Armor

The choice awaited him as it did each morning when he awoke. With a sigh, Peregrin Took pushed back the bedding and rose. He shivered in the cool air of the early summer morning.

During his morning wash up, his thoughts skittered over and around the choice, not stopping to linger on it. When he ran out of things to do to delay any longer, he sighed and took a seat on the edge of the bed, his eyes on the carefully arranged garments awaiting him. Green, brown and beige, the simple colors of the shire paled beside the garments of silver and sable.

It wasn't arrogance but simple truth to say he cut quite an imposing figure in the finery of Minas Tirith. And who wouldn't enjoy the greetings, the hearty handshakes and invitations to drink and dine? Ever since he and Merry had driven out the last of the ruffians, there wasn't a place in the Shire where they weren't welcomed and praised.

Adoring looks and more from fair hobbit lasses, and well-wishes throughout the Shire were a bit head-turning for a simple hobbit who'd set out to accompany a friend on an adventure and returned home a hero.

With a another sigh, Pippin stood, slipping out of his nightclothes before moving towards the garments. He reached out for the simple beige shirt, his fingers stopping just short of touching it. Convulsively his fingers curled and his hand became a fist.

Shoulders drooping in surrender he reached over and took up the heavy silver and sable garb. He dressed by rote, his mind elsewhere, in a place of horror and death.

Birdsong from just outside the window startled him and he came back to himself with a cold knot deep in his stomach. Facing his reflection in the mirror, he studied his image, searching for any imperfection.

They must not know, he reminded himself; he would not wish the fearful knowledge he possessed on anyone. No other hobbit should ever experience what he, Merry, Frodo and Sam had endured.

He frowned at his reflection, illuminated by the early morning sunshine that streamed through the window shade. Quickly he turned aside, fighting back the bitter spark of envy as he thought of Sam and Frodo and how easily they had cast aside their splendid clothes to return to their native garb, seeming to settle back into their old lives just as easily.

He cast one last look down at his own simple hobbit clothing, laid out neatly, as it had been for weeks. How desperately he wanted that simple uncomplicated existence those clothes represented.

At length he looked down at himself and surrendered to the truth. This was the garb that had protected him in battle. He wore it now to protect him from a crueler adversary, his own past.

In the livery of the king he could laugh and joke and accept the adulation of his fellow hobbits. If he laid that aside there would be nothing to protect him from the ugly reality.

Straightening, he drew back his shoulders and walked towards the door. His strides were confident, betraying neither haste nor reluctance. His hands rested easily at his sides and on his face was the carefully maintained smile he showed the Shire.

When he stepped out in the hallway, Merry was waiting, straight and tall in his livery of green and white. He too wore a familiar smile and his greeting was pleasant.

Their eyes met, just for a moment, and they were drawn to each other, hands clasping briefly as they shared what they could not yet put into words. Pippin felt tears press hard against his eyes, but he did not let them fall.

He was a hero. And even the smallest hobbit knew that heroes do not cry.