to see.”

Elves were curious, that was certain. Milo could not help but laugh as he remembered his private thoughts during that conversation. Bewildered was an apt word to describe them.

“It is true that Elves have a way of saying both no and yes. I have never had a conversation like it. It must take ages to understand their minds, if they ever can be understood by mortals. The Elf’s name was Elladan. I only learned of his history and family later.”
 
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“… It is not as majestic as the Tower of Ecthelion or the White Tree. But, for me, it will always remain the place where I discovered, if you’ll excuse the phrase, the Took-ish part of my blood.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Pippin replied, giving a small wave of his hand as if dismissing any potential offense Milo was worried of executing. He had to admit the phrase was irritating at first, but it seemed to have grown on him and, deep down, he was rather proud that the moniker of such a... well, interesting characteristic bore his surname as a title. He couldn’t certainly say that for the rest of his family, but he was more than certain that they didn’t care for its use as much as he did.

Took-ish part? Pippin thought. He wondered briefly what Merry would say to that if he told him, but reminded himself that Tooks and Brandybucks were not so far apart on the family tree. Indeed, it was rather enlightening to see his fellow cousins, brothers, sisters, or what else have you, venture out on their own from the Shire. Pippin would’ve very much like to say that the inspiration stemmed from the journey that Sam, Merry, and he had returned from, but, then again, that wasn’t his place to declare either.

“I think I will not stay in the Shire for long. There is more of the world to see.”

The Hobbit was at loss of what to say at that moment. Part of him was ecstatic that yet another hobbit had the courage to fall out of the norm and find his place in the world. Why, Pippin wouldn’t mind giving him a few encouraging words, if not for the fear of blame being possibly placed upon his shoulders by Milo’s relatives… if one ever happened to overhear their conversation by chance. A more disconcerting fragment, however, was the small twinge of sadness that this young fellow could go where Pippin, himself, could not. Needless to say, Diamond would be rather troubled by his disappearance if he were to be whisked away on some adventure without leaving an explanation at all.

As the conversation settled down into the more comforting topic of elves, he reluctantly moved the dark cloud of thoughts away from his mind to give his full attention to Milo. “Yes,” he responded, “they do tend to do such a thing at times… Indeed, the Lady Galadriel herself had quite the similar character.” At the mention of Elladan, his eyes widened incredibly. “Elladan? Elladan, Son of Elrond?” he inquired, a tone of disbelief dangling from his words. He was quite surprised at the mention of the Elf, knowing very well of his heroic deeds on the Pelennor Fields. The two of them were not very acquainted, however, although he knew very well that Aragorn was on good terms with him.

“It’s my regret to say I do not know him well,” Pippin confessed, “but if he is who I believe him to be, it must have been a great honor to talk with him.” He heaved a sigh, a smile adorning his features as his small shock diminished. “Did he tell of any tales or songs of his people?” He wondered if this Elladan had shared any legends of the times long ago or even of heroic deeds during the Third Age. Perhaps this Elf was already woven into his own tales shared among his people. Either way, he was an enthusiast of stories and storytelling. The Shire did get a bit lonely, after all.
 
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“Yes, Elladan, Son of Elrond,” Milo said, nodding enthusiastically. “Indeed it was a great honor to speak with him.”

The Hobbit broke off for a moment, unsure of how to explain their encounter. He was still puzzled by it himself, but that it had centered so greatly on the events of the War of the Ring, things Pippin had been part of, he was uncertain how to continue.

“We met on the seventh level near the ramparts facing the East.”

Even as the word East left his lips, a beautiful image of the black Mountains of Shadow bathed in the changing morning light appeared before his eyes. As the sky had gone from indigo to cerulean, Milo’s impression of the mountains had changed. His vivid imagination had conjured the picture of a spit of flame over the horizon, and he’d realized that no one in Gondor could look at those mountains and call them beautiful as he had done.

“We spoke mostly of Hobbit tales and journeys; about how the middle of the journey for one is the beginning for another. And we talked of darkness past, and though we didn’t say it aloud, future.”

Milo peered over the top of his mug at Pippin. Maybe rumors had reached the Shire in his absence or maybe not. Though he was loathe to speak the words, and to a member of the Fellowship of the Ring at that, Milo knew they must be shared.

“The shadow of a past darkness has stirred. All is not well in Gondor.”

 
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Pippin listened politely as Milo talked, quite happy to hear that Elladan took interest in hearing the tales of the Shire. He proved to be a bit jittery at the mention of the eastern ramparts of Minas Tirith, remembering very well what the view was like and the aura of darkness that seemed to emanate from it.

He nodded a bit to the Hobbit’s words, showing his silent agreement. Indeed, journeys were a curious thing. A million could branch off from one, much like how Bilbo’s expedition was a start of many journeys or, rather, the start of Pippin’s and the others. Past, present, and future, he thought. “A well-rounded conversation that is,” he remarked. Why, he wondered if the Elf was still possibly at the White City after all this time. Pippin would, obviously, like to meet him if given the chance.

“The shadow of a past darkness has stirred. All is not well in Gondor.”

The Thain’s smile slipped into a concerned frown. Trouble? In Gondor? Then Aragorn… and Faramir, too…

Nonsense was what his mind first told him. Six years of peace had passed… How could trouble be brewing now that Sauron had been defeated and harmony restored upon the lands of Middle-earth. Why, if it wasn’t for the utter seriousness of Milo’s face, he would have laughed. Instead, he inched a bit closer as if a secret was being shared and, in a way, one was. Needless to say, he felt utterly ignorant in his lack of knowledge of the doings of others in Middle-earth, apart from the hobbits residing in the Shire.

“What do you mean?” Pippin inquired, his voice just barely above a whisper. He didn’t want the other hobbits to overhear their conversation and, well, cause unnecessary panic on such a fine night. However, his tone of voice carried an air of utmost concern. “What has befallen Gondor?”
 
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