A/N: Thank you to Melilot Hill for the title! :)

No Small Matter

"Da…?" First came a breathless little voice, and then a curly head, and then the rest of Farry Took, and it was then that Pippin realised his special spot for thinking and smoking on the hill had finally been discovered.

After handing him an apple, Faramir plopped himself down beside his errant father with a sigh, and stared off into the distance, munching an apple of his own; leaving Pippin to frown at him, perplexed, for a moment, before giving into curiosity.

"How did you know I was up here, Farry?" he asked. "I’m supposed to be in Whitwell this afternoon."

"I know," Farry said, after he had swallowed a mouthful of fruit. "But I asked Mama, and she said you were here."

"She did?"

Faramir nodded. "She said you hadn’t gone yet, even though you said you had. And you’d probably be wanting something to eat. And she knows you come up here every day, but I wasn’t to tell you that, bec – oh." Faramir tailed off and gave him a guilty look.

"Why, lad?" Pippin persisted, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Because she thinks you like being up here by yourself and it would spoil it for you… Sorry, Da." Faramir leaned a little closer to his father and sighed. "You’re not busy though, are you? What do you do up here?"

"Nothing very important," Pippin admitted. "I just don’t like sitting in that office all day, so I come out here to do my thinking." He took a bite of his apple and said nothing for a moment. "But I think I’ve done all the thinking I can do for one day, Farry. What’s your reason for coming up here, then?"

Faramir sighed again. "I just wanted to be on my own – well, on my own with you. It’s nice up here, Da."

They shared a smile, but Faramir’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, and Pippin wondered what could be bothering the normally cheerful lad so much. Faramir had never been the sort to bottle things up, and he doubted it would be long before he found out.

Faramir nibbled around the core of his apple without revealing anything else for a few more minutes, and then heaved another frustrated sigh as he threw the remains into a bush, and muttered, "I’m fed up as well."

Pippin nodded, "I thought as much."

"Well, it’s not fair," he sighed, as he jumped up and paced around restlessly in front of Pippin, kicking half-heartedly at a crop of dandelions. "Remember I told you about the play I wanted to be in?"

"The one about the Battle of Greenfields," Pippin nodded, his brow furrowing.

Faramir nodded. "Well, I auditioned to be the Bullroarer today. But lots of the other lads laughed and said that I can’t be him because I’m too short." With a thump, he was on the ground at his father’s side once more, looking up at him woefully. "I’m easily the best at acting him, Da, but they chose stupid old Addy instead."

Pippin put his arm around the lad’s shoulder and smiled down at him sympathetically. "What did they choose him for? I daresay he’ll make the least convincing Bullroarer in the whole class. No-one will believe he’s brave enough to ride into battle. That lad wouldn’t say boo to a goose, let alone a marauding orc."

Faramir smiled weakly and looked up at his father. "It doesn’t matter if he’s a good actor, Da. He’s just the tallest, so he’ll look more like the Bullroarer than I will. Lots of the lads are taller than me. Even some of the lasses are." His voice wavered, and despite his temptation to smile, Pippin’s heart went out to the lad. Faramir had always been sensitive about his height, but this was the first time he’d been disadvantaged by it, and it was clearly upsetting to be made to stand out in such a way.

"You’ll catch up, dearest," he began, knowing how inadequate such words were, but unsure how else to deal with this problem for the time being. He got out his pipe and lit it, needing something to occupy him. "Some lads and lasses grow up faster than others, that’s all. There will be other plays, won’t there? Or perhaps you could play Bandobras’ brave sidekick. That’s always a good part," he grinned, winking at his son.

Faramir poked him in the side, grinning despite himself. "Bandobras didn’t have a brave sidekick, Da."

"I’m sure he must have done. A forgotten story, yet to be told," Pippin declared grandly. "A story that only a fine actor such as Farry Took could bring to life!" He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully for a few moments, conjuring up the beginnings of a plot in his head; and then he realised that his son had gone quiet, and when he turned around he was dismayed to see tears in Farry’s eyes.

"Lad, it wasn’t that bad an idea," he said softly, feeling at a loss, and hoping he might at least be able to raise a smile.

"Serembold said I’m going to be the smallest Took that ever lived," Faramir said eventually, swallowing a couple of times. "And you must be disappointed that you’re my Da because you’re so tall and strong, and brave, and I’m not any of those things… He – he called me Thain Faramir the Feeble." He flushed, and went quiet again.

Pippin thought he might have laughed heartily at such a lot of nonsense, if it wasn’t for that familiar rush of anger and guilt running through him, reminding him of older battles; and the worry and shame in his sweet lad’s eyes. "What did you say to that then, dearest?" he asked quietly.

"I didn’t say anything," Faramir mumbled. "I hit him, and then I ran off."

"Well, he deserved it," Pippin replied, the vehemence in his tone surprising himself, and making Faramir look up at him, his eyes wide. "You know that everything he said is ridiculous, don’t you?"

"Yes... I mean, I think so…" Faramir sighed, "But it might not all be silly, Da. It might be true – I might be the smallest Took that ever lived! It’s not fair, you know. Nobody would say anything if you and Mama weren’t so tall. Everyone thinks you’re so brave and special, and they all know you’re my Da, but even if they didn’t, they wouldn’t believe it, would they? I’m not a bit like you."

Pippin nearly choked on the mouthful of smoke he had just inhaled as he heard this, and gazed down into Faramir's wide, earnest eyes, that little face so hauntingly similar to the one he used to see reflected back at him in windows and ponds. "Faramir Took, that is now the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard today! You are like me, more than you realise. For one thing, anyone who didn’t believe you were my son would need to be blind, or mad... or both. How many times has your uncle Merry called you Pip, when he wasn’t thinking?"

Faramir frowned. "I suppose he does it sometimes, after a few ales."

"Well, he talks more nonsense when he’s been drinking, it’s true; but that doesn’t change how much you remind him of me, when I was a lad. He said as much the day you were born, you know."

"But do you think I’m like you, Da? Do you wish I was taller?"

Pippin shook his head fervently, grinning down at his precious only son. "I couldn’t be more proud of you, you daft lad. You’re already a better hobbit than I promised to be at your age. You could be half-Baggins you know, with that clever, thoughtful nature of yours, and that curious love of books, and if there were anything better than being all Took, then that would be it. I wouldn’t care one bit if you were one foot tall, or seven," he declared.

As his son met his gaze, they both burst out laughing. "If I was seven foot tall, I’d be half-Man; half-Hobbit," Faramir giggled. "You’d have to send me to live in Gondor, and ride out and visit me sometimes to see how I am."

Pippin kissed Faramir's cheek, and then lay back on one elbow, puffing on his pipe and blowing a lazy smoke ring into the air. "Do you think the Men of Gondor would look at us together, and wonder if you were disappointed that your father was a Halfling?" he asked.

"Don’t be silly! They’d never think that. You’re a hero in Gondor."

Pippin smiled. "Even though I’m so very small in their eyes." He reached up to ruffle his son’s hair, and added, "What does height matter, dearest, when some of the greatest heroes throughout the world of Men are also the smallest?"

Faramir shrugged. "It doesn’t, I suppose." He looked down at him sadly, "I know you’re right about that, Da, but Men know that Hobbits are meant to be small. I’m not meant to be small. I’m meant to be tall, like you."

"But I’m not meant to be tall," Pippin frowned, beginning to feel a little confused. For a moment there, he had thought that invoking some of the lessons he had learnt on his travels might convince the lad, but it seemed that Faramir was already quite familiar with these, and they would be no help after all. "How many times have I told you that I wouldn’t be tall at all if it wasn’t for the Ent draughts?"

Faramir was sceptical. "Lots of times. But… is that really true, Da? I’ve always thought it might be something you and Uncle Merry just made up to make me feel better?"

Pippin gaped at his son, struck dumb in astonishment. "Since when did you doubt any of my stories? This isn’t a Father Yule sort of tale that you grow out of when you’re old enough to know better, my lad. It may only be an incidental part of the story, but it happened sure enough." He shook his head unbelievingly. "Your Uncle Sam couldn’t believe it either, you know. He quite readily accepted our tales of walking, talking trees, and Merry and I having a hand in bringing down Isengard, but the idea of us growing several inches taller than Hobbits should be was too much for him to take in, and he could see the difference with his own eyes."

Faramir smiled gamely. "All right, then. I was just wondering. I just thought that maybe everyone thought you were taller when you came back, because you had a uniform and you were a Knight, and a hero and everything, when they were really just imagining it…."

Pippin’s eyes narrowed as he perceived that his son was still unconvinced, at least, that height had ever been much of an issue for this hero of the Shire. An idea came to him suddenly, and he stood up abruptly and pulled Faramir with him. "How would you like to come to Whitwell with me?" he asked as he began striding down the hill with Faramir at his heels. "I’ll tell you a little story on the way. It’s one I’d almost forgotten about, and if you don’t believe it, there’s something I can show you when we get there that should prove it to you."

Faramir nodded vigorously. "What sort of story is it?"

"It’s a story about a little hobbit lad. He was a year older than you, and ten times more daft, and he was very keen to grow up."

"This is about you," Faramir guessed.

Pippin only grinned in reply.

*TBC*