A Tale Of Two Hobbits

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In Minas Tirith the survivors of the garrison at Osgiliath rode in under the gate, Gandalf and his hobbit at their head. Faramir was most surprised to see the little fellow; how like Frodo, he thought.

“They have taken the road to the Morgul Vale,” he told them.

Gandalf stared at him, his heart turning cold.

“What does that mean?” Pippin asked. “Gandalf?”

“Come Faramir, tell me everything,” Gandalf urged him.

Pippin had sat patiently enough, fingering the corner of the uniform he had been commissioned with, but as yet not having the heart to don. They seemed to have been talking for hours, but the sun had barely moved. Pippin sighed and Gandalf threw him a cross look. Pippin ignored him, he was used to it.

The conversation was over it seemed as Gandalf rose then, and Pippin had missed it all, probably by some cruel design by the wizard.

“I must speak with Denethor.”

At that moment four servants arrived with hot water. Pippin fair flew into a fit of delight. “Bath time,” he almost squealed.

“Make sure you do not waste it,” the maid warned him. “There is a war on, you know, and water is rationed.”

“Yes, madam,” Pippin replied seriously, hands stuffed behind his back.

“By order of the Steward, you will have to share,” the maid finished and quickly left.

Gandalf threw her a tight smile. After the doors closed he sighed, eyeing the steaming bath with envy. “I shall have to wait. Denethor is waiting. Pippin, don’t forget to wash behind your ears.” And he was gone before he heard the reply.

Pippin huffed and threw his overcoat onto the bed. “I’m not a child, you know?” he groused, and then spied the bathtub. He rubbed his hands together with glee.

Faramir watched his delight with a smile. It had obviously been a while since he had had a moment to relax, let alone had some fun. Even the curled locks on his head looked care-worn. “I just wanted to let you know that Frodo and Sam were in good health,” he stuttered, realising that perhaps he aught to be leaving.

Pippin stripped out of his clothes without so much as a flicker. It was obvious that coming from a large hobbit family you lose your inhibitions at an early age, if you ever had them at all. He had removed all his clothing and was shuffling across the floor, naked and not caring who saw him, to skip into the steel tub. He slipped into the chest deep water and sighed deliciously.

The sound made the hairs on the back of Faramir’s neck stand on end, a shiver of goose bumps washed over his skin.

“I heard everything, even if Gandalf doesn’t like me ear-wigging,” Pippin suddenly said in his usual jovial manner.

Faramir’s mind was still stuck on how well muscled the hobbit was under his clothes, not childlike as his height would have many believe at all. And he was handsome as faces go.

“I love a good bath,” Pippin was saying. “It’s good not to have to share one, although I never really minded my younger brother and sisters getting with me when they were small. It got to be a bit of a bind when I reached my tweens, though.”

Faramir blushed irreverently, although he manfully tried not to. Pippin was being serious, but try as he might Faramir could not quell the desire to laugh. It escaped as a snort through his nose, before Pippin’s eyes lifted to his. Faramir was about to apologise when Pippin’s next words froze him to the spot.

“Do you need a bath before going to see your father?” he asked. “You can share mine.”

Faramir’s insides turned to water. “Wha-a-we?”

“I’ll scrub your back for you, if you’d like,” Pippin offered.

Faramir, distracted and not thinking, replied, “Yes.” But rooted to the floor he couldn’t seem to move.

“There is a war on,” Pippin continued. “And with the water rationing, you might as well share mine. Gandalf might be a while . . .or he might not, depending on how the meeting with Denethor goes. He’ll be wanting the tub as soon as it’s free.”

Faramir smiled to himself, hearing the happy banter of the small creature, so much in contrast to the deep melancholy of Frodo and his faithful servant, Sam.

“Two using a tub at the same time saves time,” Pippin announced. All very innocent and justifiable reasons . . .to a hobbit. And all the while, this talk of sharing baths was getting poor Faramir hot and bothered, and at a loss for words. His breath seemed to have escaped him as well.

“Why not,” Faramir said finally. And with that, he began to undress.

Pippin suddenly realised for the first time that there was a stranger in his rooms, one he had only met an hour or so ago, one that was undressing, one that was now approaching his bathtub . . .naked. For one small hobbit who always had to look, he suddenly found himself getting more of an eyeful than he had ever dreamed of. “Ooohh,” Pippin said, in amazement. “You’re hung like a horse!”

The colour drained from Faramir’s face as he slipped into the water. It was not the first thing he had expected to hear, nor even the last. He half considered getting out right now and drying off, but the words were as tender as a maiden’s was shy. He shuddered at the thought.

Suddenly and inexplicably Pippin found himself more than eager to help one tall, handsome warrior wash away some tension. And one warrior found himself on the receiving end of one enthusiastic hobbit’s attentions. It was time for a hobbit boy to become a man.

“Why do I always have to look?” he whispered to himself. “Why do I always have to look?”

Faramir heard him and chuckled, smoothing water over his broad chest. “You can touch as well,” he invited, and handed the hobbit the soap.

Pippin plucked the soap from his fingers with his usual panache and began lathering the man’s chest. Pip soon realised that this was far different than helping his mother bathe the babies when he was six. For one, smoothing away Faramir’s tensions caused sensations he had never expected. Slipping as he was, Pippin placed his knees on either side of one of Faramir’s thighs to anchor himself, and massaged the aching muscles of Faramir’s left shoulder. Faramir moaned softly, enjoying the touch that eased a knotted muscle that had sat there all day.

As Pippin worked his way over the wide expanse of chest and taut abdomen, Faramir kept shifting his left leg, seemingly unaware that he was doing it. Pippin slowed what he was doing, realising what the flexing thigh muscles were doing to him. Looking down at himself through the rapidly soaping water he noticed he was getting stiff about the groin, and better still, he liked the feelings that came with it. For the first time in his life he was aroused, and his father wasn’t around to give him what for. No, he said silently. Not this time.

As he worked the deep grime from Faramir’s skin and eased the knots from his muscles, he noticed that as his body swayed his need rubbed up and down Faramir’s thigh. It was a while before he realised that Faramir had opened his eyes and was watching him. The hobbit’s hands, now having reached his lower belly, found that the man’s body was as stiff as his own. Ramrod hard and sticking straight up in the water, Pippin gazed at it for a moment before he blinked, thinking he was seeing things.

“I’ll wash that for you, as well,” Pippin bust out confidently.

It was an innocent gesture at the beginning, but Pippin’s need rose within him and his instincts took over. As his breathing deepened, his innocence and wide-eyed wonder revealed the adult world to be less than cut and dried.

As his tiny hand reached for the huge shaft he quickly realised that rubbing it did not relieve any tension at all, but increased it. And the swelling only increased rather than lessened. He took hold of it with both hands, as one did not go all the way around, and began to rub hard.

Faramir gasped loudly, and covered his hands. “Gently, sweet love,” he whispered, without thinking. “Or I shall go off like one of Mithrandir’s fireworks.”

Pippin grinned. “I love his firew . . .” The grin fell off. “Oh . . .”

Pippin became more fascinated, realising that the feelings of desire that he felt when pressing his need against the man’s leg was the same as what Faramir was feeling. Gently he took the shaft in one hand and smoothed slowly from tip to base and back up. Faramir moaned softly.

Innocence, Faramir was thinking. It was sweet to watch. He could not explain the feelings he had for the Halfling. They were sudden and gentle, but strident and slow at the same time. He shifted his knee again, trying to regain purchase with his foot at the far end of the tub. He had been slipping deeper into the water and had no idea that this simple manoeuvre would have such an affect on his small friend. He smiled, brushing a finger down Pippin’s side, letting his jaw fall open as his breath deepened.

Pippin pressed his hips down against his thigh, feeling a rush of pleasure fill his body. He trembled feeling Faramir’s fingers run down his body, in an action that a year ago would have tickled. I’m not a child, you know? he repeated silently. Gently he smoothed up and down, matching the moves with his hips.

Faramir’s fingers found his need and copied his moves. Pippin gasped, eyes drifting shut. He quickened the pace on the man’s shaft. Faramir gasped, moaning loudly. Pippin opened his eyes to find him gazing at him.

“I would split you open, if . . .” His voice was low, yet full of regret.

Pip nodded, knowing what he meant; making love, which is what they were doing. He wanted to, but Faramir was twice his size.

Faramir smoothed the hobbit’s shaft in his hand, feeling him writhe deliciously, hearing his impassioned panted breaths. Pippin’s need was no less than a man’s. Pippin half fell forward, belly to belly, his small legs between Faramir’s. Need slid against need as Pippin rocked his hips against him in the soapy water. Faramir lifted him slightly and kissed him. The hobbits lips were so soft and pliant that he forgot himself and was fair panting when he broke the kiss.

Lowering Pippin again, the hobbit set to work kissing everything within reach. Faramir was lost in the sensations as Pip nibbled along a collarbone scarred by battle, but no less sensitive to his tongue. Large hands smoothed up his back as they thrust together. Faramir’s eyes drifted shut as he moaned with need, feeling skin slide against skin, water sloshing around them. The sound of the huff-huff of thick breath and the back and forth of thrusting bodies, was almost too much to take.

Finally, he whispered. “Pippin . . .” His voice was husky as he shifted his hips, urging his love to change positions.

Pippin knelt back on his heals as Faramir lifted himself up onto the wide ledge at the side of the tub, his body steaming in the cool night air as he pressed it against the stone wall. Pippin rose up between his legs, pushing his knees up, revealing his sweet entrance. Driven by a deep need he couldn’t explain, he gently inserted a soapy finger, relishing the way Faramir’s body shuddered. Twisting his finger slowly he added another.

Faramir’s eyes were closed, breath stuttering as he was lost to his lover’s attentions. Pip was drowning, eyes closed, his hips thrusting at nothing. With one hand he smoothed over Faramir’s shaft as he guided his own into Faramir’s hot tight channel.

Pip moaned with the sensation as he thrust in in smooth moves. A rhythm established itself. Feeling his own pleasure close to release, Pip growled low at Faramir. The large solid warrior is adrift on a raft of emotions.

They listened to each other, moaning and panting with desire. Arching into him Pippin thrust all the way in before withdrawing almost all the way out before thrusting home and arching again, all sense of rhythm gone. Pip leaned forward, deepening his thrust, rubbing his chest against Faramir’s shaft as he nibbled on a pebbled nipple causing Faramir to gasp and abruptly plunge over the edge. Pip reacted instantly and exploded within him.

Their combined roar wafted through the night, stilling Gandalf on his way back from his second, and just as sour as the first, meeting with Denethor to take his turn in the bath.

Faramir dragged the towel over his body, and watched him shiver. Then draping the towel over the back of the chair, he picked the hobbit up in his arms and carried him to the bed. Laying him in the crisp linen, he slid in beside him.

“There are much more pleasurable ways,” Faramir murmured.

Pippin was intrigued as he snuggled against him. “What could be more pleasurable than this?” he asked.

Beyond the partition, Gandalf tentatively opened the outer door, wondering what he would find. The ante room was deserted. Upon entering he saw clothing upon the chair by the vacated bath, and upon his bed.

As he reached for the clothes he noticed that not all of them were Pippin’s. Bundling them together he laid them across the chair by the bath, and chastised himself for his ignorance, and for not returning sooner. He quickly crossed to the partition door, but paused at the threshold as the sound of moaning drifted to his ears from the next room.

He had always chastised Pippin at every turn, when in fact, he had been sprung from a cloistered life into a life of terror, forever running from one horrifying moment to the next, without knowing the wisdom of adulthood or experience to guide him. And when Gandalf should have been praising Pippin’s spirit and welcoming his company, he had done little more than put him down. Separated from his only guiding influence, Merry, Pippin had had to turn to someone else for that support and had run straight into the arms of the man whose father would wish him dead.

“No,” Gandalf said to himself. “This is not the same. Pippin is in love.” He smiled gently. “He is not a child any longer.” He turned away to stand on the balcony, thinking long and hard. “Pippin, my young friend, I have a task for you in the morning,” he mused to himself.

They woke early and loved, falling back to sleep in each others arms. They woke late and made love again, before parting to see the Steward. Faramir had to explain his loss of Osgiliath and Pippin had to be sworn in as guard of the citadel, and neither knew what fate would befall Faramir. Both feared what his father would say, but neither was prepared for the horror to come.

Pippin had vowed to keep silent when orders he knew were wrong were issued, and this he knew was one such order. He had vowed compliance to every uttered word that came from the Steward, even when they were of little or no gain, but of great loss to Gondor, and this he knew was one such word. In silence they gazed at each other one last time, knowing that their eyes would never find each other again, and there was nothing they could do or say that would change it.

Pippin could only stand there and watch him leave, feeling as well as hearing the pain in Faramir’s voice. His father wished him dead and as if Faramir’s heart were his own, Pippin felt the knife draw the life from his soul.

He stood as a lifeless statue, still living, hearing and feeling his heart still beating numbly, unable to stop it, unable to carry on. Breath followed breath, unable to feel anything beyond the lump in his throat and the gnawing ache of his heart.

When everyone had left, Pippin was forgotten, still standing in the spot where he had knelt, pledging the life of his lover to his death. When sound came again, it drew Pippin to attention with a start.

“Can you sing, master Hobbit?” came his grating voice. There was no kindness in his words now that the servants and other people had gone. It was just Denethor and Pippin. Pippin was taken aback by the cold hard glare. The Steward had been all warmth and smiles just a moment before. Now he looked murderous.

“Well . . .yes. That is . . .well enough for my own people. But we have no songs for great halls, in evil times,” he said. He worked to keep the fear out of his voice as the cold steal-blue eyes glared at him all the harder.

“And why should your songs be unfit for my halls?” the Steward asked, his voice even colder, if possible, than his daggered look. “Come, sing me a song!”

It was not a request.

Pippin thought for a moment, and no songs came to mind. He was more suited to drinking songs, all of which Merry had taught him. Then words came to him with its own melody.

His voice rang clear among the columns, though his heart was on the fields between the gates and the river and his eyes watched the Steward.

The juice of a tomato, red against his chin, dripped onto the plate like Faramir’s blood upon the ground. “Until the stars are all alight . . .”

He could see it, but not with his eyes. His heart could feel it, his soul could see it.

It did not surprise him as much as he thought it should; his line was part elven, after all. Periannath, Halflings, and until now he had never questioned it, never brought it to the fore. But, now . . .he could see.

Blood, red against the earth . . .Faramir was falling . . .the dead were being violated . . .

He closed his eyes tight, gritted his teeth to stifle the cry of torment.

His anger and sorrow knew no bounds. Would that he had not made his oath, he cursed it now to himself that he could not stop his beloved from riding to his death, or hasten the end of Denethor’s hatred for his son. Pip’s hand drifted down to rest upon his blade, as the final bitter notes faded from the hall. Silently, Pippin wept.

Below him in the courtyard Gandalf sat alone. But he had one card left to play. Lifting his head he slowly raised his eyes up at the cliff high above him. The shadow of Amon Din was already rising up the wall behind him.

The hour was growing late, as well he knew it, but not too late. If he set the beacon alight now, the message would reach Théoden by dawn, but he could not light it himself. No, that would be too easy for Denethor, to have Gandalf executed for treason would delight him no end. Stewards had thought it for centuries, but none of them were brave or even skilled enough to bring down a wizard, even a grey one. A white wizard was something else entirely.

The difficulty now was getting up to the beacon without alerting the guards, or being seen by them. Even a white wizard had his limits. On looking up at the tall spire of almost inaccessible rock, he knew of only one creature who could do it, and only one way it could be done. There was one creature whose skills and bravery would now come, the same who had had his love taken from him by the Steward and thrown to the wolves of hell, to be slaughtered in recompense for his favoured son’s life.

Gandalf stood then, his final card coming to the fore. “Pippin,” he said to himself. He started walking back towards the Hall of Kings to confront the Steward, but then he stopped. Pippin came out of the small side door, head bowed. There were tears on his cheeks and yet more unshed in his eyes. It throttled the anger in Gandalf’s heart in an instant.

He watched him standing there, oblivious to everything but his breaking heart. The tears poured unchecked and ran freely down his face, deep wracking sobs tore through his little body that a greater stature would find grievous to bare.

Gandalf gently placed a hand on his shoulder. The time for hugging the hobbit as a boy were gone.

“He’s gone . . .He’ll be dead, Gandalf,” he whimpered.

“I won’t lie to you, Pippin,” he said. “But understand, if Faramir were here now he would tell you the same thing. You are a guard of the citadel, you have an oath to protect the city.”

“But the Steward . . .he . . .”

“Yes, I know,” Gandalf replied, when the words would not come. “But, there is more to do. You have an oath to fulfil, and I know how you can do that. Do not make Faramir’s death a waste. Let it stand for something.”

Pippin lifted his eyes to his. “How?”

“Come with me. I have a task for you to undertake, and your courage and fortitude will be of worth to Gondor, yet. Let us light the beacon of Minas Tirith, and summon the Rohirrim. But we can’t go up by the usual route.”

Pippin lit up a little. “Merry,” he whispered. At any other time he would have smiled to hear that name, but there was no smile now, only the call of his duty to Gondor’s defence filled his eyes. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and took a cleansing breath. “Lead the way, Gandalf. Explain as we go.”

She watched her uncle retire to his tent and finally broke down. Aragorn would be dead in a matter of hours, and no cajoling on her part had changed his chosen path. Without stopping, she turned and ran for her own tent, not heading her brother’s voice calling her name.

“Leave her,” his friend bade him. “Tonight she is inconsolable. Dawn, the morrow, she will see things differently.”

“I hope so,” Éomer said.

Éowyn rushed in and stood still for a moment before sinking to her knees, the tears rolled down her cheeks and it was some time before she noticed the soft touch of a hand on her shoulder. She lifted her wet eyes to see who it was and found herself gazing into the dark eyes of Merry.

“My lady?”

“It is so unfair,” she blurted out. “It is nothing,” she dismissed after a moment more.

Merry stood before her almost eye to eye. “No, it isn’t,” he said softly. “If it making you cry, then it is more than nothing. I can’t promise I have an answer for you, but I am a good listener,” he offered.

Éowyn blinked, sending the last tear down her cheek.

“It was a childish fancy,” she told him with a sniff. “I had never met another man like him. He was exciting, friendly, and I harboured a hope that he and I . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Ah,” Merry noted slowly. “Aragorn.”

“Yes, Aragorn. Seems silly, does it not?”

“No,” Merry replied seriously. “Not, it’s not silly. It makes perfect sense. He is your equal, the only man you ever met whom you could marry. Who else in Rohan could you marry who is worthy of one of Théoden’s House? Who could possibly win so sweet a heart as that of Lady Éowyn?” he added poetically.

She tried a weak smile, battling to calm her breathing. “It would have to be a man of high birth, a nobleman,” she said.

“Why does it have to be a man?” Merry asked softly. “There are elves too, and dwarves, and there are Halflings. Hobbits of my size are rare, of course, but smaller hobbits are very common.” Éowyn suddenly laughed. Merry’s mouth turned upwards. “I made you smile,” he said.

“Yes, you did,” she accorded, gratefully. “Thank you. Since you speak so freely on the subject, I take it you are a nobleman back home?”

“Yes,” Merry replied, as she knelt on the pile of cushions that had been piled across the floor to sleep on. He moved to join her. “My father is Master of Buckland, king I suppose you’d say. And Pippin’s father, my uncle once removed, is Thain of Tuckborough Hall.”

Éowyn considered this. “I did not know this. What made you leave your homes and titles to come so far south?”

“We came on this journey to protect our kinsman, Frodo. He is somewhere in Ithilian, although I don’t know for certain.” Merry looked up and stood. “Are you hungry? I could go and find you something to eat, if you’d like?”

“No,” she said, bringing a hand up to stop him. “Please, do not leave me alone. Stay and . . .keep me company.”

Merry heard the change in her words as clearly as he heard the skip of her breath. Men of nobility excited her, but that excitement also frightened her. It was not love, he knew that, but he did not want strings. Hoping he was reading the look in her eye correctly, he pulled the tent flap down and turned to her. Leaning in he pressed a kiss to her lips. She responded.

He pulled back and gazed at her for a long time. “My lady . . .”

“Please, call me Éowyn.”

Merry smiled gently and reached out to brush the loose locks of delicately curling hair back over her shoulder, inadvertently brushing her skin. She shuddered, releasing a quivering breath. Merry slowly drew his hand back dragging a fingertip along the line of her dress. She gasped.

“Please,” she whispered. “I . . .I should not . . .you are but a child . . .”

“I am thirty-six years old,” he whispered reassuringly to her. “Well beyond the age of maturity.”

She considered his words, she had never felt the touch of a man, and yet her body ached for him. With the faintest of nods she gave in to his touch, knowing what he was giving was beyond price. “Merry,” she whispered, watching the shudder her voice caused as it moved through his body.

Merry looked into her eyes. “My . . .Éowyn . . .I . . .am . . .”

The look in her eyes darkened. She was making it an order of the Realm. He knew he should preserve her honour, it was his duty as a gentleman, but her place as queen, by Théoden’s order, meant he also had a duty to her, to see to her protection, comfort and well-being. Tonight she needed comfort. One day, he was certain, a man of her own kind would wed her and make her his own. Until then, she was his.

With tender, uncertain brushes he explored the delicate flesh of her throat with his fingers and thumb. Slowly his lips sought hers again, pressing gently, moulding and parting them with his tongue. She gasped against his mouth, her breath catching.

“If you wish me to leave, just say so,” he whispered. “And I shall leave.”

“I do not wish that,” she whispered back.

Planting delicate kisses along her jaw his fingers reached for the bow that held the lace of her bodice together at her breast. He pulled it loose and ran his hands up her back and back down again. His lips mouthed her throat, dusting her skin with his light breath.

To her delight, he slowly explored her shoulders, nudging the fabric of her dress out of the way as he followed its line downwards to the cleft between her breasts. Laving that spot with a quick swirl of his tongue, he continued up the other side. His hands slowly smoothed as much of her as he could reach. She was responding, her breath deepening and her body trembling. His body responded to her whispered sighs, he was already beginning to harden with need.

“Tomorrow I go into battle,” he breathed across her skin. “I might not be coming back.”

“Do not think of it ‘til morning,” she begged him. “Tonight is for us, you and me.”

“Just for tonight,” he whispered, bringing a hand up her side to cup a breast, thumbing the nipple through the cloth. His other hand pushed aside the material to expose the gentle swell. Settling his lips around the exposed nipple, he heard her utter one shuddering, breathy word in reply.

“Yes.”

Stepping closer to her he pressed his hips to hers, nudging his need at her apex. Kneeling as she was on the cushions, he could reach her. He moaned with need, falling into step with her sighs. Her hand snaked behind him, pressing him closer, making her intention clear. She wanted him, all the way. Her other hand went to the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, his went to her skirt, bunching it in his hands and drawing it up her body.

Pushing the dress off over her head he took hold of one firm breast and moulded it in his palm as she pulled off his sleeves. Switching hands, his lips took the other breast into his mouth. Laving the nipple, he heard her moan, shuddering in his arms.

Her body drifted back against the warm wood of the armoury door, solid and unyielding as he pressed against her. The tip of his need nudged against the V of her thighs. She arched her back, pushing her breasts into his ministrations. She sighed thickly, hearing his answering moan against her nipple.

He reached down and pulled the button free and his trousers fell to his ankles. Her fingers smoothed down his buttocks and pulled him closer.

He nudged her apex, feeling skin against skin. He shuddered, releasing the nipple and mouthing his way to the other. Éowyn shifted, parting her thighs as far apart as she could, feeling his need slide further across her sensitive flesh.

Eyes closed, he savoured the feel of his need moving through her sweet folds. His body shuddered, but he concentrated; slow, long moves back and forth. His hard need rubbed against her bundle, making her gasp deliciously, he did it again, harder and quickened the pace.

Her head tipped back against the wooden panel, her impassioned breath huffing into the air. He closed his eyes, beginning to lose control. Body shuddering, he thrust faster, hand to her buttocks, moulding them in his hand while the other thumbed a nipple.

Her rapid gasps rose into the air, threatening to release a scream, but she didn’t. He shuddered deeply, groaning softly against her throat as he came, need pressed hard against her, releasing his seed, feeling it run down her thighs, coating his fingers. He had not filled her, despite wanting to, preserving her virtue. Her body jerked as she knelt there, her breathing finally slowing, body pulsating with release.

Still breathless she slid down to lay among the cushions, eyes closed.

Merry knelt beside her, and kissed her lips tenderly. “One day,” he whispered. “You’ll understand why I did that.” She looked up at him, wondering what he meant. “I’ll see you in the morning, my lady. Sleep well,” he smiled.

Despite her confusion, she fell asleep. In the morning it seemed like a dream, but Merry was still there, and he was dressing for war.

“I feel a little light-headed after last night’s drinking,” a man groaned, rubbing his head, shaking it to clear the fog of sleeping on the ground.

“You are always light-headed, for want of more in it,” Éomer replied, not missing a beat as he set the saddle upon his horse.

Däma looked at him and they both started laughing. He clasped Éomer’s forearm in his and slapped his shoulder. “Let us ride, brother,” he accorded with deep affection.

“That we will do,” the heir responded. Éomer turned to find his sister, a woollen shawl around her shoulders to stave off the cold. “You had a difficult night, sweet sister. Does this morning fair you well?” he asked gently.

Éowyn gazed up at him. “The day which brings you home safely will fair me well,” she replied.

Éomer smiled and hugged her. “We will return,” he promised. “And then our uncle, Théoden-King, shall give you rest from the mighty burden he has set upon your shoulders. And if not he, then I in his stead.”

“Be swift,” she bade him. “It is not a duty I can carry long,” she admitted.

“Keep the fires burning and the soup hot, favoured daughter of Kings,” he smiled, and kissed her forehead. “We will be but a heartbeat gone, and you and I shall celebrate together in the halls of Éorl.”

She was emboldened by his words and dared a smile of hope. She watched the first of the men leave the encampment for the final mustering point, and rushed towards her tent. She had risen early to saddle her steed, now she almost tore the dress, a symbol of womanhood and weakness, from her body and donned the clothes of her dead cousin, Théodred. Thus disguised she rushed to join the throngs.

Not far from her tent she saw her uncle refuse Merry’s request to ride with those he had foresworn to fight along side. Mounting swiftly, she urged the horse on and as she passed him, lifted him up by his collar.

“Ride with me,” she whispered.

Merry grinned. “My lady.”

“Gandalf!” Pippin shrieked. “Denethor has gone mad. He’s burning Faramir alive!”

That was the usual punishment for one accused of treason, but the tone of Pippin’s voice told him that it was for something else. Executing sexual deviants was also law in Gondor . . .Gandalf froze in his saddle. How had Denethor found out? More than that . . .without Faramir, other prophesies would not come to pass. Snatching the hobbit unawares he stuck him on the horse behind him and set Shadowfax at a full gallop.

The great horse’s hooves scrabbled for purchase in the blood-soaked streets as they climbed to the citadel. Gandalf urged him on, hoping that they would reach the crypt before it was too late. Pippin found himself wishing the animal could fly, time was of the essence as his love was soon to face a fate he would not wish upon an enemy.

Suddenly they were at the solid doors, the wizard shouted a command and the great horse crashed through fearlessly. The Steward stood over Faramir, eyes glazed. Gandalf shouted to him, but he threw the torch to his feet, igniting the oil-soaked wood about him and his son.

Shadowfax sidled up to the pyre and Pippin launched himself into the conflagration, as Gandalf threw Denethor off with his staff. Standing in the fire Pippin rolled Faramir onto the stone floor, slapping the flames from his body.

He looked up from dousing the flames to see Denethor rise like a smog and reach out to the hobbit in murderous rage. “You will not take my son from me! You evil in elven flesh to design such a scourge on a good man! You killed my firstborn and seek to supplant goodness with sickening evil into my second . . .my line will not end this way! ”

As Denethor reached to snap the hobbit’s neck he unknowingly struck the horse’s foreleg. Shadowfax reared up in sudden fright, skipping back a pace. Pippin suddenly feared for his life and pushed the man away from him with surprising force. Denethor struck the side of the burning bier and cried out, suddenly snapping out of a fog that had cloaked his mind.

Pippin was furious. “You would kill your only son, my lover? Why?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the tomb where the kings of old lay in sleep. Gandalf was amazed at the Hobbit’s passion.

Denethor glared at the usurper of his authority, the elven sprite who would question his word. Just then a movement caught his eye. Faramir was waking up. He looked down at the body of his son, whose eyes were beginning to open. “Faramir,” he whispered.

Screaming as the flames licked at his body Denethor rushed, ablaze, out of the broken doors to his fate. Gandalf’s whispered words gently rose around the tomb, “And so ends the reign of Denethor, last steward of Gondor.”

“No,” Pippin breathed. “Not the last.”

Gandalf looked down, astonished as Faramir turned his head. The man was somehow not surprised that his diminutive love had saved him. The great pain in his side prevented speech, but Pippin saw the words in his gaze as their eyes met. He smiled softly.

“My love, you’re safe now. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Gandalf hoped that it would be so, but in the aftermath of Denethor’s corrupt rule there were laws that needed unmaking, and the true king to return to the throne. “Get Steward Faramir to the House of Healing,” he ordered.

Now free of Denethor’s frightening rage, the guards rushed to do Gandalf’s bidding, not pausing to wonder at their abrupt freedom from tyranny. There would be time for reflection later. Pippin, horrified at what he had done, gazed up at Gandalf.

“It was your duty, for the protection of Gondor. Remember that, my boy,” he said, in a tender phrase he had, until now, reserved only for Frodo.

Pippin smiled grimly and set about overseeing Faramir’s transfer to the healing rooms far below them. Gandalf returned to the wall and hoped Théoden was on his way. Not more than an hour or two after that, just as the sun rose above the flank of the fields, a horn blew across the earth. Rohan had come.

In the gardens of the House of Healing, Éowyn met Faramir, both were still ill from the injuries they had received in battle. He was instantly enchanted by her, but she was distant, always casting her eyes out over the battlefield as if looking for a lost love. In a way she was, but it was not Aragorn that she searched for, nor even Merry, her guardian and friend. For four days as the battle waged on and ended without them, they continued to meet in the garden beneath the trees.

“Marry me?” he whispered.

She turned her head, thinking she was dreaming, but in his eyes she saw the truth. She swallowed, feeling the love she had heard whispered through the fog of sickness from the Morgul poison. “It was you,” she whispered. “You were calling my name.”

“And you were calling mine,” Faramir replied. “Marry me.”

Finally the first smile in many months, a true smile of love and happiness adorned her face. “Yes,” she replied and fell into his arms.

On the eve of the coronation, Legolas went looking for the hobbits he had raced across an entire country to save. Merry he had found with ease, Pippin was more elusive. Legolas finally found him, in the arms of one Faramir, once Seward of Gondor, now Prince of Ithilien. He silently observed the brave farewell as Aragorn joined him, about to speak. Legolas held up a hand to silence him and Aragorn followed his eyes to where the two figures, one standing, the other kneeling, both in tears, were parting for the last time.

“Aragorn is about to sign away the law that prevents us from being together,” Faramir spoke, his voice to the point of breaking. He had not finished. “But . . .there is another . . .”

Pippin stepped closer to his first and only love where he knelt on the floor. He knew about the law preventing any of elven blood into Gondor, but that was not what Faramir was trying to say. “Éowyn,” he breathed softly. “You’re in love with her.”

“I tried not to, but . . .” Faramir beseeched him with his eyes, words that would defy his bidding to utter.

Pippin slowly smiled. “Faramir, my love for you will not end here . . .but you have a destiny to fulfil. Aragorn has given you Ithilien to rule. Éowyn is a beautiful woman, strong and well suited to the role of princess. It’s all she has ever known, after all. Your true course lies with Éowyn . . .not with me.”

Faramir’s eyes filled with tears. “But, my soul sings for you. I love you.”

Pippin stilled his words with a tender kiss. “But I can’t stay here,” he told him gently. “I have a home, and a throne of my own. I have a duty to my own people now. They need me.” Pippin smiled gently, cupping the man’s cheek in his tiny hand. “Your duty to Gondor is just as important. Your line cannot continue without her. The ties between Gondor and Rohan will be cemented by this union.”

Faramir released a shuddering breath. “Just as the ties between Gondor and the Shire have been cemented.” He took in the face of his love, burning it into his memory, and kissed him deeply. “I will always love you. I hope some day I will see you again.”

“I hope so, too,” Pippin replied.

They embraced long and hard, neither wanting to let go of the other. As they parted, Faramir pressed into his hands the Horn of the House of Stewards, a replica of the one that hung from his own belt. “Take this, as a token of our everlasting bond. When you come again, blow the horn and my sons will hear you and reply, and in Osgiliath and Minas Tirith they shall say, ‘the son of Gondor has returned’.”

Aragorn finally understood what it had taken for the hobbit to let go, and with that realisation came the full knowledge of what their love had meant to them. Before he had thought it a mere trifle, a passing phase. It was neither. Pippin was not the immature lad that he had been, but had become possibly the strongest of the four hobbits. And Faramir was a man of honour, about to marry one of the most beautiful ladies he had ever had the fortune of knowing.

He reached for Legolas’ elbow and pulled him away. “Leave them be,” he whispered.

Legolas followed him. “You knew about this?” he realised.

“Yes,” he said. “Gandalf told me yesterday. And Faramir hinted at it when he and I were going through Denethor’s decrees earlier this morning. I did not think anything of it until I realised which decree Faramir had been point at.”

“Decree?”

“The one that cites love as permissible only between a man and a woman.”

Legolas frowned. “That is very Denethor, very . . .narrow-minded.”

Aragorn lifted his head, a frown flickered across his brows and he discarded it before Legolas could see it. “I am well versed in elven law,” Aragorn told him. “But this is Gondor. How much change should I bequeath to these people? How much are they ready for?”

Legolas smiled gently. “They desire only freedom and peace and their rightful king at their head. You are the king. Your word is yours to choose.”

“If I choose to waiver these laws, I can marry Arwen . . .if she still lives.” Aragorn though of it. “As it stands now, the law forbids me.”

“As the law stands now, neither you nor I should be here at all,” Legolas reminded him. Aragorn said nothing, in deep thought. “The Law forbids any periannath within the boarders of Gondor. Remember, the Stewards wished your line forever gone from here. Your line includes those of my people . . .and Pippin’s.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “That is true. I had not thought of it. I must do what is best for Gondor. Our peoples should not be separated like this.” He straightened and sucked in and released a deep breath. “I have much work to do.”

Gandalf descended the stone stairs and called out. “Aragorn, we must delay the coronation for another week.”

Aragorn gazed up at him. “Why? Has something happened that I am unaware of?”

“Yes,” Gandalf replied, with some amusement and pleasure. “Yes, you could say that.” He grinned and chuckled to himself, patting Aragorn’s shoulder.

Legolas frowned and hopped lightly up the stone stairs to the look out above them. He gazed north and saw. His heart leapt. “Lord Elrond is coming!”

Aragorn’s eyes were drawn to his pendant, once dull grey now shining brightly once more. He leapt in his boots, although he barely moved more than a sudden inexplicable shudder of delight. “Time to revoke some Laws,” he announced and rushed back down the stairs towards the King’s chambers, where lay the thick pile of papers awaiting his official mark.

The day after the coronation, Elessar and Arwen were wed, a day of joy for everyone. Gandalf himself bound them for life beneath the bows of the white tree, its blooms open to the sun. That night upon retiring, Arwen gazed at him as a messenger brought him word of a visitor to his chambers.

“I will be right back,” he whispered to her and kissed her gently. “Stay right here.”

Arwen nodded, wondering who would be so bold as to interrupt their first night together. She watched him leave through the adjoining door and sighed softly, pressed her hands together and waited.

Elesser closed the door behind him silently and turned to find out who had disturbed him. It irked him no small amount, he had been waiting for this moment for forty years, and now he was . . .he stopped. “Faramir,” he noted softly. “What brings you here at this hour?”

“My lord, forgive my intrusion,” Faramir spoke. “I was not aware that you had retired to early. I should have . . .”

Elessar waved his formality aside. “You are like a brother to me. You know you can come to me at any hour.” He paused, looking back at the door. “Well, perhaps not any hour,” he added ruefully.

Faramir smiled.

“What do you need?” Elessar asked.

“I wanted to ask you earlier, but I was so caught up with the guests that I did not see you slip away. I wanted to ask if my lord would bless our union two days from now.”

“Your . . .?”

“Éowyn and mine,” Faramir clarified. “I have asked her to marry me.”

Elessar smiled widely and hugged him. “That is good news,” he said. “I would be honoured to, Faramir, truly this is the best day of my life. Éowyn has been a delight to me for a long time. It pleases me that she has found happiness.”

Faramir’s smile grew. “Thank you. Good night, my lord,” he said, and they parted.

Elessar turned and stepped through the doorway to see Arwen standing exactly where he had left her. In the growing gloom of evening she could not see him enter through the draped doorway. He had an idea forming in his mind. As silent as the fall of darkness he left his boots by the door and stepped around the edge of the room and removed his tunic. Stepping further, watching her standing there, lit almost from above by a sliver of moonlight he unbuttoned his shirt. Still she waited as he deftly passed beneath the sill of the windows and drew directly behind her.

His fingers popped open his trousers and they slid down his legs to puddle around his ankles. Stepping on them, one foot after another, he left them there, on the floor. In three bold steps he was against her back, arms around her, hearing the sharply indrawn breath of surprise.

“What’s this?” he asked silkily. “An elven Queen caught off her guard?” he whispered in her ear.

Remembering that night in the forest long ago she laughed softly and turned in his arms. Then she realised that he was totally naked.

“A little over dressed, my queen,” he noted.

Arwen gazed up at him, stilling the giggles with difficulty. “Then you must set that to rights, my lord,” she replied.

Elessar gazed at her, the heat rising between them. “Gladly,” he whispered.

Two days later, King Elessar was pleased and honoured to witness the marriage of Faramir and Éowyn within the gardens of the Healing House. They were very much in love, and he didn’t doubt it for a moment. The hobbits were pleased, one quiet and thoughtful, the other very happy.

Aragorn watched the thoughtful one from a distance. It was Merry. He had not had the chance to ask him what had occurred after he had taken the Dimholt Road, and how he and Éowyn had ended up on the fields of Pelennor was still a mystery to him. She should have been safe in Merry’s care back at Edoras, instead they had found her horribly injured not far from the gates of Minas Tirith, and she in the garb of a man.

He dismissed it as irrelevant. If she had not been here, the king of the Nazgul would still be out there, and they might have been fighting still. His brows twitched, recalling the prophesy ‘no man can kill the Nazgul’. Who would have guessed that the answer to the riddle would be a woman?

That night, in the rooms of the Steward, Faramir kissed along her collar bone, feeling her shudder with delight. He slid into her welcoming body and she hissed loudly. Faramir lifted his head to look at her.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. “I forgot that you are unknown to man. I will be gentle.”

Éowyn gazed up at him. “Unknown . . .?”

“A virgin, my love,” he smiled. “I will make you remember this night forever.”

He lowered his head to kiss more of the velvety skin as she gazed up at the ornate ceiling of his - their - home. She gasped in surprise, finally understanding what Merry had meant. He had not taken her, only given her the relief she needed, and preserved her honour. Her surprise soon returned to passion, and their night was sleepless and long.

It was two weeks later, to the day, that she woke to sickness. Faramir pushed up onto one elbow as she staggered blindly to the basin nearby to throw up. On the third such morning his concern slowly changed to wonder and then delight.

Éowyn turned towards him, hearing his pleased chuckle. “What has amused my husband? That I am sick?”

Faramir grinned and shook his head. “You are not sick, my sweet wife, but pregnant.”

“But . . .so soon . . .no . . .it cannot be . . .”

Faramir gazed at her, hearing her soft voice, not knowing her inner thoughts. It could be Faramir’s child, but in her heart she knew that it was not, and unable to understand how it could have happened. She had been unknown to man . . .but not hobbit and he had not taken her. By her own reasoning and instinct it could only be Faramir’s. And he would never know.

On the fall of a new year, Pippin stepped upon the land of Gondor again and lifted the horn he had so lovingly cherished for one hundred and twenty years and blew into it. He was old now, one of the oldest hobbits that had ever lived. Beside him stood the only older hobbit, Merry. At the summons of their old friend they were returning to Minas Tirith to live out the remainder of their days with Elessar, the king.

Beyond sight, an answering horn called back.

“Faramir’s son.” Pippin smiled with delight. He might have been close to one hundred and fifty years old, but he looked no older than forty.

“That Ent water we drank, Pip,” Merry warned gently. “They might be shocked at our appearance.”

“No worries,” Pippin grinned. “We’re going home.”

Mounting their ponies again, they rode off towards the city. At the gates stood a man, curled hair and dark eyes, looking northwards towards the road where it snaked around the foot of the mountains. Beside him stood Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, all in silent expectation.

As the two horses approached and slowed, two tall hobbits alighted. “King Elessar,” the first spoke, kneeling at his feet. The other followed suit.

Elessar grinned and chuckled, swooped up the first and bear-hugged him. “Welcome home, Pippin,” he said. “Son of Gondor, and in uniform, no less.”

Pippin mock choked and laughed. “My lord, I am not a young hobbit, anymore.”

Elessar laughed and set him on his feet again. He turned to the other hobbit and hugged him as a brother. “There are others that you should meet,” he invited.

Gimli, white haired and grinning, approached them and hugged them both at once. Legolas clasped both by the shoulder and smiled. “Welcome home,” he said.

“You haven’t aged a day,” Pippin noted, eliciting a pleased grin from the elf.

Gimli growled under his breath with disgust at the elf, but was grinning. “Neither have the two of you,” he replied.

Merry turned to the other man, who stood a good foot taller than himself, still short for a man of Gondor. He looked the same age, but was thirty-five years younger. They gazed at each other, both dark-eyed and curly-haired. He swallowed, wondering if he was dreaming. He knew, in his heart he knew who it was, but not how it could have been possible. He had not filled her, he was certain of it. “The son of Lady Éowyn?” he said finally.

The stranger nodded. “Éowyn was my mother. I am Boromir, Prince of Ithilien,” the younger introduced himself. “My father told me to listen for your call.” He was smiling, but there was also wonder in his eyes. “I am glad to finally get to meet you. My father has spoken fondly of you both, and often.”

His voice was also Merry’s, but with the inflection of Gondor, of Faramir. Merry gazed at him and said nothing of his unsettled thoughts.

Had his control slipped? Had he taken her virtue and not realised it? He had failed Lady Éowyn, had not kept his oath . . .unintentionally taking her and left her with child. He wondered why, if this had been so, that he had not been called up on it. Had Éowyn been exposed and disgraced? He could not bare the thought of the sweet maiden being disowned by the man who had so obviously loved her. And what of Faramir . . .did he know? Did he harbour a hurt all these years?

Nonetheless, Merry was proud of the result. The prince was handsome, strong and had his mother’s hair. And Pippin’s reaction, looking back and forth between his friend to the stranger, like a hobbit lass with two dolls and not knowing which to play with first, amused him. Merry smiled gently, not wanting to let on that he knew, in case no one else had noticed, or worse that he was wrong. He had no desire to rock the boat. He was Faramir’s son, after all.

Pippin took the prince by the elbow. “Come,” he said. “Tell me about your father, and I shall tell you all I knew of him.”

“Knew?” Boromir asked. “He is not dead yet. No, he is on his way. I am by far the faster rider, these days. But . . .” He gazed back at Merry and slowly smiled. “I think we all know that Faramir is not my real father . . .is he?”

El fin

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