Rated: G
Summary: Pippin follows one of Lord Denethor's orders...

C - LIKE CERTAIN CIRCUMSTANCES IN THE CITADEL

Beregond blinked. “Page’s livery? Armor, in such a small size?”

Targon nodded. He’d wondered at it himself. “The pherian you introduced me to, yesterday, he’s sworn to the Steward’s service. This is for him.”

Beregond nodded. He remembered Pippin telling him he had sworn to the Steward’s service. It had never occurred to him that the pherian would have livery and armor--in such circumstances as these, who would have the time to make them? “Where did they come from?”

“The Steward’s seneschal brought them down to the armory late last night. He said they had once belonged to the Lord Faramir as a child.”

“Ah, then,” smiled Beregond, “wearing the garb of such as our Lord Faramir is sure to bring our small friend courage!”

“You spent much time with him yesterday, Beregond. What is he like?”

Beregond smiled. “He is young, but no child. But he comes from a land untouched as yet by the enemy, and he is very open and cheerful! It made my heart the lighter to be with him. I wonder that Mithrandir brought him into such peril, but there is some tale woven about him that I do not yet know. I do not think that he told us the half of why he is so far from home.”

Just then the door burst open, and the object of their discussion appeared before them. “The Lord Denethor said--oh! Beregond! And Targon, isn’t it? The Lord Denethor said I was to come get livery and gear of the Tower, that had been ordered for me?”

Beregond gestured at the items which lay upon a table, and Pippin’s eyes grew wide at the sight. “Oh my!” He walked over and put a hesitant hand on the surcoat, and traced the outline of the White Tree with one finger. Then his attention turned to the small black hauberk; he lifted the chain mail by the shoulders, and blinked. “It’s heavy! And I’m to wear this? How?”

Beregond and Targon chuckled. “It is heavy, but when you wear it, its weight is distributed across your body,” said Targon.

Pippin looked at the other items: a small helmet, a silk shirt, black boots. He blinked at them, and then looked at Beregond and Targon questioningly, appeal in his green eyes.

“Would you like us to help you with them?” asked Beregond.

At Pippin’s nod, the two Men assisted him: silk shirt beneath the chain mail, which slithered coldly over his head, and links caught briefly in his hair. Over that the surcoat. But Pippin shook his head at the boots. “They will not fit me,” he said, emphatically, “and I cannot imagine imprisoning my feet in those.”

The two Men had to admit the practicality of that. “There is no weapon,” said Targon, “but I see that you have one already.”

Pippin buckled on his silver belt, his sheathed sword at his side. He stood back, his feet a shoulder's width apart and drew his blade just as Boromir had taught him, and then made a few passes with it. He grinned up at the Men, but there were tears in his eyes as well. “Do you think good old Boromir would be pleased to see me like this?”

Beregond and Targon looked a bit surprised. “You *knew* our Captain-General?”

Pippin nodded, and smiled sadly. “We--we traveled with him for a while. It was he who taught me and my cousin what we know of swordplay,” and he held out the little sword for an instant before sheathing it with a snap. “He was a good friend.” And one tear escaped before he could dash it away roughly.

Touched by this sign of respect and love for their lost captain, Targon and Beregond were silent for a moment, before Beregond smiled and said “I do think that he would be very proud to see you in the livery of the Tower.”

Pippin’s face cleared at that, and he laughed lightly. Suddenly, he gave each Man a quick hug. “Thank you! And now I must run, for the Lord Denethor commanded me to return as soon as I had this gear!” And he darted from the armory as quickly as he had entered.

The two Men stared after him in bemusement, and then Targon said in a tone of wonder, “As black and as dark as the times are, for some reason I cannot help but think our luck may have turned, to have such a one among us.”

Beregond just nodded thoughtfully.