Chapter 7.
Were it to become known, to many, Pippin supposes, he would appear not so much revolting as rather utterly ridiculous with his Big Serious Passion, with his True Love. He understands to the others he is funny – not seductive-funny of course, just boyish-funny, even cute-funny. That somebody such as him should suffer from a grand romantic affliction of the heart, and for one so much above and beyond him...
But he knows Faramir would not laugh.
He is quite strongly convinced that Faramir, should he find out, would not be angry or disgusted either, nor would he come to despise Pippin. Instead he will likely be sad and feel sorry for Pippin – and, worst of all, Pippin believes he would be disappointed. Disappointed to think that in wishing to become his friend, to understand him and learn him better Pippin is simply following an agenda, trying to get closer to an object of lust.
And even though in fact he respects Faramir too much to even secretly trespass on the man's honour, to bury his face in Faramir's undergarments when arranging the Steward's things, to 'accidentally' let his fingers brush against what they shouldn't when assisting the lord in the bath – Pippin watches over his secret's safety with a zealousness second only to that of his watching over Faramir himself. For he knows that if it gets out, he will lose the blessing granted to him, the right to be by his lord's side.
But he need not worry, and this he knows, too – for Faramir does not take him seriously. Well, at least not in that sense. Nomenclature-wise Pippin may be made like everyone else, the same parts in the same order, but of course it can hardly occur to the Steward to even consider him for attractiveness. He may be tall by Hobbit reckoning, but he is still barely at eye-level with Faramir's navel. Somebody, perhaps, could think up at least one erotic application for such measurements, but it is obvious Faramir does not.
Pippin is not offended, he has never truly counted on anything else – dreamt of, sure, but not actually expected. Besides, Faramir is not alone in that. People are very warm and friendly with him, and he feels welcome in the City, but he knows that he is just too different to be welcome in some ways. It does not help that his appearance is such that the Big Folk associate him with a child, with a young adolescent at best. He has met many a ten-year-old who was taller and broader than he, and his beardless face and youthful features only exacerbate the impression. Add to it the bizarre detail of his feet – something, he does not doubt, most of the locals find rather… unpleasant.
Therefore he is greatly surprised the first time interest is shown in him – alas, not by Faramir… But he knows this interest goes no deeper that curiosity with a pinch of boredom thrown in.
In the years after the War the City has suddenly found itself receiving all sorts of folk. The handsome, noble-faced blue-clad men of Dol Amroth; the svelte fair Elves with their clear voices; the sturdy full-bearded dwarves with their deep throaty laughs; the green-eyed men from the far South, with skin like coffee-with-milk and frizzy brown hair; the tall slender men from still further South, their eyes liquid and soft, so dark their pupils and irises have no border, their skin a cool matte shade of black; the ragged Rangers from the North, all wrapped in mystery and the nose-tickling aroma of tobacco; the open-faced blond riders of Rohan, all white smiles and jokes that make the ladies blush and shriek with a mixture of outrage and delight – and, of course, the lone Hobbit in the black-and-silver livery and no shoes.
He knows he is only getting his little share of attention, for all this diverse abundance of maleness suddenly flooding the streets is bound to disturb the peace and quiet in the inner world of a certain make of the city women. They are merely curious, he understands, about what it would be like. There are all sorts of rumours abroad, spawn practically out of nowhere. That the dark men of Harad are wondrously endowed, twice that of a fair-skinned man. That the Elves have no hair under the arms and do not break a sweat when engaging in love sports – nor do they impolitely fall asleep directly afterwards. That the Northerners with their knowledge in bodily energies can control their arousal by force of will – truly, he ought to share this one with Aragorn. That the Rohirrim like to take a woman in such a way as though he is a stallion and she his rider. That the Hobbits…
Now, he does not know what is being said about the Hobbits – and, no offense to the ladies, he is in no hurry to fill in the gap. Not that he is afraid of being a disappointment or, worse, an embarrassment: he is not physically incompatible, especially with the more petite of the daughters of Men, who top him in height by little more than a foot. No doubt he would be seen as modestly made by a man of Gondor, but he is not so ignorant as to believe said modesty would stop him from making a woman happy.
More importantly, he feels squeamish. He understands his passion would be deemed strange, if not altogether ridiculous, by most – but to him his feelings are pure and beautiful, like Elven cut-glass. Loving Faramir has made him a better and cleaner person, and he does not want to stain himself and insult his love by engaging in some mindless red-faced copulation with a lady who is only attracted by his otherness and unusualness.
His body, however, would beg to differ. It had not signed up for a life of love-sick celibacy, and seeing the object of his fantasies from dawn till dusk – and in the spare time handling his lord's personal things that still as though bear the warmth of Faramir's touch – oft leads to Pippin wallowing through visions of unbridled self-indulgence pretty much all day long.
He is not much worried Faramir would catch on. Again, Faramir does not see him in that sense. Moreover, Faramir's own goodness is the Hobbit's best protection – how could a man such as he ever suspect such a twisted desire on the good Master Peregrin's – on anyone's – behalf? For these things, one male desiring another, are unheard of around here. Or, rather, they are deemed so vile it is judged the better to keep up the collective pretence they do not exist to begin with.
Not so in the Shire. A hobbit's youth is long, more than thirty years to horse around and enjoy oneself. No one expects remarkable maturity – or prudence, at that – from a green hobbit-lad, especially when he has belted down a few. On the short, things happen. And folk – well, hobbit-folk are sensible and do not like to worry overmuch (everyone knows stress is bad for digestion), so generally no one is interested in making a fuss.
Now, Pippin would be the first to punch anyone who dared question the moral health of his homeland. The girls are always treated with respect and courted well, and the proper girls always know better. It is simply that people prefer not to take too seriously the things that need not be taken too seriously. Meaning is not ascribed to and 'conclusions' are not derived from things that are really quite inconsequential…
But in Gondor – oh, in Gondor, for some reason, all sorts of heavy-weight adornments are attached to a man's private life, as though he is to bear it as a standard before himself. Honour. Self-worth. Maleness – or perhaps this one ought to be the first in the list. Decency. General virtue of character. Temperance. Reliability. Responsibility. Respectability. Honour.
