Here do I swear fealty
and service to Gondor:
in peace or war,
in living or dying,
from this hour henceforth,
until my lord release me
or death take me.


Pippin stared helplessly after Faramir's retreating figure.

He had stood quietly by one side, filled with disbelief as he watched a father break his son's spirit. The young Captain's shoulders were hunched with the burden of his father's scorn; and Pippin had seen the flash of pain in Faramir's eyes just before the man bowed and turned away, how Faramir's lower lip quivered each time he spoke Boromir's name.

"My lord," Pippin turned to Denethor with an urgent plea in his voice. "Please, let me go to the gates and send off the men. As," he cast about desperately for words, "as someone who has pledged allegiance to Gondor, I wish to salute those who are going into battle."

Denethor gave him a sceptical look, but waved his hand dismissively. "Return to wait on me when I take my feast," was the only order, and as soon as he hastily acknowledged the Steward's command, Pippin was already racing down the hall and out through the heavy doors.

"Faramir!" Pippin burst into the hallway, and looked from side to side r11; he saw the forlorn figure walking ahead, and broke into a run after him. "Faramir, please! Wait!"

In front of him, Pippin saw Faramir's head turn almost imperceptibly. The man kept walking, but his pace slowed considerably, allowing Pippin to catch up. Pippin's bare feet pattered loudly in the cavernous hallway of polished stone until he finally drew level with Faramir, breathless from his chase.

He looked up at Faramir. The young Captain's face was tight and drawn, wearied by more than just the exhaustion of constant battle without reprieve. Faramir's blue eyes were almost sky-dark in the dim light that slanted into the corridor; his lips were pressed in thin, set line, although sadness made the edges of his mouth turn downwards.

Wordlessly, Pippin reached out and took Faramir's right hand, and held it tightly in his.

He felt Faramir tense in surprise; he thought that the man would pull his hand away, but Faramir didn't. Suddenly Pippin realised how foolish his gesture seemed; but every time Merry was sad all Pippin had to do was hold his hand, and eventually Merry would smile again. And now he didn't know what else to do.

Pippin tried to think of something to say; but everything sounded wrong even inside his head, and for once, he heeded Gandalf's advice, and said nothing. He stole another furtive glance up at Faramir r11; and he was surprised to see the sides of Faramir's lips twitching, a wry expression flitting across the man's tired features.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. They must have looked strange together, walking side by side r11; a single slow stride of Faramir's matched by two quick trots from him r11; but Pippin certainly felt no awkwardness. Somehow it just felt right: his small hand clasped within Faramir's broad palm, calloused from years of grasping sword-hilts and drawing bowstrings. Pippin was reminded of Boromir's hands r11; large and strong, closing over Pippin's own small fist when Boromir had taught him and Merry how to use their swords. He wanted to tell Faramir this, but the silence had settled between and around them with such a rare, comfortable familiarity that Pippin did not want to spoil it.

When at last they reached the doors of the chamber at the end of the hall, Faramir finally let go of Pippin's hand, and turned toward him.

"Thank you," said Faramir simply.

Pippin nodded, and gave him a tentative smile. Then, in the manner of the most inquisitive of hobbits, he followed Faramir into his chambers without even being asked.

His eyes widened as he looked around the vast bedchamber. Ivory-coloured pillars upheld a white ceiling high above, and rich green velvet curtains hung over the walls, shielding the windows from view. Pippin had been a guest at Rivendell and Edoras before; but here the prevailing sense of material grandeur seemed more expensive than exquisite, as if the elaborate furnishings were less for decoration than for display.

"This is your room?" Pippin asked.

"No," Faramir answered; his voice faltered briefly before he continued, "It was my brother's."

Faramir stopped by the edge of the large bed, neatly draped with heavy quilts of dark green, the insignia of the Tree of Gondor embroidered in fine gold thread. He stared at the bed for a long moment, and was silent. Pippin raised his head, and waited.

"We passed by my room on the way here, it was second on the left." This was the first time Faramir spoke without being prompted, and Pippin listened intently. "I never liked it much. It faced the bitter East wind, and it was not as well insulated as this one, of course. It was always so cold, and in the distance I could see the black sky pierced with the fiery tower."

Faramir halted; his voice softened, and a small smile of remembrance lifted the edges of his mouth.

"So I would come over here at night," he continued, "and sleep in Boromir's bed with him."

Pippin's eyebrows shot up involuntarily, and he blinked. He wasn't sure if he misunderstood what Faramir was saying, but it certainly sounded like..

"Yes, Master Peregrin, you understand my meaning correctly," Faramir spoke for him; he had evidently been watching the hobbit with a sidelong look, and Pippin blushed profusely. He feared that Faramir would be insulted; but Faramir just moved to sit down on the bed, and continued speaking in a quiet voice.

"Boromir and I spent our nights together, and the way we loved each other was more than just as brothers. But we took great pains to keep this secret from everyone else r11; especially our father." Faramir's mouth pressed into a hard line. "Now that you are in his service, I suppose you can begin to understand why. If he had known the truth, he would probably have had me tied by the limbs to horses and dragged across Pelennor Fields until dead."

"He wouldn't!" Pippin exclaimed, horrified, before he could stop himself.

"Oh yes." Faramir's lips twisted in a thin grimace. "If even Boromir believed it to be true, there is no question what my father is capable of. You see," bitterness crept into his voice, "he would not have understood what Boromir and I shared r11; and even if he did discern it in his wildest imaginings, he would never have been able to accept it. No. He would only have seen it as his beloved firstborn son, being seduced by his devious younger brother."

Faramir paused, and seemed to catch himself; he looked at Pippin, and smiled wanly.

"That is why our father will never know the way I loved my brother," he said staunchly, "or the way Boromir loved me. Some things are better kept secret forever r11; I do not even know why I am telling you all this now." He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Perhaps is it because Boromir is already dead, and I will soon follow him."

All this talk of Boromir was stirring a glimmer of remembrance in Pippin's mind. His thoughts flashed back to that fateful day in the woods of Amon Hen where Boromir had met his end r11; a fleeting recollection danced just beyond his grasp, and he tried to pin it down.

"Faramir," Pippin suddenly said; he spoke the name softly, drawing out each syllable with a gentle lilt, as if lost in a distant thought.

Faramir glanced at the hobbit inquiringly. Pippin remained silent for a moment longer, before he seemed to realise that he had spoken out loud. He snapped out of his reverie and looked at Faramir.

"What is it?" Faramir asked, his brow furrowing. "Is something wrong?"

"Sorry," Pippin said, mildly embarrassed. "Nothing's wrong. It's just that r11;" he broke off, as if struggling to find the right words. "I don't know if I should say this r11; I mean, I could very well be wrong about it, and Merry will tell you that I am known to be wrong about a lot of things..."

"Pippin," interrupted Faramir, firmly but not unkindly.

"Yes, what I mean to say is," Pippin babbled hastily, and then bit his lip. He did not know how to tell Faramir what he wanted to say. He scooted closer to Faramir, who was still sitting on Boromir's bed, and raised his eyes to hold Faramir's gaze.

"I don't know if Boromir meant for me to tell you this, some day," Pippin began.

At the mention of Boromir's name he saw a flinch of grief cross Faramir's worn features, like a deeper shadow passing by. Once again, Pippin instinctively reached out and took Faramir's hand in his own; and he was surprised to feel Faramir's fingers immediately respond, closing tightly over his. The warmth of the man's palm was comforting, and calmed Pippin enough for him to know that he was doing the right thing.

"I was there by your brother's side, when he fell," Pippin said; he felt his voice constrict, but he steeled himself to keep speaking. "Boromir fought bravely, and gave his life to save us. He also spoke often of Gondor, of his home here in Minas Tirith," Pippin recalled the snatches of conversation between Aragorn and Boromir that he had overheard in Lórien. "He greatly missed his homeland, but he was determined to do everything he could to keep safe the ones he loved."

At this point Pippin had to stop and take a deep breath; and he realised that Faramir's hand was gripping his very tightly. He squeezed Faramir's palm back as firmly as he could.

"And you, Faramir," Pippin continued softly, "he never forgot you. Even... even when he knew that it was over." A hitch threatened to break his words, and Pippin swallowed hard. "Boromir's voice was only a whisper r11; but in his dying breath he spoke your name."

Pippin closed his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek; his lips moved, almost soundlessly, wrapping around the single word the way Boromir's had: "Faramir."

Then he stifled a sob and fell silent, for there were no more words. He had said what he wanted to.

When Pippin opened his eyes again, he was startled to see how close Faramir was to him; and his heart clenched to see the raw desolation in Faramir's eyes, before dark blond lashes lowered to the floor. The man said nothing for a long while, and Pippin stared at him helplessly. What was that Gandalf had said about speaking? Oh yes, that he shouldn't do it. Especially not here in Minas Tirith.

Faramir finally broke the long silence.

"Thank you for telling me this," Faramir said, his voice wrought with emotion. Pippin had seen him hold up stoically against Denethor's scathing criticism; but at the mention of his beloved brother, Faramir's strength was unravelling, and his battle to retain control was a losing one.

"It does not make the anguish of losing Boromir any less," Faramir continued, after a deep intake of breath. "But it does bring me a sense of peace, to know that I was in his thoughts during his very last moments r11; the same way he will be in mine."

"No, Faramir," Pippin said pleadingly, "don't say things like that, you're not going to r11;"

"Your presence here and the words you have spoken have been a great comfort to me, more than you could ever know," Faramir stroked his hand through the curls of Pippin's hair, then curved his palm to tilt Pippin's chin upwards. It was strangely reminiscent of Denethor's gesture r11; only that Faramir's manner was gentle and kind, the touch of a friend instead of a master.

"Thank you, dear Pippin," Faramir said tenderly. "And farewell."

"No, Faramir, you will return," Pippin insisted, desperation rising in his voice. "You will return, and you will make your father so proud of you."

"Wish not that I will return," Faramir said quietly. He slipped from the bed, and knelt down in front of Pippin. "For if I do, it will be in disgrace, and to my father's displeasure."

Faramir paused, and his mouth lifted in a sad smile.

"Hope instead that I will meet my end with honour, and that death will come swiftly and with least suffering." He looked up, and his eyes shone with a new strength. "And then I will be with him again."

"No," Pippin said, shaking his head; then more forcefully, "No."

"I am not afraid," Faramir said calmly, as if he were comforting Pippin.

"It is not your time, Faramir," Pippin whispered; his eyes stung with tears and his vision blurred. "Don't let go of all hope."

Faramir gazed at him for a long moment; he reached his other hand forward, and his fingertips were a gentle caress on Pippin's cheek.

"Have you ever loved someone so much that living without him does not feel like life at all?" Faramir's voice was soft, filled with wistfulness. "You have known him all your life, and he has always been there for you, to hold you in your tears, to comfort you when it seems like no hope is left r11;"

Faramir's voice cracked, fractured with such pain and suppressed grief that Pippin's eyes watered even more, tears flowing freely now.

"Then you realise that there is always hope," Faramir finished quietly. "And you realise that he is your hope."

Faramir bowed his head; his hands dropped away from Pippin's face, and hung limply by his sides. To Pippin it seemed like Faramir was struggling with an onslaught of memories, which threatened to break his composure and his spirit.

When Faramir finally looked up again, his eyes glistened with tears.

"And when he is gone," he said softly, "you start to forget what you are living for."

The silence that fell between them was abrupt, heavy and stifling like an oppressive wind from the East. Pippin stared at Faramir; then he stretched out his hand, and with trembling fingers wiped away the single tear that ran down Faramir's face. The man was silent; but his hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Faramir," Pippin said in a choked voice. "Please say that you'll come back. There is someone I want to introduce to you. My friend Merry knew your brother also, and I want him to meet you." He paused, and gave a tearful smile. "You give hope."

"We will see," Faramir said with a heavy sigh, as he pulled away from Pippin and got to his feet. He turned, and stepped away. "It has been long since we had any hope."

"That is not what I meant," Pippin swallowed hard to keep his voice steady. "I want him to meet the one who was Boromir's hope."

Faramir stopped in his tracks. He stood still for a long moment; he did not look back, or say another word, but he didn't need to. Pippin knew.

---

It seemed as if the crowd that had gathered to bid farewell to their men were already mourning. They lined the narrow streets of Minas Tirith, with flowers in their hands; and when Faramir, Captain of Gondor, appeared at the helm of his host, a sombre silence fell upon all.

Pippin hurried through the crowd, pushing his way forward so he could run ahead of the procession of riders. In his hand he held a single white flower. He caught sight of a pedestal a distance away, which stood in the courtyard just within the Gates; having scaled the tower to light the beacons, this was easy work.

Just as he balanced himself on the edge of the pedestal, holding on to the statue for support, Faramir and his men came into view. Faramir's face was grim but resolute; he wore the expression of one who knew his end had come, and was ready to meet it.

"Faramir!" Pippin called out; his voice reverberated loudly in the woeful silence, and all heads turned toward him.

Faramir halted, and looked directly at him. For a moment, Pippin was afraid that Faramir would be angry; but then a faint smile flitted across Faramir's face, and with a turn of his wrist he nudged his horse to pass closer to the pedestal upon which Pippin stood.

Pippin raised the white flower that he clasped in his hand, and held it out to Faramir.

"I will await your return," Pippin whispered.

Faramir gazed at the flower, then at Pippin. He said nothing for a moment that seemed to stretch endlessly. Pippin did not take his eyes off Faramir, and suddenly it didn't matter that the whole host of men and horses had come to a complete standstill for the two of them.

Finally Faramir reached out and took the flower from Pippin's hand. Their fingers brushed as Faramir's hand closed delicately over the stem. He still said nothing, only looked straight into Pippin's eyes and nodded, once.

Then the stillness passed, and movement stirred around them once more as Faramir spurred his horse and continued the march towards the Gates. The clap of hooves echoed on the cobblestone, marking their final stand against the forces of Mordor. The gate opened for them, and beyond lay Osgiliath, a tainted jewel in the shadow of darkness and death.

Pippin watched Faramir lead his men onto the fields of Pelennor; the last he saw was the horses being rallied into a single row as they galloped towards Osgiliath. Then the gate closed, sealing them from view. Pippin remained where he was for a moment; then he climbed down the pedestal, and began the long, uphill walk back to the Citadel to fulfil his pledge of service.

---

Pippin sang a song of woe and sorrow, a dirge for great halls and evil times; he sang of what was left behind and the darkness ahead, and the unknown perils that lay between.

Then he bowed his head, and wept.

He wept for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, gentle in manner and broken in spirit; a forsaken son who only wanted to do his father's will, and a brother who still grieved terribly for the one he dearly loved, the true depth of which no one else would really understand.

He wept for Merry, whom he missed so terribly. In the snatches of dreams between lapses of troubled sleep, Pippin dreamed of Merry: his lopsided grin, his bark of hearty laughter, the twinkle in his eyes that never seemed to fade; only that it had, in the stables, when Pippin looked at Merry and saw only fear and sadness.

And then you realise that he is your hope.

He tried to smoke the longbottom leaf that Merry had gave him; but without Merry savouring it by his side the weed tasted like ash in his mouth, and the smoke stung his eyes and gave him a reason to cry some more.

And when he is gone, you start to forget what you are living for.

---

Pippin stood alone at the balcony outside his room. The sky was darkening, like a smear of ink from the horizon that slowly spread to cover all. The eerie stillness of the air was broken only by the occasional blast of orc horns in the distance.

He shivered, and turned away.

On his bed lay the uniform of the Tower Guard, the smallest set that could be found to fit him. It had been Faramir's, he had been told, when Faramir was just a boy. Now it was his, and the bittersweet irony brought a sting of tears to his eyes.

Slowly Pippin picked up the uniform, and turned it over in his hands. The material was soft, well-worn; and Pippin imagined what it might have been like when Faramir had donned this same suit of armour for the first time.

Was he smiling, his eyes filled with excitement and pride, as he turned around and inspected his reflection in the mirror? Did he laugh and run straight over to Boromir's room, eager to show off to his older brother the young soldier of Gondor he had become? Did Boromir take him by the hand and walk him down to their father's hall, and was Boromir there to hold him afterwards and soothe away the pain of their father's disdainful indifference?

A long, deafening blast of orc trumpets crowed, startling Pippin from his reverie. The terrible noise resounded loud and heavy in the falling gloom of night, and Pippin dropped the uniform on his bed and ran to the balcony. What he saw made his blood run cold.

Osgiliath was teeming like a nest of ants, spilling over onto the fields of Pelennor in what seemed like endless battalions of orcs r11; the trumpets sounded like a battle cry and a mockery, heralding that the doom of Minas Tirith was near.

And somewhere Pippin knew a white flower lay crushed on a battlefield stained with blood.

---

Faramir was alive, Pippin realised with a jolt. He was badly wounded, but he was not dead, he was alive.

"He's alive!" Pippin called out, barely able to believe it himself.

He stroked back damp strands of Faramir's hair. The man's forehead burned against his palm, likely from the poison in the orc arrows that had pierced his armour, but there was warmth in his blood nonetheless. Pippin leaned over Faramir and shook him slightly; and Faramir's lips moved, caught in a fevered dream of death.

"He needs medicine, my lord!" Pippin shouted urgently.

But as orcs chanted and the drums of the enemy bellowed, no one listened to him. He clung to Faramir, but hands firmly pushed him off, and bore the unconscious Captain away.

"No!" Pippin yelled; but he was swept aside in the ensuing commotion after Gandalf unceremoniously relieved Denethor of his lordship, and shouted for the men to prepare for battle. Soldiers rushed in all directions to carry out orders, and Pippin was pushed to the ground and almost stepped on more times than he could remember. But each time he struggled to his feet again, a new determination blazing inside him.

Little hobbits did not belong in war.

But he was a Guard of the Citadel; and more than that, he had a promise to keep.

---

Why did you look, Merry had snapped as they had hurried after Gandalf to the stables in Edoras. Merry's eyes had flashed with anger, and something more. Why do you always have to look?

Pippin couldn't help it. But sometimes, sometimes, he actually found what he was looking for.

It was because he went looking that he found Denethor leading his guards along Rath Dínen, towards the House of the Stewards, the final resting place of his forefathers. On the guards' shoulders they bore Faramir, lying motionless.

It was because he went looking that Pippin finally found Gandalf, after battling through a tide of soldiers running in the opposite direction, to tell him that Denethor had gone mad and was going to burn Faramir alive.

Pippin didn't know what possessed him to leap through the fire, or attempt to drag a man more than twice his weight over the edge of a burning pyre. He didn't know how he didn't feel the flames that blazed around him until much later, when streaks of burnt skin on his face and limbs turned red and sore.

Perhaps it was because he had made a promise to Faramir, that he would await his return. Perhaps it was because Boromir had died to save him and Merry, and now Pippin felt that this was the least he could do in return: to save the life of someone whom Boromir had loved.

"Faramir," Pippin called desperately, dropping to his knees next to the man. "Oh please, Faramir, wake up."

Faramir's eyes fluttered open; he blinked in the glare of the burning pyre. A flicker of surprise crossed Faramir's face as he looked up at Pippin, and recognition set in.

"You have returned, Faramir," Pippin whispered, smiling at him through tears. "You're safe now."

Faramir gazed at him for a moment more, before his eyelids fluttered closed again; his chest heaved in a sigh, and Pippin knew Faramir had heard him. He crawled closer, and wrapped his arms around Faramir.

And there Pippin stayed, holding Faramir tightly, until the healers finally came. And only on Gandalf's stern order did Pippin finally let Faramir go, to let him be taken to the Houses of Healing.

So it turned out that they managed to save Faramir from succumbing to a death by fire, after he had survived death in battle. And it was because he couldn't help looking.

Merry would be proud of him.

If only Pippin had the chance to tell it to him, one day.

To tell him that, and so much more.

---

Pippin lingered restlessly in the corridor outside Boromir's chambers. He had come straight here from the Houses of Healing, after checking in on Merry (who was still asleep at this time of morning, making best use of the luxuries of his convalescence) and learning that Faramir had recovered enough to leave the healers' care.

Only two days had passed since Aragorn healed Faramir of the poison that had touched him deeply; and Faramir probably could have done with a little more rest, Pippin guessed, but there were many sick and wounded in Minas Tirith and knowing Faramir, he would have deemed that they needed attention more than he did.

Pippin knocked hesitantly on the door, and waited. There was no answer for some time; Pippin moved forward and carefully opened the door just a crack, and peeped in.

Faramir was there, as he had expected. The man was sitting on the edge of Boromir's vast bed; he seemed lost in thought, and didn't appear to have heard Pippin at all. In Faramir's hands he held the cloven horn of his brother.

"Faramir," Pippin called out softly, taking a tentative step forward into the room.

Faramir's head turned in his direction; when he saw Pippin, a warm smile replaced the pensive sadness on Faramir's face, and he got to his feet.

Several quick strides brought him to Pippin's side; Faramir dropped to his knees next to him, and before Pippin could say anything else, he found himself being muffled in a tight, fervent embrace. Faramir's arms were strong, encircling him and holding him close, and it didn't take long for Pippin to close his eyes and bury his face in Faramir's shoulder, losing himself in fresh, musky scent of the man, the warm, comforting touch of his body.

When he finally felt Faramir pull back, Pippin's eyes fluttered open to gaze into eyes of deep blue-green, like the waters of the Brandywine on a summer's day.

"I said I would wait for you to come back," Pippin said softly.

"Thank you," Faramir whispered; his voice was coarse around the edges, and as he spoke he placed a hand tenderly on Pippin's face, never once breaking eye contact. "Thank you for keeping your promise."

And then Faramir leaned forward, and his hand tilted Pippin's head slightly to one side to plant a kiss to his cheek; but just at the last moment Pippin turned his face against the guidance of Faramir's hand, and their lips brushed instead. Ever so gently, and Pippin felt Faramir draw a sharp intake of breath; Pippin reached forward and placed both hands on Faramir's face, holding him there as he pressed their lips fully together in a chaste kiss.

When they both drew apart, Pippin's eyes sought Faramir's with some measure of uncertainty. Their eyes met, and held for a long moment; then Faramir smiled, and it was all Pippin needed to see.

As Faramir got to his feet, something occurred to Pippin.

"Faramir," Pippin began, "did you know they gave me your old uniform to wear? The one you had when you were a boy?"

"Did they?" Faramir glanced down at him. "I received that when I was thirteen. How did you like it?"

"It's a fine suit of armour," Pippin replied, and then hesitated; but Faramir noticed, and raised an inquiring eyebrow. Pippin looked at him sheepishly, and continued, "I was just wondering... how did you feel, when you put it on for the first time?"

There was a pause; Faramir said nothing, and Pippin wondered if his question had been too personal.

"I didn't," Faramir finally answered. "Boromir did. He put it on for me."

"Huh." Pippin considered for a moment. "So then, I suppose that's some sort of a ceremonial... thing?"

"No, it isn't." Faramir's lips twitched in amusement. "We didn't need an excuse for that."

Oh. Pippin blinked, and then, Oh.

Faramir sobered, and a faraway look glazed his eyes, as if he was caught away by a cherished memory; distant, but never forgotten.

"Now he is gone," he said, very softly. "And life goes on. But I've started to forget what there is left to live for."

"For him," Pippin said quietly. He looked up at Faramir. "Live for him. He would have wanted you to."

A flash of emotion crossed Faramir's features; he was quiet for a while, although he looked up in mild surprise when Pippin reached out and took hold of his hand. A new light shone in Faramir's eyes; and for the first time Pippin saw that beyond the pain, there was acceptance.

Faramir took a deep breath and nodded, once. And Pippin knew that he understood.

"Come on," Pippin said; he tugged lightly on Faramir's hand, and felt Faramir's fingers close over his own. "There's someone I want you to meet."