Shadow Hunter-LegolasxOC

33: The White City (Edited)

The sound of Elen's hooves became the melody singing to them day and night—almost painful, really, though it did not perturb so much that her concentration was led astray. In front of her, Shadowfax ran like the wind, seemingly incapable of exhaustion and hunger. Winds blasted them mercilessly regardless of the weather, torturing the exhausted Hobbit riding Gandalf. Three days had passed since they had left the gates of Edoras, and within that time, Pippin uncharacteristically remained very quiet, as if all his energy to plan mischiefs had been drained away by his encounter with Sauron. Only small conversations were made by the group, mostly by Varilerin who reported their surroundings and the roads ahead.

Pippin managed to find some sleep, albeit very little, while Gandalf and Varilerin fixed their eyes on the road, always, without even a bit of rest. Varilerin had never encountered a fell beast before and, despite her archery skills, she doubted if she could ever take one down. Legolas had always had the innate, uncanny proficiency in the art, making typical arrows seemingly as strong as steel and as sharp as a sword.

Her mind often drifted off to Frodo who, if she predicted correctly, should have neared Mordor regardless of the road he used. It was highly probable that he had lost his directions, but she was sure there it would be easy for him to return to a road leading to a volcano which had been active since before her birth.

The question was, would she, Gandalf, and Pippin survive the future siege of Minas Tirith.

On the dusk of their third day, mountains began to reform from the seemingly endless flat plains. "We have just passed into the realm of Gondor," announced Gandalf. "It will not be long now."

True to his words, a while later a white city could be seen—a city which she had last visited decades ago, under the disguise of Daefaroth, with the intention of helping the city fend off Orcs of Mordor. It was then that she allied herself with Faramir, Boromir's humbler and more approachable brother, whom she hoped had survived whatever catastrophe Sauron's forces had done to his garrison.

Even after many visits in the past, the White City still held an ancient grandeur irreplaceable by even the humongous halls of Moria. The expansive city leaned against a mighty cliff, its many levels shining under the reddening sky. It seemed like a sore thumb against the darkening sky creeping from Mordor, certainly a result of Sauron's dark sorcery. "Minas Tirith, City of Kings," introduced Gandalf to Pippin, who had just woken up.

The gate of the city was open, for the guards recognised Gandalf so well. The people of Minas Tirith looked as grim as the people of Edoras when Theoden was still under Saruman's influence, though their grief and worries had been etched deeply into their conscience for decades—the absence of a true king had aggravated their trust and hope in their kingdom. She could see it in the state of the military and the ever-present fear as people gazed towards Mordor.

As they stepped on the grand courtyard peering from the top of the city, Pippin finally saw the white tree which he saw through the Palantir. "It's the white tree," remarked Pippin, leaping off from Shadowfax. The tree glowered at him, its invisible eyes crying tears of abandonment as it waited for its inevitable death.

"Yes... The white tree of Gondor," Gandalf explained. "The tree of the King. Lord Denethor, however, is not the king. He is a steward only; a caretaker of the throne."

Pippin tilted his head, confused. "Denethor used to be a mindful steward once. Brilliant, even, for he protected Gondor from the growing shadows of Mordor.... However, after his wife's death, grief has consumed him and messed with his head. And now his son has passed, his body perishing where his father could not see."

Pippin thought that Varilerin sounded as if she had lived in Minas Tirith to witness this himself. Perhaps Denethor's story mirrored her own in some ways.