Chapter 4.
Step by step Pippin gains unrivalled dominion over this private little realm.
Faramir has no shortage of staff – and no actual need of this many hands to do the help, at least in Pippin's unspoken opinion. If the Hobbit were to be consulted, he would have stated with full conviction that, with all due respect to the immense importance of the Steward's esteemed person, ione/i servant-assistant-esquire would be just about enough...
Only the chore of laundry still has to be outsourced, and solely the washing itself at that – Pippin collects the linens and the clothes into the basket himself and brings it outside for the ladies, and then receives the fresh things in like manner and singlehandedly irons them to perfection. He finds this particular work quite meditative, the sweat-inducing steam, the hissing and sighing of the hefty metal erasing the creases, the smell of hot damp fabric all congruent to his yearning to absorb his new life with his very pores, to physically experience Gondor. His back, shoulders and all the sinews in his arms ache by the time he is done, his neck is stiff, his face flushed and his curls have all but disintegrated into a messy frizz, but Pippin is only happy for it. A famous veteran of the War, he could have arranged a very different life for himself, could have rested on his laurels in leisure and luxury in the gold-and-green court of Edoras, or sung with the Elves in the magical Rivendell, or enjoyed all the blessings of country life in the fair Ithilien – and even here, in Minas Anor, he could have lived without a care. But he is ironing shirts and could never ask for more.
This is work for the patient, though, but he needs to train his patience – and vigilance, for he is handling things at once delicate and dangerous and knows his own susceptibility to letting his mind wander off when he ought to iwatch/i himself. It soothes him to see he is capable of standing at the board for hours without missing one wrinkle, without allowing the tiniest of burns to blacken the cloth or earning himself a single blister, without letting a single drop of his sweat fall from his brow and stain the fragrant flawless smoothness of his lord's things. Each piece he then carefully, almost tenderly folds up, as though handling an airy soufflé that would collapse if he as much as breathed on it too hard – all to preserve the soft comfortable feel he has put into the material, to make certain its touch to Faramir's skin will be mindful and untroubling.
Mindfulness is his weapon, and his little territorial conquest Pippin makes in much the same way that his lord prefers to win his own battles – by quiet, perseverant gentleness rather than force. Pippin fights and deceives no one, weaves no intrigues, does not try to parade his dedication and irreplaceability before his master – he simply makes everyone else redundant.
He does not, however, strive to make himself into an extension of his lord. He is very insistent on using only the official form of address with the Steward: what prudence he has managed to retain tells him it be best some appropriate distance be put between them, to ward off illusions – to keep him from forgetting himself. And not only that. He remembers how little it takes to arouse worry and questions in his new master, and on top of dreading becoming a source of distress to Faramir, he instinctively feels that as a servant he will be allowed more seclusion of emotion than a close friend. Thus he earnestly directs all his focus at precisely what he has been hired for: taking care of Faramir – regardless of whether or not Faramir himself is aware of such definition of Pippin's duty.
Pippin makes small, unimportant changes. Faramir's house slippers always get lost under the bed, so he puts a thick fluffy rug on the floor where Faramir gets up, so that first thing in the morning the man would not have to put his bare feet, warm and sleepy from under the blankets, right on the hard cool stone. He gets a different candlestick, one shaped such that the dripping wax would not fall on Faramir's hand. He replaces the old ink in the well with a more expensive and harder to find variety, for Faramir writes with his left and often ends up smudging, both ruining the paper and staining his hand – and this new kind sets straight away, no leaks or smears.
He notices that when reading, Faramir often leans back in his chair, holding the sheet up in his hand and away from his face, his eyes narrowed in the way that for some reason pinches right at Pippin's heart. Perhaps for a Ranger being a little farsighted is no problem, but for a man laden with plenty of official correspondence (not to mention all the literature Faramir goes through in his free time) it certainly is a bother. Pippin spends an afternoon digging through the local curiosity shop recently set up by a Haradrim merchant. When at last he finds a hand-held magnifying lens of polished amber set in a light latten frame, he gladly pays the outrageous price, for although Pippin knows the men of Harad are ruthless bargainers, he will not stoop to asking for a discount on a gift for his lord. But – although Faramir himself might not – he judges the matter too sensitive to actually proffer it as a gift, so instead he introduces it as a toy bought for himself, and pesters Faramir for nearly half an hour demonstrating how splendidly it makes his hands look bigger, and the pattern on the curtain look bigger, and the hairs on the quill look bigger, to then absentmindedly 'forget' it on Faramir's desk. It seems to him he catches his lord grin at the manoeuvre, and blushes sheepishly, but the man says nothing. Instead, the next time Pippin brings him correspondence, Faramir politely asks if Pippin would mind kindly lending him the 'toy' for a little while.