The enemy lines broke.
Not all at once, not in an orderly withdrawal—but in a screaming, snarling, feral collapse. The starving goblins turned first, shrieking and stumbling over their own dead. Then the orc rabble followed, gnawing on corpses even as they fled, too deranged to understand why their side had lost.
They had charged expecting meat—what they found was a hurricane of lunacy: peasants laughing as they bit off ears, hobbits stabbing kneecaps from below, and a godlike wizard screaming about "overtime pay" while flexing in the moonlight.
By the time the Nazgûl realized what had happened, it was already over. They did not move. They only watched from their ruined perches atop Osgiliath like disappointed generals watching pawns spontaneously combust.
On the battlefield, Gandalf spun his horse dramatically, rearing it back on its hind legs as he thrust his staff toward the city.
"BACK TO THE CITY! REGROUP! RATION TICKETS AND BATHS FOR ALL!"
The peasants obeyed with the enthusiasm of drunken sports fans after a victorious riot. They waved bloodied farming tools and cried out songs about soup. The hobbits, muddy and grinning, guided their ponies in neat little ranks, high-fiving each other with tiny armored fists.
On the walls of Minas Tirith, the people roared.
From the lowest gate to the highest tier, civilians cheered like they'd just witnessed the most unbelievable comeback in World Cup history. Bread was thrown into the air. Barrels of ale were cracked open. A few elderly women fainted with joy. One man ripped off his shirt and declared himself the "Mayor of Pippin."
Faramir stood in the mud, bloodied, armor torn, eyes wide. He looked out over the field.
Corpses. Smoke. Hobbits waving flags.
He blinked slowly, as if his brain had paused in disbelief.
"Did we... win?"
"No," Madril croaked beside him, limping with a shattered spear. "We survived."
At that moment, Gandalf trotted past, gleaming and magnificent, brushing soot from his robes as if dusting off a stage costume.
He did not even glance at Faramir.
"Pippin! With me! Hurry, boy—we must speak with the Steward. There are trade deals to secure and political capital to exploit!"
Pippin, still panting, covered in mud, and holding a lance that was now mostly goblin parts, saluted shakily.
"Y-Yes, my lord! Right away!"
Together, the wizard and the fool galloped off, their robes and cloaks trailing dramatically behind them as the crowd on the walls erupted into one final, thunderous ovation.
Faramir watched them go. He didn't speak. He didn't move.
A peasant with no pants ran by shouting "WE DID IT!" and threw a chicken into the air.
Faramir just kept staring.
Around him, soldiers were carrying the wounded, cradling the broken, weeping in exhaustion. He joined them silently, lifting a bleeding boy from the dirt, helping another man walk.
He didn't understand what had just happened.
But he knew he had to lead.
Someone had to.
The echo of cheering still rang through the white walls of Minas Tirith. Below the high towers, peasants toasted their blood-caked shovels and rusted saws, singing songs of victory, wine, and Pippin. Somewhere, a man was vomiting from joy and concussion simultaneously.
But Gandalf did not linger.
No, he rode with great urgency—Pippin bouncing behind him, still half-covered in goblin blood, his helmet backwards and his lance dragging in the dirt. The gates of the Citadel opened for them, the guards too stunned or indifferent to stop a wizard riding a pony-knight child like a sack of trade goods.
The hallway inside was cold, lined with ancient banners and stale candlelight. Every step of Gandalf's boots echoed with practiced drama.
Pippin adjusted his crooked helm. "Where are we going, sir?"
"To greatness, Peregrin," Gandalf muttered. "To diplomacy. And more importantly, to contracts."
They arrived before the Throne Hall.
At the far end, high upon the steps, sat Denethor—not in the Steward's seat, but sprawled arrogantly on the King's Throne. His legs were absent, wrapped in black cloth and draped over the armrests. His arms, however, were monstrous—bulging with the strength of a man who had dragged himself up and down his marble kingdom for decades with nothing but hatred and triceps.
He did not rise. He never did. He glared as Gandalf entered, then resumed picking meat from between his teeth.
Gandalf bowed with uncharacteristic grace. "My lord Steward."
Denethor grunted.
Gandalf gestured at the hobbit. "I bring you a token of goodwill. A gift, if you will. This is Peregrin Took, a knight of the Shire, who fought bravely in the field. He sings. He dances. He's loyal. And small."
Pippin stepped forward, confused. "I… I sing, yes. Sometimes. Mostly by accident."
Denethor squinted. "Is it trained singing? Or the kind done by frogs and children with fevers?"
"Um…"
"He is pliable," Gandalf interrupted. "Eager. Devoted. And more importantly, he is a gesture of friendship. A sign that the Shire recognizes Gondor's ancient glory, and wishes for closer… integration."
Denethor raised an eyebrow. "Integration?"
"Trade," Gandalf clarified. "Your mines. Our cotton. Your wine. Our weed. Your metal. Our labor. A partnership."
Denethor leaned forward, bones cracking, greasy fingers steepled.
"And you brought me this creature… why?"
"As a servant," Gandalf said, smiling tightly. "A personal attendant. A bard. A... court fool, if you wish. Let him warm your evenings with song and awkwardness."
Pippin bowed clumsily. "It's true! I'm very awkward."
There was silence.
Then Denethor began to laugh. A slow, gravelly thing, like a mountain trying to vomit.
He slapped his armrest, meat flying. "Very well, wizard. Leave the rat."
Gandalf smiled. Not at Pippin. At the future of pipeweed monopolies and stone imports.
"I shall take my leave, then," he said smoothly.
As he turned, he whispered to Pippin without looking: "Sing only when asked. Bow often. And for the love of the Valar, don't mention mushrooms."
Then he strode from the hall.
Denethor watched Pippin approach nervously. The Steward's eyes glinted with cruel amusement.
"Well then," he said. "Let's see what this thing can do. Sing me a song, fool. And if I choke on my food—don't stop. I want the full show."
Pippin gulped.
And began to sing.
In the shadows behind the throne, meat bones piled like forgotten truths. In the corridors beyond, the trade wheels of Gondor and the Shire began to turn.
The high hall of Minas Tirith echoed with soft, trembling music.
Pippin stood alone before the throne, voice shaking, hands clutched together like a schoolboy on trial. His voice rose and cracked through a warble of a Shire tune—something about second breakfasts and a girl named Daisy who made cider with questionable hygiene.
He sang for his life.
Denethor, sprawled across the King's throne with the posture of a melting corpse, chewed loudly on a slab of cold meat. He didn't seem to blink. He didn't look away. He only chewed and stared, like a starving man contemplating whether the bard was edible.
Pippin finished the verse.
Silence.
Denethor sucked marrow from a bone.
"Continue."
Pippin forced a smile and launched into the second verse—this one with foot tapping. His voice rose a little steadier now, but the melody bounced awkwardly against the cold stone.
Behind the throne, a servant flinched as a chicken bone whistled past his ear. Denethor had missed his throw.
"Off key," the Steward muttered. "Try again. But with more regret."
Suddenly, the doors at the far end of the hall slammed open.
Pippin jumped, voice cracking into a squeal. The guards stiffened. The rhythm of the song died on the cold wind that now swept through the hall.
In walked Faramir—bloodied, limping, his armor dented, his cloak ragged. Dust clung to his boots. His face was ash-streaked. Behind him came two wounded soldiers, carrying between them the weight of Osgiliath's fall.
Denethor did not move.
"Father," Faramir said, voice tight. "I come with news."
"I see," Denethor replied without looking at him. "The prodigal returns. And just as my new servant begins to entertain."
Pippin stood frozen, unsure whether to bow, run, or resume the verse.
Faramir stepped forward, each movement stiff with restraint. He bowed, but not deeply.
"Osgiliath is lost," he said. "The Nazgûl descended. Twelve of them. Their presence alone broke the line. We fought to the last barricade. Thousands dead. Civilians saved. The retreat—successful."
"Mmm," Denethor muttered. He gestured lazily with a chicken leg. "But the city?"
"Destroyed."
Denethor finally looked at him. Slowly. Like a snake eyeing a crippled rat.
"And yet… you live."
Pippin, sensing the temperature drop by several degrees, took a half-step back.
Faramir didn't flinch. "Yes. I live. To bring this report. To fight again."
Denethor scoffed. "To sing for your supper, perhaps? Shall I seat you next to the halfling here? You could harmonize."
Faramir said nothing.
"Boromir would have died there," Denethor continued, rising onto his elbows. "He would have held the bridge with his last breath. He would have made the enemy choke on his bones. You? You ran."
"I saved thirty-six thousand lives," Faramir said through clenched teeth.
Denethor tossed the chicken bone at him. It struck Faramir's chest and fell.
"You saved cowards. Women. Children. The soft and the useless. While the city—our legacy—burned."
Faramir's jaw worked. His knuckles were white around his belt.
Pippin spoke, voice small. "He was very brave. I saw it. He—"
Denethor slammed his hand down on the throne.
"SILENCE, FOOL."
Pippin fell quiet. His eyes went wide. His mouth closed like a trapped birdcage.
Denethor leaned forward, eyes boring into his son.
"Do you know why I feed this hobbit scraps and make him sing for my pleasure? Because at least he is honest. At least he knows what he is. You—you wear armor, carry a sword, but you are still the boy who hid behind Boromir's cloak."
Faramir trembled—but didn't break.
"If you wish me dead, Father, say it plainly. Stop dressing your hate in shadows."
Denethor sank back into the throne, suddenly weary, suddenly ancient.
"I wish," he whispered, "that I had only one son. One true son."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Faramir bowed again. This time deeper. But not in reverence.
"Then I will die for you. As your disappointment."
He turned and walked out, shoulders straight despite the weight on them.
Pippin stared at the doors as they slammed shut again.
Denethor sighed.
"Now then," he said without looking at the hobbit. "Pick up where you left off. But this time… sing it in mourning."
Pippin opened his mouth.
And sang.