Chapter One

Faramir strode into the room where his brother lay, still unconscious. He stood beside him and watched his chest rise and fall. It seemed to Faramir that his brother's well-muscled chest struggled for every breath taken. Boromir was still ashen and his lips still a bit blue, but he did look a little better than he had. So unfair! He had only just gotten his beloved brother back, and now fate was attempting to wrest him once more from a brothers' life and heart.

Faramir, like his sturdy brother, was not easily given to tears. Such is the life of a soldier and leader. One is not allowed such luxuries. Even now, when there was no one here but his brother and Pippin, his brother's small caretaker, Faramir found his grief hard won, even with Pippin sound asleep.

What had brought Boromir to this fate? Why must he suffer so? Faramir pulled a chair close to the sickbed, sat and took his brother's hand in his own. He studied the hand. It was battered, scarred and callused. Boromir's nightshirt was loose at the neck, and the broad chest was visible, bearing the many scars from a virtual rain of arrows. Faramir knew that, even though the skill of a shaman of the Wild Folk had played a part in saving Boromir, without the grace of the Valar, Boromir would surely have died. His brother had spoken of something he called the Light. The Light had decided it was not time for Boromir to come to the Hall of the Longfathers. For whatever reason, his brother had lived, and Faramir would not, could not let him go now, when he had only just gotten him back.

In the back of his mind and deep in his heart, the small child that Faramir had once been wailed in grief and fear. Don't go, Boromir, don't go, I need you! You, who have always been in my heart, you who have always loved me as both a brother and a father, you cannot leave, not now!

Faramir recalled Boromir's account of his years before returning to Minas Tirith. Faramir had had time to think this tale over, and was convinced that the ring had certainly scarred his brother's heart and mind. There had been no Blessed Realm in which Boromir might have sought healing. No Grey Haven, not for Boromir. He had always done for himself. Even half-mad from the ring, Boromir had done for himself what none could or would do. He had come out of the Shadow, year by year, little by little, always finding a pathway, winding and narrow, to healing and the Light.

Faramir thought of Boromir living as a near recluse in the Old Forest, slowly healing, like some great, wounded bear. His hobbit friends had played a greater part in his healing than they could ever guess, Faramir was sure of it. Pippin's account of what had happened in the garden of Bag End only made Faramir more sure of this than ever.

He studied his brother's face, pale and ashen under the deep tan. That familiar face had aged but little; his time in the Westmarch had been more than kind to him. It had been a restorative, a tonic of pure life and healing. Faramir wanted to go there, himself, to see what complex or simple magic, extraordinary or everyday variety had worked this wonder. By rights, Boromir should have still been half-mad. Something had lifted the darkness the ring had cast upon his soul, and Faramir would know more of it. Boromir shifted in his sleep, drawing his hand away and moaning. Faramir laid his hand upon his brother's brow and smoothed away a stray lock of hair.

He moved his chair to the other side of the bed. Boromir's other hand was curled around Pippin's smaller one, and Faramir, sitting in his chair and laying his head down on the mattress beside the sleeping hobbit's head, lay his hand on top of Boromir's hand. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Some time later, Boromir woke a little. His chest hurt horribly. His hand felt warm. He looked at it, and saw it was pressed between Faramir's hand and Pippin's hand. As badly as he felt, he could not help smiling weakly at the scene. Though he felt as weak as water, with his other hand he stroked his brother's sleeping head. His hair felt just like it had when he was but a small boy, when Boromir had been so much larger than life allowed in the eyes of his younger brother. Boromir thought of those years together, of the closeness they had shared, and found comfort in the memories. His eyes drooped once, twice, then closed in sleep. The moon rose, finding the three still sleeping with their hands linked.

When Faramir woke, Merry had taken Pippin's place. Faramir lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. He carefully watched Boromir to see if there had been any change at all, and Blessing of Blessings, Boromir's eye's snapped open, instantly awake in that way that had always astounded everyone who knew him.

"Hallo, you're both awake!" Merry said with a broad smile. "Pippin shall be most put out he missed it. He's only just gone to get a bite to eat and to fetch something that belongs to the both of you. He hasn't left your side, Boromir. Faramir, too, has been quite difficult to deal with. He's been here every chance he could get."

Faramir leaned over Boromir and embraced him. At last he could no longer hold back his tears. He snuffled into Boromir shoulder a little, but then mastered himself. Boromir only chuckled and ruffled his hair as though he was still the small boy he had guarded and sheltered.

"Only you," Faramir laughed, "would have the wherewithal to ruffle the hair of a Lord, Boromir!"

"Still perceptive, I see…" A gentle smile played at the corners of Boromir's lips. He struggled to sit up.

"Here, now!"

The three looked toward the direction the raised voice came from. Pippin stood in the doorway, a scowl on his face and his arms crossed over his chest.

"Just what do you think you are about, Boromir? You lie back down right now. King's Orders, you know." Pippin strode purposefully towards them. As he uncrossed his arms, Boromir saw something in his hand: a small book with a blue leather jacket. His journal!

Boromir lay back on the bed obediently. Pippin could be difficult when he set his head on something. The hobbit approached the bed, and without so much as a word, climbed up on the bed and sat by Boromir.

"I have something of yours, Boromir." Pippin said, holding out the journal. His small face was sad and sober. His demeanor, reluctant, as though the book was something he had held dear for a very long time, and would just as soon have kept, even knowing he should not keep it.

"How did you come by this?" Boromir asked, placing a hand on the proffered item.

"Strider…I mean, the King; he sent it to me years ago. I should have given it to you sooner, and I meant to. It's just…oh, I don't know!" Pippin answered, and his face reddened a little.

"Why, Peregrin Took!" scolded Merry. "Just tell him, he won't bite. I'm sure he'll understand, and not hold it against you."

A long silence ensued in which both brothers waited patiently. The hobbit in question had lowered his head, looking down at his hand, which stubbornly refused to let go of the small blue book. Boromir tugged at the book. Pippin still did not let it go. Suddenly Pippin sniffled, then began to openly weep.

Oh, you would, wouldn't you, Pippin Took! You'd do the one thing that always makes me lose my ability to deal with you in any way but one. Boromir thought. He pulled Pippin to him and tucked him under one arm. They lay back on the pillows for a few moments. Faramir watched his brother with a look of amusement, but Boromir raised a finger to his lips in a gesture that bid silence, his brow knitted with worry.

He and Faramir, like many brothers, could somehow communicate without speaking, using only a glance, a gesture, a well-placed silence. Faramir knew, without being told, that Boromir wanted to allow Pippin a moment to gather himself, to feel sure Boromir and Faramir wouldn't be angry with him. Faramir, being who he was, could tell that at times Pippin was still the young and uncertain hobbit that looked up to the brothers and both wanted and needed their approval.

"It was all I had left of you!" Pippin finally said, drying his eyes. "For so many years, it was all I…all we had left of you. And the King sent it to me…and I…I read it. Perhaps I should not have, but I did. He did send it to me, after all, and I thought you dead, and I didn't think…"

Boromir gently cuffed Pippin's cheek, drawing a sheepish grin from the hobbit. Boromir gave him his best mock growl. "Tom-fool of a Took! You're a bother and a nuisance! You've had it long enough! Give it!"

Pippin smiled now, his eyes lit up, and Merry and Boromir both saw for a flash the youngster that had joined the Fellowship, not much more than a mere child. The warm green eyes twinkled in delight, recalling the young hobbit that had first admired, then grown to love Boromir as a brother. At last Pippin released the little blue book. Merry gave Faramir a little nudge with his elbow.

"He always did have a way with Pippin." Merry said under his breath, smiling warmly at his dearest friend and the Man who was so dear to both hobbits. This was apparent to Faramir, and he had long known of it, but seeing the bond between Boromir and these two halflings with his own eyes brought home to Faramir the depth of the affection between the three. He felt grateful to the hobbits now in a way he had not grasped before.

Boromir roughly rubbed his knuckles on the crown of Pippin's head, drawing out an undignified, hobbity little squeak of protest from Pippin that did not much sound like the little knight of Gondor that Pippin was. Pippin tried to glower at Boromir, then burst into peals of laughter when Boromir gave him a most disrespectful poke in the ribs. You'll make a fine father, thought Faramir, and who should know this better than I, my father-brother!

Boromir grinned with delight at having gotten Pippin's goat, then gestured to Merry and Faramir, and the bed soon was quite crowded as they looked at the first pages of the book together.

Boromir's penmanship was quite good; the characters all even and perfectly aligned. Four heads crowded together, and Faramir, to keep Boromir from beating him to it, thereby taxing his already weakened condition, began to read aloud.

The journal started out as if it were not a journal, but a letter. It seemed personal, and now Faramir knew why Pippin had felt guilty. The hobbit felt he had intruded on something quite private between two brothers. The first few pages were an account of the first leg of Boromir's journey to Imladris. Much of it was only a brief sketch of endless days trekking through the wilderness, and a rather exiting account of his near-drowning while crossing a river, losing his horse and virtually all his supplies in the process. Faramir recalled what a strong swimmer Boromir had always been. In this, as in almost everything else, Boromir had always desired to be the best, and not for the first time was Faramir's heart filled with pride in his brother.

The journal continued with an entry which had been written in Imladris, just after the Council of the Wise. Faramir had a good reading voice, and soon they were quite absorbed in the reading.

Dearest Brother,

When you gave me this little book in which to record my experiences on the road to Imladris as well as my impressions of the place, I thought it might make quite dull reading. Little did I know it might prove anything but dull. I fear my skills at recording this account may be remiss. I am no word-smithy. Give to me a sword and a battle in which to wield it! As you can tell from what you have thus far read, I lack the inner voice needed to write well such accounts, unlike yourself. Neither the reading nor telling of tales has ever been listed among my greater skills, and my account of the river crossing was, I'm sure, the most exiting part of my tale. Wandering through the wilderness, though, leaves little of import to write about, but now that I am here, there is much to tell.

There are some matters which I can not and will not record here, lest this book fall into the wrong hands, but what I feel I can write of, I will. In other words, matters more light and in less need of discretion.

Let me start, then, by relating that halflings are real. No, indeed I am not in a fanciful mood. They are as real as you and I. I have seen them with my own eyes. They are a strange people, only half our height, but it seems, to me, greater in spirit. There is one, in particular, with a greater amount of spleen than his small body has any right to hold. His companion is like him in that manner, but with a quieter demeanor. These two halflings are a matched set, being both cousins and the best of friends. Does this put you in mind of a like pair?

I assure you it was a shock to me to see even one, but here I have met quite a little group of them. The first I mentioned, he of the spleen, you'll recall, bore such a remarkable resemblance to Firiel that this alone shook me in and of itself, more so, I think, than even that he was indeed a creature I had thought to be but legend. It was as though she had a twin brother, somehow born a halfling. It shocked me so that I immediately thought of the dreams we had. Can this, I wonder, be the one in the dream? Could there be more than one?

They, like all halflings, I'm told, are given to food and drink and the smoking of pipeweed. They favor green, yellow and brown in the color of their garments. It's true about the feet of halflings. No halfling has ever worn shoes, and yes, their feet are, indeed, covered with the same curly hair as their heads, and the soles of their feet are as the soles of a sturdy pair of boots. They are given to easy laughter, and I'm told tears as well, though I have yet to see the latter for myself. These two are from quite affluent families, though the father of the youngest one is a farmer. Farming and gardening are also counted as a thing of great value to halflings, as well as song and dance. These creatures delight in all things joyful, and I confess I envy them in this regard. Would that our own people could be afforded these delights!

The first, him of the spleen I wrote of, is one Peregrin Took. He will tell you to kindly call him "Pippin," if he likes you, and I don't think he has met too many people he does not like, for all here call him Pippin. He is the smallest and the slightest of the halflings and the youngest as well. Sometimes it tells. His eyes are green and his curly hair is a light brown, which the sun turns gold at the ends. His hair is perpetually in his eyes, and seems to spring in an unruly mop no matter how he tries to keep it groomed. This is not to say he tries very hard to keep himself tidy, as his cousin does. I assure you he does not, and would happily roll in the dirt and forest debris before coming to table. He sings to himself or anyone else whom listens, willing or no. His voice is high and sweet, and he would do well as a court musician. I'm told he was trained to play the violin and harp, though he insists that he cares not for this pursuit at all.

He is given to fits of laughter at the most inappropriate times, and loves jokes, both spoken and practical, and he seems to delight in questions. He reminds me of you in this respect. Unlike you, he is pert to the point of being impertinent. This is not to say he is rude, for he is quite well behaved most of the time, especially when trying to make an impression. He is quite affectionate, and I fear he becomes attached far too easily for his own good, and gives his trust away as though it was nothing. He is very young, and has not yet learned the peril of such a thing. It is no secret that he quite admires me, and tells me that I "seem as kindly as I am lordly."

When his companion is busy elsewhere or absorbed in some pursuit Pippin finds dull, he is always nearby, shadowing my footsteps, asking a thousand and one questions, asking me riddles, attempting to persuade me to play a game or take a walk with him. He is fascinated by my sword and shield and tells me he has never seen such a ponderous blade. My shield he seems unable to keep his hands off of, and once already I have had to take it away from him, as he was attempting to slide down a hill on it! I caught him with the horn once, and very nearly lost patience with him until I saw the hurt on his face when I scolded him. When I gentled my demeanor, he apologized profusely, and when I tousled his hair, he fairly leapt into my arms for a hug.

As you might imagine, I was taken aback by this open affection. Unlike Men, halflings are unashamed of such demonstrations. They do not fear to show what is in their hearts. This sounds childish on the surface, but I think child like is a more fitting description. Even as he apologized, he was eyeing the horn again as though his fingers itched to hold it, yet he was sincere in his repentance, and I can tell that, tempted as he is I need not worry that he will repeat the offense. I need not remind you of Firiel in this regard. I'm sure you remember well when it was she who did the very same deed. He is so like her. They bear an almost eerie resemblance, in spite of being of opposite sex and different races, but let me not dwell on this.

The other is a little older and better behaved, and with a gentlemanly behavior that belies his merry nature. Oddly enough, his friends call him "Merry," though his actual name is Meriadoc Brandybuck. He is quieter and more reserved and seems to take responsibility quite seriously, and part of that responsibility seems to be looking out for his younger kinsman. Or should it be "kinshobbit"? For they call themselves "hobbits." His eyes are blue, quite large and bright and his hair a bit darker and curlier than his younger cousin. He is given to the studying of maps and herblore. I think the two of you might well get along quite famously, for he, like you, is studious, whereas Pippin, like myself, is more given to action, and if action is not forthcoming quickly enough, like myself, he will do something to bring about action.

Merry enjoys a good wager, and one might get the impression he would wager on anything, even the outcome of his grandmother being hugged by a bear. Often his wager will involve the likelihood of Pippin getting himself (and anyone else in the general vicinity) in a pickle. Merry is a patient soul. He assures me he learned the good of patience in keeping up with Pippin, and I wonder at times how Merry ever managed to have time enough to do anything besides look after Pippin. He does not mind this in the least, and tells me that no amount of trouble or inconvenience outweighs the rewards of this self-appointed task. It is a wonder Merry has a life of his own, so absorbed is he in looking after his charge, yet he seems to have no problem in this regard. It is a mark of character in him I truly admire.

I'm told Merry loves to cook, as all hobbits do, but Merry says he enjoys it more than even most halflings, who begin to cook as young as two years of age. Can you imagine a child of Minas Tirith learning to cook at age two? Yet, I am assured that this is truth. Like all halflings, Merry will speak for hours on end of family trees in great detail, and it boggles the mind how he can account for so many relations, remembering even small details of the members of the family in question.

Merry is quite an admirer of all females. He has an eye for the fair sex, and will gaze openly at the ladies of the fair folk here. His appetite in this regard outstrips any Man or Elf I have ever encountered. Pippin tells me it's the same everywhere he goes, and Merry will watch females of all races with equal enthusiasm. Pippin, too, I've caught admiring the ladies here, but more shyly than his cousin. I find this amusing that otherwise he hasn't a shy bone in his body, but a pretty face and shapely figure will have him blushing and averting his eyes, as though he is sure everyone within shouting distance can read his mind.

Merry is sturdier, taller and stronger than his little cousin, which is a good thing when Pippin finds trouble to be got into. He thinks nothing of wrestling Pippin to the floor in order to make him behave. This illustrates perfectly the machinery of the relationship between the two. Pippin will behave more easily for Merry than anyone else, even the eldest of the four halflings, whom both of the pair obviously hold dear and in high regard.

The eldest of these hobbits is called Frodo, and with him always is his servant, Samwise, called "Sam." I shall tell you more of these two when I come home. Suffice to say I have taken the council I came here for, have received what information may be given, and shall depart in a few days to return. At least the return will not be so lonely as the arrival, as I will have companions with me this time, and they travel with me most of the way. The hobbits will share my journey most of the way along with a few others, one being a dwarf, another an elf, yet another a man and last of all an aged wise man. I think you may know him, but I will not write of him here. As I said, I must refrain from writing a good many things down in this book, and an explanation shall be forthcoming as soon as can be done.

There is a fifth hobbit here, of quite advanced age. He will not be accompanying us due to his age. His name is Bilbo, and a sweeter, kinder, more genteel hobbit one could never meet. The other four are more than a little fond of him, and I must say I was quite taken with the little old fellow. He is related to three of the other four halflings here and raised one of them, which cannot have been easy, for he is a confirmed bachelor. His humor is droll and he is full of stories from the Four Corners of the world. He is well traveled, unlike most halflings. Also, he is quite familiar with elves and dwarves, and has a good grasp on the language of the elves, both Quenya and Sindarin. He taught the other four halflings their letters and maths, and is quite fond of them. His years, as I said, are quite advanced, and I hope you get to meet him ere he passes on. This is a halfling whom I am certain you would find most fascinating, as he is quite learned, and is by all accounts a wonderful writer. He is working on a book called "The Red Book of Westmarch." Perhaps some day you might be able to read it, but I would that you could meet the one who wrote it.

When it was decided what was to be done at the council, Elrond insisted Merry and Pippin should not be allowed to accompany the rest of us. He did not, however, expect to have to deal with the likes of this pair. They intruded into the council, which was supposed to be closed, and demanded to come along. The look of surprise and outrage on Elrond's face was without price! Even as I write this, I cannot help laughing, especially at Pippin's remark concerning a "mission…quest…thing." I suppose this is lost somewhat in translation. Perhaps this is one of those situations in which one must be there to fully appreciate it, and I do wish you could have been there with me.

Imladris is a beautiful place, and I quite feel you would love it here. Given to tales and elven lore as you are, I assure you that you would be quite happy here. Not only tales and lore are to be had here. There is music and art, peace and quiet…in other words, everything you love, while I seem not to be able to sit still long enough to fully enjoy as you do.

It is now time for our evening meal, and so I close this entry. Even as I write this, Pippin is nattering to me to hurry up, and that he will surely perish of hunger if I do not come at once. He tells me there is apple pie for desert, and is impertinently tugging at my sleeve as Firiel used to do. While this does sadden me a little, do not fear that his reminding me of her will disturb me overmuch, for oddly enough, his resemblance to her somehow gives me a little comfort, though I do not understand why. He is now jumping about like a rabbit and is torn between impatience and the urge to laugh. Merry is standing in the doorway watching his cousin with a look that can only be described as patronizing indulgence. I did not know this could be accomplished, but Merry seems to be the only creature I have heard of with this ability. More later.

Faramir closed the little blue book. His three companions grumbled at this, but he insisted that Boromir take rest. Faramir was quite hungry as was Merry, and the two decided to raid the kitchens, promising to bring Boromir something to eat. Faramir placed the little blue book on a bedside table, and was about to turn and take leave when Pippin raised the question Faramir and Boromir already knew would be brought up.

"Who is Firiel?" he asked. "Merry and I have wondered about this for ever so long, now. Will you tell of her to us?"

For what seemed the longest time the two brothers regarded each other. Faramir was watching Boromir sharply, as though measuring the strain on his brother. Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but Faramir raised his hand, palm out, in a gesture that was a gentle but firm insistence that he not speak.

"So long as Boromir has rest and repast, and if the tale will not overtax him, we will speak of her later. This is a tale which should be related by my brother, I think." Faramir said, placing a hand on Boromir's shoulder and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "What say you, brother? Do you feel up to the task, or will this tire you or cause you grief?"

Boromir was silent for a while, seeming to be looking inside himself. Finally, with a nod, he spoke. "It will not tire me overmuch, I think. But it is a sad tale. Perhaps it is time I spoke of her. Many long years it has been during which I could not bear to speak of her very much, and then only to Faramir. But yes, it is time her tale, and our part in it was told. You have waited many years to find out. Will you be content to wait a little while longer? I am very tired, and very hungry, and my chest hurts. Can you two wait long enough for a meal and a rest?"

Merry smiled gently. "Of course we can wait. I'll tell Ioreth to bring you something for the pain on my way out. Pippin may burst, but if he does I shall put him back together in time to hear the story. Take rest and food, Boromir. You're what's important right now. Let's go now, Faramir. I'm starved! Pippin will keep Boromir company, won't you, Pip?"

Pippin yawned hugely. "Of course I will, goose! You two go. We'll be right here."

Faramir and Merry turned to go. Just before they left Boromir's room, they turned back to wave at the pair in the sickroom. They both laughed softly. Boromir looked at Pippin to see what he was doing that was so amusing. Pippin had fallen asleep as swiftly as Boromir could become instantly awake. Careful to not make too much noise, he laughed softly, then waved his arms at Faramir and Merry as though shooing children outside to play.

"Bring me something to eat as soon as you two have had your fill." he said, "We will stay until you come!" He lay back on his pillows and shut his eyes, falling asleep almost a swiftly as Pippin had.