Ficlet

[piplover]

Because in the end, the waiting is the hardest part.

We Proud Few

The sound of a thousand men should have been louder, Pippin observed, casting his eyes about the assembled soldiers that stood shoulder to shoulder around him.  Not this quiet, hushed despair that hangs over our heads.  This silent shuffling and harsh breath. 

 

            Dimly he could hear Aragorn’s voice, encouraging, organizing, leading his people into a procession that would certainly end in their deaths.  But his friend’s voice was too far away to make out the words, and after he had passed, a silence fell over the company he was assigned to.

 

            “Be at ease, Master Perian,” a soft voice whispered next to him, and he turned, looking up into the kindly eyes of a soldier he briefly recalled from breakfast a few days past.  “Every soldier is afraid before the battle begins.  Once we get moving, things will fall back into place, and you’ll be too busy to be much worried.”

 

            Sharp cheekbones and a straight nose would have been handsome if not for the worry lines that creased the brow and aged the young man’s face several years.  A thick crop of nearly black hair could be seen beneath his helm, and his mouth was turned slightly in a reassuring smile. 

 

            Oren.  Pippin suddenly recalled the soldier’s name as Oren, and he found himself smiling back, despite his fear and worry.  He knew, though he did not turn to see, that Merry stood somewhere above them, watching, waiting, and did not want to give his cousin any hint at the fear he felt. 

 

            “Aye, hurry up and wait, that’s how it is,” a tired voice said slightly behind them, and Pippin did turn, to see a grizzled old soldier who could have been anywhere from forty to sixty.    “And the waiting is always the hardest, when the mind starts to thinking and you wonder what goings on are about to happen.”

 

            “Indeed,” another added, this one high pitched and too young to contain that note of world-weariness that marked the owner as a veteran.  Pippin slid his eyes to his right, so see a lad who could not have been more than seventeen, his right arm bandaged and a nasty burn marking his cheek.  “Once we starts to march, it will get better.”

 

            Then, as though his words were the signal, a command was given, and all the soldiers in Pippin’s company snapped to attention, their eyes following the figure that walked slowly to stand before the first rank, eyes seeming to rake every one of the men before him.  For a moment that gaze rested on Pippin, a sharp, dangerous gaze that seemed to weigh the hobbit, judging him fit before moving on to the men next to him.

 

            It was not Aragorn who stood before them now, but a warrior who bore the marks of one who has seen the worst that battle can offer and come away to tell the tale.  The helm held in muscled arms revealed slight dents from previous skirmishes, and the thick grey hair that was revealed was cut shorter than any man’s Pippin had yet seen.  The Commander’s armor glinted in the sun, and only when he was certain that he had each and every soldier’s attention did he speak, his voice as strong and sure as the rocks of the Citadel.

 

            “In a short time we will begin a journey that many of us shall never return from,” he began, once more allowing his hardened eyes to catch the gazes of those before him.  “And yet we go willingly.  Not as fathers or sons, uncles or nephews, but as brothers, to each and every man beside you.  Look to your left and right, and recognize the soldier standing there, know him as you would your closest kin.  For when we reach our final destination and the darkness of the enemy crashes upon us, he shall be the one to guard your back, the one who slays the foul thing that attacks from the rear.”

 

            Pippin listened, riveted by the words of this man whom he had never met before, yet would willingly follow to the very depths of Mordor.  Around him, he was vaguely aware that the others were equally as captivated.

 

            “Protect your comrade until your last breath,” the man continued, his tone taking on a note of passion that seemed to vibrate his large form.  “And know that he does the same for you.  We few, we proud few who shall survive this battle, shall do so only because of those who shall fall.”

 

            A silence hung over the company for a moment, as thick and deafening as if a blanket had been cast above them.

 

            “Though we are weary, and pain trembles our limbs, we shall be strong in the face of this evil.  This is our last stand,” he added softly, though the words had no trouble carrying to the last rank of men.  “We shall hold our ground and yield nothing.  For this, Soldiers, shall be our tribute to those who have passed before.  Now, let us bow our heads, and remember those who have fallen.  Let us gather strength from their passing, and take comfort in knowing that when we fall, they shall be there to pull us up.”

 

            All bowed their heads, and only the slight rattle of armor or sword broke that stillness, grief crossing faces of those who held too many memories.  Pippin closed his eyes, and in his mind pictured Boromir as he had last seen him, the shafts of Orcen arrows protruding from his chest, and the hopeless, grieved expression in those dark eyes. 

 

            Something within him hardened and solidified, and for the first time that day, he felt only determination for what he knew was about to befall them all.  And he could only hope that when it was all over, one day others would think on him, and gather strength. 

 

            Then the trumpets sounded, and jolt raced through his body as his head jerked up. 

 

            “Forward, march!” the man bellowed, and as one, the soldiers took their first steps toward an ending none of them dared anticipate. 

Comments

[teawith.livejournal.com]

Oh! Oh! I have no words. That's so gorgeous. (Being massively more ingnorant than I should be - are you quoting from somewhere? Other than LotR, of course :)

[piplover.livejournal.com]

I only quoted a small part of a Shakespearean speach, which is that line, "We few, we proud few," from his speach about band of brothers. The rest I got from what my sgts have actually told us.

[dreamflower]

Absolutely beautiful! I love this picture of Pippin, a soldier among soldiers, with less experience than most, and more than some, gathering his courage, and inspired by Boromir's sacrifice. Every word rings true, and hurts wonderfully!

[piplover.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I must admit I was rather influenced by watching Renaissance Man last night, and wanting to convey to people a little of what a soldeir feels before the battle.

[shirebound]

Ohhh, Pip! Your experiences as a soldier give your writings a "truth" that those of us writing from our imaginations can never duplicate. I'm just mesmerized and awestruck at what you come up with.

[piplover.livejournal.com]

Awwwww, thanks. *blush*
I just wanted to let people see a breif glimpse of the waiting before the storm, because we do a lot of waiting. At least I have no problem standing in grocery lines anymore!

[abby-normal.livejournal.com]

You know, I think the thing I like most about your fics is that Pippin is very much the adult in them. Certainly, he has that youthful quality that only one of his age and personality would but that never stops him from 'seeing' and 'knowing' the things that Pippin would. Wonderfully done and thank you for sharing.

[piplover.livejournal.com]

Thank you! That means a great deal to me. I always get a little annoyed with writers who write Pippin as an absentminded or silly character. Yes, he's young, but when you see the things he has, you don't remain niave for very long. I know 19 year olds who could give maturity lessons to 30 year olds because they've seen battle and had to grow up. I always strive to get that balance of world-weary and still young and hopefull. I'm glad that you like it!