Authors Note:

Feeling sorry for the decided lack of romance for Gimli but not wishing to delve too deeply into dwarf love because almost nothing is known about dwarf women, I created the character of Lorin as Gimli’s wife. Tolkien claims that women dwarfs tended to stay close to home and often chose their mates because they seemed to outnumber the males. He also gives a good deal of room to maneuver where Gimli is concerned following the events in Return of the King. Since the dwarf is known as the Lord of the Algarond or the Glittering Caves, having established a colony in the caverns he discovered during the battle of the Hornburg, I assumed it would not be that improbable for him to take a wife. Once again, if you have a problem with OFC’s, you can simply skip to the next chapter. It is not essential that you read this part.

Part Four
The Pony

Gimli stared at the pony.

The pony stared back at Gimli.

Dwarf and beast examined each other, neither liking greatly what they saw and but lacked the ability to communicate to each other their apparent distaste. Gimli wondered what the elf was thinking in presenting him with this gift and suspected immediately that Legolas was having some joke at his expense. The beast watched him unmoving, as if expecting to make some sudden move to which it would be required to defend himself. Gimli supposed that he was not helping to soothe the creature’s anxiety that Gimli was approaching the pony like he was about to go into battle but he could not help it, it was a battle in some way.

From this distance, the beast did not look entirely threatening but Gimli knew looks could be deceiving. After travelling on a quest with a Ranger who turned out to be a king, an elf that became a trusted friend and a hobbit that proved to have power enough to topple Sauron, Gimli would never again trust appearances. No doubt this pony, bred apparently in the highlands of the White Mountains by the Rohirrim as beasts of burden despite their small size, had hidden strengths that would reveal itself in time. The pony had a flaxen mane flowing over its neck and its face, far longer than most full size horses. It did not bear the equine grace of horses but appeared stocky and rather ungainly, much like a dwarf, Gimli thought to himself. The rest of its body was a rich, golden color with a blaze of white from its forehead to its nose.

When Eomer’s men first presented the pony to him at the Glittering Caves, he had thought it to be a joke. However, the message that came with the creature told him clearly that it was nothing of the kind. Legolas had requested that Eomer select Gimli a horse that would suit the dwarf for it was undignified for the Lord of the Glittering Caves to be ferried everywhere without a steed of his own whenever they traveled together. Gimli wondered if Legolas had fallen upon his head when he had made the request since it was well known that dwarves did not ride, ever. Even when he was forced to mount a horse behind Legolas, it had been under great protest and even then, he had never felt comfortable about it.

Eomer had thus selected a breed of pony that were reared in the White Mountains and were used mostly for dragging yokes and wagons on farms. However, lately, the beasts had become more popular as a child’s first introduction to horses. Nobles across Middle earth were purchasing the animals for their children who were too small for proper horses but old enough to ride. Also since learning of the Shire folk, efforts had been made to introduce the ponies there because their size fit the small stature of the hobbits. Since dwarfs had never shown any interest in mastering horses of any kind, Eomer had never given it much thought until Legolas’ request but upon being asked, thought the pony he had selected to be the ideal size for Gimli.

So now, Gimli found himself staring at his gift, complete with saddle fit for a dwarf, hand crafted he was told by one of the finest saddle makers in Rohan which was now resting on one corner of the stall, uncertain of what to make of the elf’s gift. Gimli swore under his breath as he regarded the beast that the next time he saw Legolas, the elf would be receiving his very own set of mining tools and Gimli would insist that he use them. He had no idea where to keep the pony as caves were no place for such an animal although he could not see why it could not be allowed to roam during in the fields beyond the caves during the day and brought in for its protection by night. It was at this point to his utter shock, that Gimli realized that he was resigning himself to keep the creature.

"I cannot keep you!" Gimli told the pony as he stood before it in the section of cave that had become its stable since being presented to its owner more than a day ago.

The pony did not appear to care very much about Gimli’s dilemma.

"I know why that damned elf gave you to me," Gimli ranted as he started to pace beyond the hastily put together stall that had been built for the pony. "He wishes to vex me even in his absence. I am certain wherever he is; he is drawing great amusement at my expense. I sometimes wonder why I even call him friend!"

He knew why of course and had it been any other elf, Gimli was certain their friendship would not have flourished. Perilous times and great deeds had forged their friendship, binding them together as no elf or dwarf had ever been for too long. Legolas had saved his life more times then he could count and he in turn had done the same. Outwardly, those who saw them together would think that they were an unlikely pair, always bickering with one another but anyone attempting to break that bond would have reason to regret it.

Part of the reason they were so close, Gimli believed was because around him, Legolas did not have to act the age of a three thousand-year-old elf. Gimli did not look to Legolas for wisdom the way the rest of the Fellowship had done. To him, Legolas was an elf and nothing more. Age had little to do with his perception of the Prince. For this reason, Legolas was allowed to be himself, without maintaining the air of mystery elves liked to project around themselves. This unfortunately, allowed Legolas to show the side of himself that few people knew of, for instance his terrible sense of humor, particularly in his choice of gifts.

"He knows I do not like horses," Gimli continued his one sided conversation with the pony. "He thinks to annoy me by having you here, so I can be forever reminded by the fact that I must keep you because you are gift from him!"

Gimli knew that he was working himself in a proper state but he could not help himself. What sort of game was Legolas playing with him? This poor creature deserved a master who could ride him, not to be kept away from the open plains in a dwarf’s realm. He walked to the edge of the stall and ran his hand along the pony’s flank. Strangely enough, the beast did not recoil, merely reacted to his touch with a slight turn of its head. Examining the pony a little closer, Gimli discovered that it was male but gelded. At least Legolas and Eomer did not saddle him with a female, though he had no idea if that made any difference in terms of riding a pony.

"I have no doubt when I see him next he will take great relish in asking me how I fare with his gift," Gimli continued to complain, "knowing full well that I would never ride you. I wish I could tell him otherwise. Now wouldn’t that make his jest leave a bitter taste in his mouth?" He chuckled slightly to himself.

"That would make him eat his words if I rode you when I returned to Minas Tirith," Gimli continued to speak, his mind suddenly filled with images of Legolas’ shocked face when he appeared before the elf, astride the pony as if he were born to the saddle.

The pony looked at him rather doubtfully.

"I suppose it’s not so impossible that I try, I mean how hard could it truly be? Men ride all the time, some before they can even walk. Perhaps that is an exaggeration but you know what I mean." Gimli started rationalizing the thought that had started to take root in his mind the more he considered the seemingly preposterous notion. Dwarves did not ride. Dwarves did not befriend elves either or take part in events that had shaped the world, far from their deep mountain recesses. His whole life had been about accomplishing things that dwarfs were not meant to. Why was this any different?

Gazing purposefully at the saddle that had been made for him, Gimli crossed the floor of the cave and came to a halt before it. Dropping to his knees, he examined the stitched leather saddle and could not deny that it was well crafted enough to have been dwarf in origin. Everything about it had been made to suit him, even possessing a strap to which his axe could have been attached. Gimli took in the smell of new leather and admire the craftsmanship before he picked it up and headed towards the pony that was eyeing him rather suspiciously.

"Now let us be reasonable about this," Gimli remarked as he stepped into the stall, approaching the pony stealthily. "You do not want to be left languishing in here any more than I want to see that elf’s smirking face the next time I see him. I shall put this on you and if you do not bite or kick me, we can begin this relationship amicably."

The pony seemed to be thinking this over when Gimli approached it with the saddle, taking more care than he would use whilst approaching a sleeping Balrog after a particularly bad day. The animal did not react when Gimli placed the saddle upon its back and attempted to decipher the straps and buckles that would secure it to its body. It was not difficult to discern since no self-respecting dwarf would ever admit openly that he was unable to master any kind of device, even if it was for use on a horse.

Once he was certain that everything was in place and the saddle would not slide off the beast’s body when he mounted it, Gimli stepped back and stared at the pony. He could not deny that he was a little uneasy about actually attempting to climb into the saddle but he knew that he was no coward and this was only a pony. He had faced far greater threat then this in his life and he would not falter now. Taking a deep breath to strengthen his resolve and approached the pony once more.

"I am going to climb on now," he told the animal earnestly. "Let us both keep calm shall we? You do not throw me and I will resist the urge to introduce you to my axe."

The pony did not respond to this with any violence so Gimli decided that it was safe to continue. Placing his feet gingerly in the stirrup, he pulled himself up clutching the saddle, remembering how he had seen Legolas perform the same maneuver time and time again in the past. Swinging his foot over the leather, he rested himself carefully unto the seat and found that it felt quite strange to be sitting on top of the pony alone, without someone else in front of him. Taking the reins in his hands, Gimli had to confess that this was not as bad as he thought it would be.

"Let us move around a bit, shall we?" He asked the animal and tried to remember how he had seen Legolas nudge Arod into moving.

The moment he dug his heels into the pony’s flank, Gimli suddenly felt the beast heave sharply from the rear with such force that he could do little except to shout indignantly as he was unseated from the saddle. The dwarf landed on his face into the fresh straw that covered the stable floor. He was grateful that he was wearing his helmet for it would have been a painful exercise to land on the hard, stone ground without it. For a few seconds he lay there, adjusting himself to the pain moving throughout this body before he stood up abruptly and turned to the pony that was staring at him unrepentant.

"I thought we had an agreement!" Gimli barked at the pony that did not flinch at its master’s anger.

"I should take an axe to you," the dwarf raved as he picked himself up and dusted the errant pieces of straw attached to his clothing. "But that would mean that I was defeated by an animal and I am not ready to give up the notion that I will never master you for I shall."

With that, he strode back to the pony and attempted to climb into the saddle once again. This time the beast did not even allow him to do that much. No sooner than his foot was in the stirrup, the animal moved away, allowing him to stumble and fall onto his back, his foot still caught in the steel. Gimli freed himself and swore loudly, certain the impassive look the beast was giving him was nothing short than a smile of derision. He continued towards it, anger making me more determined than ever to mount the pony.

"I will ride you beast," Gimli declared as if he were uttering a battle cry. "Make no mistake on that. Before this day is out, one of us will know who is its master and I swear to you, it will not be me."

************

As the Lady of the Glittering Caves and the wife of Gimli, son of Gloin and elf friend, Lorin had become accustomed to the fact that her husband was not an ordinary dwarf. Indeed, it was his lack of convention that had made him a hero and had aided her decision to choose him as a husband. In truth, when she had first left Erebor for the lands of Rohan, she had no intention of marriage. By trade, she was an engraver and many of the axes carried by the dwarfs who resided in Erebor had her distinct markings upon it. However, the chance to start a new life far away from the world she had known had inspired her interest more than Lorin would have expected. Without giving the matter much thought since her heart made the decision for her, Lorin found herself journeying to the Glittering Caves with the rest of the dwarfs that were following him to establishing a new colony called Aglarond.

It was not because he was a great hero that she found herself forming affections for him but rather because of the kind heart that existed beneath his crusty exterior. In truth, he could be impatient, downright stubborn and impossible but he showed tenderness and tolerance that was uncommon in most dwarfs. When he spoke about the Glittering Caves, he described it with the wonder of a child and one could not help but desire to see it as he did. Of course, he also had the same glimmer in his eyes when he spoke of the Lady of the Golden Wood. Lorin knew Gimli kept a lock of her hair like a sacred trust however, the dwarf lady had come to accept that his love for Galadriel was more than awe than anything.

Fortunately, what he felt for his wife was decidedly grounded in reality and Lorin was not so insecure that she would be jealous of his infatuation with an elven lady who had passed beyond the boundaries of Middle earth. Certainly her husband did not treat her as if she had to compete for the affections of another. Indeed when she had first made known her regard for him, his reaction had almost bordered on astonishment. Strange how this was the reaction of most dwarf males when approached by women of their own kind. However, in time they forged a love that was stronger than mithrail and though it was not one of burning passion because dwarfs did not like passion as much in their relationships as they liked comfortable familiarity, it was no less binding.

As a husband, she did not expect to see him a good deal even before they had married, aware that he was a wanderer at heart, despite his beliefs to the contrary. He spent a good deal of time journeying with the legendary Fellowship, especially the elf who was son to King Thranduil of Mirkwood. She did note however, that he made time to return home, not merely to see to his realm but also to see her. There were occasions when he simply came back for the latter and Lorin was deeply touched by it.

He was not like other dwarfs, her lord and she loved him dearly for it.

Lorin sat in the parlor of the rooms that served as their private residence, darning some clothes of his that was in great need of repair when suddenly she heard a door slam, which made her jump a little, followed by determined footsteps approaching. Looking up, she saw her husband storming through the room appearing quite disheveled, with piece of stray clinging to his clothes. There was also a slight limp in his steps and he bore all the earmarks of having been in some kind of battle.

"What happened to you husband?"

Gimli did not speak at first, choosing instead to go to the fireplace where his axe hung over the mantle piece.

"Why are you taking your axe?" She questioned again, aware that he did not take it from its place without intending to use it.

"I am going to introduce it to that damn pony!" Gimli hissed.

"You attempted to ride it?" She exclaimed with incredulity as she at last understood why he was in the state he was.

"I did not get that far," Gimli rumbled darkly as he removed the axe and clutched it purposefully in his hand before turning to leave again.

"You do not know how to ride," she pointed out, feeling it a wifely duty to stop her husband when he was bent on leaving, armed with an axe and obviously furious.

"That was painfully obvious by the number of times that accursed creature threw me!" Gimli paused long enough to answer.

"Husband," she intercepted him before he got past her. "You cannot kill the creature, it was a gift from Legolas," she replied attempting to reason with him.

"A gift!" Gimli snorted. "It is not gift! It is just a way for that damned elf to cause me annoyance. They thrive on it you know, these elves. They appeared to be worldly and wise but their secret ambition is to drive every living thing insane!" He said this with more than a look of mania etched in his face.

"I thought you decided you were not going to ride it," Lorin remarked, gently reaching for his hand so that she could remove the axe from his grip.

"Well I thought that I might teach Legolas a lesson," Gimli frowned. "I know he think me to afraid to learn to ride the thing and I was going to prove him wrong. I was going to ride the beast back to Minas Tirith when I return."

"An admirable plan," Lorin agreed and she could not help but think that her husband would look very impressive on a horse, thought his was not the best time to mention that. "However, I do believe instruction is required in such instances. One does not simply mount a horse and expect to simply ride it."

"How hard can it be?" Gimli retorted.

"Judging by the number of times you fell out of the saddle, I would say considerably," Lorin answered with a straight face.

"Are you mocking me wife?" Gimli straightened up and gave her a look.

"I would do nothing of the kind," she said with a little smile, leaning over to kiss his lips gently before speaking again. "I have heard Legolas speak of his childhood and I am certain he makes it clear that his father had to teach him. He simply did not hop onto the back of horse and knew instantly how to ride."

"I suppose," he shifted uncomfortably at her point, wishing it were not so because he really did want to introduce the pony to his axe.

"Perhaps you should find someone to teach you," she suggested.

"Teach me?" He snorted. "Who could teach me? I do not think I wish to go to Minas Tirith simply to learn to ride a horse. Aragorn would be good enough to teach me if I were to ask but I do not think it appropriate to make such a request of him."

"Then do not go so far," Lorin replied. "You are friends with the King of the Mark are you not?"

"With Eomer? Yes, we are friends though I once almost took my axe to him over his slight against the Lady of the Wood."

"Yes, yes," Lorin rolled her eyes impatiently, "I have heard that tale before. I meant, do you trust him enough to teach you how to ride?"

Gimli shrugged and found that it was not a question that was at all easy to answer. It was not that he did not think that Eomer would help him but he was somewhat embarrassed to be in a position where he was required to ask for aide. Dwarfs were fiercely independent and they liked it even less when they were in a position of disadvantage. Despite the fact that Eomer was someone Gimli considered a friend, this age old conditioning of his race was a tradition difficult to break.

"I suppose," he fidgeted uncomfortably where he stood because he was hesitant to answer. Lorin could be so much more sensible then him and when she put forward the questions so starkly, that was very little he could do to deny the wisdom of her words.

"Well then," she gave him a look of gentle understanding; "you know what you must do if you truly mean to master Legolas’ gift, you must ask Eomer to help you."

"I suppose there is no other way," Gimli muttered unhappily, having hoped he would have been able to master the pony without any assistance. However, the last few hours had proved quite plainly that if he intended to go through with his plan, then he would have to do as his lady suggested. He just wished he did not have to.

"Well you could forget the whole idea to begin with," she remarked, eyeing him suggestively.

"No!" Gimli retorted sharply. "I will not let that elf get the better of me. I’ll show him that I can do this. I will go to Edoras tomorrow and that damned pony is coming with me!"

************

When Eomer, King of the Mark was told that he had a visitor, the last person he had expected it to be was Gimli, Lord of Algarond or the Glittering Caves as it was most commonly know to the Rohirrim. After all, it had only been a number of days ago that the gift Legolas Greenleaf had requested Eomer to make on his behalf was delivered to the dwarf. While Eomer had anticipated a message that would either have Gimli cursing or thanking him, since it was anyone’s guess how a dwarf was going to react to a gift of this nature, he had certainly not expected Gimli to make an appearance himself.

"Gimli!" Eomer exclaimed when chamberlain showed Gimli into the hall of Meduseld.

"Eomer," Gimli smiled as the two warriors met in friendly embrace. "It is good to see you King of the Mark."

"Likewise, Lord of Aglarond," Eomer teased. "So to what do I owe this visit?"

Gimli seemed to bristle at the mention of that and he looked at Eomer through narrowed eyes, "I came about that wretched beast."

"Ah," Eomer nodded understanding completely as he led Gimli to the long table where food and drink were being prepared for the guest. "You are here to return it. I understand," he said quickly sparing Gimli the indignity of explaining. "When Legolas first mentioned the idea, I thought him mad. After all it is well known that your people are not fond of horses. However, he was determined that you have one, kept saying something about the Lord of Aglarond should not be forced to travel with his companions on the back of someone else’ horse."

"Actually," Gimli cleared his throat, trying to force the words out of his mouth. "I came here to learn how to ride."

There were not many things that could stop the King of the Mark dead in his tracks but apparently this was one of them.

Eomer turned around and looked down at his diminutive friend, "you want to learn how to ride a horse?’

"That blasted pony anyway!" Gimli declared a little defensively. "I will not let a beast defeat me!"

Eomer’s brow rose up over his eyes in surprise at the dwarf’s obvious chagrin and he was forced to stifle the urge to smile because to do so would undoubtedly earn him the sharp end of Gimli’s axe, king or not. Instead, he did a remarkable job of composing himself as he listened to Gimli rave a little more about a pony whose crimes it seemed were more heinous than any committed by Sauron himself. The dwarf was working himself into a proper state of outrage as he described the events that had led to his arrival in Edoras seeking Eomer’s aid.

"So you see, I am going to learn to ride this creature if it is the last thing I do," Gimli concluded his speech.

"Well if you had continued to be thrown out of the saddle, that may very well have been true," Eomer pointed out. "Do you know how dangerous it is to be thrown? You could have hurt yourself badly."

"Well that is why I am here," Gimli retorted gruffly. "My lady seems to think as you do. She advised that I seek your aid in learning how to ride properly since I am so determined to do this thing."

"The Lady Lorin counsels you well, "Eomer replied with a little smile, "it is no easy thing learning to master a horse or a pony for that matter. My father taught both Eowyn and I as a child. In Rohan, I think we are bred to ride before we walk."

"I think that is the same of us in Erebor," the dwarf remarked as he relaxed a little, pleased that Eomer was not making light of his request but seemed genuinely committed to help him. "We learn a trade before we learn anything else."

"It is not difficult to learn how to ride," the king continued, "however, it does need to be learnt. It is not a thing that can be done by simply climbing into the saddle, be it a horse or a pony such as yours."

"Well if the little hobbits can do it, I can see why I cannot," Gimli retorted remembering the pony named Bill that was so cherished by Samwise Gamgee. "Although I am certain that there is something wrong with that pony. It must be sick in the brain I am certain."

Eomer had not picked the pony himself but he did send one of his most trusted men to make the selection and prior to its delivery to Gimli, had inspected the animal himself. He had considered the choice to be well made although like all the Rohirrim, his eye was more for horses then their smaller cousins. Of course, he had not ridden the thing himself and supposed in that respect at least, there was the possibility that there was something wrong with the pony to cause Gimli such distress.

"Some animals may simply be unaccustomed to having a rider on its back," Eomer explained, drawing from his own experiences.

"It is not that," the dwarf said vehemently, "that beast is stubborn, bad tempered, with more spirit then sense!"

The irony was not lost on Eomer.

However, instead of responding as no doubt Legolas would have done had the elf been present, the King of the Mark preferred to move on and leave the volatile comment alone, choosing to address the problem that had brought Gimli to Edoras instead. Besides, Eomer could see the whole situation bothered the dwarf and he had not the heart to make light of it.

"I am assuming then your journey here with the beast was not as easy as you would have liked," Eomer asked innocently.

"Not at all," Gimli scowled, "I was tempted to use my axe several times."

Eomer gave the dwarf a look of reproach before responding, "I think we will have to try something other than that to gain its trust."

"Gain its trust?" Gimli stared at him blankly as if he had suggested the most preposterous thing imaginable. "Why would I need to gain its trust?"

"Because if the animal does not feel comfortable with you, it is not going to carry you anywhere," Eomer answered with more of a condescending tone then he meant.

"Why cannot we simply get another pony?" Gimli offered, not liking the idea of pitting his wits against the wretched beast again, since every encounter so far had been met with humiliation and defeat.

"For starters because we do not breed them here," the king explained. "They are found in the mountains where their breed grows freely. It is the cold and temperate weather than makes them small yet hardy, secondly you do not strike me as one who gives up so easily."

"Give up?" Gimli took offense at the phrase. "I am not giving up," he stated firmly.

"Of course not," Eomer remarked neutrally.

Gimli stared at Eomer through narrowed eyes, aware of what the king was trying to do and finding it extremely annoying that he was succeeding.

"If I am to keep this beast, will you help me then?" Gimli looked at him hopefully. "Will you teach me how to ride?"

He had been called on to do many things in his life, face trials that would have broken lesser men but teaching a dwarf how to ride a pony had to be counted as something of a first. However, Eomer knew how difficult it was for Gimli to come to him for aid, especially when one considered on what foot their association had began and how it had evolved into the friendship they now shared. Since the end of the War, that friendship had strengthened because of the close proximity of each of their realms.

"It will be my privilege to try," Eomer answered with a little smile. "Let’s see what kind of horseman you make."

"Hopefully one who can stay in the saddle for more than a few seconds," Gimli remarked, wishing he had Eomer’s confidence in his abilities.

"Oh do not worry," the king smiled mischievously, "we have rope."

Gimli gave him a look and then cursed under his breath. He could not believe the lengths he was going to accomplish this task. Once again, Gimli reminded himself to take sweet vengeance upon Legolas, the next time he saw the elf.

That is if he did not kill himself first.

**********

The lesson began the very next day with Eomer and Gimli gathered in the large courtyard outside the hall of Meduseld. Although there were better ways for the King of the Mark to occupy his time, Eomer could not help be pleased that the task of helping Gimli ensured that for a few days at least, his mind was filled with things other than the affairs of state. There were times when even the king required a little distraction and he had to confess that despite the unusual nature of the request the dwarf had made of him, Eomer was somewhat looking forward to it. Sometimes, a king needed to succeed the smaller battles in order to win the larger ones.

"What are you doing?" Gimli asked when he saw Eomer tying the rope to the bridle around the pony’s elongated nose.

"Ensuring that when this animal choose to move with you on it, it does not decide to bolt for parts unknown," Eomer replied.

"If I can remain in the saddle long enough for the beast to bolt, I will be surprised," Gimli retorted, watching how the pony seemed so placid in Eomer’s care and felt no end of resentment towards the beast for its pretentious docility.

"You know," Eomer paused and looked over his shoulder at Gimli, "it might help if you actually gave the animal a name, instead of simply calling it beast. "

"A name?" the dwarf snorted, "you mean aside from riding it, I must now name it as well?"

Eomer gave him a look of impatience that spoke volumes.

"All right," Gimli muttered under his breath, considering what he could name a pony. He had never named an animal before and the experience though not entirely impossible, was a little difficult. However, after a moment, he was willing to make an attempt. An evil thought crossed over his mind and he offered a suggestion, "what about Mirkwood Prince?"

"You want to name your pony Mirkwood Prince?" Eomer stared at him.

An utterly demonic expression stole across Gimli’s features, "does not that flaxen mane remind you of anyone?" The dwarf asked smugly.

Eomer did not trust himself to answer in case he was forced to repeat it later and responded diplomatically, "its your pony and you are the one who is in danger of being riddled with arrows when he finds out."

"After the gracious gift he presented to me," Gimli retorted, not in the least worried about that, "it’s the least I can do for him."

Eomer rolled his eyes and faced Gimli once the rope was secured to the bridle. "Climb into the saddle," he ordered.

Gimli paled visibly at the thought as he stared back at Eomer "Are you certain?"

"You are not going to learn to ride unless you do," he stared at Gimli, waiting for the dwarf to make a movement towards the pony.

Gimli walked gingerly towards the beast, trying to hid his anxiety as he approached. Eomer who had once seen the dwarf slaughter orcs without fear or impunity, playing his deadly game with Legolas during the battle of Helms Deep at the Hornburg had not seen the fear in Gimli’s eyes that he did now. The absurdity of it was beyond his ability to believe it but he kept this observation to himself and allowed Gimli to continue his cautious advance to the pony. For the sake of Gimli’s esteem, Eomer had ensured that no one was lingering in the courtyard that had no good reason to be there and explicit instructions had been given that no mishap suffered by Gimli during the lesson was to be the source of amusement to anyone. Anyone found doing so would earn the king’s extreme displeasure.

Gimli reached the pony and placed his hand upon the saddle. The pony did not move. As he attempted to mount, he heard Eomer offering him some advice on how to climb into the saddle properly and he had to confess being surprised at how different it was from his own method. The pony did not move away as Gimli pulled him self up to the seat and then lowered himself in it. Clutching the reins in his fingers, he tried to dispel the knot that was forming inside his stomach in anticipation of what the animal would do now that he was at its mercy.

He really wished he had his axe and was rather unhappy that Eomer would not let him near the pony without it.

The King of the Mark approached pony and rider, examining briefly the way the dwarf’s feet rested in the stirrups and noted the manner in which he held the reins in his fingers.

"Hold it like this," Eomer explained showing him the proper way in which to do and tightening the stirrups so that Gimli could achieve the proper balance that required.

Once that was ensured, Eomer began to lead Gimli around the courtyard. The pony did not seem to have any difficulty being forced to follow its tether and for the next hour or so that the lesson progressed, Eomer allowed Gimli to get used to the feel of being in the saddle. Most of his life had been dedicated to soldiering and this was really the first time he had been called on to teach anyone anything. It was a different feeling from being a leader of men but in some ways no different. After a time with the pony alternating between trots and cantering, Gimli became more comfortable in the saddle and Eomer decided that it was time to move the lesson to the next level.

"I am taking the rope away," Eomer answered when Gimli asked what he was doing.

"Taking the rope away?" the dwarf gawked at him, with no small measure of panic in his voice. "I do not think that is such a good idea," Gimli said nervously.

Eomer stared back at him, trying to swallow the whole notion of Gimli being afraid. In battle, he had seen none braver so it was quite something for him to witness the dwarf’s fear of riding without a tether. "You will have to do it alone sometime," Eomer pointed out.

Gimli frowned and seemed to clutch the reins even tighter when Eomer removed the rope from the pony’s bridle. He expected to be thrown immediately and brace himself in the saddle for this eventuality. However, nothing of the kind happened in the interminable minutes that passed after Eomer stepped away from the pony. Gimli cursed under his breath, thinking that he must have sounded like a complaining child to the King of the Mark about this pony, especially when all his warnings about being thrown appeared fruitless.

"This pony hates me," Gimli declared hotly. "It seeks to make me look like a liar!"

"I am certain that is not true," Eomer said neutrally "It is just a pony."

"It is not just a pony," the dwarf returned sharply. "It is a creation of Morgoth!"

"Gimli, I know you are distracting me from what must be done," the king gave him a look. "Now you know what you must do, so hurry along and do it."

"This is a bad idea," Gimli pointed out as he clutched the reins in his knuckle white hands. "I just want you to remember that I told you so,"

Eomer rolled his eyes, starting to feel his patience dissipating. "Just remember what I showed you," he repeated himself, "remember, your steed is your companion, not your enemy."

"I have no difficulty in remembering that lesson, it is this beast that does," Gimli grumbled as he dug his heels into the creature’s flank in order to start the pony moving forward.

In retrospect, Gimli supposed he ought to be grateful that what followed next ensured that his word would no longer be doubted by Eomer since the pony reared up violently and tossed the dwarf, trailing a litany of curses through the air and onto the ground. Gimli landed not far from Eomer’s feet just as the pony snorted loudly its distaste for the whole attempt.

"Master dwarf!" Eomer skidded to the dwarf’s side, fearful that he had been injured by that fall.

Gimli sat up suddenly; his face twisted in anger and fairly growled at Eomer, "NOBODY TOSSES A DWARF!"

"Are you all right?" Eomer asked concerned as he helped Gimli to his feet.

"Yes," Gimli nodded, suddenly becoming so calm it was frightening. "I am quite fine thank you."

Yet Eomer had good reason to distrust him because even as he said those words, his eyes were searching the courtyard for his axe.

"This is most unexpected," Eomer frowned at the pony. "I have never seen a horse or a pony behave in such a way."

"I am not going to be beaten by this infernal creature!" Gimli bellowed and stormed back to the pony, his posture rigid and unyielding as if he were about to take on a host of orcs with his bare hands. The pony stared back at its master with challenge, daring Gimli to mount him again.

Eomer could only watch in dumbfounded astonishment as nothing less than war was waged. Gimli would keep trying to climb unto the saddle and there were times when he was seated long enough for Eomer to think that he had succeeded in taming the creature when suddenly the pony would show them both how wrong they were. Very soon those who had been under strict orders to go about their business in the courtyard could not keep their eyes from the spectacle, taking place. They viewed the dwarf’s determination to conquer the pony with growing admiration and after a time, even Eomer began to consider that perhaps this whole idea of Gimli learning to ride might have been an idea ill conceived.

Gimli was determined to conquer this creature no matter what. Since coming to Edoras, he had learnt one thing and that gave him will to continue because he knew now that it was not his fault that he could not ride, it was the pony. He had never in his life been defeated by anything and he would be betraying every dwarf from his father to the first ones created by Aule by giving up until he had won the day. Eomer had instructed him well and he knew that given a saner specimen, he would learn to ride but he was not ready to concede defeat to a pony.

Gimli son of Gloin had too much pride for that.

"Master dwarf," Eomer finally spoke when evening started to approach in the distant horizon. "Perhaps we should try this again tomorrow. It has been a long day and you have been thrown too many times for me to allow you continue in good conscience."

"No," Gimli hissed at the king. His whole body was aching from the abrupt landings on the ground but it would all be for nothing if he gave up. "I will not stop until I have mastered this beast."

"I do not wish to see you hurt," Eomer insisted. "You’ve been thrown off so many times, I am becoming exhausted watching it."

"Nobody tosses a dwarf!" Gimli repeated himself and stormed off again, once more unto the breach.

Unfortunately, there was much dwarf tossing throughout the night and when the sun finally set with Gimli landing hard one time too many until he did not rise easily again, Eomer knew that the stout hearted Lord of Aglarond was not going to win the day. When Gimli did not rise to his feet after his latest fall, Eomer knew that he was done.

"Come on Master Gimli," Eomer said sympathetically as he helped the woozy dwarf to his feet, "you did your best. Now its time to rest."

"I will never give in!" Gimli retorted sharply, even though he now needed the aid of two palace servants to stand.

"Take him to his chambers," Eomer ordered the two men. "Ensure he gets a good night rest."

"Confounded spawn of Melkor!" Gimli was still ranting as they took him out of Eomer’s sight.

Eomer turned to the pony that had caused all this difficult and stared hard at the indifferent beast who did not seem at all repentant at what he had put Gimli through for the last few hours. Eomer studied the pony for a long time, sizing up the creature as an enemy as formidable as he had ever faced in his life. He did not realize the pony was doing the same. The King of the Mark stared at the animal for the longest time, wondering what was in its nature that made it so difficult. Obviously it did not like the dwarf and Eomer was rather incensed that he would have chosen a gift on Legolas’ behalf that would find Gimli so objectionable.

He came towards the pony and ran his hand against the hot flank of its neck. Its exertions had made its skin hot and sweaty. The pony flinched a little at his touch but reacted little else after that. Eomer took a deep breath and wondered what Gimli was doing that had earned him the pony’s severe dislike. Putting his hand on the pommel, Eomer hauled himself onto the saddle. He was too tall for a pony of this size, that much was obvious but he did not intend to ride it to Gondor, just around the courtyard to see why Gimli was having the difficulties he was with the animal.

When he tightened his legs against the animal’s side to prompt him into moving, the pony that Gimli had called Mirkwood Prince showed that despite its small stature, it was capable of inflicting as much harm upon a man as it was upon the dwarf. While Eomer did not sail across the air as Gimli had, he did make a rather unceremonious fall off the saddle into the ground.

"That does it!" Eomer glowered as he stared at the creature that stared back at him with defiance.

"You are not fit to be ridden! You will kill someone before you allow that to happen! Were I not such a lover of horses, I would have you put to death!" Eomer’s infinite patience suddenly dried up as he shouted at the pony.

It was to his shock that Eomer discovered that he was now reduced to Gimli’s state of mind.

Eomer stood up to his full height and strode towards the pony, his face was dark and stormy. Those who saw him remembered how he appeared at Helms Deep and the Battle of Pelennor. Even then, he had not appeared so fierce as he reached the pony and stared at it, nose to nose.

"I am going to do what I should have done in the first place," Eomer hissed, his voice full of menace.

The pony dared him to do his worst.

**********

It was almost three days before Gimli was in any fit state to make another attempt.

He had spent most of the time, driving the healers at the House of Healing to distraction with his insistence that he was well enough to stand on his own feet even though his body was bruised from his efforts to ride. However, Eomer had insisted that he take the full measure of time in recovering for he could not be any less than completely fit when he attempted to ride again. During his convalescence, Gimli had calmed down in temperament enough to admit that perhaps he was not the dwarf who would break his people’s long held reluctance to ride. Perhaps Legolas was right, his people were too rigid in their ways to ever learn to be masters of horses as men and elves were. However, a tiny part of him did feel somewhat inadequate when one considered that even the hobbits knew how to ride.

Unfortunately, his efforts with Legolas’ gift proved that he was no horseman and was very unlikely to become one in the future. He had started to resign himself to the fact that he would never accomplish this task and the taste of defeat was sourer then he cared to admit but it was beyond Gimli’s nature to show weakness, even in the face of failure. Fortunately, he knew that Eomer would understand and would not make his decision any harder to bear. The king despite his warrior nature had a far more sensitive soul then most would believe. Of him and his sister, Gimli decided that it was Eomer who was more thoughtful of the two.

Thus it was to of complete surprise to him when Eomer turned up at his chambers early that morning, pounding on the door, expecting him to continue their riding lessons.

"I have given up," Gimli retorted unhappily. He did not like to say it even though he had more or less resigned himself to its acceptance.

"Nonsense," Eomer brushed aside the comment, "we are riding this morning."

"Why?" the dwarf said glumly, "I am only going to be thrown again."

"Do you not know that it is extremely bad manners to refuse the request of the king whilst you are in residence of his domain?" Eomer looked at him critically.

"Oh you should have said you were going to cheat," Gimli said sarcastically, grabbing his helmet as he stepped out of the doorway to follow the king where he willed. "Then I would have understood better."

"You left me no other choice," Eomer answered with a little smile, "now come on."

Deciding that he had no choice but to comply with Eomer’s madness, Gimli followed the king to the courtyard once more. The pony was already saddled and waiting, making Gimli wondered if the King of the Mark was having a worse case of denial in Gimli’s ability to master the beast then the dwarf himself. In either case, it was apparent, Eomer expected him to ride. As he approached the pony, Gimli blinked once as he saw the animal that had caused him so much bruising. Once again, he wished he had his axe close by because if he was tossed again, the last thing the creature would know was his blade.

"Climb into the saddle," Eomer instructed.

Gimli looked at him skeptically, "are you trying to get my neck broken or do you simply wish to see me further humiliated."

"Trust me," Eomer gave him a look and added, "I do not need to wish that, I saw enough of that during our first lesson."

"I am glad you drew such amusement from my embarrassment," Gimli retorted but Eomer noticed he was nevertheless still approaching the animal.

The dwarf reached the pony and paused a moment. His hesitation was brief as a contemplative look crossed his crusty features. Eomer’s breath held but was released a moment later when Gimli placed his foot into the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle.

"Are you certain about this?" he asked Eomer once more.

"Yes," Eomer said firmly, "try it."

Gimli nodded and tensed his legs against the flank of the pony. It felt as if everyone who was present were holding their breaths in anticipation, whether or not they happened to be spying on the king and his companion or simply passing by and had paused to watch if the moment. Then they saw the muscle in the pony’s flanks ripple like a stone thrown into a still pond. Under its russet pelt, the pony took a tentative step forward and then another, and yet another still. Gimli’s expression was one of surprise and then of euphoria as he found himself controlling the pony for the first time since he had acquired it .

There was a collective cheer from those present, Eomer included when the pony made its way across the courtyard and then under Gimli’s control, turned and returned the way it had came. The dwarf was wearing a wide grin on his face as Eomer closed the distance between them on foot.

"I knew you could do it Master Gimli," Eomer laughed.

"Thank you Eomer," Gimli replied, genuinely touched by the king’s efforts on your behalf. "I could not have done it without you."

"You would have eventually succeeded yourself, I merely offered some useful advice," Eomer grinned as Gimli remained in the saddle, apparently unwilling to climb off the pony just yet. Eomer could not blame him. After the ordeal he had endured to learn how to ride, why should not the dwarf want to savor his victory?

"You offered more than advice, Eomer," Gimli said gratefully as he ran his hand across the flaxen mane of the pony and though to himself that Mirkwood Prince was definitely the name for the steed. "You had faith that I could do this and I am thankful for that."

Eomer did not know what to say and for a few seconds an awkward silence followed before Eomer spoke up, propelling them past the moment, "so what now? Do you go to Gondor to see the Prince of Mirkwood and tell him what you named his gift?"

"Definitely," Gimli said with relish, "I think it will amuse him to no end."

Eomer seriously did not think this was the case but he had no wish to dampen the spirit of Gimli’s pleasure, "I am certain it will draw some kind of response."

"Oh Eomer," Gimli suddenly remarked, "there was one other thing."

"Yes?" The king asked innocently.

Gimli stared at Eomer with a little smile before the king became too smug with himself because there was one little matter the dwarf wished to clear up.

"How is it that my gelding has suddenly become a mare?"

Authors Note:

Since these stories are set after the War of the Ring, it becomes difficult to write about Boromir in this context as part of the Fellowship. So I will write this from the point of view of Faramir, using his memories of his brother as the basis of this story. While I have tried to write the other stories in this series with some humor, in the case Boromir, I have decided to take a different tone. This will be somewhat bitter sweet.

Part Five:
Brothers

He hated this day.

It was not as if it was the first time he had to endure it, or even the second. It had been quite a number of years since this annual ritual had begun and still Faramir, Lord of Lord of Emyn Arnen, Prince of Ithilien found it as difficult to tolerate, as it was the first. The irony of it was, he himself had begun the practice. When the War of the Ring had ended, his life, as he knew it had changed so dramatically, that he had been left rudderless for a time. For so many years, he knew who he was and what life expected of him. It was very comforting to have no illusions about what lay ahead in the future and though Faramir had sometimes wished that certain elements of his life were different, he was mostly comfortable with what had to be.

Then Boromir died and everything changed.

The death of his brother had more effect upon his life then even the return of Gondor’s king. The loss of the Stewardship was incidental next to and it was to his good fortune that the king was a man worthy of his respect and his unswerving loyalty. However much of Faramir’s affection for Aragorn stemmed from the fact he reminded Faramir a great deal of his fallen brother. They both had the same dedication to Gondor and feared not the responsibility that came with being in power but embraced it as a sacred charge. He knew on some level, Aragorn felt responsible for him too as if by living while Boromir died, he was bound to protect to Faramir.

Their friendship had become what it was because of this duty and in the years since Aragorn had become king, it had deepened in substance to be more then either would have imagined. Aragorn could march into a thousand wars and Faramir knew without doubt, that he would be marching right alongside him on every one of those occasions. Still Aragorn’s friendship could not take the place of the brother who had fallen before the war had even begun. It stung to no that Boromir was apart of none of the world changing events that transpired with the War of the Ring, especially when Boromir had battled Mordor for so long and deserved to be present when Sauron finally fell.

So now he was faced with yet another anniversary of Boromir’s fall at Parth Galen, trying to untangle the knots inside his stomach enough so that he could see the day through without too much emotional torment. He had thought the years would make it easier but the prosperity of his life brought to home how much of it was due to his brother’s death and thus served to renew the pain of his loss.

There was a pattern to his guilt that was as steeped in ritual as the reverence paid to Boromir during the anniversary of his death. It had become so ingrained into him that there was no avoiding it and even Eowyn, his wife had learnt that there were no words to say that could break this cycle of sadness that come upon her husband annually. He noticed that she ensured that she was never far from their home whenever this day came upon them and he loved her even more for it. He wished he could shake the feeling of sadness that seeped into him from the moment he awoke until he went to sleep again that night because Boromir himself would have no patience with his guilt. However, whenever such logical thoughts assailed him, Faramir would counter with the argument that if Boromir were here, everything would be different.

He would not be here playing at being Lord of Emyn Arnen, Prince of Ithilien and more precisely the Steward of Gondor.

Even now, the knowledge that he was Steward of Gondor bothered him more than he would care to admit. In truth, the title was obsolete since the king’s return. These days, it was merely obligatory; a thoughtful keepsake Aragorn had allowed Faramir in deference to those who had protected Gondor before his return. The power of the Ruling Stewards had ended when his father Denethor had passed into the next world, bringing an end to a tradition that began with the death of King Eärnur and the establishment of Mardil Voronwë as the first Steward.

He was never supposed to lay claim to that title. All of Gondor knew it, perhaps even those who now lived under his protection in Ithilien. To them, he was the wild card that was never expected to be played. Before the return of the king, Gondor’s expectations of the Stewards and himself for that matter had been very precise. He was the younger son that was doomed to come second always, in the eyes of his people and his father. Denethor had never made it a secret with whom his favor lay and despite Faramir’s bitter disappointment at never being able to measure up to his father’s expectations, deep inside him he knew that Denethor had good reason for his choice. Boromir had always been better than he.

Existing in his brother’s shadow, even now, was something that Faramir had become accustomed to from the earliest memories of his life. In truth, Faramir could not blame everyone for thinking so highly of his brother when he himself, would feel awe in Boromir’s presence. They were five years apart in age but by the time he grew old enough to understand his situation in life, his brother was already on his way to becoming a great warrior. In those early years at least, Faramir drew comfort from their mother but Finduilas had passed on when he was but six years old and by then Denethor had already chosen his favorite between the two boys.

And it was clearly not Faramir.

A lesser man might have taken advantage of this state of affairs but Boromir did not. As boys, they were close because their father as a great a ruler as he was, was not an affectionate man. In their childhood, it was their mother who provided the warm embraces and the soft words that only a mother could say to make all ills fade. But when she was gone, he was only six years old to Boromir’s eleven and they had loved their mother very much. Aware perhaps of how her husband could be, she had raised Boromir to always cherish his brother, to protect him, though she never said from his father. Still Boromir despite his warrior heart, had more compassion than most would think it possible and it was easy for him to reach that understanding without her speaking the words.

"Are you awake?" He heard Eowyn’s drowsy voice asking him as she rolled over in their bed, draping an arm around him as she snuggled closer.

"Yes," he said with a little smile, feeling her nuzzle against his neck as she drew nearer to him.

The room was cold as always, an unfortunate side effect of living in the mountains. Although there was usually a fireplace to warm its confines, the flame from last night’s burning had dwindled into nothingness, leaving behind cold ashes in its wake. Eventually a servant would arrive to re-ignite the fire but none would dare invade the sanctity of their lord’s bedchamber without first being asked. Thus in the meantime, the only warmth that either of them could feel was with each other. Faramir was not about to complain.

"Are you all right?" she asked gently, her voice little more then a murmur for she was not entirely awake yet.

"I will live," he remarked clutching her hand in his and holding it tight against his chest, "it is just one day."

"I know," she said softly, "I just want you to know that I am here for you if you need me."

A little smile stole across his face as his heart swelled in love for his wife, prompting him to roll over so that he could look at her. It never ceased to astound him that a creature such as she could ever be his. He stared at Eowyn, basking in the sight of her golden hair framing her lovely face in an unruly tangle, the heavy lidded look of sleep that made her looked alluring and the scent of her that lingered on the sheets.

"What are you looking at?" Eowyn asked when her lids fluttered open and she caught him staring at her.

"At you," he answered, his eyes dancing with affection. "I love you with all my heart, have I told you that of late?"

Eowyn’s face melted into a smile, "not since last night."

"That is far too long," he replied and leaned over to kiss her gently on the lips.

"You are a such a romantic," she laughed when he pulled away a moment later.

"Well one of us has to be," he teased. "Leave it to you and all we will ever do is talk of swords."

"Well one of us has to know about them," she winked playfully before her expression became sober again. "Are you certain you are alright? I know how difficult this day is for you."

"It is difficult but you being by my side helps a great deal," Faramir replied sincerely and was rewarded by another beautiful smile.

"Let us go for a ride today," she suggested, propping herself up on an elbow as she grew more awake. "The hills are lovely at this time of the year."

"Are you attempting to distract me?" He stared at her.

"It depends," Eowyn said coyly, not at all guilty that she had been caught out in her efforts to sooth her lord’s passage through this day.

"Upon what?"

"Upon whether it has succeeded," she smiled.

"It did," he laughed even though they both knew that no amusement or distraction could make him forget what day it was. "I think I should like to escape these walls today. Perhaps a ride will make this day go faster."

However, even as he said those words, he knew that he was lying. Nothing would make this day go fast, no matter how much he deluded himself into thinking otherwise. It reminded him too much of another day, long ago when he had wished another day would go past quickly and was disappointed that it had not.

************

It was his birthday.

He was nine years old. It should have been a day to celebrate but Faramir was not about to delude himself that the occasion was going to be anything but uncomfortable, bordering on downright unpleasant. For the last three years since his mother had died, he had been existing with the purpose of never falling under his father’s gaze for too long. In his youthful mind, being noticed by Denethor was not entirely a good thing. When his father did deign to cast his eyes in Faramir’s direction, it was often to point out how lacking he was in comparison to his brother. Unfortunately, hiding away with his books on this occasion was not even a remote possibility. Apparently, his father had remembered his birthday and summoned him to throne room.

It should have pleased him that Denethor had remembered the occasion but for some reason he could not explain, Faramir was filled with trepidation. He approached the dais, upon which the empty throne sat, waiting for Gondor’s king while his father, who was all but a king, sat on a simple black chair of stone at the foot of it. He would have been completely terrified if not for the fact that Boromir was present. His brother stood at Denethor’s side, a little smile of encouragement on his face because he knew how things were between the younger son and his father. Boromir was fourteen years old but already, he was tall enough to be considered older. His limbs were beginning to fill out and there was no doubt that when the time came, he would be a great warrior for his people.

Faramir felt his anxiety ease a little as he reached Denethor, certain he could endure what was coming at knowing his brother was nearby. Denethor’s eyes studied him like the hawk studies a nestling will never fly and Faramir could not help but flinch under his deep scrutiny. Bowing his head and offering Denethor all the civilities that was expected of son by his father and more importantly by the Ruling Steward, Faramir waited in growing uneasiness to be addressed.

"You are nine years old today," Denethor remarked with a smile but his eyes were hard as flint. "I would have celebrated the day but your brother tells me you would detest the fanfare."

"Yes Sir," he said quietly.

"It is unfortunate that you do not socialize more," Denethor added. "A prince who will not rule should at least be a favorite of his people. You will not be able to do that cloistered in your room with only books for company."

"I am sorry," Faramir stammered, uncertain of what to say.

His apology clearly irked Denethor but the Steward made no comment upon it. "I have decided that it is time you begin your instruction. Starting tomorrow, you will be instructed in the use of the sword and how to ride. Theoden has sent me one of his best horse masters to teach you."

The idea of riding was somewhat disconcerting to Faramir. Gondorians were not accustomed to horses as the people of Rohan. As far as he knew, horses were the purview of errand riders, not young lords who could barely reach a stirrup let alone attempt to mount a saddle.

"I do not wish to ride," Faramir spoke before he thought, fear loosening his tongue to speak his mind.

"It is nothing to be afraid of," Boromir interjected quickly before his father could say anything, hoping that Denethor would let the remark slide. "Your tutor knows his craft and he will show you that they are merely beasts to do our bidding, nothing more."

Unfortunately, that was not the end of it as Boromir hoped and Denethor’s voice soon responded sharply, "you are the son of the Steward and you will learn to ride. If you brother could manage it, I do not see why you cannot."

Faramir felt a knife slice through his heart at those words. He had heard them so many times before, that inevitable comparison, and thought himself inured to it by now but each time the words were spoken anew, the words cut just as deeply as the first time.

"I will do my best," he said meekly unable to look his father in the eye because Denethor would know that he was almost on the verge of tears and showing that much weakness to his father was a humiliation he could not bear. He was already feeling ashamed that he was so terribly weak and wondered why again, he could not be like his brother so his father would love him more.

All this Boromir saw on his brother’s face and if Faramir was in pain, then Boromir felt it equally so except his was laced with anger at his father’s coldness.

"That is all that can be expected of you," Denethor remarked. "You may go."

Boromir watched Faramir’s shoulder sag as he left the throne room. Against his side, Boromir’s hands were knotting into fists. He did not speak as he watched Faramir disappear out of the room and reacted only after he and Denethor were alone again.

"Why do you do that to him father?" Boromir asked quietly.

"Do what to him?" Denethor’s gaze met that of his first born.

"Make him feel as if he must live up to some ideal in order to gain your love?" Boromir stared hard at Denethor, anger had made him bold enough to speak his mind.

"I was aware of doing nothing of the kind," Denethor replied. "He is my son just as you are and he must learnt that there is a world beyond books. Gondor needs warriors, not scholars! Scholars will not defeat the Nameless One or the darkness of Mordor! That is the work of warriors. It is time he learnt that. You certainly did not have trouble doing so at his age."

"That is true, "Boromir left Denethor’s side so that he might face his father. "I did not because my mother was still alive and what fears I had, she banished with her words of kindness and her love. Where are those things for Faramir father? Where? They do not come from you, that is for certain and I am not here enough to provide what you will not! He is just a boy and he is alone because you make him feel that way! What way is there for him but to retreat into his books? And I am not entirely convinced that it is a bad thing for warriors are not all merely about skill but also about intelligence. A thousand swords against the dark lord will do little in the greater scheme of things, you told me that. Perhaps in the end, it will be up to the scholars to end the Nameless One’s dark reign."

"Perhaps you are right," Denethor replied, feeling some sliver of guilt in his dealings with his younger son. "He is like his mother and not at all like you. I do not know what is always the best way to treat him."

"With love father," Boromir remarked sharply, picking up the gleaming sword sheathed in its new scabbard resting next to Denethor’s seat, "that is all."

"Where are you going?" Denethor asked as Boromir stormed away from his presence, not even asking to be dismissed.

"To give him his birthday present," Boromir said coldly, "the one you forgot to give him."

**********

It did not take him long to find Faramir once he had left his father. His brother was a creature of habit and the place he often found solace after one of these episodes with their father was usually in the library. The library of Gondor was hardly a pristine place of learning since it was much neglected during Denethor’s reign. The Steward had moved most of the important books into the treasury for his own private use and rarely visited the library any more . It did not surprise Boromir in the least that Faramir would hide within the walls of its dusty confines because it was almost as forgotten by Denethor as he was. Boromir stepped into the room and wondered how Faramir could endure the musty smell of old paper that greeted him upon his entry. He rubbed his nose instinctively and searched through the shelves of leather bound books and rolled parchment scrolls, seeking his brother.

He knew Faramir was inside the library because he could hear the tell tale sounds of his brothers quiet tears. Once again, his heart ached in his chest, cursing his favor at having the share of his father’s love that should have been for Faramir. It was precisely because Faramir reminded him so much of Finduilas that Boromir loved him so, though for his father, that quality was perceived as weakness not strength. Brushing the cobwebs aside, he followed the sounds of his brother’s tears while being lead through the winding rows of bookcases by the fresh air flowing in through an open window.

"Faramir," Boromir called out as he approached, aware that it would embarrass his brother if he were to see his tears.

"Go away!" A tearful but angry voice returned promptly.

"Do you not want your birthday present?" Boromir asked, pausing just beyond sight of his brother. Without seeing where he was, Boromir knew that Faramir was most likely perched on the windowsill, overlooking the beauty of Minas Tirith below him as he wept his tears.

"No!" Faramir returned petulantly. "I do not want anything ever again!"

Boromir rolled his eyes and supposed that comforting someone was not always meant to be easy and he had played this role with Faramir too many times in the past three years to expect it to unfold any other way. "You do not have to be ashamed brother," Boromir said gently. "When I first rode a horse, I was afraid."

"You were not!" Faramir countered immediately. "I remember when you first learnt and you were not afraid at all!"

Boromir muttered under his breath, supposing he should thought a little more before using that example to show empathy for his brother "I was afraid but I did not show it."

"You are never afraid," Faramir replied softly. "Father knows that. That is why he loves you and hates me."

There was so much pain in those few words that Boromir let out a strained breath, trying to control his own emotions. As much as he loved his father, he was furious with Denethor for being so one sided and no matter much he tried to fight for Faramir, it only succeeded in deepening Denethor’s favor because he appeared to be defender of the weak that the Steward needed him to be. He knew that Denethor did love Faramir but Denethor had a specific vision of how his son should be and at this point in time, Faramir did not meet that harsh standard.

"He does not hate you Faramir," Boromir stepped into the small alcove within which Faramir was taking refuge on the window. "He simply does not understand you."

Faramir had wiped away his tears but the redness of his cheeks and his eyes indicated that he had been crying. He did not meet his brother’s gaze, perhaps being somewhat ashamed for being caught weeping like a little babe. Boromir pulled up a chair and sat down, wishing more than anything that their mother was here for she always knew how to dry their tears and soothed whatever pains they felt.

"I wish I was like you," Faramir swallowed. "I wish I was a great warrior."

"A great warrior?" Boromir snorted in amusement at that description. "I am an no more a warrior than you. At the moment, I follow the real warriors of Gondor and learnt from them. That is my whole existence, if I cannot hunt it, fight it or kill it, it is not worth knowing. My entire life is to learn to wage war, sometimes I think I prefer your books to so bloody a future."

"But you are so good at being a warrior," Faramir exclaimed with no small measure of bewilderment. While his father may be someone he feared and avoided, Boromir was another thing entirely. He fairly worshipped his older brother who was kind and brave and appeared unafraid of standing up to anyone or anything, even Denethor in his defense. "One day you will be Steward of Gondor, perhaps even a king."

"Steward is all that destiny will allow I am afraid to say," Boromir replied. "But I must learn just as you will must learn how to be a warrior. Father thinks that all you care of is books, that is not entirely true now is it?"

"No," Faramir shook his head. He would like to ride to far away places and fight terrible evils that he read about in books. He did not want his world to simply in the pages of this musty collection, he wanted a world beyond this room but he was a little afraid as well. "I would like to be learn how to fight and be a warrior as you."

"Well then you had better accept your present," Boromir retorted, producing the sword that had not been given to his brother earlier.

"My present?" Faramir looked up in interest.

"Father had it made for you," Boromir explained as he handed the weapon towards Faramir who was not curious enough to emerge from his place to take it.

Unlike the normal broadswords wielded by warriors of Gondor, the blade presented to Faramir resembled more a dagger than an actual sword. Its size was in order to let its master bear it easily and it was crafted by dwarf smiths who ensured that it was light enough for Faramir to wield. It was the perfect weapon for a child to use in his first instruction to become a swordsman. Faramir took the sword and removed it from the scabbard, staring at it with such fascination that Boromir knew at that instant that Denethor was terribly mistaken that all Faramir would ever be was a scholar. Though he did not know how to wield it with any measure of skill, he held the weapon like he could master it in time.

"What do you think?" Boromir asked as he saw Faramir draw it gingerly out of its scabbard.

"Father had this made for me?" Faramir asked, unable to believe that Denethor would expend the energy to acquire him such a gift.

"Yes," Boromir nodded. "He was rather surprised when I told him that you were not as lost in your books as he believed. Once he thought he might have another son who has a warrior spirit, there was nothing to stop him from ordering your gift made by the dwarfs. I think that is also part of the reason he wants you learn to ride a horse now, I doubted it ever occurred to him that you might want to learn."

"I do want to learn," Faramir admitted, "I am just a little afraid."

"Well then perhaps this day is not so entirely bad is it?" He cracked a smile and felt his heart warm when Faramir returned it with one of his own.

"He still likes you better," Faramir pointed out.

"He knows me better," Boromir countered, "perhaps we should help him get to know you as well."

Faramir seemed reluctant and preferred to concentrate on his gift by testing its weight in his hand and slashing at the air like he was a real swordsman.

"Faramir, I know he is a hard man but he must be," Boromir added in a more serious tone. "The Steward must be hard to protect all of Gondor from Mordor. The demon residing beyond the mountains has made him this way but that does not mean he loves you not. He simply finds it difficult to show it because he does not know you like I do."

"Nobody know me like you do Boromir," Faramir lowered the sword in his hand, "nobody at all."

"Come here," Boromir took a step towards him and gave him a warm embrace. "You are my brother and I will always protect you but you must learn to stand on your own. Your path is your own to walk Faramir, do not let father sway you from it if that is what you truly desire."

"I will," Faramir replied and then brandished his sword with a playful gleam in his eyes, "starting right this minute!"

"Oh you want to fight?" Boromir chuckled and drew his own sword, more than prepared to engage his brother in a mock battle, "I’ll teach you to challenge me…!"

**************

"Where are you?" He heard Eowyn’s voice in his ear and turned to his wife who was astride her horse next to him.

"Right here with you," he answered, throwing her a warm smile as they continued their ride through the resplendent beauty of Emyn Arnen. It was summer and the heat of the day, tickled their skin with its sunshine. They were surrounded by the hills that made up the mountain range with the cascade of Henneth Annûn flowing in the distance. Eowyn had suggested they ride to his former refuge and Faramir could not deny that it was lovely enough to warrant the effort. His wife was taking great pains to see him through this day and he was not going to disappoint her by being anything less than enthusiastic.

"You seemed very far away then," she remarked.

"I was," he confessed because she could always see through him so easily. "I was thinking of my brother."

"On this day, that is hardly surprising," she replied sympathetically as they made their way through a grass covered knoll towards the trail leading through the hills, "you loved him a great deal."

"I did," Faramir nodded. "With my father’s favor, he did not have to fight for me but he did and often. I wish he was still here, he deserves to be."

"He died doing what he did best, protecting the weak," Eowyn reminded. "What happened with the One Ring was not his fault."

"I know," Faramir nodded, knowing more about the One Ring then she did. He knew its power of seduction and how it would have tricked Boromir into thinking that acquiring it would be the way to save Gondor. Of all the terrible deeds that Sauron had been responsible, it was for that which Faramir hated him most, the corruption of his brother by that damned ring. "I wonder though how it would have been if he had lived. Would he have followed Aragorn as king if our father had opposed it?"

"I think he would have done what was best for Gondor," Eowyn answered without doubt.

For a second, Faramir did not speak, his face riddled with remorse she could not begin to understand. "It was hard knowing that he was dead, hearing that his need to protect me lead to his death. Until this day, I still believe I should have gone in his place. I understood Isildur’s Bane far better than he did. I know what it was capable of from the times that Gandalf began studying the old texts, trying to discern the history and lore of the One Ring."

"You cannot blame yourself," she touched him arm gently, her eyes filled with worry that he might do just that.

"I do not blame myself but I should have gone. Hearing of his death was a blow that I never dared imagine for fear it would come true. But there was hardly time to mourn him with the Battle of Pelennor and that wound struck upon me by the beast of Angmar."

Hearing Faramir speak of the Witch King made Eowyn shudder slightly, even though she was the one who had killed the terrible creature in the end. In better times, Faramir had often joked that he had married her out of gratitude for killing the enemy that had almost ended his life. Yet there was no humor in his voice as he spoke now, words dripping with bitterness as well as sadness.

"When I awoke, I had lost everything, not merely my brother, but also my father and what I thought was my future," Faramir recounted quietly what it had been like to awake in the House of Healing and discover that he had lost his entire family. "In the face of such loss, I cannot help but think that if I had gone, everything would have been different."

**************

They could not be stopped.

They were coming.

The enemy had driven them back against the river, with their fortress burning in flames behind them. The eastern forces were dwindled to himself, Boromir, who struggling to move through the water besides him and two others who were fighting exhaustion to keep going. He cast a glimpse over his shoulder and saw the ruins of the Osiligath behind him. Boromir’s hand was locked around his arm, ensuring that they made the crossing together. Their clothes and weapons were a terrible weight to carry across the Anduin but they were too terrified to relinquish their only means of protection. The bridge they had defended so valiantly as the eastern forces were driven back now lay beneath the dark water of the river.

Even through the rush of water around their ears, they could hear the cries of victory from the forces of the Enemy; Easterling voices mingled with that of orcs and Uruk Hai as they howled their triumphant push through the eastern shores that would soon spill upon the western lands. Fighting exhaustion and fear, they forced all thoughts of what was behind them in order and fixed their minds on crossing the river to safe shores on the other side. Throughout this ordeal, Boromir’s hand had remained clenched around Faramir’s arm, frightened to let his brother go in case he disappeared like so many others who had done during the battle that had been fought here. Even though Faramir was a seasoned warrior by now and a Ranger of Ithilien, to Boromir he was always going to be his younger brother and the need to protect him was equally eternal.

After what seemed like hours instead of minutes, they finally felt the shale sand of the shore under their boots as they dragged themselves out of the freezing water. All four collapsed along the embankment of the Anduin, weary not merely from their crossing of the river but also from the battle that had preceded it. Gazing across the river, Boromir felt his stomach clench at the sight of the fires burning in midst of the ruined Osiligath. Their flames lit up the sky as if it were day and in that illumination, they could all see the bodies of their dead comrades lying on the ground, blooding the earth where they had fallen. Boromir did not think the Enemy would give them leave to reclaim their dead or send them into the next life like honored warriors should be when they had died in battle.

"We need to regroup," Faramir remarked once the breath had returned to him. "We need to strengthen our line of defense. Now that they have driven us off the Osiligath, they will be far bolder. They will try to cross the river."

"They will not try," Boromir said grimly, wiping a strand of wet hair from his eyes. "They will do it. There is nothing to stop them. Our own forces as defeated and what there is, will soon be withdrawn to defend Minas Tirith. Father will not expend them here when the heart of Gondor is under threat."

"We need allies," Faramir nodded, agreeing with Boromir’s assessment of the situation and yet he did not feel happy about abandoning these lands to the Enemy. "Father must asked Theoden for aid."

"I do not know whether they will help us," Boromir replied. "Rumor has it that Theoden no longer rules the court of Meduseld, his counselor does and he does not seem predisposed to angering the Enemy lest Rohan should suffer our fate."

"We have an alliance," Faramir stared at him in shock, unable to believe that the Rohirrim would ignore a call for help. "They must help us."

"Alliances are broken every day brother," Boromir answered sadly, "and I fear that unless something extraordinary happens in Meduseld, we will receive no aid from Theoden.’

They rested a little more at the shore before embarking wearily on the trek to rejoin what was left of their forces guarding the Western Shore. Their arrival in camp did nothing to improve the morale of the troops who knew what had taken place at the Osiligath. Their failure to defend the last bridge from the Enemy weighed heavily on their minds and when though he was exhausted, he found no sleep when he was finally shown a place to rest.

Faramir, on the other hand, had fallen asleep immediately and Boromir envied him his ability to do so. Faramir seemed to be able to handle the unfortunate turns of life much better than he. In that way, he was like their father though Faramir would never believe it and neither would Denethor for that matter. Like their father, Faramir worried little about things he could not change, choosing instead to move on to things that were within his control unlike Boromir whose natural stubbornness would not allow him to relent, even in the face of overwhelming odds. However, his brother also knew when it was necessary to hold his ground and on the eastern shore, Boromir had never seen him more determined or never been prouder to be fighting at his side.

Suddenly his attention was drawn away from his thoughts by the sound of Faramir releasing an uncomfortable groan in his sleep. Boromir sat up immediately in his bedroll and saw him brother twitching in his slumber. He wondered if Faramir was being visited by nightmares. After what they had endured, it was certainly possible and not unexpected. Whatever his brother was seeing in the dreamscape was clearly agitating him by the increasing anxiety he was displaying in his restless tossing and turning. Boromir was almost tempted to wake him when suddenly Faramir sat upright, his body covered in perspiration.

"Faramir, are you alright?" He asked with concern.

Faramir ran his finger through his still wet hair and took a deep breath as if to steady himself. He looked clearly unsettled and Boromir wondered what horrors had he seen in his dream.

"Yes," he answered after a few seconds when he was aware of Boromir’s gaze upon him. "I am fine. I was having a dream."

"More like a nightmare if you woke up with such abruptness," Boromir remarked, propping himself up on one elbow as he regarded his brother.

"It was strange," Faramir muttered softly, clearly troubled by what he had seen but appearing reluctant to speak of it. "I have never dreamed in that manner before."

"What do you mean?" Boromir questioned.

"With such urgency," he confessed. "It felt as if something important needed revelation but I cannot for the life of me understand what it was."

"Tell me," Boromir asked looking at him intently, similarly unsettled as Faramir now.

Faramir stared at his brother, understanding more of what he had seen in his dream state then he would care to admit. In the years since his youth, he remembered how Boromir felt about his father remaining a Steward even though he was by all rights a king. It irked him that no matter how Denethor or the sons of Denethor fought for the kingdom of Gondor, they would never be considered its rightful rulers. While Faramir had no desire to be king or a prince for that matter, the question plagued Boromir and what Faramir had seen in his dream stabbed the very heart of that wound.

As much as he loved his brother, Faramir also feared for Boromir because he knew what was coming even though he was uncertain of how it all would turn out exactly. Yet the dream had revealed enough for him to know that Boromir was in great danger and it had little to do with orcs or even Sauron and everything to do with Boromir himself.

Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

************

For once in his life, he and his father were in agreement. Denethor did not wish Boromir to make the journey to find Imladris, the dwelling place of the elven lord Elrond who was considered the greatest lore master in Middle earth. The dream that he had hoped to keep to himself had returned not only to him on another night but also to Boromir. With Gondor on the brink of falling to the Nameless One’s forces, his brother was more eager to find help for his people in any way possible, even if it meant travelling across Middle earth to reach the fabled Imladris. When they had brought their dream to their father Denethor, who had for years kept all the ancient texts of Gondor within his treasury, instead of the library where they should be, it was Denethor who told them of Imladris or Rivendell as it was known to the Westernesse.

Faramir who knew more than anyone could have possibly imagined about Isildur’s Bane, had beseeched his father to let him go to Imladris, to answer the riddle that was plaguing both him and his brother. Denethor was more than happy to let this happen until Boromir demanded that he go instead and his insistence on going gave Faramir real concern. Denethor was not eager to let his son, the High Warden of the White Tower and the captain-general of his army to leave for so long a time, especially when Gondor was in the midst of war.

However, Boromir was determined no matter how much Faramir or Denethor attempted to convince him otherwise. While Denethor’s desire to keep his son close was for obvious reasons, Faramir was gripped with a good deal of concern for his brother. Faramir knew a good deal about the One Ring, how it used the desires of its wearer against themselves. Boromir’s determination to save Gondor and see their father finally become the king he should be was a fire burning inside him and was the kind of passion that could become dangerous if manipulated.

Despite Faramir’s earnest efforts to dissuade his brother from the course Boromir had chosen, to let Faramir go in his place, the captain of Gondor would hear none of it. He was intent on going and after awhile, even Denethor had relented and given his son permission to take his leave of Minas Tirith much to Faramir’s regret. Boromir claimed that the journey to Imladris was long and treacherous, that he would not place his younger brother in such peril but Faramir knew better. Boromir’s mind was beginning to churn with the same fever that had forced Isildur to keep the ring for himself instead of destroying it as he should have when it was cut from Sauron’s finger.

Faramir had remembered praying that Elrond of Imladris was as wise enough to ensure that Boromir would never came within arm’s reach of that damned ring.

"Are you certain that you wish to do this?" Faramir asked Boromir one final time as he prepared to mount his horse in order to begin the long journey to Imlardis.

"My answer has not changed since the last time you asked," Boromir retorted, casting a look at his brother as he readied his horse and saddle for the ride ahead. "Yes, I am certain I wish to go. The way is perilous between us and the valley of the elves, I would spare you that danger."

Faramir bit his tongue, aware that as much as Boromir may attempt to convince himself that his decision to embark upon this journey was for his brother's protection, there was a darker reason for this insistence on going himself. However, Faramir would not be unkind enough to say so, not when the journey to Imladris would ensure that they did not see each other for quite some time. Faramir did not want their parting to be laced with bitterness even though there was a heavy feeling in his heart that he could not dispel, a feeling that held the portents of tragedy.

"I am old enough to fend for myself you know," Faramir remarked instead. "Being a Ranger has made it a necessary requirement. I am not a child that I need your protection."

"I know," Boromir softened a little in his manner. "But you are my brother and the only person save my father whom I care about in this world. I would not risk you for anything."

"It is for you that I fear," Faramir replied, touched by the sentiment but undeceived at that being the only reason for Boromir's decision to go instead of him. "You go too often where others fear to tread and you have more bravery then you have sense. I fear that you may be tricked into believing that you can handle any situation when it is you that is being handled."

Boromir stared at him oddly, not understanding the full weight of his words. There would be a time in the future when Faramir would wonder if he had, would the course of events that led to his death taken a different turn.

"You say the oddest things at times brother," Boromir shook his head turning away.

Faramir let out a deep sigh, realising that he could not sway his brother’s mind on the course he had chosen to embark. There was nothing left to say even though a warning about Isildur’s Bane lingered on the tip of his tongue, wanting badly to be heard while there was still time. However, Faramir knew to utter anything about the One Ring would do more harm than good because speaking it out loud would give it power in Boromir’s mind for the span of the journey to Imladris. Isildur’s Bane was now a mere shadow of hope for Boromir, something for which he grasped at wildly in his efforts to save Gondor and their people. It was not real to him and Faramir hope he would never come within sight of it for that to change.

"Boromir!" Faramir called out suddenly when his brother faced his horse again.

Boromir turned around to the receiving end of a fierce embrace. For a moment, he was filled with surprise as he felt Faramir hugging him tight, in a manner he had not done since he was a small boy, weeping tears caused by Denethor, dried by his older brother’s love and kind words. The gesture filled the captain of Gondor with deep sentiment and there was something in this that made his heart ache; though he knew not why.

"I love you brother," Faramir said softly, his eyes full of sadness so much like their mother’s Boromir thought. "You have played a great part in my life to such extent that I do not think you will every truly know but before you ride Imladris, I will have you know that you have been brother, friend, teacher and my comrade. I will feel the emptiness where you should be until we meet again."

"What frightens you so young one?" Boromir asked as he saw the intense emotions playing across his brother’s face.

Faramir almost told him but he could not say it out loud, fearing that to speak it might make it come true and that was something he could not even begin to imagine, "I will miss you that is all. These are troubled times, it is good to say what is in one’s heart while there is leave to do so."

‘Do not be so grim," Boromir remarked with a wry smile, ruffling Faramir’s hair as if he were a small boy again. "I will go to Imladris and I will find the answer to this riddle. If the gods are kind, we will also find some way to help our people and I will come to home to you and father. We will see each other again Faramir," he said seriously as if he was making an oath and in truth he was. "I promise you that."

Faramir nodded slowly, wanting more than anything else in the world to believe him. "Good journey Boromir," Faramir said finally as Boromir drew away from him and started to climb into his saddle.

"You take care of our father and yourself while I am gone, you are all each other has," Boromir instructed, always playing the part of intermediary between the two. He settled into his saddle, his hands holding the reins of his steed in preparation to depart.

Faramir looked at his brother, the image of the proud warrior astride his horse, appearing ready to ride into the world and fight whatever darkness waited him in it. Whether or not Faramir knew it then but in years to come, it would be this image that his mind would remember when he thought of his brother. A smile crossed his face as he waved Boromir farewell.

"Remember," Boromir grinned as he dug his heels into the flanks of the horse and prompted it into moving, "we will see each other again!"

And as he rode away, Faramir knew that he would not, that he and Boromir would never lay eyes upon each other again.

***********

"He did keep his promise," Faramir declared as he rested with his head on Eowyn’s lap, his body stretched languidly across the blanket she had brought along with their picnic lunch.

"How so?" Eowyn asked as her hand stroked the strands of his gold hair.

They were resting under a tree not far from the cascade of Henneth Annûn where they had dined with the lunch prepared by the cook at their court, enjoying the heat of the day before Faramir began speaking about Boromir again. Eowyn had listened gently, having been accustomed to his need to speak of his brother during this day in the years since becoming his wife. She did not mind for she too sometimes grew melancholy when she thought of Theoden and she knew something of Boromir herself, enough to know that he was a good man, mourned not only by his brother but by her as well.

"Til this day I do not know if it was a vision I saw or had I merely fallen asleep on the banks of the Anduin and dreamt it all during the brief time we had held back the Enemy from Osiligath. Perhaps it is not for me to know for certain what it was. I only know that I saw a boat, a grey boat with a high prow on the waters of the Anduin. I went to it, wading through the water to but it remained beyond my reach. I saw him in that boat, appearing as if he was asleep, peaceful I suppose. I knew then he was dead, that through the grace of forces of I do not understand, I was allowed to say goodbye after a fashion. Perhaps his valor had allowed him to keep his promise to me, I do not know but I knew when the boat sailed away from me that I lost him, I had lost my brother."

Faramir blinked and a warm tear rolled down his cheek and his breath caught his throat. He closed his eyes to regain his composure and felt Eowyn’s finger brushing that stray drop of water from his face.

"He is gone from you but I doubt that you ever lost him Faramir," she said gently. "One so strong and brave and determined to protect you would not be kept from that charge even in death. You may not see him but I know he is here and he watches over you, as only he can. He lives on in your heart, my love, do you not see that? You carry him wherever you go and keep him alive in your thoughts."

"I miss him so much," Faramir whispered, his voice breaking a little. "I wish he could have seen how much the world has changed, how great Gondor has become."

"I’m sure he can," Eowyn smiled, "I’m sure he can."

*************

"I don’t like the look of him," he looked up at his father after catching his first glimpse at the small pink thing in its cradle. Was this the reason his mother’s belly had swollen so and had made Finduilas scream with pain? The child resolved himself not to like this sudden intruder into his life.

"He’s small and ugly," he added firmly.

Denethor cracked a smile and gazed down at his fivc year old son with some amusement at the stare he was giving the infant with such trepidation, "I am certain you will become accustomed to him Boromir."

"I don’t want to," Boromir insisted. "I don’t even like him."

The infant stared at his brother with a frown on his bow shaped lips and Boromir wondered how he could be expected to like something wearing a face like that.

"He won’t always be this small Boromir," Denethor remarked. "Faramir will grow and you will be his older brother. It will be your job to protect him and teach him the ways of the world."

Boromir stared at his father with a raised brow, "all right then," the child conceded that much but refused to admit defeat and added promptly, "but I still won’t like him."

Part Six
The Diamond in the Library

The inn of the Prancing Pony had not changed much over the years.

It was still the favorite watering hole of many Breelanders even though to the hobbits that were presently drinking there, it retained its sordid and somewhat sinister atmosphere. Long shadows seemed to fill every corner of the seedy establishment, with faces peering through the gaps of light that could easily perceived as ominous if one did not know better. Patrons sat in their corners, nursing drinks, staring furtively about the place, stealing glances at other drinkers, trying to guess one another's agendas, whether was they were here merely for the drink, the lodgings or simply because there was nowhere else to go. It was a place that felt like a haven for lost souls or the last port of call for restless travelers during a storm.

It was another typical night at the inn.

The hobbits came here every year and every year Barlimann would put them up at the same table, present them all with pints of draught and prepare rooms for their eventual retirement in the small hours of the morning. They would drink and eat, then return to their rooms before setting out for the Shire once again, never to return together unless some specific business brought them to Bree, until the next year. To Barlimann, it was like the changing of the season to see the small gentlemen appeared in his establishment and after the second year, he no longer waited until they arrived to prepare their room in readiness for their eventual appearance.

For many years, there were four hobbits that made the annual pilgrimage to Bree. The one that Barlimann knew as Frodo Baggins often appeared too frail to make the journey and gave the innkeeper concern by the shadowy look in his eyes. Then six years ago, Baggins stopped making the journey and though Barlimann would have liked to inquire as to the fate of the missing hobbit, he had a feeling his posed question would not be answered and so thus he did not bother to ask. He merely furnished the remaining hobbits with their pints and the best meal his cook could offer along with the best hobbit sized rooms in the house and accepted that his role in the play of their lives was to involve no more than that.

***********

If Barlimann had asked the hobbits what they were celebrating with this annual ritual, it was quite possible he might have received an answer in some form. It was Frodo who had begun the practice of making this annual pilgrimage, possibly out of some need to always have those who were closest to his heart know what it meant to him when they accompanied him on the perilous quest to destroy the One Ring. Thus every year, on the anniversary of their arrival in Bree as well as their historic meeting with their much loved friend Strider, the hobbits gathered here to share a drink and each others company as they recounted old times.

Now that Frodo was gone across the sea, it felt all the more important to continue the ritual because it was good to face each other as they were when they had first embarked upon the quest, three young hobbits swept away by dark times to a great adventure. These days, they had a kind of celebrity in the Shire and their lives seemed very far removed from the young hobbits they had been when they first came to Bree. Sam had become Mayor in Frodo’s stead, a rather elevated place for so simple a hobbit, he often thought. Of course, Rosie had told him often enough that he was the only one who considered himself simple, though she had doubts about herself since he could be so obtuse about the obvious.

Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin often found themselves recounting their adventures abroad, from the battle of Bywater to their earlier adventures with the Fellowship. Their part in the Battle of Bywater had won them the labels of Captains and heroes. However, they received the honor with amusement at the realization that it had been bestowed upon them without the Shire even being remotely interested in the fact that one of them had once killed a troll and the other had helped with the defeat of the Witch King. Despite this, the duo enjoyed their fame immensely, throwing great parties and wearing their mail and for all to see as they traveled about the Shire, telling their tales of the outside world.

"So did you hear?" Sam remarked after they had toasted their latest excursion to the Bree and settled down into more friendly chatter.

"Hear what?" Pippin asked before taking a long sip of his pint.

"Diamond of Long Cleeves is taking over the library,"

Pippin started coughing loudly as he choked on the draught that seemed to have taken the wrong way to his stomach at that announcement.

Merry and Sam exchanged knowing glances before Merry turned to his best friend, "so I take it you didn’t hear then?" A spark of mischief gleamed in his eyes as he regarded his friend who always had a little crush on the lovely hobbit maiden with the golden colored hair.

"No," Pippin said once he had collected himself, wiping his lips with a handkerchief. "I didn’t hear. I lost touch with her after we set off on the quest and never got around to seeing her again."

"Well she hasn’t been very sociable after what happened," Sam remarked, feeling for the poor woman since he was aware of her tragic situation.

"That’s right, she was engaged to Drogo Hedgeworth from Woodhall," Merry declared upon realizing why he remembered Diamond’s history so well. "He was killed during Bywater wasn’t he?"

"He was," Pippin nodded somberly, still feeling as badly for Diamond as when he had first learnt that one of the nineteen hobbits killed during the Battle of Bywater had been Drogo Hedgeworth. Pippin had always harbored a secret crush on Diamond but could never summon the nerve to speak to the beautiful, young hobbit lass. He had always admired her straight golden hair, worn loose like a glittering cascade over her shoulders and could never produce a single intelligible word whenever she smiled at him. Pippin supposed that in the wake of her loss, that smile would have been a long time in coming again.

"Anyway," Sam remarked, pretending to feign nonchalance at Pippin’s obvious lingering affections for Diamond. "She’s come to stay with her aunt Willow whose getting on in years and not up to looking after the old library anymore. I mean it took its turn on Willow seeing to it that none of Sharkey’s men razed it to the ground during those dark times."

Willow of Long Cleeves had been the guardian of the local Shire library for the past fifty years and had protected her charge most fiercely during the time when Saruman had invaded the Shire. It was said that she was even more determined and feisty than Lobelia Sackville Baggins but fortunately, not as shrewish which was why she had not ended up in Lobelia’s company during the lady’s imprisonment. Since she was content to remain quiet as long as her beloved library was not interfered with, Saruman’s men were of the belief that it was best to leave her be and not invite the grief of trying to dislodge her.

In truth, Diamond was actually her grand niece and Pippin supposed that if Diamond was ready to leave her grief for Drogo behind, taking her aunt’s place at the library was the place to start.

"Well that’s nice," Pippin said taking another sip. "I suppose we’ll see her around then."

"See her around?" Merry stared at his friend in astonishment. "You’ve been carrying a torch for that lass since before Bywater! I would think you would be doing more than that."

"Like what?" Pippin retorted annoyed because he had no wish to discuss Diamond so publicly.

"Like calling on her!" Merry snorted as if Pippin had suddenly striped naked and was dancing on the table. "Honestly Pip, you can be rather thick at times."

"I can’t just call on her!" Pippin burst out so loudly that he drew the attention of a few Breelanders who glanced their way with curiosity.

"Why not?" Sam asked pointedly. "You’re not as young as you were when we left the Shire. You’re a grown hobbit now, well in theory anyway. I don’t see why you aren’t settling down with a nice girl."

"Well not all of us had someone like Rosie waiting for us when we got back," the youngest of the Fellowship said snippily.

"What do you want to do?" Merry added. "Wait until you’re Legolas’ age before you get married?"

"No," Pippin replied darkly, wishing they would just let the matter drop. "I mean what reason would I have to just bump in on her?"

"Well she does work at a library," Sam suggested, "perhaps you might try borrowing a book."

"What do I want with a book?" Pippin blurted out.

Merry dropped his face in his hands and shook his head in resignation, "this is going to be a lot harder then we thought."

***********

Pippin had thought he was terrified when he had faced the troll, however it was nothing in compared to how he felt as he was being ushered through the doors of the library by Merry and Estella Bolger.

This had not seemed like such a terrible idea when Sam, Merry and he had been discussing it that night at Bree but Pippin supposed after many pints of draught, invading Mordor would sound like a good a idea. However, now that it was time to put the plan into action, Pippin found his resolve fading. He wondered whether or not he was being foolish. After all, he had faced far more terrifying things in his time and emerged unscathed. Why should calling into the library to say hello to Diamond frighten him so much?

Because he really liked her.

Until now, he had considered her a chapter unwritten in his life and most likely to remain that way even if he never forgot how she made him feel and still did. Even now, the memory of her smile could make his heart beat faster and inspire dreams of things he usually never concerned himself with like marriage and children. Well he was not young any more and adventure was something he had experienced, just like its uglier aspects, danger and death. He knew of late that he had been searching for something that not even his friendship with Merry or the parties they threw could satisfy. Perhaps Sam was right, it was time to find a nice girl and settled down. However, he was still unconvinced that Diamond would be agreeable to play that part in his life.

"Are we going to do this or not?" Estella Bolger asked impatiently.

Estella, unlike her brother Fredegar, was never cursed with the weightiness that seemed to plague all Bolgers and was very pleasant to look at. She had dark hair and soft brown eyes that framed her lovely features and would have been a good match for any gentlemen if not for her somewhat acidic manner. She spent most of her days working in the markets but had set aside some spare time to help her brother’s childhood friends with desire to see Diamond. She knew for a fact that Pippin, though like Merry was rather immature for a hobbit who had traveled the world and fought in battle, was generally of good character pr else she would not have bothered to inflict either of them upon Diamond.

"Of course we are," Merry retorted, securing his hold around Pippin as he continued towards the library.

"I don’t think this is such a good idea," Pippin offered ineffectually as he was unwillingly led to the entrance. "I mean what if she doesn’t even remember me?"

"Then she’s be luckier than I," Estella remarked sourly.

Merry straightened up and looked up at her, "must you be so negative about things? He just needs to work up his courage."

"Oh wonderful," she shook her head in sarcasm, "he can fight Sharkey’s men but when it comes to talking to a woman, he has to sum up courage. Very flattering."

"Well some women are more frightening than Saruman," Merry muttered under his breath and glared at the tail end of Estella’s flouncing skirt when she turned her back on him and continued through the door, no longer bothering to wait for either of them. "Come on Pippin, I’m not going through all this for nothing."

"Going through what?" Pippin demanded as they started towards the entrance of the library.

"Putting up with that woman to help you," Merry hissed, his faced scowling as he followed Estella.

The library of Hobbiton was not very big. The entire history of the Shire was contained within its walls and its size was a testament to how much of it there was by the size allotted for its keeping. In its entirety, the library would have been no larger than Bag End itself if all the internal walls had been knocked down and only the outside ones were left standing. The wooden floor was polished and like all shire buildings, the room was circular with round windows. Most of the walls were covered with heavy wooden shelves laden with leather bound volumes of books that were surprisingly dust free.

It appeared they were the first visitors of the day, even though it was noon outside. Pippin could only stare as saw Diamond seated behind the counter, her long hair draped over her shoulder as she paid deep concentration to the book before her. She had not changed much in all the years he had known her and when she raised her eyes to him at their arrival, he felt his throat go suddenly dry. If not for Merry holding his elbow surreptitiously to ensure he kept moving, he would have most likely remained where he was, gawking at her.

"Hello Diamond," Estella took the lead and broke the silence first.

"Hello Estella," Diamond said politely, "finished your book already?"

"Yes," Estella smiled brightly, "it was very good as you said. I didn’t think we kept such saucy things in here."

"Well some of the older ladies like it," Diamond remarked with a little crook of her brow and a slight smirk. "Shall I recommend you another one?"

"If you please," Estella retorted. "And while you’re at it, you might as well find something for Pippin there as well."

"Oh?" She turned her eyes upon Pippin. "You want me to recommend you something?"

"Yes," Pippin managed to say after Merry elbowed him sharply in the back to prompt him into speaking. "I’ve been having trouble a little trouble sleeping lately and thought a good book might help."

Pippin was rather proud of his response and was even more pleased when she seemed satisfied by his answer.

"Good idea," she nodded in approval. "Any idea what you want to read?"

Pippin blinked, having never considered his brilliant deception would succeed far enough for him to require this particular detail. "I don’t know…" he stammered uncertainly.

Merry tried not to curse under his breath and wondered if Estella was right, that this was not a disastrous idea to begin with. "Why don’t you suggest something, Diamond? Pippin doesn’t know what he likes."

"Yes I do," Pippin suddenly became very animated, deciding he did not need Merry to help him talk to Diamond after all. "I like history books," he found himself saying.

"History books?" Merry and Estella exclaimed in unison.

Diamond was growing a little suspicious of the strange behavior of the trio but chose to ignore it. After all Merry and Pippin, despite being heroes had been abroad and their conduct could be excused by the influences by the outside world, while Estella was probably trying to keep them from embarrassing her. Besides, Pippin had voiced a request and that was something she could help him with despite the peculiar manner of he and his company.

"Well we have many books on Shire history," Diamond offered kindly, "all the way back to the Greenfields in 1147. There’s many fascinating volumes on the settlement of the Shire if that’s how your fancy goes."

"What about outside the Shire?" Pippin found himself asking for no particular reason.

"Outside the Shire?" She stared at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean outside the Shire, in the lands beyond the Shire, like Rohan and Gondor. Don’t we have any books about that?" Pippin asked, finding it very disturbing that the scope of historical record in the Shire did not extend beyond its boundaries.

"The hobbits of the Shire are not concerned with the affairs of other races Pippin," Diamond retorted, finding his pointed questions rather flustering. "We don’t have any."

"At all?" He exclaimed, forgetting quickly what he had come here for in the first place in the light of this disturbing revelation. "We have no books of any kind about the elves, the dwarfs or the big folk?"

"No," she stared at him, wondering if he was mad. It was a way of life that hobbit had no general interest in the world outside. After all, to the average Shire inhabitant, what point was there to nose around the business of men and elves or even dwarves for that matter, when they had their own concerns to deal with? "We only have books on the Shire," she repeated.

"That is disgraceful!" Pippin exploded in open horror.

"Pippin," Merry tried to stay his friend’s excited manner as he saw Diamond stiffening in annoyance. "I don’t think this is the time to discuss it."

"How can you say that?" Pippin whirled around and faced him. "Look at what we’ve been through. In the last few years, we’ve seen Sauron and Mordor destroyed the reunification of Arnor and Gondor, we saw the Ents march on Isengard and the Riders of Rohan defending their lands against Orcs and other terrible things. Are you going to tell me its right to let all that disappear into nothingness? Don’t you want people to know about Boromir and how he died to protect us, or how Theoden led the Rohirrim to Pelennor? Don’t you want people to know how you and Eowyn fought the Witch King? What about Aragorn and how he became king? Or even Frodo with everything he went through to destroy that dammed ring? How can we just let that all go without even writing it down!"

"Isn’t Sam doing that?" Merry pointed out; uncertain of how to answer his friend because he had not seen Pippin so properly provoked in a long time. It was like seeing Ents on the march.

"I think he is but there’s more than just this age! What about all those other ages and other heroes like Beren and Luthien, or Gilga-lad and Elendill? You can’t let all of that get forgotten."

"He’s lost his mind," Estella declared.

"Pippin maybe we should come back," Merry started towing him out the door. "When you’re a little less excitable."

"It’s a disgrace that’s what it is!" Pippin was still raving as he was dragged out the door, leaving Estella and Diamond staring after him with astonishment.

"I am sorry Diamond," Estella apologized after a long pause since neither could think of anything to say after the departure of the two Shire heroes. "I had no idea that he was insane."

Inwardly, Estella made a note to tell Meriadoc Brandybuck that he was never to ask a favor of her again. If truth were known, she had only consented to this because Fredegar considered them his best friends and she had known them for almost as long as her brother. There was also this unspoken wish that perhaps Diamond might actually show some interest in Pippin since she had been living in something of an emotional vacuum since Drogo’s passing.

"Oh its alright," Diamond turned away from the entrance where the two men had disappeared, a rather thoughtful expression on her face. "I had no idea he was so passionate about things."

"Is that what you call it?" Estella’s brow crooked in skepticism.

"I think so," she said with bemusement. "You know I never thought he had such deep thoughts in his head. Before he went away, he didn’t seem all that grown up to be. I think the last time I remembered seeing him was during Bilbo Baggins’ party. Remember that?"

"I don’t think anyone in the Shire every forgot," Estella shrugged, starting to realize that Pippin may have done himself a good turn with Diamond after all, despite his ludicrous outburst.

"It was the last time things were ever normal in the Shire," Diamond said sadly, remembering how she and Drogo had danced at the party and how he had walked her home after the celebration had ended following Bilbo’s sudden disappearance.

"If you ask me, Pippin and Merry are turning out to be just as peculiar as old Bilbo," Estella pointed out. "Fancy wanting books about the history of other places? What use is to us anyway? We’re Shire folk, we have our own ways of doing things."

Diamond did not answer her friend but she disagreed with Estella’s perception that it was unnecessary to know what was going on in the outside world. The scourging of the Shire by Sharkey’s men had proved how vital it was for Shire folk to know exactly what was happening in the world around them because too often, they were being caught unawares when danger came upon them.

Diamond resolved herself to tell Pippin the next time she saw him how right he was.

**************

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF GANDALF’S GREAT GREY BEARD WAS THAT ABOUT?" Merry demanded as soon they were a suitable distance away from the library, having held his tongue back until now so that he could vent his disgust at Pippin’s behaviour with the loudness it deserved.

"What do you mean?" Pippin asked innocently, his mind still inflamed over the whole idea that centuries of history beyond the borders of the Shire were blithely ignored by the hobbits simply because it had little do with them. He could not believe that such ignorance existed, especially after what happened with Saruman and his rape of the Shire.

"You were there to say talk to Diamond!" Merry roared angrily. "I had to put up with Estella Bolger all morning trying to convince her to help us so you could go talk to the girl of your dreams and all you ended up doing is getting into a debate with her!"

Like a splash of water, Pippin realised what he had done and the expression on his face went from the crusader of historical records to failed suitor with remarkable speed. He slapped his hand across his forehead as his faced show dismay at what he had done.

"Oh no!" He exclaimed. "What was I thinking?"

"I have no idea!" Merry retorted shaking his head, glad that Pippin had returned to reality once again. "You were practically shouting at the girl!"

"But I was right!" Pippin offered desperately, hoping that he had not behaved as terribly as he did - though in principle he was quite unrepentant.

Merry rolled his eyes in exasperation, "that may be so but you were not there to champion the First and the Second Age! You were there to talk to Diamond!"

"I have to apologise," Pippin stammered, unable to think of what else to do. "I have to go now."

"I don’t know whether that’s such a good idea after the fool you just made of yourself in front of her," Merry pointed out bluntly.

"I’ve got to say something!" Pippin declared marching past him towards the library again. "I don’t, she’ll be mad at me and I won’t get her help."

"Her help?" Merry’s brow wrinkled in confusion. "Help for what?"

Pippin turned around and stared at him as if he had suddenly transformed into an Ent and retorted impatiently, "to help me with updating the library of course?"

"Updating the library?" Merry’s eyes turned into saucers. "You want to update her to update the library?"

"Of course not!" Pippin shook his head wondering how his best friend could understand him so little. "I can’t expect her to do that, she’s got enough to do as it is."

Merry’s head was starting to hurt the more he attempted to keep track of what was on Pippin’s mind. He had not seen his best friend so properly inspired since the Battle of Bywater and oddly enough, it was not even about Diamond, but rather books. "Pippin, you’ve lost me," he finally called out, crying defeat at attempting to unravel Pippin’s so called logic.

"I mean to do it myself," Pippin said proudly and very pleased with the idea that was taking grand shape in his mind the more he thought about it. "I mean why not. Between you and I we know most of the kings of Middle earth, I don’t see why we can’t go see them and get their help in updating our library or better yet, creating one a whole new one?"

"You’ve gone mad!" Merry finally exclaimed. "You looked into the palantir too many times and gone mad. Gandalf warned you that thing was dangerous and now you’ve just ruined your mind completely."

"You have no vision Merry," Pippin let out a sigh and turned back to the library. "Can’t you see a great library with all the history of the world here in Hobbiton? I’ll bet there’d be nothing like it anywhere in the Shire."

"That’s probably because most hobbits don’t care about the history of the world," Merry pointed out dutifully, "just the Shire."

"Well it’s got to change," he said purposefully, refusing to let go of the idea that was spreading through his mind like a fever. "We can’t be as closed off as we have been. Look at how easy it was for Saruman to just walk in here and take things over? Can you imagine how long it would have lasted if we hadn’t come back and got everyone moving?"

Merry did think about it and it disturbed him just as greatly as it did Pippin. They had always assumed that the Shire would remain untouched by whatever mischief took place in the outside world. It was a foolish hope to think that the Shire and hobbits would be kept safely in isolation while beyond their borders Middle earth had nearly torn itself asunder. However, he was uncertain adding foreign texts to the library would help very much either to change the traditional view of hobbits and the outside world.

"What about Diamond?" Merry reminded Pippin in all his bluster about the Shire and their close mindedness to all things beyond it. "This whole exercise was so you can talk to her? Don’t tell me you forgotten about her?"

"Of course not," Pippin paused long enough to give Merry a look, "I’m going to talk to her and I’m going to apologise too."

"Good," Merry let out a sight of relief, glad that Pippin had returned to some semblance of self. "I don’t know receptive she’s going to be after the way you behaved."

"I’ll make her understand that I didn’t mean to yell," Pippin resumed up the steps to the library entrance. "I have to convince her," he replied.

Merry rolled his eyes and shook his head in resignation as he stared after Pippin, still somewhat stunned by the whole episode.

"I’m glad you got priorities straight," he muttered before following his insane friend into the building again.

*************

Estella and Diamond were still chatting away at the front counter of the library when Pippin and Merry entered the place once again.

As expected, it was Estella who reacted first while Diamond merely looked on with surprise at what they were doing back in the library after the embarrassment of their rather memorable departure. Pippin’s bluster had faded somewhat at the sight of Diamond and he made his return somewhat contritely. Unfortunately, it appeared that Estella was not about to let him come away unscathed for his earlier outburst.

"What are you doing back here?" Estella demanded, unable to hold her tongue or her temper, "How dare you come crawling back here after talking to Diamond that way Peregrin Took!"

"I know," Pippin struggled to explain himself in the face of Estella’s sharp rebuke. "I am sorry Diamond…"

"Oh will you shut up and let him have a word edgewise, Estella Bolger?" Merry immediately came to his friend’s rescue as he floundered under Estella’s sharp tongue. Merry was certain that if Estella wielded her tongue like a sword, not even Aragorn would stand a chance of coming out of their duel alive.

"I think he’s had quite enough words Meriadoc!" Estella returned without being thrown off slightly by her indignation at Merry’s interruption.

As Pippin and Diamond watched Merry and Estella confront each other like two great storms meeting in the sky, Pippin inched his way around the two combatants and spoke to Diamond over the sound of their furious voices.

"Can I have a word?" he asked once again, this time to the lady herself.

Diamond answered by slipping out from behind the counter and gesturing to a door on the other side of the room. Pippin followed her immediately, unsurprised that neither Merry nor Estella noticed that they were leaving the room. He looked over his shoulder to see if Merry needed any help but when he heard his best friend telling Estella that her voice was worse then the Crebain of Dunland, Pippin decided that Merry was more then capable of taking care of himself. Besides, Pippin wanted to be well clear of the duo when blood was finally spilled.

The door led to an alcove where there was a little stove and a comfortable wing chair and a window that allowed the sunlight into the room. Pippin guessed that this had been Willow’s little refuge when she needed a break and surmised that it was now Diamond’s since she had taken over the library for her aunt. It was a pleasant little room, with a nice wing chair that looked terribly comfortable and enough sunlight pouring through the window to ensure that it was always was warm as it always got the sun.

"This is nice," Pippin commented looking around with approval.

"Its for when I feel like a spot of tea or a little moment to myself during the day," Diamond explained. "The stove warms the room quickly in winter and the tea is nice on cold mornings."

He did not doubt that and felt very privileged at being invited into this secret place of hers. Pippin was also very encouraged by the fact that she did not appear angry with him although he was not about to take advantage of her kind disposition when he still owed her an apology.

"Diamond, I am sorry I went off at you like a fool earlier. I let my temper get away from me and took it out on you. That was very wrong of me."

"No its alright," she said easing into the chair and motioned for him to sit as well. There was a cushioned footstool that served the purpose of a second seat for an unexpected guest and Pippin was not about to decline the lady’s offer to join her.

"You were not wrong," she replied when he had sat down. "It is true, the library does seem lacking when all it has is just the lore of the Shire."

"That’s still no reason to take it out on you,. It isn’t your fault because you’re right too. That is how it is with hobbits, isn’t it?"

"Yes," she agreed, "it is."

"It’s just that I’ve seen so much in my life Diamond," Pippin felt compelled to explain truthfully why he felt so passionately about this, so she would understand. "I’ve seen things that no hobbit ought to and I know I haven’t even seen all of it. When we first left the Shire, we were like children who had no idea what was out the door. We used to hear Bilbo speak of his adventures but we never really understood. A lot of it was like a fairy tale, a part of us didn’t even believe half the things he said were true until we left ourselves and learn different. There are terrible things out there Diamond, some so evil that words cannot fully describe them, they hide in secret places or they ride horses in the dark. Sometimes it is easier to stay hidden and be forgotten the way we are, to be safe from such terrors but then we miss so much."

Diamond listened to him speak and said nothing for she could feel each word against her skin like a soft breath. He spoke with such earnest sincerity that it was difficult not to be swept away by the intensity of his sentiments.

"But there are also beautiful things Diamond," Pippin continued. "I’ve met elves who can make you see the stars just by looking into their eyes. I’ve seen trees that move and breathe like we do and life that is so old that what we say or do in our little world is a blink of an eye to them. It pains me to think that the rest of the Shire won’t know any of this. Do you know that Frodo Baggins has saved all of Middle earth? That everywhere but here, he is the Ringbearer that saved us all. He lost his finger destroying something that could have plunged us all into a Dark Age and yet no one really knows and I don’ really think they care. Sharkey’s being here was just the final act in a tale that has spanned centuries and we knew nothing of it here in the Shire until it was too late and almost destroyed us."

When he finished speaking, he noted that she did not answer and he wondered if he should not have just apologized and spared her his long explanations.

"I think its sad that more people don’t think as you do," Diamond replied finally and drew a breath of relief from Pippin by her answer. "I used to be like them, not wanting to know what happened beyond the Shire. I didn’t care to know until Sharkey came and everything changed. It cost me not knowing Pippin, it cost me a great deal."

"You mean Drogo don’t you?" he made a guess.

She was rubbing her hands together as if she were cold and he fought the urge to rest his own upon them to provide her with some warmth. However, he sensed it was a different kind of coldness that gripped her and his touch would do little good but to confuse the issue.

"I loved him so much," she raised her eyes to Pippin’s and he saw that they were glistening with emotion. "I haven’t spoken about him to anyone you know, not since I stood by and saw him buried into the earth. For so long, I couldn’t understand how it had happened, how the Shire where I had felt safe for so long could become such a dangerous place, where a battle could be fought. My life was never more than getting married and having children, I never thought about anything beyond it. When he died, the world became colder for me Pippin but it also became bigger. I do not want some other girl to find that out the way I did."

Pippin felt his heart ache as he heard her speak, feeling privileged that she should chose him to make such revelations while at the same time saddened by her loss. He wondered if Drogo knew how lucky he had been to be loved so deeply and envious because he wished she cared for him in the same way. For the first time in his life, his infatuation for her was not some idealised version of what love ought to be. Instead it was something real and tangible that drew the emotion from him in all its purity and he was glad that he could appreciate her the way she deserved to be.

"I didn’t know him very well," Pippin confessed after a time, when the atmosphere had soaked up her words and he was accustomed enough to it to answer. "I know he fought well because everyone who fell in that battle did. He died protecting the Shire, protecting it for you I’m sure."

"I know," she smiled faintly, drying her eyes even though the tears had yet to spill over her lashes. "Its nice to be able to talk to someone about it."

"I’m glad you could," he replied. "You can always do that around me. I don’t mind listening."

"Thank you," she met his eyes and this time when she smiled, Pippin knew that it was for him.

***********

Away from the sight of Pippin and Diamond, though certainly not beyond their hearing, Merry and Estella were still screaming at each other, having thrown out the rule about being silent in the library not merely out the door, but down the steps and into the street. Merry had thought that he had encountered unpleasant things in his life capable of making his skin boil but Estella had brought him to new heights of fury. Not since their capture by the Uruk Hai, had Merry felt such unbelievable anger at this female whose mouth was more lethal than any creature Sauron might have created in the darkness of Mordor.

"I don’t know why I bother to help either of you! You have not changed one bit. You were silly before you went away and one would think you would have developed some sense travelling in the world but apparently not! I can never understand why Fredegar would surround himself by such lunatics!"

"Probably because he can’t stand his immediate family," Merry retorted. "Which is perfectly understandable after meeting you!"

"Oh that’s a fine way to behave in front of lady!" she hissed.

"A lady?" he snorted in derision. "When I see a lady I will behave like a gentlemen. Honestly, the only kind of behaviour you seem to inspire in a man is the need to dash one’s brains against the walls."

"Be my guest!" she growled. "Not that there you have brains to dash anyway!"

"If I had any," he stared at her, eyes narrowed. "I certainly would not be wasting them on someone like you!"

"Someone like me?" She glared at him. "You mean someone better than a Brandybuck?"

Now Merry was properly incensed at the attack upon the Brandybuck name especially from someone called Bolger.

"If it was not for the fact that your brother rises a head above everyone else in your wretched family, I would say all the Bolgers can go throw themselves in the Brandywine!"

"Better a Bolger than a Brandybuck!" Estella hollered back angrily."Its no wonder you’re not married yet," Merry retorted with just as much venom. "You’re as sweet as vinegar!"

"And you’re a pompous, vainglorious halfwit!" Estella sputtered angrily.

"I am the halfwit who helped save the Shire!" Merry said smugly.

"Oh we knew that had to come out eventually," she placed her hands on her hips and stared at him with something akin to satisfaction. "Its not enough that you throw all these parties and ride about the Shire in your finery, constantly reminding everyone that you and Pippin were the heroes at the Battle of Bywater, expecting everyone to fall at your feet swooning with gratitude that you came to save us. I’m sick of you lording it over us! You weren’t alone at Bywater you know!"

"If you were not a woman, I would knock you on your behind for that!" Merry declared, quite enraged that she had accused them of lording their accomplishments over the Shire. They did nothing of the kind. Well not entirely anyway. However, as the words sunk in, Merry could not deny that perhaps on some level she was right. Still, he would rather be dragged through the heart of Mount Doom before making that admission to her.

"My behind is none of your concern!" Estella snapped though he noted she took a cautionary step away from him.

The withdrawal was too much of an opening for him to resist and he took a step towards her, hoping to intimidate her further in this battle of wills that had spiralled so much out of control since it had ignited so spectacularly in the last few minutes. Neither was even aware that Pippin and Diamond were no longer in the room, they were too concerned at who would win their verbal fencing match.

"That is unfortunate," he gave her a wicked look. "If you were a mare, I think you would benefit from a good whipping."

"A mare?" Her mouth dropped open in outrage. "And what are you supposed to be my master?"

"If that were only true," his lips curled in a little smile, "I would see to it that you were stabled and muzzled for the rest of your life!"

"Cur!" Estella cried out, her cheeks flushed red with ire.

"Nag!" He returned sharply and suddenly realised that she was very beautiful when she was angry.

For a second they stared at each other, breathing hard, trying to catch their breath as they considered what way was best to resume their attack. Merry found himself taking the momentary pause to really look at her. She had been such a familiar fixture in his life for as long as he remembered that it was easy to forget how much she had grown from Fatty’s annoying older sister to the harpy that was presently screaming at him. She had very strong features he noticed, with thick lashes and dark eyebrows that accentuated her eyes. Her lips reminded him a little of a baby’s, bow shaped and resembling the colour of pink roses.

When she was not wearing a scowl she was actually very pretty. No sooner than that observation had crossed his mind, Merry acted purely on impulse and did something very unexpected. He took her by the arms and pulled her to him. Before she had a chance to offer protest, Merry crushed his lips against hers and discovered that they did feel felt like rose petals against the skin. His tongue invaded the cavern of her mouth, slipping through her lips, partly open from surprise, and for a moment he was lost in the sweetest taste imaginable.

If only briefly.

"How dare you!" She shoved him away with indignation.

He was fairly gasping when she forced his lips away from hers, suddenly overcome by how she felt against him.

"How dare you kiss me?" She demanded. Her cheeks were tinged with red as she stared at him, clearly flustered at the contact. Merry was in the process of trying to think up a suitable response when suddenly, he felt her hands on his face, pulling him to her once again.

*************

"They’re quiet," Pippin suddenly stated, noting the sudden cessation of silence.

"They probably noticed we weren’t even in the room," Diamond cracked a smile.

"It’s either that or they’ve gone and killed each other," he answered and glanced at the doorway, wondering if he ought to go investigate.

"I’m glad we had this talk," Diamond replied, leaving behind the topic of Merry and Estella for the moment. "I haven’t told anyone how I’ve felt about Drogo in so long. My friends and family have been very sympathetic but they seem to think that I should have got over it a long time ago."

"People can be misguided with their good intentions," Pippin agreed, understanding far better than she could possibly imagine. Once upon a time, a young hobbit not knowing any better had followed his friend beyond the Shire with no idea of what was awaiting him there. He had done so out of friendship but had thought little of the consequences really, until he was waist deep in trouble and swept away on a title wave of world changing events.

"Thank you Pippin," she said warmly, "thank you for listening."

"Thank you for not throwing me out the door after my stupid behavior," he reminded. "I didn’t think it was stupid," she countered immediately. "I thought it was very true what you said about building a library that keeps record of all kinds of thing, not just of the Shire."

"I’m glad," he met her gaze. "Because I really do intend to something about it and I’ll need your help with it, you being a proper librarian and all."

"It will be my pleasure," Diamond said graciously.Pippin was about to answer when suddenly they heard a sharp and abrupt scream. He raised his eyes to Diamond’s a split second before they ran out of the alcove into the main library floor one again. Upon doing so, they were brought to a complete and utter halt as they discovered that the scream had not originated from Estella as they feared but rather a portly old matron who was staring at the counter with extreme shock and for good reason.

Merry and Estella were in the process of disengaging themselves from each other’s embrace, their arms and legs appearing an unruly tangle as it became quite clear what they had been doing on top of the counter when they were stumbled upon by the latest visitor to the library. The top three buttons of Merry’s waistcoat was undone and a corner of shirt tale was hanging loose from his trousers. Estella was in no better condition, the sleeve of her dress had been pulled down enough to expose one creamy shoulder and her pinned hair was dishevelled, with loose strands dangling about her neck. Her lips were red and swollen and she looked decidedly flustered.

"Merry!" Pippin exclaimed in stunned disbelief.

"Estella, really! Oh Mrs Hornblower," Diamond immediately went to the startled old woman to calm her down. "I am so sorry!

For once, Estella had no words to answer, her only response being the deepening flush of red on her cheeks.

"I should hope so!" The woman’s pursed white lips unclenched enough to declare. "Its disgraceful! Cavorting like that in public!"

It was difficult to say who was more astonished by the scene but those present were equally mute on the subject. Fortunately, Diamond had ushered Mrs. Hornblower into her little alcove, intending to ply her with tea and possibly ensure that Estella's and Merry's 'display' in the library did not become a matter of public knowledge, though that was going to be a difficult task indeed. The Shire thrived on gossip and Mrs. Hornblower, as her name implied, was usually not one to keep secrets.

"Cavorting?" Pippin finally managed to say, firing the word at Merry.

" I shall never live this down!" Estella cried out, unable to hide her mortification any further.

"I'm sure it won't be that bad," Merry tried feebly to say something to make her feel better, but making her feel something was what had landed them in this situation in the first place.

"Oh what would you know!" She snapped out at him and hurried past Merry and Pippin, unable to face either of them.

"Estella…." Merry started to say but she was out the door before he had a chance to speak further. As he heard her footsteps grow distant, Merry suddenly had the feeling that his life had become a great deal more complicated.

*************

"So you and Estella huh?" Pippin asked, wearing a smirk on his face as the two of them left the library behind.

"Shut up," Merry said darkly, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground before him.

"Of course," Pippin nodded, forcing the grin across his face into a smile that would not hold for very long. "Not a word."

"Good," Merry retorted with an edge of warning in his voice that told Pippin it was probably not wise to provoke him at this moment. His heart was a jumble of uncertain feelings towards Estella Bolger and he had no idea how it was all going to turn out. However, he did know ridicule was the last thing he needed right now.

Unfortunately, Pippin was not about to spare him anything.

"Still if I was going to say anything," Pippin added, "it would probably be to say…."

Merry stopped in his tracks and glared at Pippin with a look that would have frozen Aragorn his tracks.

"Not…a….word," he growled.

"Alright, I won't make comment at all," Pippin declared holding his hands up in mock resignation before adding with a wide grin because it was too good to resist, "except to say that you make a cute couple."

"Right that's it!" Merry swore and lunged at him.

Pippin got halfway across Hobbiton before Merry finally caught him.

Epilogue
Aftermath 

The puppy stared at Aragorn Elessar as the king pulled off his boots and tossed them on the floor. Aragorn noted the creature’s eyes upon him and returned its stare with a scowl of annoyance. The puppy did not seem to notice his hostility and continued to stare at his master, his tail wagging back and forth, expressing his boundless enthusiasm at his new situation. Aragorn efforts to smother his happy demeanor with a harsh glare had little effect upon the pup. Instead the beast padded across the floor from his appointed sleeping place in the parlor of the royal suite and stopped in front of Aragorn. As if determined to win the king’s hardened heart, the puppy then dropped to its paws before Aragorn’s feet whilst continuing to stare at his new master with its sympathetic eyes.

Aragorn let out a groan of frustration, knowing that he was warming to the creature despite himself. Muttering under his breath, Aragorn leaned forward and begrudgingly patted the puppy gently, a gesture that resulted in having his hand heartily licked by the animal in appreciation. A small smile curled up the side of Aragorn’s lips and he supposed he could understand why Eldarion had grown so attached to the animal in the market place. Perhaps the little thing was worth all the trouble that Aragorn was suffering because of its unexpected purchase.

"Do not think this exonerates you from what I am enduring today," Aragorn said gruffly, trying not to become too affected by the animal. "I am still unimpressed that my son forced me into buying you and I do intend to take some kind of revenge upon the hawker that tricked me into buying you."

The puppy did not seem to care. He was more concerned with the patting he was receiving as well acquainting himself with the scent and the taste of the master of his new pack.

"What shall we name you then?" Aragorn asked the puppy, whose wagging tale did not abate to consider the question.

As tempting as it was to name the puppy Boromir, Aragorn decided against it.

"How about Huan?" He asked. The puppy cocked his head but did not appear to disapprove. Aragorn found it somewhat appropriate since the pup’s namesake, the legendary wolfhound of the Valar, had served Orome the Huntsman and had fallen in love with the elven princess, Luthien.

"Huan the wolf hound you shall be," Aragorn smiled and patted the small dog on the head affectionately, much to the creature’s delight.

After a moment, Aragorn withdrew his hand from the animal and leaned back into the divan, hoping not all his sojourns into the city would end as eventfully as this one. Personally, he would rather be facing an army of Uruk Hai then to endure a repeat of what he suffered today. Who would have thought a simple day out in the city could cause so much trouble?

Aragorn shifted position on the divan and found that it was no use. It was far too uncomfortable for him to rest comfortably upon it without assistance. Letting out a heavy sigh for he had no wish to do this, Aragorn rose to his feet and made his way across the floor to the closed door on the other side of the room. He gazed hopefully at the door as if he could see through the polished wood to the room on the other side. He could hear nothing from the adjoining chamber and knew that elves could be terribly quiet when they wanted to be. Steeling himself for the worst, Aragorn resolved to hold his head high as he bore his next humiliation with the dignity of a king. Fortunately he had only the puppy to witness this embarrassment.

"Undomiel," Aragorn called out after a moment of deliberation, clearing his throat before speaking.

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.

"Could I at least have a pillow?"

Another second of uncomfortable silence ensued and Aragorn was almost ready to give up when he heard her soft footsteps against the hard floor. His heart soared at the sound of the door opening, grateful that she was not going to stay angry with him forever.

"Undomiel…," Aragorn started to say as he saw her through the crack of the door. However, the chance to finish his sentence did not come for he was suddenly hit face first with a pillow. This was immediately followed by the sharp sound of a door slamming shut.

Aragorn stood there for a moment, staring at the pillow and the closed door, uttering curses very softly because elven hearing ensured that she would be able to hear every word he said.

"Yes," he said softly to himself as he returned to the divan, "it is going to be a long night indeed."

***************

It was a beautiful ceremony.

At least it was after the bride and groom were finally found and made to attend.

As they were led to they were led to the wedding by Aragorn, the king was forced to listen to Legolas reminding him of all the occasions were the elf had come to his rescue in one adventure or another. Legolas was working hard to ensure that Aragorn be made to feel as guilty as possible for finding their hiding place and until that moment, Aragorn had no idea that elves had such long memories. This accounting of debts did not see its end until when he was finally forced to join the guests to let the ceremony began.

As was with elven weddings, the feasting took place before the actual betrothal ceremony. This was fortunate because the breaking of bread in the company of friends and family dispelled the anxieties that came with such an occasion. Legolas remained close to Melia, aware that she was terribly nervous about all the fanfare and because the traditions of her own people were vastly different. Thranduil played the part of the perfect host even though he was not the master of Eden Ardhon. It was fortunate that both Celeborn and Pallando was present, for only they were equal enough in stature to speak frankly to Thranduil when his determination to have everything transpire flawlessly stretched his son’s patience to the limits. Thanks to the Lord of East Lorien and the Maia, Legolas was not forced to commit patricide in full view of the wedding party.

In an effort to make the evening pass smoother, Gimli plied the prince with dwarf draught to ease Legolas’ annoyance at his father’s usurping of his authority in his own realm. Two mugs of mead had been consumed before Legolas started reciting poetry expressing his love for Melia. While the lady should have been impressed, the quality of the prose left a great deal to be desired since the poet was in an extreme state of inebriation and whose entire repertoire consisted of a number of bawdy limericks he had once heard in a Gondorian tavern. Throughout the recital, the wedding party attempted to restrain their snorts and giggles while Aragorn was attempting to silence Legolas since it was he who had taken the former Prince of Mirkwood to that tavern in the first place.

By the time the feasting was done, Legolas had recovered enough to stand but little else. Since Melia had no family to speak off, she asked Arwen to take the role in the ceremony that would normally be for her mother. It was up to the queen to present the bride to her new husband while Thranduil would do the honors for Legolas. Once Arwen and Thranduil had placed Legolas and Melia’s hand within each other’s, both king and queen blessed the couple with ancient forms that invoke the names of Varda, Manwe and Eru in the tribute. To seal the union and complete the ceremony, gold rings forged by Gimli as a gift for the couple, were exchanged and worn on the index of the right hand.

The rest of the night transpired smoothly with the feasting continuing straight after the ceremony’s conclusion. Pallando had entertained them with his fireworks since the entertainment prepared by Thranduil had to be abandoned due to a litany of injuries acquired by the troop of performers the night before during the unexpected ‘orc’ attack.

The next morning, Legolas awoke to find that the sun was much to bright in his eyes and his wife staring at him from her side of their bed with a rather bemused expression on her face.

"What happened?" He asked as he draped his hand over his eyes, trying to keep the daylight from boring holes in the back of his skull.

"You do not remember?" Melia asked sweetly.

"I remember we were married," he said with a smile, hoping that would diffuse the obviously restrained annoyance he could see reflected in her eyes. "That it was wonderful," he grinned at her.

"It was wonderful," Melia remarked, brushing a strand of hair out of his face affectionately, "especially that lovely poem you recited to me."

Legolas swallowed thickly because he had no memory of this.

"Poem?" He asked gingerly.

"Oh yes," Melia nodded, perfectly aware that he would not remember it. If it were her, she would block out the memory too. "How did it go?" She said thoughtfully. "Oh yes, there was something about a lovely lass from Minas Tirith, who body was shaped like an hour glass and the only thing more exception than her bosoms were the wondrous globes of her as……"

"Do not tell me that is what I recited at the wedding?" Legolas groaned and rolled into the pillow in mortification.

"Fine I will not tell you," she said shortly, "but that does not change the fact that you still did recite it."

Legolas closed his eyes and groaned, "I am so sorry. How will you ever forgive me?"

"I already have," Melia said sweetly and kissed him on the lips, just to prove to him that all was forgiven, after a fashion, "I love you too much to be so petty."

"Thank you," Legolas sighed in relief and pulled her closer to him in an embrace. "I love you too."

"There was one other little thing though," she added with a smile.

"What is it?" He asked dreamily, breathing in the scent of her skin into his lungs.

"I told your father that when we have children, he can plan the christening."

************

He could hear a bed creaking and knew immediately that it was not his.

Frodo sat up suddenly in the sheets, eyes wide as saucers as he identified the sound he knew could be only one thing coming from the next room. Muttering under his breath, he tried not to pay too much attention to the love making that was taking place next door and dove under the sheets, grasping for his pillow. Burying his head between his mattress and his pillow, Frodo tried desperately to ignore the sounds of soft whimpers and pleasured sighs of voices too familiar to him. Instead he focussed his mind on his book, attempting to recount details of the great events that he had been party to.

He was in the midst of recounting his first encounter with a ring wraith when suddenly, the imaginary Nazgul moaned so contently in his mind, Frodo knew that it was not his vivid imagination that had conjured up the sound. Realizing that there was nothing else for it, he sat up abruptly in his bed once more. The creaking had not ceased and appeared to be reaching climax in its rhythm. Frodo tried hard not to reason why this was and decided that his contingency plan would simply have to be put in effect. Grabbing his pillow, he climbed out of his bed and padded out of his room.

He was passing by the kitchen when he noted the remnants of the pie that Rosie had baked that day for dinner still sitting on the table. Like all hobbits, the mere sight of food had started his stomach rumbling and Frodo was suddenly visited with memories of how the pie had tasted. Surprisingly enough, it was more than capable of brushing aside his more recent recollections, which had largely to do with what was going on inside Sam and Rosie’s room at this instant. Setting down his pillow on one of the chairs at the table, he poured himself a glass of milk and attacked the remains of the pie with appropriate enthusiasm.

As he started to eat, Frodo took a deep breath, relishing the taste of pie in his mouth. He thanked his stars that Rosie was the cook she was and found his gaze resting on the curtains that had made him think today would be such a disaster. In the quiet of night, with his mind somewhat a peace despite his rude awakening, Frodo could see the attraction in the cheerfully printed fabric. Perhaps it was not to his taste but the truth was, his tastes were rather dark lately and probably in need of some infusion of color to remind him that his life was not irrevocably marred because he was once the Ringbearer.

For all the complaints he had made today about Rosie and the intrusions upon his life since her marriage to Sam, Frodo could not deny that she brought to Bag End both warmth and a much needed woman’s touch. Since he was unlikely to be married or be very popular among the ladies of Hobbiton following his encounter with Violet, Frodo decided that this was a good thing. Suddenly, suffering a lack of sleep was a sacrifice he could endure (after he made some alternate sleeping arrangements of course) if it meant that Rosie could continue to remain in Bag End. Besides, Frodo had never seen Sam happier and that pleased the Master of Bag End considerably.

Frodo looked up to see Sam entering the kitchen, clad in his nightshirt.

"Mister Frodo!" Sam exclaimed, halting in mid step at the doorway.

"What are you doing up Sam?" Frodo asked and then mentally chided himself at the choice of words considering he knew perfectly well what Sam was ‘up’ to before emerging from his room.

"Oh," Sam’s cheek took a deeper shade of red, Frodo was certain, probably because he too had the same thought, "I thought I might see if there was any pie left."

"Enough for another slice," Frodo remarked, gesturing to the dish in the middle of the table that still had one portion left.

Sam sat down after grabbing a plate and looked at Frodo, "what about you Mister Frodo? What are you doing awake at this time of night."

Frodo paused a moment before he spoke. While he had no wish to embarrass Sam, he had no desire to let his resentment seethe over his lack of sleep either. If they were all going to live together under the same roof, then they were going to have to learn to speak honestly with each other.

"Well I think we have mice in the walls," Frodo responded meeting Sam’s gaze.

"Mice?" Sam brow’s rose in confusion.

"Yes," Frodo nodded. "They seem to make the walls and the floorboards creak."

It took but a brief second for Frodo’s veiled reply to register upon the hobbit but when it did, Frodo was treated to the spectacular sight of Sam’s face turning completely crimson within the blink of an eye.

"Oh Mr. Frodo!" Sam exclaimed aghast. "I had no idea that the…" his words faltered and he struggled to compose himself before speaking again, "that the mice were so loud. I am terribly sorry if it has kept you awake. No wonder you are so disagreeable in the mornings."

"Its alright," Frodo chuckled, "its just ‘mice’."

"Trust me," Sam assured him, "this will never happen again."

"Never happen again?" Frodo stared at him. "I dare say Rosie won’t be happy."

Sam gave Frodo a look and muttered, "you know what I mean."

"I do," Frodo replied, rebuking himself for finding too much amusement in Sam’s discomfiture. "I was thinking that perhaps you might want to clear out the room that used to be Bilbo’s study. I seldom use it since I prefer to do my reading in the parlor," he suggested.

"Clear it out?" Sam stared suspiciously at Frodo.

"Yes," Frodo nodded. "It’s a good deal bigger than the one you and Rosie have and it has a better view."

Sam nodded in understanding, "its also on the other side of the house from your room."

"Exactly," Frodo stated with a smile. "It will certainly see to it that I am not bothered by ‘mice’."

"Mice," Sam said mutely.

"Sam," Frodo spoke up, capturing his best friend’s attention. "This is just a little thing so do not think that I am upset in anyway, I am very glad you and Rosie are here "

"Thank you Mr. Frodo," Sam replied, knowing his friend well enough to know that the sentiment in his voice was genuine.

And they both sat there, sharing pie and talking about inconsequential things before Sam retired to his room and Frodo returned to his, assured that there would be no mice stirring for the rest of the night.

*************

Gimli made his return to Minas Tirith astride his pony; rather surprised at how smoothly the journey had gone once he had accustomed himself to making the trip on horseback. The mare had given him little difficulty as he journeyed from to Minas Tirith to supervise the construction of the mithril gates Aragorn had commissioned him to build. Following the discovery that Eomer had acquired him a gentler animal in replacement of the gelding that had almost killed him, Gimli discovered the business of riding was not as difficult or as painful as initially perceived. The disposition of the mare suited him and though he dared not voice it, reminded him a little of Lorin in that the beast seemed to be infinitely patient and willing to endure the full extent of his temperamental disposition.

All the way to Gondor, Gimli had accustomed himself to the animal’s habits. He soon discovered that other than allowing the mare to know which direction he wished to go, there was very little need to exert himself upon the beast. Most of the time, the pony would continue at a comfortable pace, requiring only a slight tug on the reins to discern which way her master desired to travel. Eomer had been very closed mouth about the gelding he had originally be given and Gimli’s inquiries only resulted in the king muttering angrily without revealing anything about the pony’s whereabouts.

Gimli did not ponder too much the question for Mirkwood Prince the Second, had performed superbly and was allowing him to ride her without any difficulty. He could not deny that he felt very dignified astride the beast and wished Lorin could have seen him riding the pony before he had set out for Minas Tirith. Unfortunately, his business in the White City could not be delayed and so Gimli had set out, hoping to see Legolas who was still aiding Aragorn with the remnants of Sauron’s army.

A smile of devious pleasure crossed the dwarf’s lips when he thought of the mining tools that were secreted in his saddlebag. If he had learnt to ride a horse, then Legolas was certainly going to suffer as he had by learning a skill that was so beyond the natural capabilities of Eldar that Gimli could imagine the shudder on the prince’s face when he presented it to Legolas.

Gimli was going to enjoy that expression a great deal.

"I cannot believe it!" the Prince exclaimed when he and Aragorn greeted Gimli upon the dwarf’s arrival at the palace. "You are actually riding it!"

Gimli climbed out of the saddle unto the courtyard, patting the pony gently on the flank as one of the stable hands led the beast towards the royal stable. He was rather pleased by the reaction of his friends who appeared mildly astonished by the sight of him riding the animal, a thing that was so foreign to dwarfs that it was likely to be a sight that none of them would ever witness again.

"Well I did not have a choice," Gimli said giving Legolas a look. "After all a gift is a gift."

"That is true," Legolas nodded, "but I honestly thought you would be too stubborn to learn to use it."

"It appears that Gimli is a good deal more resourceful then you give him credit, Legolas," Aragorn remarked, very impressed by the dwarf’s accomplishment because Aule’s children were very averse to riding animals of any kind. "Well done Master Dwarf," Aragorn complimented.

"Thank you," Gimli said sincerely appreciating the gesture. "However, now that I have learnt to ride a pony, you must accept my gift."

Legolas’ eyes narrowed in suspicion, his elven senses detecting some form of danger though in what manner he was uncertain. "Gift?"

"Yes," Gimli smiled. "I have for you the finest mining tools that my smiths at Aglarond was able to forge. I look forward to you visiting the Glittering Caves to put them to use."

Aragorn snorted loudly, restraining the guffaw that wanted badly to escape the hand that quickly shot to his mouth.

"Mining? An elf?" he managed to say; though barely able to keep himself from sniggering.

"Mining?" Legolas brows shot up. "Elves do not mine," he quickly pointed.

"And dwarves do not ride but since I have learnt thanks to your gift, I do not see any reason why you could not do the same," Gimli returned smugly.

"He does have a point," Aragorn smirked.

"But…but…but…," Legolas started to stammer.

"Do not worry Prince," Gimli grinned, enjoying the elf’s discomfiture a great deal as he patted Legolas on the back or as much of it he could reach, "I am sure that you will enjoy it as much as I did when I was forced to use your ‘gift’."

"Gimli, perhaps we should talk about this," Legolas suggested nervously as the thought of burrowing under the earth, with mining tools no less, began to impress itself upon his brain with a vengeance.

"Of course we will," Gimli said with a voice so evil, Sauron might have delivered himself it himself. "As soon as I retrieve your tools from my pony. By the way, did I tell you its name?"

***********

"YOU CALLED IT WHAT?"

The stable hand paused in mid step as he heard the outraged exclamation from across the courtyard followed by the sounds of sidesplitting laughter. For a moment, the young lad was ready to swear that the voices belonged to the elven Prince of Mirkwood and the King of Gondor. However, he shook his head of the possibility.

Royalty had too much dignity for that.

************

The day had ended and it was not as terrible as Faramir had envisioned it to be.

Although certain facts remained unchanged, they were realities he was capable of accepting. His brother was dead and he was all that was left of Denethor’s heirs. It hurt to know that his father as well as his brother was dead and buried. Despite their differences, he had loved Denethor and was certain than in his own way, the Steward had loved his second son as well. So much history had died with Denethor, so much tradition had come to a startling end even though Faramir was still the last heir to the legacy of the Ruling Stewards. Aragorn’s establishment as king had changed the world for the better but it had meant the end of that grand past. Faramir had come to accept its demise long ago because in the face of his loss, he had acquired something almost as great.

And she was lying next to him in their bed, drifting gently to sleep.

His heart swelled as he stared at his wife and knew that she was right, he had never lost Boromir, not even in death and he had much to be grateful for. In the face of his overwhelming loss, she had entered his life like a beacon of light that illuminated the darkness of his grief, giving hope by her presence alone. As he watched her sleep, appearing as a Maia spirit with her hair of spun gold and the luster of moonlight across her lashes, he could not help but feel tremendously fortunate that she had entered his life when he thought he was utterly alone.

Although he never told her, she reminded him a great deal of his brother because she had Boromir’s fire and his warrior spirit. She would let no one fight her battles and she would protect those she loved to the death. How could he not love her or think for a moment that he lost his brother when his wife embodied so much of Boromir. Perhaps that is why he felt in love with her from the very first because she was this force of nature that was unique unto herself but also very reminiscent of the brother he would miss until the day he died.

Faramir brushed her hair gently with his fingers, relishing the feel of the soft strands under his palm. Her eyes opened and pools of blue sky stared back at him, her lips curling a little smile at his touch.

"You do not sleep," she said softly.

"When I watch you, there is no need for sleep," he smiled affectionately at her.

"You are such a flatterer," she replied, holding his hand against her cheek as she stared into his face. "Are you alright? I know this day has been hard on you."

"It has," he did not bother to deny it but it was nowhere as bad as it could have been. "However, you being at my side has helped me to endure it and I love you for that."

"It was my pleasure," she answered warmly and paused a moment as she considered her next words. A few seconds passed before she finally spoke.

"I have been thinking and I hope you do not think it presumptuous of me but I would really like this to come to pass when the occasionally arises," Eowyn declared somewhat cautiously, uncertain how he would take her suggestion.

Faramir stared at her intrigued, "what occasion?"

"When the time comes for us to have children, if we have a son, I think we should call him Boromir."

Faramir felt his breath catch and the emotions he felt coursing through him were so thick, he could not speak for a short time. Eowyn’s expression revealed her anxiety as she feared for an instant that she had offended him with the idea. She was almost ready to recant when he spoke up, allaying her fears with his answer.

"I think it is a wonderful idea," Faramir replied, staring at her with eyes full of love before he covered her body with his, showing her unmistakably the full measure of his affection. The idea of naming their son Boromir seemed so right that wherever his brother was in the universe, Faramir was sure Boromir would approve.

************

In the year 1432 as measured by the Shire calendar, Pippin became Thain Peregrin Took the First.

He and his wife, Diamond of Long Cleeves whom he had married a year after their meeting at the library, moved into the Took ancestral home of Great Smials. In the years preceding this, he and Merry had kept in close contact with Gondor and the rest of Middle earth, resulting in the gathering of an impressive collection of books which dealt with the histories of the world beyond the Shire. Diamond with her skills had aided greatly in the creation of this library and though it was of little interest to the folk of the Shire, in later years there would be no greater source of information regarding Númenor and the Exiles following its downfall anywhere in Middle earth. Thanks to the library at Great Smials, the writing of other great texts such as the Tale of Years was made possible while a copy of the Red Book of Westmarch was always kept within its shelves in a place of honor.

Merry after much embarrassment and determination, won the heart of Estella Bolger who refused to see him for a month following their ‘display’ in the library. After enduring the disapproval of the Shire, the outrage of the entire Bolger clan and a near challenge to a duel by rocks with Fatty, Merry managed to convince Estella that he felt more than just carnal desire for her. They were married not long after Pippin and Diamond and shared a passionate and fiery relationship until the end of their days.

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And while the normal life the Fellowship had craved unfolded in a manner that none of them expected, at least they could say it was never dull or ordinary.

Just rather complicated.

THE END

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