By: Dana
Summary: Your first encounter with Minas Tirith passes in a blur...
Characters: Pippin, Denethor, mention of Gandalf and Merry
Pairings: Denethor/Pippin
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash
Author's Notes: It's not real slashy, as I have managed to write the most inoffensive Denethor/Pippin ever. Five 100-word drabbles. Written for Abby for her birthday, because she rocks.
Most recent revision: November 10, 2,004.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Your first encounter with Minas Tirith passes in a blur. This place of stone, tall towers and tall men, and it all rushes by as you sit before Gandalf on old Shadowfax. You should not be here, and you cling to that belief; but you cling to your belief in Gandalf, too, that he would not led you into danger.

But where else could you be lead, here at the edge of war.

If only Merry were here - but he is not.

Your first encounter with the Lord of the City leaves you with a dull aching in your chest.

You think he looks right through you - because his gaze is ageless, as heavy as Gandalf's, and as deep, but you can't picture this man laughing. No, Denethor (and he will be your Lord, now that you have offered him your service) does not seem the sort who would often laugh.

And what can you offer, now? You should have kept your mouth shut. You are only one hobbit, out of your league.

You think he looks right through you, when he should be listening to Gandalf, instead, and you blame your unease on this place and not his gaze.

You don't think that you can believe that this is happening - no, it can't be happening, and it leaves you with a dry taste when you laugh. And you might joke with Gandalf, and he might know all the right things to say, but you are filled with a sense of urgency, and a sense of dread; things that you aren't used to feeling, and you don't think you ever will.

This is surely nothing but a ceremonial position, and you slide your palm over the pommel of your sword.

And what would Merry think if he saw you now?

And what would Merry think if he saw you now?

Maybe he might laugh, and think it impossible, to see you kneel before the Lord of this City (and he is as great as Minas Tirith, you want to believe), and pledge your service and your sword.

And you wonder if Denethor was (is?) a warrior, too, as the rough caress of his callused fingers smooth against your cheek. And you wonder why the touch of his hand causes you to shiver, why something in his words fills your heart with dread.

His fingers are the touch of cold stone.

He is your Lord, you tell yourself, when you feel tears burning in your eyes, and he demands that you sing. He is your Lord, you tell yourself again, when he needn't even look at you but that does not stop you from feeling the heavy weight of his gaze.

So you sing, and he eats, and the tears build up and burn in your throat and behind your eyes, until you feel the force of it might tear you in two.

But you hold them back, not because of what he might say, fearing instead what he might do.