This story is dedicated to all of us that have half read books lying around that we keep promising ourselves to finish.

A very special nod to Ellis Peters and his wonderful character Brother Cadfael.

“Boooori…pleeeeease…read to me…please…please!”

The breeze murmured a bittersweet caress of remembrance as Faramir watched a momentary swirl of dead leaves move along the darkened balcony of the Citadel library. The hurley burley motion of the foilage conjured up a spectral image of himself as a boy, book in hand, excitedly jumping around his brother.

***

“Ugh…Fara, you know I have no love of books. I am a man of action.”

Eight-year old Faramir rolled his eyes behind his thirteen-year old brother’s back. A man of action…indeed, a brat of tomfoolery was more like it.

“What makes you think I want to waste my precious time reading to you, little brother?”

Faramir smirked as he watched Boromir continue to pull large, plush cushions and rugs from within the library out onto the balcony. Once the Steward’s heir was satisfied with the seating arrangement, he grabbed a pair of large lit lanterns from the table and placed them invitingly by the comfortable cushions.

“Because Bori, you want to know, just as much as I, if the dragon was slain by the elf or the dwarf. I believe the dwarf accomplished the heroic deed.”

Still eyeing the soon to be occupied spot, Boromir responded, “Hah! How can you think the dwarf was the dragon slayer? The dwarf is much too short. What would he do? Stab at the dragon’s big toe with a dagger? Obviously, it was the bigger, stronger el…”

The snorts and snickers of his younger sibling interrupted the teen’s line of reasoning. Boromir abruptly spun around to glare accusingly at Faramir. The smaller boy tried to swallow down the ungainly noises, but only succeeded in barking out gales of laughter. Boromir’s attempt to narrow his eyes in a menacing manner only made the teen appear to have a rather bad squint.

“Oooh noooo, Bori, you have no care for books at all,” smugged Faramir, “none what so ever.”

Boromir huffed and held out his hand expectantly. Cautiously, Faramir handed the text to his beloved brother. With a quick snatch, Boromir turned, stalked over to the cushions and unceremoniously plopped himself down. The teen gently flipped through the pages before settling on one marked with a gull feather.

Boromir smirked up at his brother, “Well...I will just have to prove it was my elf and not your dwarf that...”

Though he braced himself for the impact of bony body, gangly arms and spindly legs, Boromir still could not help but release a loud “oomph” when Faramir launched himself at his brother. Their giggling wrestle soon settled into snuggles and cuddles as they arranged themselves comfortably around each other and the cushions. In a voice meant to sound like a booming dwarf, Boromir began to read.

***

As the small whirlwind died down, so too did the cherished memory. Misty blue gray eyes turned a longing gaze back into the gloom of the library. The huge stone fireplace did not hold a cheery blaze to read by. The soft blanket normally draped cozily around two eager readers remained neatly folded on a velvet settee. A single book lay forlorn and forgotten on a small table that once held sweet apples and honey cakes for famished booklovers.

Faramir walked over to the table and picked up the small text. He gently flipped it open to where a familiar gull feather marked the last page read. The Steward smiled with regret. This was the story he and Pippin had begun reading while still recuperating from their Ring War injuries. It was their plan to finish the tale together before the Hobbits returned to the Shire. But as often happens, duty and responsibility encroached more and more, stealing away time meant for simple pleasures and loved ones.

With one last loving trace of his finger along its gilded edge, Faramir closed the book and returned it to the table. There really was no excuse to linger any further. He had found the scrolls with last year’s wheat and barley figures and they were, after all, the reason for coming to the library in the first place. Still needing to finish the harvest report for tomorrow’s Council meeting, Faramir turned to leave the room.

After shutting the heavy door, Faramir dropped his forehead on the barrier's dark wood. Perhaps he could spend some time with Pippin after tomorrow’s meeting. Sighing deeply, he knew full well it would be unlikely. The 27th Steward of Gondor wearily moved down the corridor back to his stifling office…back to his burdensome tasks.

Faramir was so absorbed in thought, that he took no notice of the shadowy figure watching from a distance. Nor did he hear as hobbity feet quietly made their way to the library door. The Man had already turned the corner when the smallest Knight of the Citadel Guard stepped into the now deserted chamber.

TBC

The late afternoon sky streamed in shades of purple and orange. Though the Steward of Gondor had a perfect view from his bench, he paid no heed to the glorious parade into evening. Nor did he hear Pippin’s approach.

From a secluded corner along the Citadel wall, Aragorn watched the valiant Knight coax a goblet of watered wine into the Steward’s hand. Throughout the entire Council meeting the hobbit had hovered near Faramir’s elbow, always at the ready, trying to anticipate his Steward’s every need. The King hoped Pippin’s offering would be accepted. Faramir’s weary expression certainly warranted the refreshment and at the very least, one friend’s concern.

Ever since the day these two met, it was obvious to all, that Faramir and Pippin felt an immediate kinship. Perhaps love for Boromir or witnessing so much tragedy together played a role in their becoming fast and devoted friends. For whatever reason, Faramir and Pippin loved and trusted one another deeply. So much so, in fact, that each felt it his duty, nay his right, to protect and care for the other.

The harvest report that Faramir presented to the Council was thorough and well written. As is often the case, more questions were posed rather than answered, prompting the Council to demand even more information. With an accommodating smile and bow, Faramir agreed to provide yet another report. The young man’s reticent demeanor and Pippin’s thin-lipped glare at the Council members were clues to Aragorn that something was amiss.

Pippin was surreptitiously trying to reach for the document held tightly in his Steward’s hand, hoping to replace it with the goblet. The King doubted that Faramir even cared that the report was ruthlessly being crushed. From the look on the his face, it was apparent the young man would rather do more than just wring the life out of the helpless paper…burn it, shred it, make it sail over the battlement…it mattered not.

“My lord, please, the Council meeting is over and the members are gone. Take this wine and give me that report. I shall gladly return it to your office,” Pippin cajoled.

“My thanks for your attentions, Peregrine, but I am well. You, on the other hand, have done too much today.” Faramir stayed his friend’s protest with a silencing hand. “You are not long out of a sickbed yourself and your limp is much more pronounced than earlier. Come now, take your ease here by me.”

After dropping the report on the bench, Faramir leaned over and opened his arms. Pippin, in turn, placed the goblet on the papers and gladly climbed into the warm embrace. So reminiscent of Boromir’s, yet so very uniquely Faramir’s. For a moment they shared a comforting hug, then Pippin pulled back, sage green eyes searching Faramir’s face.

“Fara, do not deny it, you have not been well.” This time, Pippin stayed the young man’s protest with a smaller, silencing hand. “I know too, Eowyn’s absence has taken its toll.”

“True Pip, I do miss her greatly. Yet my mind and heart knows our time apart is only for a short while. No, this is something else. ‘Ill’ is not perhaps the right term. Nor does ‘unhappy’ explain my state of mind.” Faramir shrugged and chuckled, “I do not know exactly how to describe my mood.”

Pip nodded in understanding and slipped from the Man’s arms in order to nestle close into his side. Faramir automatically wrapped a strong arm around his smaller companion. Aragorn would have found the scene charming had he not seen their matched forlorn expressions.

“Disappointed,” came Pippin’s matter of fact reply.

“Pardon?”

“Disappointed,” Pippin looked down at his neatly clasped hands before he continued.

“You thought things would turn out a certain way, but this was not what you predicted. Oh…do not mistake me, some of what you envisioned has come true. Just…well…not exactly the way you dreamed.”

As Pippin spoke, Faramir turned a steely gray gaze to the hobbit. It was exactly how he felt.

“Feeling this way somehow seems ungrateful and you can not abide the thought that your sentiments might insult loved ones who sacrificed so much. So, you simply do not speak of it.”

Pippin’s lilting voice faded away. Faramir joined his friend in staring off to another place and time. Finally, the young man tucked a finger under the hobbit’s chin, guiding the melancholy face to look up into his own. Faramir’s gentle smile put Pippin at ease.

“Ah Pip, you know me better than myself it seems. Yes, that is the emotion exactly…and…I do not believe I am alone in feeling so. Can you forgive me for not taking notice of your own burdens sooner?”

Alarmed that he had worried Faramir, Pip spoke in a panic.

“Ach! No! There is nothing to forgive. I am being selfish and thoughtless…”

The young man slipped off the bench to crouch before the hobbit. Faramir’s large hands began to soothe along Pippin’s small arms.

“Enough, Pip…nay, you are one of the most generous and giving beings I know. Tis true, things did not turn out as we hoped or dreamed,” Faramir swallowed hard and continued with difficulty, “and to our horror, so many unspeakable nightmares came to pass as well.”

The last remark gave Pip pause. The hobbit placed a reassuring hand on Faramir’s cheek, letting his friend know, that he too, was well versed in those very nightmares.

“These sorrows *should* have a place in our hearts. But, we foolishly dwell too much on what was not achieved or on what was altogether lost. And yet our ultimate folly, my friend, is not to also make a place for all the unforeseen joys we have gained.

Pip raised shimmering eyes to Faramir. The unsettled hobbit could not help but take a small breath of astonishment. Though the young man still appeared physically exhausted, his countenance radiated an inner jubilation and an abiding affection.

When Pip returned a brilliant smile and exuded a happy glow, Faramir knew that the meaning he attempted to convey was understood. Although, it was always wise to make sure with this particular hobbit.

“Peregrine Took, to have both you and Boromir in my heart,” Faramir’s gentle voice began with a quaver, “ well…I am truly blessed by the Valar to count you as friend and brother. You shall always be cherished and celebrated here...”

Faramir touched his palm to his own breast before continuing.

“…and I hope I am held with some esteem there.”

As he spoke, Faramir touched his palm to Pippin’s chest.

The small being scrabbled off the bench and launched himself at the young man. After an initial ‘ooomph’ the Steward caught hold of his Knight. Both clutched together tightly, imprinting the preciousness of each to the other.

“Oh my! Yes! Indeed! I do…you know…never doubt it, Faramir…I *do* hold you and Boromir very dear…more than my own life. You especially are beloved to me as no other. In your presence, I am an equal. In your eyes, I have no failings or shortcomings. As Boromir did, you respect me. Thank you, Fara…thank you for that, my brother.”

Faramir frowned at Pip’s choice of words. After all, the implication was easy enough to understand for one who often had similar thoughts.

“Pip…”

But the hobbit pleaded, “Ah…no…Faramir…do not take notice. Truly, all is well.”

Faramir relaxed his concerned look, knowing all was not as well as this hobbit led to believe. With a small nod he acquiesced and did not pursue the subject any further…for now at least. Pip was noticeably relieved and slyly changed the subject.

“Let us take a moment longer for ourselves, Fara. You know…we have not read together for many weeks now. Does not the quiet peace of the Library sound tempting?”

“So…it was you hiding in the shadows last night. You should have made yourself known. It is unseemly for Knights of the Citadel Guard to stalk their Steward.”

“I was not stalking you, Sir. I was merely unable to sleep and thought a walk would tire me. How was I to know that *you* would be gliding through the halls of Minas Tirith at so late an hour like some apparition gone a haunting?”

Faramir released Pippin and with a sigh he rose to sit on the bench again and looked out into the gathering darkness. Pippin reached for the wine and parchments. When he held the goblet up to Faramir, the young man took it gratefully. After indulging in a long and quenching drink he passed the goblet back to Pip, encouraging him to share. The hobbit grinned and took an equally satisfying swallow before smacking his lips in pleasure. Faramir then took the documents back from Pippin and stood.

“I am afraid that will have to hold us over until I am done with this infernal report.”

Pippin tried to mask his disappointment at failing to get his friend to rest and relax, but Faramir also knew him well.

“Soon…Pip, I promise as soon as this is complete we shall share another goblet in front of the Library’s great fireplace. In the meantime, my friend, sit here a moment longer and enjoy this lovely night for both of us.”

Pippin and Faramir gazed upon each other one last time before the Steward turned and went back to his work. Pippin watched the man long after he had disappeared back in to the gloom of the building. Settling back onto the bench, the hobbit absently turned the goblet in his small hands while listening to the night calls.

“Was there something you wished, Sire?”

Pip continued to play with the goblet. Though he should have, for he was addressing the King after all, the hobbit did not stand or turn as he queried.

Surprised that Pippin knew he was there; Aragorn stepped out from his hiding place, approached the bench and quietly sat next to the contemplative hobbit. When Pippin would not stop twirling the cup, the King gently reached for it. Just as his small friend finally looked up, Aragorn smirked and drank down the last of the cool wine.

“Hmmmmm…as a matter of fact, Sir Peregrine, it appears that there are a great many matters to be discussed. Shall we start with why my Steward and Knight were unable to sleep last night? Maybe we should first address the strange behavior both of you exhibited at the Council meeting today. Will you not tell me what burdens and haunts both of you so? Or perhaps, we may touch upon these unmerited beliefs that you and Faramir are of little consequence?”

Pip interjected before Strider could continue, “I think the Lady murdered her Lord for the sake of her son, who is likely the cleric’s child.”

Mouth agape and blinking in confusion, Aragorn could only guess as to how to respond to such a nonsequitur.

“I believe we shall need a great deal more wine, ere you finish explaining, Knight of the Citadel. From the beginning, Pip.”

**********

Note: This chapter is dedicated to Christine G. Thank you, my friend. Pip's nonsequitur eludes to a Brother Cadfael mystery I've been trying to finish for quite some time...much like this fic.

Faramir worked into the wee hours of the morning, before finally retiring to his chambers. After a few hours sleep, he joined Aragorn, Arwen and the rest of the Fellowship for break of fast. To his relief, there were no comments regarding his health or appearance. And as luck would have it, no other meetings or hearings were scheduled for the remainder of the day. So Faramir was able to devote the entire day to research and writing.

The Steward did not look up from his papers when he heard the door to his study squeak open. Pointing with a quill, he directed the servant to the credenza.

“Just put whatever it is over there.”

“I was given explicit instructions to deliver this directly into your hands, my lord,” responded the King.

Flustered, Faramir quickly rose from his seat and gave a small bow of greeting.

“Aragorn! Sire…forgive my rudeness, my mind was focused elsewhere,” he apologized while rubbing his neck ruefully.

The King waved off the apology as he glanced around the room. A lunch tray and pitcher of drink appeared to be untouched. The older man narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips as he turned back to his Steward only to find Faramir gazing out the window. Cleary this was the first time the young man had been aware of the time of day. For it was late afternoon and dark enough for the torches to be lit.

“Faramiiiir…”

“Aragooorn…”

“Nay, I will not be deterred. You have been ensconced here the entire day and now you will listen to reason.”

“Were you able to reason with Pippin, last night?”

“You knew I was there as well?” Aragorn shook his head with a sigh, “Only King for a few months and already I have lost my Ranger stealth. And the change in subject will not work, my friend.”

Faramir turned and grinned at Estel, “As you may recall, I was a fairly experienced Ranger myself. And with the skills needed for food raids and pranks Pip would probably make a fine officer with the Ithilien Rangers”.

“The Dunedain would probably clap him into irons.”

Both men laughed at the hobbity images they had conjured up. But quickly Aragorn huffed and tried for a stern visage.

“Again, you try to divert me with your cunning ways, Captain.”

Faramir shrugged, “I had to try, Sire. May I forego the lecture on taking better care of myself, if I promise to take better care of myself?”

Aragorn frowned, “Hmmphf…that might have been acceptable if you actually kept your promises, Sir.”

Now upset, blue eyes bore down on steely gray, “When have I broken a promise?!”

Aragorn held up his hands in supplication, “Peace, brother, I merely tease.

Faramir relaxed only slightly, stung by the accusation.

“Only…during a certain conversation regarding disappointments, you were mentioned with particular regret.”

“How have I been a disappointment this time?”

Aragorn cringed at the remark and answered cautiously, “Let me be clear, Faramir…you are not a disappointment…rather, we are disappointed in not being able to spend more time with you. Pippin especially misses your company. He loves you dearly, as do we all.”

The gentle admonishment was enough to undo the young man. Faramir dragged back to his chair and dropped heavily into it, tired and slightly depressed. Aragorn moved closer and knelt to give his Steward a comforting shoulder squeeze.

“It was not my intention to upset you, Faramir. And truly I was sent here to deliver this message to you personally. But, my friend, know it now, we will be having a long and frank discussion quite soon. You are priceless, and I mean for you to understand and believe it.”

Faramir scrutinized Aragorn’s expression. The younger man cautiously smiled as he saw the truth of the remark. The King then pulled his Steward, this complicated soul, who slowly was becoming friend and brother, into a soothing hug…pleased to feel the tension slipping away.

Faramir was the first to pull back, but still he held Aragorn’s shoulders.

“Have I told you and the others how blessed by the Valar I am to have you as my family?”

Aragorn supplied a ridiculous grin at the thought of being considered family, “Well, yes you have, but it does bear repeating and often. I feel similarly blessed, you know. See that you remember that.”

Now it was Faramir who displayed a silly grin, “I will, Sire. So, what it this about a dire message that must be delivered into my hands?”

“Oh! My pardon, here it is.”

Aragorn handed the neatly tied scroll to Faramir.

“I shall leave you to it. However, I further decree that you are to finish here within the hour”, Aragorn stayed Faramir’s protest, “did I say decree? I meant ‘order’ I order you to finish. If the fact has escaped you, Steward, I am King here. No more arguing? I thought not.”

“As you order, Sire,” Faramir snickered.

“Hmmmmmphf…carry on then,” Aragorn threw over his shoulder as he regally swept out of the study.

Still laughing at his friend’s outlandish exit, Faramir untied and unfurled the scroll. Eyebrows rose to hairline as he read the message over and over again. There, written in a familiar hobbit scrawl:

"All work and no play,

Doth make Steward Faramir,

A Dullard

She killed her husband! And her son belongs to the cleric! If you believe me wrong, which I most certainly am not, come to the library and attempt to prove otherwise.

Ever your humble servant,

Sir P"

But it appeared that "Sir P" had abruptly changed his mind. For "Dullard" had been carefully lined out and replaced quite forcefully with

"DOLT!"

As he turned down another hallway, Aragorn could not help but giggle when he heard Faramir’s raucous bark of laughter.

TBC

As the King ordered him, Faramir shut the door to his office and made his way to the Citadel Library. Though he was reluctant to leave so much unfinished work, the idea of arguing a story with Pippin was certainly more appealing. Anticipation made his stride quick and light.

Past discussions with the hobbit reminded him so much of Boromir. In their younger days, the two brothers would often deliberate over the books they read together. More often than not, these ‘serious’ debates broke down into laughing fits over who could invent the most ludicrous scenes and endings. Both Boromir and Faramir were blessed with wild imaginations and could weave the most preposterous flights of fancy.

To his delight, Faramir found, so many years later, that Pippin had much the same ability to concoct the most far-fetched plot twists and finales. Man and hobbit would be so far off the story’s mark, that they could do nothing more than giggle themselves to tears. Though neither ever said so, both were greedy for those tears of happiness.

As the Steward made his way along the corridor, he was able to stop a servant and request that food and drink be delivered to the Library.

“All has already been arranged, my lord,” was the maiden’s cheery reply, “a great feast awaits you!”

Of course Pip would make sure there was plenty of refreshment. Faramir’s mouth began to water, for Pip knew well all of his favorite foods. Both had learned the other’s likes while healing together after the war.

During that exhausting time, Faramir often had no appetite and much to everyone’s worry found it difficult to eat. It was Pippin who seemed able to choose the right enticement and coax his friend into accepting a savory tidbit or sweet. Gandalf had once jokingly asked the hobbit what manner of magic he employed to select the very thing that would interest the young man.

Pippin had merely shrugged and matter-of-factly stated, “No magic, his brother guides me.”

None questioned or was surprised at the “Little One’s” wise reply.

Faramir rounded the last corridor and came to an abrupt stop. While most of the long hallway was dark and quiet, warm flickering light and animated voices spilled out from the open door of the Citadel Library. It was obvious that Pippin was not alone.

As Faramir crept closer, the voices became clearer and more recognizable. He hesitated for a moment before gently pushing the door open wider. He swallowed hard as tears began to well. The sight before him caused his heart to burst with joy.

Eyes shimmering, Faramir stepped into what had always been *his* sanctuary. Once again, in the enormous fireplace, cheery flames danced a comforting, lively, glow around the room. Lying on the plush rug before it, Aragorn and Merry were sharing a book on what appeared to be various healing herbs. As Aragorn spoke, Merry took copious notes and nodded his understanding. Both looked up at Faramir in greeting before turning back to book and papers.

Entranced, Faramir moved deeper into the room. On the velvet settee, Arwen and Sam were wrapped in the worn soft blanket that he and Bori had often shared. Across their lap lay a book on Elvish gardens. Sam pointed excitedly to a sketch of a flower he had planted at Bag End just before leaving on the Quest.

“Imagine…the very same blossom growing in Rivendell and the Shire!” the Gardener wondered aloud as he and Arwen happily gazed up at the young man.

Faramir smiled in return and glanced at the little table next to the velvet settee. There sat a plate of freshly baked honey cakes and a bowl of deep red apples. One already had a small nibble in it. Pip-tested for quality assurance…no doubt. He reached for it and took a bite himself. Reveling in its sweet, juicy, coolness, he continued to stroll around the room.

A feast had indeed been laid out on the large worktable. Faramir saw too that many of his own favorites were arrayed in a display sure to tempt. But it was the snorts and snickers from underneath the table that drew his attention. The Steward crouched down and peaked under the thick tabletop. There on his back lay Frodo looking up as though he were reading something there on the bottom of the table itself.

With a sudden “whump” as he plopped down, Faramir remembered all the inappropriate drawings and epitaphs that he and Bori had carved into that very table such a long childhood ago.

“Oh my!” whispered the now embarrassed Steward as he covered his eyes.

“Oh my, indeed, my lord!” whispered back the completely charmed Frodo.

“What would Samwise think of your quality if he saw these? For shame man of Gondor!” cornflower blue eyes relished the tease.

“Shhhhh! It was raining that day. Bori and I were…well…bored!” defended the young man.

“Oh I see…a change in weather turns sweet, innocent, boys into property defacing hooligans. Yes, I can see how that could happen,” Frodo could not keep the slight titter in his voice under control.

But Faramir ever the clever man, quickly turned the table…so to speak.

“You were a young hobbit once. Surely there must be many tales of your own youthful misdeeds? And really…who allows Merry and Pippin to get away with murder? I wonder also who they get some of their outrageous schemes from? Hmmmmm…perhaps Mithrandir might remember a time when you behaved like a hool…”

“Alright! Alright! Your point is made. But I know the truth about you, Sir! You are not so sweet and innocent as one is led to believe…and…you…are a rather bad artist. Is this meant to be a horse’s arse?”

Faramir took a closer look and frowned, “Yes, that is a horse’s arse and Bori drew it. I was responsible for most of the *ahem* poetry.”

Frodo choked, “Poetry! You call this poetry? Lewd limericks…yes…and very good ones…but poetry…no…never.”

“Oh…so now you are an expert art and literature critic? Bori and I were but 17 and 12 at the time and we were being rather silly if I recall. I would like to see you try to do better, Master Baggins. By the by, what are you doing under the table in the first place?” hissed the slightly affronted Steward.

“Ha! No changing the subject and I most certainly could write and draw better than this, even after quite a few ales I might add,” challenged the Ringbearer.

For a moment Faramir seemed to consider, causing Frodo to eye him nervously. Then the young man stood up allowing Frodo to only see his lower legs. The hobbit feared he had offended his friend by pushing the jest too far. Just as he was about to scoot forward and reach for Faramir’s leg, the young man crouched down again. Frodo saw that Faramir held a full tankard of ale obviously poured from the table above them. With a foolish grin the young man placed the drink on the floor near the hobbit. Then he pulled a small knife from his boot and handed it to Frodo handle first.

“Now that you are grown and have had too much duty laid squarely upon your shoulders, do you not sometimes wish to be childish and irresponsible again?”

Frodo nodded mesmerized by the idea of being free to do as he pleased.

Faramir crawled under the table with him. The man searched about and seemed to come across what he was looking for.

“Here…Bori and I carved our initials here. Only recently have I laughed as hard as we did on that day. I do not remember why we ended up under this table either. But here we lay together carving the most foolish things. If we were caught…well…it does not matter now.”

Faramir turned to an enraptured Frodo, “So, Frodo, Ringbearer of the Nine Fingers, make your mark, here, next to ours. Then prove to me that you can indeed draw and write better than the descendents of the House of Hurin…even after a few ales.”

Frodo stared in disbelief. Surely Faramir had taken leave of his senses. But then the beleaguered hobbit caught the look of playful encouragement in his friend’s countenance.

It seemed to say, “you have accomplished a most horrible thing...now come do this, for you need reminding that a thing may still be done simply for the pleasure of it.”

Frodo looked at the knife in his disfigured hand and with delight looked over at the goblet of ale. Faramir picked it up and helped him take a delicious, quenching, sip. Then with some determination the halfling began to carve another “F” next to the initials already embedded in the wood.

With Frodo embarking on a quest of a different sort, Faramir crawled out from under the table. Hushed words caught his attention. Looking towards a row of bookshelves, Legolas and Gimli were clearly arguing.

“Are you having trouble choosing something to read?”

Legolas and Gimli glanced up as Faramir stepped closer to them.

“Aye, we thought to do as you and Pippin and read something together,” chimed the Elf Prince.

“But this sentimental tree hugger wishes to read of lost loves reunited and other such flowery nonsense,” snorted the Dwarf Lord.

“And my stout admirer of rocks wishes to read of slaying and dark, dank caves,” retorted Legolas priggishly.

Before the argument could start anew, Faramir tried to broker a peaceful solution, “If you allow me, I may have the perfect choice.”

Legolas and Gimli blinked and looked at each other. Then as one, both turned to the young Steward and nodded their agreement. Faramir began to peruse the bookshelf. Finally, he reached high in an upper corner and pulled out a small text not previously noticed by elf or dwarf. The unassuming volume was well worn. Obviously, it was a much read, much loved book.

“I think you will find that this has what you both seek,” Faramir continued as he handed it gently to Gimli, “it is actually about an elf and dwarf who become great friends.”

Legolas and Gimli smiled at each other. Indeed it was the perfect choice.

“It was our favorite story. Boromir and I read it every year. At around this very time as a matter of fact.”

Both elf and dwarf laid a light touch on Faramir’s arm and hand calling him back to the present. It was Legolas who spoke.

“Gimli and I are sure to cherish it as much as you and Boromir. Thank you for sharing it with us, my friend.”

And they did cherish it for many years to come. Faramir gifted the book to Legolas and Gimli when they departed on their travels around Middle Earth. It gave comfort and reminded elf and dwarf of loved ones as they sailed the deep blue sea to the Grey Havens. Many an elf on the far shore did also count it as a favorite and felt it best to read the tale with a friend.

Once Faramir saw to it that Legolas and Gimli were huddled comfortably together on a well-cushioned window seat, he moved farther down the aisle, to where as Wizard’s pupil, he did so often annoy Mithrandir. There in a familiar overstuffed chair sat the Istari turning page after page of an ancient tome.

“You never did annoy me, boy.”

No longer surprised that Gandalf knew exactly what he was thinking, Faramir replied, “Truly? I find that hard to believe, old man.”

“Well, perhaps you did just a little. Come see what it is I read.”

Faramir stepped closer and perched himself on the arm of the chair. Pipeweed, nutmeg and fireworks were the fond scents he would always associate with this being who was more father to him than Denethor. He had always known that after Boromir, Mithrandir loved him best. And as he knew when his brother parted from him, this would likely be the last time he saw the Wizard in Arda.

“Do you know what I have here?”

“It is the written history of the Stewards of Gondor.”

“Correct, now let me turn to the back pages. Ah, here we are. What do you see?”

“The pages are blank, Mithrandir.”

“Nay, my son, they are full of the great deeds and rich history that the 27th Steward of Gondor will bring about at the side of his beloved friend and brother, the King.”

Faramir glanced towards Aragorn, who at the same moment peered back. After giving a cheeky wink, the King returned his attention to Merry. And Faramir knew…knew without doubt that Mithrandir spoke the truth. The years to come would be fulfilling and happy.

“You will not be here to see it so. Nor do I believe will Frodo.”

“There are many who will not be here, my dear boy”, thoughtful aged eyes glanced through bushy white brows, “that does not necessarily mean we will not see it so.”

Faramir’s sharp blue eyes snapped to Wizard’s mirthful ones. Then in one liquid movement he dropped down to press a gentle kiss to Gandalf’s cheek.

“I love you, old man.”

“And I you, my Wizard’s pupil,” Gandalf pulled away with a suspicious sniffle, “now go, before the rapscallion out on the balcony bursts with impatience.”

Though their own handclasp lingered, the Wizard knew nothing would keep the young man from the hobbit who now filled the “in between” spaces of a heart almost broken. The draw was strong, just as it was so many years ago. Then between two brothers so tied to each other, now between two friends just as intertwined.

As he finally reached the balcony, Faramir drew a startled breath. Various cushions and rugs were arranged invitingly. Several lanterns were strewn about to provide good reading light. And there, just at the center of the cozy seating area was Pip, carefully plumping a pillow three times his size.

At the sound of his Steward’s small gasp, the devoted Knight turned around. Immediately sage green eyes began to dance with glee. Reaching down Pip grabbed a book and opened it to where a gull feather marked the last page read. Book in one hand, feather in the other, the thrilled hobbit ran to the young man and began to jump about.

Surely woven by some enchantment, the past mingled and tantalized with the present at the sound of Pippin’s lilting voice.

“Faraaaaa…pleeeeease…read to me…please…please!”

Fin