Note: For all of you who have been worried about Faramir at Rivendell.....
Chapter 5 – A Distraction:
Celeborn let his guest keep to his room, alone, for two days but on the morning of the third, he knocked gently on the carved door. After a long while the door was opened slightly and Faramir stared at him. Stared at some point past him, actually, but Celeborn chose not to notice. "I am preparing to break my fast, Lord Faramir, and would like to invite you to join me." He waited, could almost see the words working their way through Faramir's head, and eventually the grey eyes focused on him. He saw the struggle between the wish to be left alone and the natural courtesy of Faramir's nature. As always, duty and courtesy won out and he finally gave a brief nod of agreement.
"Thank you, my lord," said Faramir softly, opening the door wider to give Celeborn entrance. "If you will give me a moment…" He was neatly dressed in clean clothes, even if they seemed too large, and he crossed the room to sit on the window seat and slowly tug on his boots. Celeborn took a quick glance around the room. The fire had not been kindled and the bed appeared to be undisturbed, although a blanket had been pulled from the closet and now lay neatly folded across one of the chairs on the balcony. The tray of food that he had had Lathelinor deliver last evening sat untouched on the table, just as the one the night before had been returned to the kitchen. He studied his guest as he pulled on the high leather boots, seeing the slight tremble in the hands, the beads of sweat suddenly appear on his upper lip, and wondered if he had eaten at all since his arrival. When at last he stood up Celeborn saw him close his eyes a moment and grit his teeth, as if he were light-headed. The Elf Lord knew better, however, than to offer an arm for support and merely turned and left the room, Faramir following.
They made their way through the house to the back entry and across the large porch there. Below the porch lay the east garden and near the edge was a table set for the morning meal with plates of fruit, bread, biscuits glazed with honey, a large pitcher of juice, anything at all, in fact, that Celeborn had thought might tempt Faramir's appetite. He gestured toward a chair and seated himself as Faramir did the same, then offered each dish in turn, placing a bit of food from most of them on his own plate but noticing that his guest's remained empty. At last he frowned slightly and looked at him. "You do not want to be here." It was not a question and Faramir kept his eyes on his bare plate.
"No…" He stared at the table and Celeborn nodded in understanding.
"Perhaps under other circumstances." He sipped from a glass of red juice and sighed. "Legolas told me all that has happened. You have my sympathy." Faramir's pale face went rigid but he said nothing and Celeborn kept talking, wondering if he could get more than a short one or two word response from this silent man. Aragorn's letter had contained much more besides what Legolas had known, and Celeborn truly felt sorry for the man and all that had befallen his family in just a short time. He kept his gaze on Faramir as he continued. "I am sorry for your loss, it must be very hard." The tiniest of nods encouraged him. "And I am certain Aragorn will find your daughter," he said quietly, taking another sip from his glass. "Your son," he shook his head. "He will have to learn for himself that often what happens in life has little to do with what we had intended." He waited but only a muscle twitched in Faramir's cheek and Celeborn decided to change the subject.
"How are you sleeping?" The abrupt change in topic caught Faramir off guard. He had been expecting, even dreading, the Elf Lord's sympathetic words, while those concerning Estel and Eomund, words he suspected were supposed to be encouraging, only left him angry as he pictured Legolas telling all of Faramir's private concerns to Celeborn, and filled him with the familiar sick dread that he now experienced whenever he thought of any of his children. The seemingly unrelated question concerning his sleeping habits threw him, and he looked up, his eyes guarded.
"Everything is fine, my lord."
Celeborn pursed his lips and nodded agreeably even as his words said the opposite. "I don't think you're sleeping at all." He saw the slightest reaction cross Faramir's face like a wave and instantly disappear. "Or eating," he finished.
"I am not hungry." Faramir looked away, knew he sounded petulant, like a child, but the Elf only looked thoughtful and nodded. There was silence as he finished his meal and drank the remainder of the juice in his glass, then his eyes met Faramir's.
"Would you walk with me?" He rose gracefully and gestured toward a path that led away from the garden into the towering trees surrounding the northeastern side of the house. The sun was pricking its way down through the leaves, making small yellow patches beneath them as they walked along the path in silence, each seemingly content to have it so for a while.
The path meandered between the trees and along the edge of the garden and then turned westward and followed the edge of the River Bruinen, the water rushing along below them in the deepest cleft of the valley. Celeborn kept his silence and the Man beside him moved with slow steps, head down, hands clasped behind his back. The Elf could see the sharp angles of Faramir's cheekbones and the tight expression around his mouth and he began to fear that he might not find a way to reach him, to release him from the despair that imprisoned him.
They followed the pathway as it skirted the cliff along the river, around the house and headed toward the great Stone Bridge, standing at length upon the edge of the wide overpass, in a little hollow among the rocks, gazing down into the smooth grey water that slid quickly beneath them. "Lord Faramir, you are here to regain your health, if there is anything I can do for you, you need only tell me," said Celeborn quietly as the water gurgled under the ancient stones. "I want to help you."
Faramir stared into the river and shook his head slightly. "There is nothing I need," he said.
"Eating and sleeping would be a good start," said Celeborn in a dry voice. There was no response and he studied Faramir for a moment. "Do you trust your king, my lord?"
"Yes." Faramir's answer came back instantly, the strongest statement he had yet made to Celeborn, and the Elf took advantage it. He leaned closer to the man and caught his eye, held it with his own commanding gaze. He was pleased when Faramir did not look away but returned the look, his own face unreadable. Celeborn paused, wanting to choose his words carefully; Aragorn had warned in the letter that Faramir's pride, while different from his father's and brother's, was no less, and the Elf spoke with caution, not wanting to offend.
"Then do as he asks."
Faramir raised his chin slightly, keeping his eyes on Celeborn's. "He asked that I come to Rivendell. I am here."
"He asked that you come to Rivendell and get well, my lord." The Elf's voice was gently persuasive. "To do so, you must eat, and sleep."
Faramir stared at him and then dropped his gaze to the river. Long minutes of silence passed as he stared intently at the water and Celeborn, sensing a change in him, waited with infinite patience. Finally Faramir reached out and gripped the side of the bridge where it seemed to melt into the rocks of the hillside, ran his hands along the rough stones and closed his eyes. "The river here makes me think of a place I know, a cave, in Ithilien, behind a waterfall," he said, his voice soft with memory. "I spent many days and nights there when I was younger. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I am there…"
Celeborn had frozen at the first words, more words than he had gotten from Faramir since his arrival at Rivendell, and now he stayed still, waiting to see if there would be more. True, the stubborn man was changing the subject, but he was at least talking. When nothing further was said the Elf pressed gently. "And you have good memories of that place?"
Faramir shook his head and his mouth turned up in a bitter smile. "No. It was during the war." He faltered, rubbed the stone again, realizing he did have some happy memories. There had been good times; the relief upon arriving safely after a hard fight, quiet evenings around the fire joking with his men, unannounced visits from his brother when they would sit and talk, away from the tensions of home. He continued hesitantly as he gazed into the river again. "Yes. Perhaps. I don't know. The sound of the water made me think of it." He sighed again, wondered what on earth had prompted him to speak of Henneth Annun, and leaned tiredly against the stones, kneading his fingers into his eyes in a vain attempt to release the ache behind them.
Celeborn saw the weariness in the gesture. "My lord, you must get some rest. I can have Lathelinor bring a soothing drink to your chambers -"
"I am fine! I have no need of Elvish sleeping draughts!" Faramir's voice suddenly cracked with anger. Anger at Celeborn for being so kind. Anger at himself for being so weak. Anger at Aragorn for sending him here, at Estel, at Eomund, at anyone. Random, directionless anger at whoever or whatever might be available, and he was immediately ashamed of himself. He closed his eyes and as Celeborn watched he visibly forced his personal feelings down and become someone else. The grieving father was gone, suddenly replaced by the diplomat, the politician. He straightened and blank grey eyes met those of the Elf and Celeborn smiled inwardly. Apparently there was still that backbone of steel there amidst all the turmoil and it encouraged him that Faramir would eventually find his way again even as he saw the sudden anger evaporate and the Man looked contritely at the Elf. "Forgive me." His voice was flat and emotionless once more.
Celeborn made a gesture that said an apology was unnecessary and continued his sentence. "It is not a sleeping draught, my lord, merely a calming tea. I was told by Terressah in the kitchens you enjoyed it upon your last visit to Imladris, and I thought only to offer it again."
Faramir wilted, settling back into his melancholy and lowered his head, letting his hair hide his face as he wrestled with his embarrassment. He remembered the hot, fragrant tea, sweetened with various herbs and how he and Eowyn had enjoyed a cup each evening when they had visited years ago. "Forgive me," he said again, his voice dropping to a whisper that could barely be heard above the rushing water.
"I shall send Lathelinor with it later today. If you do not wish it, just leave it on the table." Celeborn spoke in a reasonable voice and Faramir nodded his acceptance. "Shall I send your meal also?" the Elf asked, hoping against all indications that Faramir might refuse this time and choose to eat with everyone else in the hall. He was not surprised however when the Man nodded in agreement.
"Thank you."
"Very well." Celeborn bowed his head slightly. "I must attend to some things…" His look asked if Faramir would accompany him, but he shook his head.
"I will stay here." He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. "The sound of the water is peaceful." Opening his eyes he fixed his gaze once more on the water flowing past them and Celeborn left him standing there staring into the river, lost in thought.
Faramir stood in the great hall of Minas Tirith, facing his father, easily reading the disgust and disappointment on the noble face, and forced himself to stand straight and tall before him.
"Again you have failed me," said Denethor in a heavy voice, as if he had never expected anything less.
"Forgive me, Father." Faramir was glad his voice did not tremble. "I have only done as I thought best. If I have displeased you –"
"If? If?" Denethor's scowl deepened. "When you have NOT displeased me?" His mouth suddenly curved into a smile as he turned and beckoned someone forward. "Why can you not be more like your brother?" Boromir stepped up to stand beside his father.
"Boromir!" Faramir was pleased to see him and moved forward, his hand outstretched eagerly, but Boromir looked at him with distaste.
"You're just like him," he said, shaking his head hopelessly, and walked past Faramir.
"That's not true!" Faramir reached out, clutching at Boromir's sleeve, pulling him back to him. "I'm not like him!" He grabbed Boromir by the shoulder and whirled him around, only to find him changed into Barahir, his face white and water-soaked, looking at him with sad blue eyes.
"Father." The pale lips spoke and Faramir reached for his son but he disappeared as his arms went around him.
"Bara?" He looked around him, but it was strange and misty in the throne room and he could not see anything.
"You killed him." He turned to find Boromir looking at him, shaking his head and frowning
"NO! I did as I thought best!"
"Just like Father…" Boromir was suddenly at his shoulder, hissing the words into his ear, speaking with Eomund's voice and Faramir spun around, his hand raised against his older brother, bringing it forward to strike him, and Boromir caught his wrist, held him in his iron grasp. He pushed Faramir backward and he fell, landed hard on something, found himself seated in the Steward's chair, facing Eomund, who glared at him through hate-filled eyes.
"Murderer," he said, his voice deadly. They were no longer in the throne room; the Steward's chair now sat alongside the Anduin, and as Faramir looked at the river he saw a pale Elven boat bobbing past. With his heart in his throat he waded out, the water dragging at his steps, and looked inside.
There was a man lying in the boat, a dead man, but it was not Boromir. It was Barahir, dressed in the blue tunic that he had been buried in, his hands clasped on his chest, and as Faramir stared at him, the body changed, became that of another man, an older man, his dark hair flecked with grey, and in his hands was the Steward's white rod and Faramir clutched the side of the boat as he recognized himself.
With a low moan he released the boat and it drifted downstream with the current. He turned, desperate to reach the safety of the river bank but the water was rough and treacherous and tugged at him and he could not walk through it. He was struggling, struggling against the water, struggling to reach the shore, and he fell, tried to get back on his feet, could feel the water pulling at him. He was reaching out, trying to catch himself, when he felt a hand take his, looked up into Boromir's face.
"Little brother." Boromir smiled and Faramir felt a great rush of relief, knew that all would be well, now, and he started to climb up out of the water, but Boromir's hand loosened and Faramir raised his eyes to find his face was now twisted with hatred. "You're just like him," he said. "Just like Father…" His features wavered, blurred, changed into Denethor's, the grey eyes dark with disgust and revulsion and he released his grip and stepped back from the riverbank. "I wish that you had died and Boromir had lived," he whispered and Faramir slipped beneath the black water as Eomund's voice echoed in his ears. "Murderer."
"Murderer." Faramir jerked awake, covered with sweat, heart pounding, with Eomund's voice still swirling around him in the dark. He sat up in the balcony chair and threw the blanket aside, his hands trembling as he gasped for breath. Grinding the heel of his hand against his head he clenched his jaw, consciously steadied his breathing, and swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth.
Sleep, Celeborn had said, and in the dark Faramir's mouth twisted cynically. How could he sleep when he knew to do so would let the dreams come. Dreams of death and hatred and angry words. Every night. He had not spoken of them, so they could not understand, Eowyn, Celeborn, but that is what kept him from sleep, that is why he struggled against it so hard, because once he let go the dreams came and he was so tired of fighting them, could not fight them any longer. He rubbed his head again and stood up, folded the blanket and placed it on the chair and sat back down, staring up at the sky, knowing here would be no more sleeping tonight.
"I see no reason to carry it to his room again, when I will no doubt carry it back tomorrow morning!" Lathelinor's voice was vexed as she stood in the large kitchen of Imladris, a tray of food and drink before her on the table. She frowned at Celeborn and used her slight show of temper to hide the fact that she was worried about her charge, the pale, silent man who politely accepted the tray each evening and just as politely returned it untouched each morning. Well, Lathelinor had to be honest. Not completely untouched. Some days he had eaten a small bit of bread, others a piece of fruit, once nearly half a pressed cake of oats and honey, but never enough to truly be called a meal. The pitcher of water would be half empty, perhaps, but the wine or juice would be full to the top, just as she had delivered it, and the evening tea was always returned cold in the pot.
Celeborn nodded in agreement with her. "No doubt you will, but it must be offered, Lathelinor. One day he will eat it." He watched as she snatched up the tray and left the kitchen, muttering to herself and sympathized with her frustration. Nearly two weeks since Legolas had delivered Faramir and the King's letter to him, and he was still unable to even pierce the wary shell that the man had drawn around him. Celeborn had hoped their conversation on the bridge that first week would signal a change, but if anything he grew more withdrawn and the only difference seemed to be that now rather than spend the days in his room Faramir wandered the grounds aimlessly, sooner or later ending up on the bridge, where he would stand for hours looking into the water. He was still not eating, and although Celeborn would not have believed it possible, the dark circles under his eyes in his thin face were worse. He moved about Rivendell like a specter, pale and silent, and the other Elves at Rivendell, having been instructed by Celeborn to leave him undisturbed, did so, speaking only a soft greeting if they passed by, though he rarely noticed.
Now, Celeborn left the kitchen and climbed the steps to his own chambers. The window there looked out towards the bridge and he saw the slim figure there now, pacing along the wide stone walkway. He had been there most of the day, just as he was nearly every other day. The Elf frowned and his mouth thinned as his gaze rested on the dark-headed figure.
On the bridge Faramir stared into the water, watching it foam among the rocks below him. He thought of the Anduin River in Osgiliath, and how the water had washed over the rocks there after the last bridge had been pulled down during the war. That horrible day and night as his and Boromir's forces had desperately held long enough to destroy the bridge and deny the hordes of orcs and uruk-hai access to the western shore. He remembered the way the water had rippled over the broken arch stones that had fallen, over abandoned weapons, and finally over the bodies of the dead. On the bridge in Rivendell it was as if he could feel the icy water closing over him and he shuddered and closed his eyes, thoughts of his nightmares crowding upon him until he shook himself and firmly forced his mind elsewhere.
He thought of Boromir, gone these many years. Had his older brother stood on this bridge in those long ago days, thought of him, and home? He had left for Rivendell soon after the battle in the ruined city, and that was the last time he had seen him. No, he realized he had seen him one last time, when the river had borne the funeral boat past him. Faramir stared into the white-flecked water below him, his mind once more on the Anduin, the river that had taken so much; his men, his brother, and finally his son. Barahir's face suddenly rose before him followed in quick succession by Eomund's sneer and the tear-stained face of Estel as he had passed by her after his argument with Aragorn and he felt the stabbing pain once more, his knees going weak as he wondered where his daughter was and even though he expected it, knew it was always there waiting in the shadows for him to drop his guard, when the great black wave of hopelessness crashed over him he nearly gasped with the weight of it.
She was gone, who knew where, and his heart twisted inside him. Estel, his Hope, so brave and reckless, so much like her mother, so much like Boromir. Gone because she had feared him. Feared his anger and his cold despair and he had been too blinded with his grief to see. Just as his father had been. Faramir felt a chill. He had treated his child as his father had treated him, and now she was gone. Gone. Taken from him, in an instant, like Barahir. Like Boromir. And Eomund, nearly the same. Gone by his own choosing.
He thought back to the last time Barahir had been home, how he had sat on the veranda and joked and laughed with his father and mother, teasing his little sisters and Eowyn had kissed him goodbye, told him to be careful. He had laughed and promised and hugged his father and climbed onto the vicious black stallion that he preferred above all their horses and ridden away as Faramir and Eowyn stood holding hands on the steps. Just as Boromir had ridden away from him, Faramir thought, none of them realizing they would never see each other again. Gone, with no warning. No time to say the things that should have been said. Why hadn't he said he loved him? Why hadn't he held him a little tighter, a little longer? Did his other children know how much he loved them?
Faramir had been walking along the bridge but now he halted, stood unmoving as the grief closed up his throat, smothering him, suffocating him. He had failed his children, not just Estel, or Eomund, but all of them. Elboron, now called back and forced to fill his father's position, and Sam, who should be able to come to his father his first year as a soldier, seek advice and encouragement but could not. He thought of Alasse and her sweet smile and Theoden's face when he and Elabet had announced the coming baby and the ache in his chest increased. He was determined to hold back the tears, refused to allow them to fall even as the throbbing in his head intensified and his insides knotted and twisted.
He walked slowly to the edge of the bridge and sat down on a large, flat rock, feeling his heart beating wildly within his chest and gasping in painful ragged breaths, willing the tears back. He missed them, all of them, had always loved any time spent with his children, but mostly he missed Eowyn. He missed her warmth beside him at night, missed her soft kisses and he actually ached for the gentle touches she would give him each day as she passed him. Missed having her to talk to, missed the look in her eyes that said she loved him. He stopped, thought back. Had it been there those last few weeks? He couldn't remember. Did she still love him, after what he had done? Or had he destroyed that, too? The memory of their fight the night before he had gone to Minas Tirith still gnawed at him, and his head sank down into his hands.
The ringing of the bell for dinner came to him and he lifted his head in confusion. He had gone for a walk after Lathelinor had knocked in his door and left a tray with breakfast, and as always had ended up restlessly pacing the bridge. Had the day passed? How? He couldn't remember that either. With a sigh he stood and walked back to his room, passing the dinner tray on the table without even noticing it. On the balcony he sank into the cushioned chair and stared into the trees until darkness fell and it grew colder. Then taking the blanket lying there he shook it out and wrapped it around his shoulders, watching the stars appear in the night sky as he waited for the deadening sleep of exhaustion to give him a few hours respite.
The next day it rained, the soft drops falling gently among the trees and statues of Rivendell, and most of the inhabitants stayed indoors avoiding the wet weather. Most, but not all. Celeborn looked out his window and shook his head at the slender figure once more keeping his lonely vigil on the bridge. The Elf leaned back in his chair and wondered briefly what the King of Gondor would do if he not only failed to help his Steward regain his health but let him catch pneumonia while in his care. After thoughtful consideration, he decided to wait a while before trying to persuade Faramir to come in, suspecting it would not be an easy task.
Faramir didn't even feel the rain as it soaked through his clothing and ran down to drip from his fingertips. A mist rose up from the river below and swirled around the bridge where he stood and he thought of the day Barahir had been buried, and how the fog had floated in ragged curtains around the green knoll. He shivered slightly in the chill and closed his eyes and it was as if he could hear the drum beats once again, slow and steady, but muffled this morning in the mist and he was overwhelmed by his sadness and almost dizzy with weariness.
The sound drew closer and he suddenly realized it was not the drum beats of his memory but the muted hooves of a horse as it picked its careful way across the bridge in the fog. Unexpectedly a shaggy pony materialized only a few feet away from him and both he and the pony gave a slight jump of surprise. From the pony's saddle a small figure pulled back his hood and grinned with delight.
"Faramir!" Pippin's voice was raised in excitement and he leaped down from the pony and ran forward to greet his friend, his arms extended to hug him tightly when he suddenly realized it was perhaps not the most dignified of greetings and he stopped and stepped back to formally bow. "My lord," he said, his voice still trembling with pleasure. When he straightened he looked at the man before him and his smile faded. "You look awful." He frowned. "What are you doing out here in the rain? You'll catch your death." He paused, waiting for an answer, his face expectant.
Faramir could only stare down at the hobbit in shock, taking in the bright eyes and ready smile, the large furry feet and the tips of pointed ears peeping out of the curly head. Pippin took advantage of his silence to pull open his cloak and reveal that he was wearing his old Gondorian uniform, the black cloth straining a bit across his stomach. "I've gotten a little stout!" he announced without embarrassment. "But I wanted to wear it while I was traveling, just in case I ran into any troublemakers." He reached down and patted his small sword proudly, then took the pony's reins in his hand and continued across the bridge, turning back to motion to Faramir. "Come on, I'm cold, aren't you?"
"Pippin?" Faramir continued to stare at him in disbelief. "Why – What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you," said the hobbit as if that explained everything, which to his mind it did. He gestured for Faramir to follow him. "Come on, let's not get any wetter!" As if he had no choice Faramir followed him, obediently trailing along behind as Pippin approached the large house and tugged his pack from the pony. A smiling male Elf welcomed him and offered to take the pony to the stables and Pippin gladly agreed, rubbing the beast's ears affectionately before it was led away.
He looked back up to see Celeborn on the porch waiting for him. "Master Hobbit, it has been many years," he said with a smile. Pippin smiled back and scurried up the steps and across the floor to greet him as Faramir remained standing in the rain, looking confused.
"Lord Celeborn!" He bowed quickly and bobbed up again. "How lovely to see you. Are you the master of the house now that Lord Elrond has gone?"
"Ah, master, no," Celeborn shook his head. "If anyone bears that title it would truly be Elladan or Elrohir, but they are often away, and I am here, so I am happy to fulfill any duties that arise. Such as greeting guests." He smiled again at the irrepressible Halfling before him. "I hope you are staying for a while? May I offer you a room?" Pippin grinned.
"Yes, you may!" He turned toward Faramir. "Where are you staying?" Without waiting for an answer he spun back to Celeborn. "I want to stay near Faramir, it's been a long time since I saw him and I want to hear all about everything."
Celeborn shot a quick glance at Faramir to see if this seemed agreeable and to his surprise Faramir nodded and slowly climbed the steps to join them. "Very well," he said. "Follow me." Pippin gathered up his small bundle and padded along behind the tall Elf Lord, looking back frequently to assure himself that Faramir was following.
"Oh, it's been so long since I was here, but it still looks the same," he said, glancing around the house appreciatively. "Do you still have a big meal in the evening?" He looked hopeful and Celeborn chuckled.
"We do, sir, but I fear that is some hours away, yet. May I have something sent up to your room from the kitchen?"
"Yes, please," said Pippin, licking his lips in anticipation.
Celeborn halted before the first door along the same hallway where Faramir's room was at the end and Pippin pushed it open and tossed his things on the bed without a word. Flinging off his sopping cloak he let it slide to the floor and immediately came back out into the hallway. "If Diamond were here she would scold me," he laughed. He peered up into Faramir's face. "Where is your room?"
Celeborn watched with interest as Faramir pointed down the hall to his room and Pippin immediately headed toward the door, then turned back to his host. "Actually, can you have my dinner sent to Faramir's room? I want to visit with him a while."
"Of course."
Pippin motioned Faramir to follow him. "Come, entertain me while I eat, Faramir." He waited and let Faramir enter the room before he followed him through the door. As he did he looked straight at Celeborn, flicked his gaze toward Faramir's back and raised his eyebrows. With relief the Elf Lord realized that while the hobbit had been chattering he had sized up the situation and understood, and would make every effort to help his friend. Celeborn bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of the hobbit's gesture and turned to go, glad that he had sent Legolas to the Shire.
Inside the room Pippin looked around him. "Faramir, it's cold in here!" He knelt before the fireplace and in moments a cheerful blaze was crackling there, warming the room and throwing its light about the shadowy corners. The hobbit retrieved the blanket from the balcony, giving it a slight shake and pulled the door shut, hanging the damp blanket over the handle. Yanking open the cupboard door he found a dry one and threw it on the bed, not commenting on its untouched condition, then turned to Faramir. "Where are your dry clothes?"
Faramir looked down at himself as if just now realizing he was drenched. Pippin was already rooting through the clothes that had been neatly folded on the closet shelf. "Here," he said, thrusting a pair of breeches and a heavy shirt toward Faramir. "Get dry and put these on." Without a word Faramir pulled off his wet clothes and used the damp blanket to dry himself, then climbed into the dry outfit. As he finished a knock sounded at the door. "I'll get it," chorused Pippin, quickly crossing the room and graciously accepting the heavy tray of food that Lathelinor offered. She hesitated, unsure if the small creature before her could manage the weight, but Pippin firmly took it from her hand and thanked her, asking that she shut the door behind her.
He tottered across the floor and slid the tray onto the table, his eyes round with expectation. "Oh, look, there are some of those berry things that are so good!" he said with delight. He crawled up onto the too high chair and turned to Faramir. "What do you want to start with?"
All this time Faramir had been staring at the hobbit, dutifully following his instructions and allowing himself to be ordered about. Now he stood and crossed his arms, suspiciously looking down at him. "Why are you here, Pippin?" he asked in a tired monotone.
Pippin stuffed a cream-filled pastry into his mouth and crossed his own arms. He was not the young hobbit he had been years ago and he returned Faramir's look without fear or embarrassment. "Legolas came to the Shire a few days ago," he said simply. "He told us your daughter was missing and asked that we keep an eye out for her." He crammed another pastry into his mouth and chewed, undeterred by the annoyed look on Faramir's face. "He also said," he paused to pour a drink from the pitcher of ale that Lathelinor had thoughtfully provided, "that you were here, so I thought I would come and see you."
He tactfully neglected to mention (and tact was not Pippin's strong suit) that Legolas had told him everything that had happened, and had warned him of Faramir's bleak state of mind. Along with Merry and Sam, Pippin had listened with growing horror as the story unfolded and had decided he would come to Rivendell even before Legolas had suggested it. All of the hobbits had great affection for Faramir, and would gladly have come, and he had seen that the Elf was pleased with their offer, but in the end it was only Pippin who rode to Rivendell. Sam's large family would find it difficult to get along without him, and Merry had nodded with understanding when Pippin had asked to come alone. "I don't know why, but it is the way it should be," Pippin had said and Merry had smiled and wished him well, recognizing the love of a squire for his lord. So it was Pippin alone who would leave the Shire again after many years. Explaining to his wife, who did not understand his reasons but wished him well, and bidding his own son goodbye, the stout hobbit had immediately set off for the Elvish home. Now he gazed at Faramir, hiding his dismay over his friend's appearance and demeanor. In Pippin's experience, however, worry solved nothing, so he didn't do it. Instead he smiled engagingly and patted the chair next to him. "Come, sit down and eat with me."
"I'm not hungry." Faramir spoke angrily, certain that Legolas had sent the hobbit with instructions to look after him. He detested being coddled, and now he glared down at Pippin.
"Well I am, and you can keep me company." Pippin poked warily at some sort of jellied fruit concoction in front of him before sliding it onto his plate as Faramir paced the room.
"I suppose Legolas told you everything? He has everyone else." Faramir felt his temper rising. Was he to become everyone's charity case? There was no need for all this maneuvering and fussing over him. He just wanted to be left in peace! He drew himself up, stiff with wounded pride and hurt. "You didn't need to come all this way. I don't need looking after, I don't want it. I just want to be left alone." Pippin ignored him to paw through some sliced cheeses, so Faramir repeated himself. "There was no reason for you to come."
"Hmm." Pippin poured more ale and added some more of the berry tarts to his already overflowing plate. He took a drink from his cup and gave Faramir an appraising glance. "I came because you are my friend, Faramir."
Faramir flushed suddenly. It was true. He and Pippin had been friends for a long time. They had met at the end of the war, and only spent a few short months together, to be sure, but ever since then they had kept up a lively correspondence, and Pippin had named his only child after the Steward of Gondor. Faramir looked away, staring at the rain-streaked windows. "I did not mean to sound ungrateful, Pippin."
"I know." The hobbit's voice was quiet and he jumped down from the chair and approached the tall man. "I hated to think of you facing this all alone." He looked up into Faramir's eyes. "Even if you want to be, it just doesn't seem right."
Faramir suddenly gave a deep, painful sigh and knelt down before the Halfling so they were facing one another and felt the small arms tentatively steal around his neck and give him a careful hug. "I'm sorry, Faramir." The hobbit's voice quavered as his tender heart grieved anew for his friend. "Sorry for all your troubles, truly."
The tears sprang into Faramir's eyes but for some reason it was all right if Pippin saw. Pippin had seen him near death, bloody and feverish after the battle on the Pelennor; Pippin had saved him from his father's madness, saved his life by running for Mithrandir. Pippin had sat by his side afterward and told him about Boromir's last days. And Pippin had for years sent him cheery, chatty letters, full of news and jokes and good humor. He was a friend. A friend; different from Aragorn, who was also his King, or Eowyn, who was his wife. He was, as he always had been, just Pippin, and Faramir of Gondor had nothing to hide from Pippin Took of the Shire. Or prove to him. No expectations to be met, no reputation to live up to. Only Pippin, hugging him and murmuring soft words of empathy and concern, so Faramir cautiously returned the embrace, even though he quickly pulled back and swiped at his eyes. "Thank you, Pippin."
The hobbit nodded and caught Faramir's hand. "Come, sit down and eat with me." He pulled Faramir toward the table and was pleased when he followed.
Pippin ate a lot of everything, and offered a little of everything to Faramir, who did not eat much but it was more than he had eaten in weeks, and as he did, he softly began to answer Pippin's questions and to speak of the last few months, and Pippin remembered a conversation he had had with Gandalf years before in the days after the defeat of Sauron, when they were all gathered in Minas Tirith. The group had spent the afternoon talking and the hobbit had tried to express the wonders of Lothlorien and the majesty of the Elves there, specifically the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. "They call him Celeborn the Wise," Pippin said and Gandalf, trying to nap under a tree, had opened one grumpy eye and grunted at him.
"He is called Celeborn the Wise because he is Celeborn the Silent, sir," he said, only half in jest, and letting his eyes close once more the Wizard frowned and lay back beneath the tree. "It is amazing the things you can learn if you can manage to hold your tongue. So I say to you, Peregrin Took, if you would like to be thought wise, then first you must be quiet, and I suggest you start now." Everyone had laughed at Pippin's expense, including himself, but he had considered the words and seen the truth in them. Now, he thought back to that advice and listened quietly as the afternoon passed, letting Faramir speak whenever and about whatever he wanted. Outside the gentle rain fell steadily and the mist drifted past the windows, isolating them from the rest of the world.
As Faramir spoke, at times he would suddenly fall silent and the hobbit would reach across the table and pat his hand and Faramir would give him a little smile, grateful for a sympathetic ear and gentle nature. When he finished Pippin merely sat in silence. "I'm sorry," he said once more, knowing there was nothing else to say and Faramir nodded in acceptance.
At last Pippin stretched and picked up the teapot that had come with the food from where he had placed it before the fire to keep it hot. Lifting the lid he sniffed and smiled. "Oh, it's that good, sweet tea. I had it here before." He poured two generous cupfuls, sliding one across the table toward Faramir, who hesitated. Pippin knew of the tea's calming properties, saw his reluctance and gave him an understanding smile. "It's just a cup of tea, Faramir. If it makes you sleepy that's all right, you could use a little sleep."
Faramir stared into the cup and smelled the tea, remembered the quiet evenings he and Eowyn had spent years ago in their suite of rooms here in Rivendell and suddenly felt very tired and weary and the idea of a night's peaceful sleep seemed very enticing. He picked up the cup and took a small sip and Pippin smiled and picked up his and took a large one. They drank the tea in silence and when his cup was empty Pippin placed it on the tray and watched as Faramir finished his and then yawned.
The hobbit slid down from his chair and took Faramir's hand, guided him toward the bed that had stood empty for so many days. Faramir reluctantly sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at his friend. "I'm not tired," he said.
"Yes, you are," said Pippin softly. "Lie down." Faramir lay back and Pippin took the blanket he had placed there earlier and tucked it around the Man when he was settled. He would have liked to encourage Faramir to undress and crawl beneath the covers, but he suspected just getting him to lie down was a major victory and he said nothing to spoil it. "Go to sleep," he said encouragingly. Faramir looked at him and it seemed to the hobbit that the grey eyes looked a trifle less wary, a little more peaceful. True, the worry line was still between them, and his face was thin and drawn, but he had eaten and was now lying down and Pippin smiled and patted Faramir's hand once more and thought back many years, when both Merry and Faramir had been recuperating in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. Pippin had gone often to visit them both and the friendship between the young hobbit and the young Steward of Gondor had grown and flourished. More than once he had performed this same task for the Man before him, encouraging him to lie down, take some rest and recover his strength so that he might face the next day's demands. Now he gave the blanket one last adjustment before returning to the table and quietly gathering up the empty dishes. When he had finished he stole a glance toward the bed and saw that Faramir was asleep, his eyes closed and his breathing soft and steady and Pippin was pleased.
As the rain fell quietly outside in the pale gray light of early evening, Peregrin Took slipped out the door and returned to his own room in Imladris to get some rest.
To Be Continued…
Note: A suggestion – there is a lovely new story by Alexis Steele/Red Jacket Girl called The Hands of the Steward. It's movie canon, so our "Faramir's" don't match (which should make you DW lovers happy) but there is a lovely development of the friendship between Pippin and Faramir that is just how I pictured it. They have graciously given me permission to urge all of you to read it. The story is not very long, and I highly recommend it.
Again – Thanks to Princess Faz and Clairon for the Beta work. Catherine Maria for good long reviews, Raksha for reminding me everyone wanted to know what was happening with "poor dear Faramir", and everyone else who is kind enough to read and review.