Title: For the City
Story:  "Honor"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: PG  this chapter (NC-17 later)
Pairing:  Merry/Pippin, Pippin/Faramir
Warnings:  interspecies
Category:  Drama, Romance

Disclaimer:  All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit
from this but give me feedback and I'm a happy lass.

Summary:   Pippin thinks of a way to prove to Merry he's all grown out.

Notes:   Finally, the last tale!  This one will likely be the longest, as we have plenty
to wrap up.  Dialogue this chapter from 

*****

"It is plain indeed that in spite of later estrangement Hobbits are relatives of ours:
far nearer to us than Elves, or even than Dwarves.  Of old they spoke the languages of
Men, after their own fashion, and liked and disliked much the same things as Men did.
But what exactly our relationship is can no longer be discovered."

--  J.R.R. Tolkien, "Concerning Hobbits",  Fellowship of the Ring.



**After a space of many years when Hobbits and Men had little dealings, there came to
pass events which forced four hobbits to leave their lands and roam the wide world,
learning of Men, and of Dwarves, and of Elves.  There they found the lands of Men, and
with great Men they did learn of strength and loyalty, wisdom and honor.  This is the
tale of Hobbits and Men.**


Tale Three:  "Honor" 

*****

Chapter 1: For the City 



Pippin's first impressions of Minas Tirith were a blur of images. 



First, the ride there was a blur in and of itself--Shadowfax had almost flown over the
land, never stopping, his gait so smooth that Pippin had slept much of the way. There had
been a small break at Edoras to warn the Rohirrim of the movements of the Enemy--that
break had been cut short by the flight of another Black Rider overhead. In the midst of
his fright, Pippin's thoughts had gone to Merry--poor Merry, all alone with the strange
Big Folk and riding to war! But then it had just been land speeding by, and Gandalf's
voice droning on about the history of Gondor and the palantiri, all of which of course
went in one ear and immediately out the other. 



But then they arrived, and Pippin began to realize how very *big* everything was in a
city of Men--he'd gotten a small sense of it in Bree, but there had still been hobbits
there, at least some hobbit-sized things. Here, everything was large. 



And the Men! The Men of Bree were largely fat, and slow of movement and thought, rather
like common barn animals. Next to them the Men of Gondor were sleek horses of Rohan,
muscled and tall, looking daunting in their armor, busy as bees preparing the city for
assault. Now most of the men were unremarkable, nothing as fair as Boromir, or with the
hidden power and charisma Aragorn possessed. But here and there Pippin saw fair heads
with bearded faces and gray eyes, and he was intrigued. He would never ever admit it to
Merry, but he'd found Boromir quite attractive. Not that he'd planned to do anything
about it. 



Pippin sighed and muttered to himself, thoughts turning to Merry. Oh why had they had to
leave things unfinished like that! Yes, Merry had been worried; yes, he'd been trying
only to comfort Pippin. How marvelous that had felt to have Merry's lips claiming him,
the smooth slide of his tongue! Oh, Pippin wanted more of it; he wanted to explore
everything. But Merry didn't want him; he'd said so several times now. He still thought
Pippin was too young. 



Pippin was going to show him. Maybe with one of these Men. 



His thoughts were turned sharply aside from that when Gandalf introduced him to the
Steward. Boromir’s father. Pippin did his best to answer Denethor's initial questions
regarding his son, feeling that angry grief pouring through him again—if he had been
bigger and faster, perhaps he could have helped the brave Man! He had done his best with
his short sword; between himself and Merry, they had divested quite a few orcs of heads
and hands, but it hadn’t been enough. There had been simply too many of them. He wanted
to tell Denethor this, how valiantly Boromir had fought, how noble a sacrifice he had
made, but it only underlined the basic truth. Boromir had traded his life for Merry and
Pippin. Such honor, Pippin had never seen before, short of when Gandalf fell for all
their sakes—but that was different. Gandalf hadn’t truly died. Boromir was quite
assuredly gone. He had left the hobbits a debt to live up to, to make his sacrifice
worthwhile. And since Merry wasn’t here right now, it was up to Pippin to repay the
father. 



Pippin knew just what he needed to do. 



He offered Denethor his sword. His service. And his life. 



Pippin found it very hard, telling Lord Denethor about the death of Boromir; he still
felt somewhat responsible for it, and the more he talked, the more it hit home for him.
Boromir was no more. There would be no more tackling him during sword practice, no more
of his witty banter and growling for Pippin to be quiet and stop with the questions
already. No more being held and protected by him in freezing snow storms. Pippin thought
of the gentler side of him, when he hadn’t been fighting, the way his green eyes crinkled
when he smiled. A lump formed in his throat and he was hard pressed to eat even a morsel. 



And yet always he felt Gandalf and Denethor’s eyes on him, and remembered Gandalf’s words
to be cautious about not saying too much. It only made the telling harder, torn between
that and what all he really wanted to say, how Boromir had been such good friends with
him and Merry. 



And that of course only underlined the feeling that neither of them were nearby. 



That he might not ever see Merry again either. 



Thus it was that, after the meeting was done and Denethor dismissed him, Pippin was in
much need of cheer. Gandalf was busy, as usual, but he did meet one Beregond of the Guard
who took him up to the ramparts to see the lands about, then to the mess hall to meet all
the soldiers of his company. 



Pippin looked upon the faces of the men as they entered the hall, at their smart uniforms
of black and silver and the gleam of swords and helmets and chain mail. At first he felt
a touch awkward, this tiny hobbit in the midst of all these large strong men, but they
honored him with the title “Prince of the Halflings” and asked tales of his homeland. He
was surprised by their demeanor. Rather than thinking he was small, weak, and useless as
he had always felt in the company of the Fellowship with men like Aragorn and Boromir,
they suddenly made him feel like he was a hero. Apparently surviving being chased by orcs
in Moria or seeing a balrog or elves in Lothlorien or –ugh—being captured by Uruk Hai was
not an average soldiering experience. 



“Ha, and what of soldiering in your Shire? Are there ranks of Halflings like yourself
sitting back in mess halls, drinking and talking like here? We’ve noticed you’re a stout
drinker despite your years. Are all Halflings as fair as you as well?” The last there
came with a slight blush to the cheek and a grin from one younger soldier, a blond-haired
blue-eyed young man looking just past maturity himself. Pippin felt his own face flush
and couldn’t help but preen a little. See, Merry, he told himself. It might be hidden,
but it’s here too. And I’m not such a fool I can’t see it. 



Pipppin sat close to the young man. "I'm fair? Oh, not half as fair as the Men here--we
hobbits are plain people. But aye; we're healthy drinkers. I claim special skill to that,
thanks to the Took in my blood." He laughed and the young man laughed too, bumping in
against him. Pippin grinned and leaned in against the soldier. He thought perhaps he
could have found a companion right there, except then the men had to go back to duty
shortly after that, just when he thought he was getting somewhere. They bid him farewell
as they donned their helmets and made for their positions. Pippin sighed in
disappointment. And Beregond had to leave as well. Pippin had tried throwing him a glance
or two, but the Man hadn’t caught it. Either he saw Pippin as a youngling to be coddled,
or he wasn’t interested. Or he was saving himself for someone else. 



The rest of the evening Pippin spent with Bergil, Beregond's son, and that was fun. There
was plenty to see and do in the city, and watching all the armies come in by the gate was
a spectacle, but by the end, Pippin wished for older company, especially when he forgot
himself and almost swore in front of the boy. 



It was growing late in the evening--time for Bergil to return, so Pippin walked the boy
home, then went back to eat in the mess hall with Beregond, but now Pippin wasn't really
in the mood to talk, realizing there was indeed a war coming here. Maybe *he* wouldn't
live to find Merry again. It was with a heavy heart and much worry he returned to
Gandalf's chambers. And still no Gandalf. 



Not until the next morning--or next day, anyway. The Darkness had come--it looked like it
should be night, but Gandalf insisted it was morning, and that Denethor was waiting for
him. 



It was a long weary day, a day of darkness both of the skies and of Denethor's thought,
and afterwards on the wall with Beregond, the cries of the Nazgul drove home to Pippin
the fact this very likely *would* be his death here, fighting fell things from the East,
even as he watched Gandalf ride out and help Faramir reach the city. 



Faramir--for the last two days it had been all the people spoke of, even Gandalf.
Faramir, noble Faramir--he was a legend here, a hero who could face any enemy and not
flinch. And that was obviously true--he had fought through the Black Riders to come! Such
a Man--Pippin had to see for himself. Beregond, Pip knew was more than half in love with
him, and after all the things he had heard, Pippin was beginning to feel the same way. 



He fought his way to the front of the crowd as Gandalf and his horse passed by, and
Faramir strode up. 



Ohh. Pippin felt a pleasant flutter in his belly, as he caught sight of a dark figure
cloaked in green, at a long straight nose and blue blue eyes and red honey beard and
hair. This was Boromir's brother. The fairer of the two, to Pippin's mind, and gentler-
looking, more refined. Pippin could see the weariness in his face, the steadfast
resolution against impossible odds. And the determination and bravery to face it. Pippin
found his heart pounding suddenly with much more than excitement, something he had not
felt since the time long past when he had realized he loved Merry and wanted him. Faramir
was a man one could die for. And he was beautiful. 



It wasn't with any real intent to get the Man's attention that Pippin began to call his
name--everyone was calling for Faramir. Why should the Steward's son heed one little
voice in the crowd? But he did hear. Faramir heard, and what was more, he turned around
and looked straight at Pippin. 



Pippin's stomach gave an odd little flip. He found himself staring into the blue eyes,
noticing the slightly parted red lips. And flushing head to toe with some very
interesting thoughts running pell mell through his skull. 



Faramir stared open mouthed at him. 



"Whence come you? A Halfling, and in the livery of the Tower! Whence . . . " Pippin's
face lit up and he grinned--Faramir knew of hobbits? He was interested in knowing more
about him? He wanted to talk, to ask questions of his own. But Gandalf took Faramir
aside, and Pippin fretted, fearing he would be taken into a chamber and locked away, and
that would be it; Pippin would not get to see more of him. Instead Gandalf put an arm on
Pippin's shoulder as well, reminding him of his duties to serve Denethor--ah--and come
with them. With Faramir. 



Pippin nodded eagerly, falling into step, blushing a little as he gazed up at the tall
man walking next to Gandalf, grinning even wider when he saw the eyes flick down over
him, a slight color touch the pale cheeks. 



Thoughts of Merry were very far away for the moment.

*****

TBC

*****

Title: For the Son
Story:  "Honor"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: PG  this chapter (NC-17 later)
Pairing:  Merry/Pippin, Pippin/Faramir
Warnings:  interspecies
Category:  Drama, Romance

Disclaimer:  All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit
from this but give me feedback and I'm a happy lass.

Summary:   Pippin thinks of a way to prove to Merry he's all grown out.

Notes:   Yes, after a VERY long pause . . . the muse is recovering.  Slowly. ?

*****

Chapter 2: For the Son 





All throughout Faramir's report to his father, Pippin's eye was fixed on him in wonder.
In fascination. And aye, he admitted it, with keen interest as well. The more Faramir
talked, the more Pippin was taken with him. Here was Boromir's strength in a more focused
form, razor sharp, keen-eyed, sharp-witted and poised. Faramir dealt with his father's
acid barbs with a grace and wisdom, and every time his gaze strayed to Pippin, the hobbit
felt a jolt of heat shoot through him, sudden butterflies in his stomach. Perhaps it was
just politeness that made Faramir acknowledge him too--but what was he but a guard who
couldn't even really guard anything, waiting a few feet behind Denethor, only there to
push Gandalf's patience to the edge so that Denethor could learn more than Gandalf wanted
him to know. 



Oh, but when Faramir talked of Frodo and Sam! Pippin was so close to shouting out; he
only barely held himself back, but in his face he knew his relief and questions were
clear to read. And Faramir read them, holding him with his blue eyes for long moments as
he spoke, as Pippin's cheeks grew warmer and warmer, and his breeches became tight. A
ridiculous thought occurred to him. Frodo had lain with Aragorn. And Faramir had met
Frodo. Had they . . . 



Of course it was a silly thought, a shameful thought. Frodo and Sam were going into
Mordor! Were already there, by the sound of Faramir's account, and Gandalf looked
dismayed! 



"Cirith Ungol? Morgul Vale?" Gandalf asked, standing suddenly. "When did you part with
them? When would they reach that accursed valley?" 



Faramir was suddenly unsure of his actions, and Pippin found himself wanting to move
forward, to comfort him. He'd done right by letting Frodo go! How could he ever think ill
of that? But that Denethor . . . 



"Your bearing is lowly in my presence, yet it is long now since you turned from your own
way at my counsel." Denethor went on, and Pippin didn't understand all of it, but it
seemed Faramir's father was much displeased by him. By the sounds of it, though, it
didn't sound like he was ever pleased, that it was supposed to have been Faramir, not
Boromir at all who went to Rivendell. Denethor's words were harsh, punishing. Blaming the
death of the entire city on Faramir's actions. Pippin's jaw set with disapproval. 



By the time the talk was over, all Pippin wanted to do was talk to Faramir alone, know
more of the man's time with his friends--just as Gandalf had warned him not to be too
free with his tongue around Denethor, he knew Faramir had held much back. And he wanted
to assure Faramir that his actions had been correct. He felt an urge to wrap his small
arms around Faramir's tall slender frame and just . . . oh dear. His imagination was just
far too active. Faramir would never want that. 



Would he? 



Well, it was not to be, he knew--it was a dark starless night, and though no dawn would
come, still they had to get what rest they could. He tried to soothe his fears about
Frodo and Sam--why ever had they agreed to let Gollum of all creatures? guide them?!--by
talking to Gandalf. 



Gandalf said little to make him feel better. 



So he tried to sleep, and after a while, he could hear Gandalf's snores--the wizard might
be able to beat off a balrog, but Pippin had yet to hear him sleep without a full chorus
of sound. He was suddenly reminded of the night with the Palantir. 



His curiosity, his desire was eating him alive. Sleep would not come. 



Well, Faramir was not a magical stone with a direct path to Sauron, now was he? Faramir
was a hero, and a noble man, and with such gentle, haunted eyes . . . Pippin thought
about the shudder he had seen go through the man when Denethor mentioned those awful
Black Riders in the sky. 



Well, he was here to serve the Steward. Perhaps he was honor-bound to make amends for the
damage Denethor did as well, right? He should apologize to Faramir for the harsh words,
and then he could learn more about Frodo. 



And look into those eyes some more. And touch him? Perhaps? 



Like a mouse, Pippin drew his clothes back on, listening carefully to be sure he did not
wake Gandalf. 



Then he stole down the hall to Faramir's room. 



*** 



The door looked impossibly huge. Solid. Strong. The hallway was blanketed in darkness,
but for an odd torch in the wall sconces here and there. Pippin raised his small fist,
wondering--was Faramir already asleep? Would he be angry if Pippin awoke him? And would
Pippin even be able to make more than a peep on such a solid door? 



He rapped as hard as he could. It barely made a patter. He waited long moments, debating
knocking again, giving up . . . kicking the door, maybe? 



Just as he was about to try that, there was the click of the handle being turned. He
waited, heart in throat, as the door slowly opened. 



The door opened a crack, and Pippin looked up into blue blue eyes--exhausted eyes,
haunted eyes, but eyes which were definitely not misted with sleep, and a face that
looked very much in need of the comfort he had come to provide. 



"Somehow, I did not think you would be sleeping, sir." Pippin's voice sounded loud in the
silence, even hushed as it was. 



Faramir appeared very surprised to see him, but he opened the door wider, and Pippin
could see the Man was dressed for bed in a light chemise and hosen against the chill
night. The Man stood for a long moment, studying Pippin, and Pippin swore he saw a little
brush of tongue over the Man's red lips. Heat pooled in his groin. 



"May I help you . . . Peregrin?" Faramir faltered on the name, apparently unsure how to
address Pippin. 



"Pippin, please; it's what everyone calls me. Peregrin is only for my parents to use when
they are upset," Pippin said with a wink and a smile, flushing a little at Faramir's
study of him. "I'm terribly sorry if I did wake you, but I was very curious when you
mentioned other Halflings, and I didn't really agree with what your father said to you,
and well, I . . . I wanted to come and see to your needs!" He ended with a rush, blushing
furiously, thinking exactly what kinds of needs he really wanted to see to, but would
Faramir ever want that? Or would he be like Merry and insist Pippin was too young? It was
only for comfort! They were both unhappy--why shouldn't they?! 



It was only because he was actually watching for it that he saw it: Faramir blushed.
Pippin was quite sure of it--Faramir had lovely skin the color of peaches, and there was
a faint rose tint on his cheekbones, and if Pippin was not mistaken, Faramir was leaning
over a little, his shirt falling loose--was he trying to hide something. Pippin just
smiled his innocent smile--the one he used whenever his Da asked if he'd been stealing
apples from the kitchen. "Please, Faramir. I knew your brother well. I am heavily in his
debt. May I come in?" 



That seemed to decide Faramir; whatever he'd been thinking, he gave a little shake to his
head, as if to ward it off, and opened the door wide. Pippin needed no more
encouragement; he walked right in, looking around for a suitable place to sit. He looked
to the bed, smiling a little. He was dressed mostly for bed, with only his shirt and
breeches, and his elven cloak to keep out the chill. He glanced back at Faramir, gauging
how far he could push him. 



"The chairs are rather uncomfortable for someone my size. Might we sit on the bed?" 



"I--yes. Of course." Faramir's voice was low, soft, and Pippin felt things melting inside
him at the sound of it--he wanted to reach out both his hands and enfold them around the
tall Man and tell him everything was going to be okay--Frodo and Sam would get rid of
that wretched Ring and Aragorn would come, and Merry, and Gandalf would deal with
Denethor. Instead, he gently took Faramir's hand. Faramir looked at him again,
searchingly. Was it Pippin's imagination to see longing in his face? 



Pippin led Faramir over to the bed, and not wanting to embarrass the Man further with
having to lift him up, he simply climbed up the bed sheets, finding himself a nice
comfortable spot sitting with the pillows to his back. He watched as Faramir's eyes moved
around the room, picking out where he should sit. Pippin tsked. "If you sit way over in
the chair there, I'll barely be able to see you. Come sit; it's all right. I promise you
I don't bite, and I only pinch my cousin." He tried to laugh, but the thought of how far
Merry was cut it short. Pippin
miss my kind. Especially my cousin Merry." He looked up. "I was hoping you would tell me
more of Frodo and Sam. They're friends of mine as well." 



Faramir's face softened. He sat down next to Pippin--a little awkwardly, perhaps, but
Pippin didn't mind. He looked at their legs, nearly touching, and felt an odd thrill
through him, rather like when Merry put his arms around him and rested his chin on his
shoulder--as Merry sometimes did, especially when they were sleeping. Pippin smiled, and
reached out a hand to touch Faramir's hand, looking up. "You were very brave, there on
the field. You gave all the people hope." 



A look of wonder came into Faramir's face, and it was all Pippin could do not to lean up
and brush his lips over the Man's--so lovely and red--and oh, did Faramir look like he
needed to be kissed! "Do you truly think so, Pippin? They have had little hope. And I am
not my brother . . . " Faramir trailed off. This time, Pippin did give in to his urges.
He wrapped both arms around Faramir and squeezed tight. 



"Boromir was a brave man and my good friend. He saved my life. I miss him too." The tears
came, and Pippin let them, just a few, trailing down his cheek. He startled as he felt
Faramir's fingers brushing them away, and looked up to find Faramir's face so close,
those lips mere inches from his, eyes staring into his. Pippin's heart was pounding. He
opened his mouth a little--to be ready in case Faramir kissed him? Or to speak--his brain
didn’t seem to be working quite right. For a moment the two of them stayed exactly like
that. 



Faramir gently caressed Pippin's face, smoothing away the tears, his own eyes shiny with
moisture. "I . . . didn't realize. Your companions mentioned he traveled with all of you,
but . . . they didn't seem as close. You were a close friend of him, then? I--Sam told me
stories, of what Boromir did--that he taught you and Merry sword fighting? I would love
to hear anything . . . as much as I try to do for this city, I will never match him, I
fear." 



Pippin smiled, taking Faramir's hand again, and this was very good--he was half in the
man's lap now, being cradled a bit. But no, that went back to the child thing. He didn't
want that. He set down Faramir's hand and looked back up into the Man's face, wishing he
could just ask for what he really wanted--but would Faramir be offended? It wasn't really
as if Pippin was using the knowledge of his brother to get closer--okay, well maybe a
little, but he really did have an honest interest, and if it should cause Faramir to keep
one arm loosely around him, well, what of it? But now he had to be brave. He had to be
the comforting one. 



"Aye; I was a very close friend to Boromir. He always protected the others in the group--
Sam told you about how he saved us from the blizzard? But he was great fun as well--why,
my cousin Merry and I decided to play a trick on him one morning . . . " And with that,
he went into a series of tales designed to make Faramir laugh. And laugh Faramir did,
until the tears sprang from his eyes, and this time Pippin brushed them away--with his
lips. Faramir paused, unsure, looking at him with a puzzled expression. Pippin only
smiled. 



"Sorry. We hobbits are just naturally given to touching, you know. And I've wanted to
kiss you since I first saw you. You're very handsome." 



Faramir's eyes bulged. His mouth worked a moment before sound came out, and Pippin
wondered if he had gone too far. "You--you would? I-Is that usual between friends of your
kind then?" The blush had come back into Faramir's cheeks, much stronger than before,
Pippin noted, and the Man had suddenly become breathless, apparently--his chest was
heaving. It was all Pippin could do not to slide his hand down the wrinkled white linen
shirt down to see what it covered, see if Faramir was as interested as he was. Pippin
shifted a little, trying to relieve the pressure. 



"Well . . . sometimes. I know Frodo and Sam certainly do a lot of it. And Frodo--he spent
a night with Ar--with the other Man in our company--did you know that? So obviously it
must be all right then. Unless . . . " Pippin leaned closer, lightly touching Faramir's
chest with his hand. "Unless it makes you uncomfortable?" He prayed it did not. 



Faramir looked down at the hand, and swallowed. "N-no. Not exactly." His eyes searched
Pippin's. 



"Is this the sort of need you think I required seeing to?" His face was unreadable, the
eyes gone a little gray, and Pippin frowned, chewing his lip. 



Pippin laid his head on Faramir's chest. "I . . . I hoped. But I only came because . . .
well . . . because I couldn't sleep. I miss my Merry. And you looked so sad. I thought we
could both comfort each other." 



For long moments, Faramir was silent, and Pippin stayed there against his chest, until he
wondered what Faramir was thinking--he couldn't possibly be asleep, not with the way his
heart was pounding in his ribcage. He felt so warm. Pippin closed his eyes, just enjoying
the feel of it for a moment, remembering the feel of himself on Merry this way, when
Merry comforted him, after the orcs and at Isengard. He hummed a little, afraid to look
up. 



Finally Faramir spoke. 



"I . . . . might .. . . like that." 



Pippin grinned. 



This was going along swimmingly.

*****

TBC

*****

Title: For the Heart
Story:  "Honor"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing:  Merry/Pippin, Pippin/Faramir
Warnings:  interspecies
Category:  Drama, Romance

Disclaimer:  All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit
from this but give me feedback and I'm a happy lass.

Summary:   Pippin thinks of a way to prove to Merry he's all grown up

Notes:   With loving thanks to the man who made such an incredible portrayal of Pippin in
the film.  Yes, I am re-inspired. :D

*****

Chapter 3:  For the Heart

Pippin looked up into Faramir's face again. The eyes, they were still haunted, but he
thought he could see a touch of warmth coming into them, some life after the blows dealt
by Denethor's cold words. Well now what, Pippin asked himself. Faramir had said he might
like to pursue 'comforts'. Of which so far only kissing had been mentioned. Should he
start with that? How exactly did one go about this, anyway? Now that he was here, in
Faramir's room, indeed in the Man's very lap in his bed, Pippin wasn't entirely sure what
to do next. But he wanted to make Faramir smile. 



He lay a tentative hand on Faramir's breast. Leaned forward. Brushed his lips over the
soft fabric there, smelling the clean musky scent of the Man, so different than Hobbit.
He gazed back up into Faramir's face to gauge the results of his actions. 



Faramir smiled, and by the bulge in his hosen, he was obviously affected. Pippin grinned,
heartened, encouraged. "I confess I don't know exactly what to do." His hands worked to
slowly unlace the cords of Faramir's tunic, feeling the soft curling hair of the Man's
chest. 



The smile faltered, and Faramir looked concerned. "You mean you . . . Pippin. I don't
want to take away anything that you should be giving to one you love." 



Pippin's eyes went wide. Oh, he'd stuck his foot in it once again. "Oh, please! He
doesn't see--" Oh, but he didn't want to go into all that either. That Merry saw him as a
child. Which would then make Faramir see him as a child, and all would be ruined. He
kneeled up, pressing a finger to Faramir's lips when he saw the Man was going to protest
again. "I want to have some experience when I'm first with him. I want to be able to
pleasure him. Please. Will you let me? For I very much want to pleasure you also." With
that, he slid his hand inside Faramir's tunic, brushing over the hard nubs, the soft fur,
and he could not be mistaken about the sudden intake of breath, the slight tremble of the
Man at his touch. 



Boldly, lest Faramir start to protest again, Pippin then pressed his lips to Faramir's,
trying to imitate the sorts of kisses he and Merry had shared. 



It did not take long for Faramir to respond. Tentatively at first, just a soft brush of
lips on lips, then harder, gently placing a hand to the back of Pippin's head to hold him
there as he opened his mouth wider, tongue searching out Pippin's, teeth grazing the
hobbit's lips. Pippin made a soft sound of wonder--oh yes, this was precisely what he had
thought it should be like, all molten fire sinking down into the swell of his cock, and
the wonderful sensations of their mouths together. Faramir's hands were tentatively
running through his curls, over Pippin's shoulders--not quite venturing under his tunic,
but Pippin would soon remedy that. Pippin continued kissing Faramir, working at his
tunic, raising it up his chest, and working it over his shoulders until Faramir was
forced to help, the two of them breaking their kiss. 



"You're sure? I confess--this is not my first, but it has been a time since I have had
the luxury of someone to share my bed--and my cares," Faramir said with a little smile,
his eyes sweeping over the pale expanse of Pippin's chest. Pippin blushed a little--here
it became obvious he was young among his kind, for he was only now developing the
musculature, the skin smooth and lithe. His father's chest had a nice smattering of curly
blondish hair like to the hair on his head, but as of yet no hair had sprouted. He leaned
forward to coax Faramir's tunic up, hoping to see what his hands had felt a moment ago. 



"Yes, Faramir. I'm sure. Please, let me see you," his hands worked the soft fabric
inexorably higher. Finally, Faramir nodded his head a little in acquiessance and with a
little smile--and a little boyish gleam in his blue eyes--he helped Pippin take the tunic
off of him, drawing up the blankets to cover them both and keep them warm. 



Pippin went back to kissing him, sighing gratefully, running his hands freely now over
the Man's skin, scratching the slightly toughened skin lightly, finding a scar or two
from previous battles and tracing them reverently. Faramir rumbled deep in his chest,
kissing him firmly, passing a hand down the front of Pippin's chest and--with a little
smirk--manipulating both nipples at the same time with thumb and little finger, until
Pippin was gasping, undulating under the touches. 



"Oh--shall we--shall we--" Basic common sense told Pippin Faramir needed to be lying down
beneath him, and then--hmm, well then he wasn't quite sure what the next step was.
Stroking his willy, perhaps? Yes, that seemed like a sensible move to make. Pippin began
pushing down the hosen, his hand searching . . . he gasped as he found it, realized it's
length, breadth, and oh yes, hardness. He sat up to take a closer look, and was startled
by Faramir's laugh. 



"Don't worry. You're going to be entering me, not the other way around. I'd hardly do
that to you on your first time. Also I really think you should save that for when you
find love." In turn, he sat up a little, and coaxed Pippin out of his own breeches,
drawing them down off his legs and over his feet, then closing a hand over him and
stroking him gently, face intent on the hobbit. Pippin nearly swooned. 



"Oh . . . .my. No one has ever . . ." He shut his mouth before he said something else to
make Faramir stop, concentrating on the sensations Faramir's hand on him was producing,
as well as the marvelous feel of Faramir's member in his own hands, trying to imitate the
motions. Oh yes, he was learning plenty here already, and getting ideas on how to go
about seducing Merry--he couldn't imagine Merry being able to stop him if it felt this
nice. 



Faramir smiled, and stopped his mouth with a kiss, continuing to stroke him slowly.
Pippin groaned at the twin pleasures combined, trembling at the touch, his own touch
fumbling and unsure--but Faramir didn't seem to mind; indeed there were lovely sounds
coming from the back of the Man's throat and from his chest as the two of them continued
to fondle each other. Suddenly, though, Faramir drew back, breathing hard. "One moment.
Let me find the oil." He stood up, a little shakily, and crossed the room over to his
pack. Pippin licked his lips, feeling them engorged, his cheeks still flushed. Faramir
glanced back at him and groaned. 



"What?" Pippin asked? He watched curiously as Faramir brought out a little vial of oil
and returned to the bed, moving aside so that the Man could return to his position. He
gasped as Faramir pulled him against him, kissing him hard. 



"You. You don't know how delectable you look, all touseled and wide-eyed like that.
Beautiful. And utterly debauched. Let me taste you." 



Pippin thought Faramir would kiss him again (which he was growing quite accustomed to,
and had resolved to see how long he and Merry could last, simply kissing like that), when
suddenly Faramir bent his head, and Pippin realized his intention--oh, but that was
silly; one couldn't kiss--he made a sound, perhaps a mewl or a cry, he wasn't certain,
and lied back, awash in sensations which threatened to bring things to an end all too
quickly if they stayed this course for long. "Faramir! Oh please!" But he wasn't entirely
certain he was pleading with Faramir to stop, or to continue. 



At any rate, Faramir let him go after a little, and he was quite certain his blood was
ready to catch fire with the look the Man gave him. "Now you. Take some of the oil in the
bottle there. Spread it on your fingers. Then I'll show you how to do your fingers--
you'll need to prepare me." Faramir grinned. "Small in height you may be, but there's
nothing to be ashamed of in terms of your size. I see now the rumor of large feet is
grounded." 



Pippin did so, grinning at Faramir's words--heh, and the entwash hadn't hurt any in that
respect either. Faramir guided his fingers to his entrance, and gently, Pippin began to
push in, watching the Man's face--wouldn't this hurt? But he'd wondered how two lads went
about it, and here he was, learning first hand--literally. Faramir closed his eyes a
little, a crease between his brows at first, and Pippin bit his lip, watching closely--
but as he pushed deeper he twisted his fingers about, and suddenly Faramir gave a sharp
groan, back suddenly arching, his hands, grabbing at the sheets. Pippin paused. 



"Did I hurt you?" 



Faramir shook his head, his auburn locks falling into his face, and opened his eyes,
pinning Pippin with the look of sheer need. "No--do that again. And add another finger--
you need to stretch it a bit." His eyes lost focus again, his fingers combing through the
folds in the sheets, as Pippin did as he directed, adding a third finger and copying the
motions he had made prior. On a whim, he took the Man's cock back in hand and gave it a
stroke. Faramir murmured something in a husky voice, arching his head again. 



"What?" Pippin asked? He was grinning--this was rather fun. Couldn't wait to see what
happened next. 



"Deeper," Faramir repeated, then grabbed Pippin's hand. "I want you, not your fingers
now. Come up here." Pippin didn't have much choice, as Faramir dragged him up on his
chest, pouring some of the oil onto his hand to slick up Pippin's length; Pippin mewled
again, and leaned forward to kiss Faramir hard, his hips bucking into the strokes.
Faramir sat up a little to guide Pippin down into place, then they were forced to break
off the kiss. "Yes. Now," Faramir urged. Pippin gulped. Well hopefully he would do this
right. 



He pressed forward, and at first it seemed impossible that this would work, even if he
was the smaller one and both of them were slick with oil and so forth. Just didn’t seem
anatomically feasible. But he gasped as the head went in, then a good portion of the
length, and oh, the tightness, and of course he'd forgotten to mention to Faramir that he
hadn't done this with a lass either and stars! Was it supposed to be so incredibly tight?
Well he supposed so. But it was most . . . . oh pleasurable didn't begin to describe it!
Amazing. Intense. And so good he just wanted to shove forward and spill his seed just
like that . . . he tried to think of things like the face Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins made
when she ate, or green worms in an apple--anything to keep from disgracing himself too
soon here on his first go at this. He had a feeling he wouldn't get a second chance with
Faramir. 



Faramir said nothing, perhaps guessing the trial he was having, just breathing deeply,
and lying still, waiting for Pippin to move. After a moment, Pippin was able to do so,
slowly at first, pulling out almost all the way, then pushing in, groaning--oh stars
shining above in the night that felt good! "Faramir--" he moaned, just trying to listen
to his body's impulses now, hoping he was doing things right. Faramir had a wonderful
ecstatic look on his face, and his hands had come up to grasp Pippin's hips, urging him
along, his body rocking with the thrusts. Pippin thrust harder, and Faramir groaned. 



"That's it," Faramir encouraged, and Pippin nodded, thrusting in harder, faster, leaning
forward to rub his cheek against Faramir's chest, awash in the sensations and the heat
and the luscious feel of the Man beneath him. 



"Not going to last long, s--" Did he call him sir? Oh who knew, or cared, at the moment.
Finally Pippin couldn't hold out any longer. He felt muscles starting to grip his cock
harder, and was dimly aware of Faramir taking his hand to close over the Man's member,
stroking hard. Then the two of them were coming together, crying out, one on top of the
other with no clear sense on who began and who ended. Pippin collapsed in a heap on top
of Faramir, spent. 



They lay for a few minutes together like that, quietly breathing, hands moving in slow
rubbing circles on each other, just resting. Pippin raised his head and crawled up
Faramir's body to lean on his chest and gaze into his eyes. 



"Did I do it right?" 



Faramir smiled, gazing back, and then began chuckling. Then laughing, and laughing
harder, his stomach shaking beneath Pippin, those wonderful crinkles at the sides of his
eyes. He cracked a wide grin, and ran his fingers through Pippin's hair, gently caressing
him, and leaned up to kiss the hobbit's forehead. 



"You did it perfectly. Your lover will be very impressed, I am sure." 



Pippin smiled, tickled and pleased to see the soldier alight with joy. "And have I bought
comfort to you?" 



Faramir traced Pippin's cheek. 



"Yes. You have." 



Pippin smiled, sighing, letting the weariness of the day and their exertions suddenly
fall hard upon him--but now a good weariness, a good exhaustion after a good labor. He
laid his head back down on Faramir's chest. 



And with that, he fell fast asleep.

*****

TBC

*****


Title: For the People
Story:  "Honor"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing:  Merry/Pippin, Pippin/Faramir
Warnings:  interspecies
Category:  Drama, Romance

Disclaimer:  All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit
from this but give me feedback and I'm a happy lass.

Summary:   Pippin thinks of a way to prove to Merry he's all grown up

Notes: After the fourth viewing of ROTK --and yet it's funny. I began this tale before
ever seeing the movie. Chapters 1 and 2 of Honor were before ever seeing the movie. And
thanks as always to baranduin for her beta reading and suggestions! 



***** 



Chapter 4: For the People 



Pippin was aware of warmth, of a large strong body melded up against his. And then
suddenly the body was gone, and he was shivering. He sat up, blinking owlishly in the dim
candlelit room, rubbing his eyes. It was pitch black outside, so dark, dark of spirit as
well as hue. Faramir was fully dressed in his armor. 



"I've been called to my father. He means to send me back to Osgiliath, as he spoke of
while you attended." A look of despair crossed his face. He knelt before Pippin, gently
holding the hobbit's knee. "If we should not meet again . . . . thank you, Pippin. For
tonight." He smiled. "It reminded me what we are fighting for. You are a rare treasure,
Peregrin." He stood and slung his sword on his hip, taking a deep breath. 



Pippin could not speak; he was still too fresh emerging from sleep, caught between the
landscapes of dreams and nightmares. Osgiliath. Where Faramir had barely escaped before.
Pushing back the bedcovers, he rolled off the bed and ran to Faramir, flinging his arms
around him and burying his face against the warmth of Faramir's cloak. Don't go; don't
leave me, he wanted to say. But of course he had no right. They both had to do their
duties. 



"Come back," he finally said, a fat tear sliding down his cheek. Then he let go, and
resolutely began dressing himself. Gandalf was probably already awake and wondering where
he was. 



Faramir allowed him to dress, watching him sadly, then held the door open for him as the
two passed out of the room. Faramir paused in the hallway, looking uncertain. "I will do
my best, Pippin." 



With that, he strode off. 



*** 



Gandalf gave Pippin a curious look, but did not comment on his absence or ask where he'd
been. Pippin was grateful; there was enough to darken his thoughts, as the day drew on.
He heard only by nightfall that the enemy was drawing nigh upon Osgiliath, and thought of
the sadness in Faramir's eyes, trying to face the enemy and redeem himself in his
father's eyes. 



The next day was even worse. Apparently Faramir's group was retreating, and Gandalf
decided to ride out and aid them. Pippin slept alone feeling lost and helpless in the
cold dark city under the gloom of Mordor. And now there were doubts of Rohan reaching
them in time. He might never see either Faramir, or Merry, ever again. 



It was barely at the ringing of bells, signaling a dawn that could not be seen, that
Pippin saw the fires on the Pelennor and Gandalf came riding back to warn them that the
refugees were coming, and Faramir with the rearguard. Pippin stared at Denethor as he
listened to the news, willing him with all his being to do something, to help Faramir. He
was relieved when a sortie was sent out to aid in the retreat. 



The waiting continued. And then it seemed everything turned crazy, as the last rearguard
came running, the whole host of Mordor at their heels it seemed, and there was a valiant
show of force from the Prince of Amroth. 



But too late. Pippin spotted Prince Imrahil bearing Faramir, wounded and unconscious.
Pippin could not say anything; he could not break faith and reveal the night he had spent
with the captain. All he could do was watch, as they prepared a bed and laid Faramir out
on it, and Denethor disappeared into his tower. Faramir was flushed with fever, so still
. . . "Live," Pippin whispered to him, when he thought nobody else was watching, or
listening, as he waited for Denethor to return. 



But when Denethor descended the steps of the tower, it was as if Faramir had already
died; mourning was in his features, and though Pippin did his best to try to serve him,
coaxing him to drink small sips of water, small bites of food as horrible sounds echoed
from the city below, shouts of fire and of worse things, nameless things Pippin
concentrated on just blacking out. 



The fever dreams came upon Faramir. 



"No, the darkness," Faramir muttered, hands grasping, thrashing up in the bed. The
attendants looked away; Denethor merely watched, as if to witness his son's last gasp.
Pippin held him down as best as he could, trying to coax the fevered captain to take a
drink of water, tried to dab his burning brow. 



"Daylight will come," Pippin murmured, trying to reassure Faramir, though his own heart
was near to despair. Had he thought being alone last night while Gandalf rode out to save
this man had been torture? He felt far more helpless now. 



If Faramir heard him, he gave no indication. Pippin gently stroked his cheek, glancing
over at Denethor, who only watched him, with that same look of utter bleakness. Pippin
shivered. He longed to kiss Faramir's brow. But he made do with the soft strokes of his
fingers. 



Denethor was a broken man, and Pippin finally saw that he did indeed love his son. "Do
not weep, lord," he tried to comfort him, "Perhaps he will get well." Though at this
rate, with the lack of care, he was not so certain of that. "Have you asked Gandalf?" And
that seemed by far the most sensible thing to do, for sure Gandalf would know how to help
Faramir, would see he got the finest healers treating him. 



But Denethor snarled at him about not trusting wizards, and fools' hopes, and Pippin
shivered, suddenly thinking of Frodo again, out there, where all those orcs outside had
come from. "I sent my son forth unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril, and here
he lies with poison in his veins." 



Pippin thought it best to remain silent, though he was thinking, 'and whose fault was
this?' 



Denethor ignored the pleas of his people to come down and lead them. 



*** 



What happened later would haunt Pippin's nightmares for the rest of his life. Strange,
that even as Denethor lifted the duty of servitude from him, he felt more compelled than
ever to serve him, and especially Faramir who had been so kind to him, who he had--well,
he supposed a relationship of sorts with, now. It was a new thing, driving him. Merry
would have a word for it, he was certain. If ever he saw Merry again. 



All he knew was that again and again, he faced his worst fears, only to win past and onto
the next obstacle. First, the madness in Denethor's eyes, commanding that his son be
burned alive. The desperation of trying to get the servants and guards to see reason--
couldn't they see Faramir needed their help, not their tears? The black horror at the
gate, facing Gandalf, when he ran to get the wizard's help. But oh, then the sound of
Rohan's horns, and the knowledge that somewhere, out on that field, fighting such vast
terrible numbers, was Merry! 



He was never afterwards certain how he was even coherent enough to tell Gandalf the news,
that Denethor was in the Tombs, and that he could be burning Faramir alive even as they
spoke. The race to the tombs was a blur; the standoff with Denethor hazy at best; all he
could see really was the power in Gandalf, commanding that the foolishness be stopped,
and Faramir, poor Faramir, drenched in lamp oil, unaware of the danger he was in. Gandalf
did just as Pippin knew he would; he leapt up and bore Faramir bodily from the pyre, and
Pippin could have wept with joy when Faramir came to a little and called out for his
father. 



"Do not take my son from me!" Denethor called, but when Gandalf invited him once more to
help with the battle, Denethor laughed, and Pippin cringed as he brought out the
palantir, recognizing the madness, knowing how close it could have been to grasping him
as well. 



And Denethor lit the fire about himself. Pippin turned away, sick at heart, smelling
burning flesh. 



He wanted to hold Faramir's hand on their way to the Houses of Healing, but Beregond and
the other guards were carrying the bier, and it was too high for him to really reach. So
he walked behind, softly weeping, wondering if the man who had shown him so much would
soon be following his father's path. 



They were just entering the Houses, when a cry, a most terrible and fearful cry seemed to
cover all the land, and Pippin thought about falling down and dying right where he was.
But it trailed off, and suddenly the gloom seemed to lift somewhat, and he was aware of
daybreak in the east. Again, he thought of Merry. Where was Merry? 



Gandalf seemed sad for some reason, as they brought Faramir to a private room where his
oily clothing was removed and he was set into a bed--as he properly should have been all
along Pippin wanted to say out loud. Gandalf made a speech, something about Captains
having been destroyed--did he mean Faramir? But no--'captain of our foes'. Well that was
good news. And he went on about the seven stones--Gandalf was always talking about the
seven stones, ever since Pippin had the bad luck to look in one. But it made sense,
finally. So that's what had driven Denethor mad. 



And finally the healers swarmed Faramir. Pippin was tempted to stay with him, but Gandalf
drew him aside, leading him out. 



"There will be a company coming up to the Citadel from the fields, a company from Rohan,
bearing their king, Theoden, who has fallen in battle. We must go meet them. Merry will
be with them, I expect." 



All thoughts of Faramir vanished. "Then let's go at once!" 



They hurried straightaway, passing out of the Houses of Healing, and up through the
levels of the city, hearing still the sounds of battle off the Pelennor. Pippin's heart
was racing. Merry! Would he look the same? But how ever could Merry not? And what would
he do if he did? 



It was only once they reached the Citadel that he wondered to ask: 



Was Merry fallen too? 

***

TBC

***


Title: For the Friend
Story:  "Honor"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing:  Merry/Pippin, Pippin/Faramir
Warnings:  interspecies
Category:  Drama, Romance

Disclaimer:  All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit
from this but give me feedback and I'm a happy lass.

Summary:   Pippin thinks of a way to prove to Merry he's all grown up


*****

Chapter 5:  For the Friend

Merry wasn't with the procession from Rohan, which was where he should have been, which
was where Gandalf had expected him to be; he was lost, somewhere between the Gate to
Minas Tirith and the Houses of Healing. They had brought Eowyn in already, while laying
her uncle poor King Theoden to rest.  Pippin's gut was slowly roiling.  Merry was alive.
He must be alive, if he had been following, and Pippin knew he had been following,
because there had been witnesses, but none of them had seen what had happened to his
kinsman, had paid attention to the moment Merry was no longer with them.  And he had
already heard a little of what had happened.  Apparently, Eowyn and Merry were
responsible for killing the king of the Nazgul, the Witch King whom Gandalf had been so
worried about.  And Pippin remembered the last time Merry had come into contact with
those Black Riders, way out at the Inn in Bree, and how cold poor Merry had been, and in
such a state too, so frightened, so lost . . . 

He had to find him.

Pippin raced through the streets, trying to think like a poor sick frightened hobbit,
trying to think where Merry could have gone off the path wrong.  It was pretty easy to
follow the main road in Minas Tirith; part of the design of the city, but there were
certainly side alleys enough one could wander off into if they weren't paying attention.
For example, if they were hurt.  Which he desperately hoped Merry was not.

He finally found Merry, lost in a daze, shuffling along a tiny alleyway, head down, and
face--oh dear Merry--face drenched with tears, eyes barely open.  Pippin bit his lip and
held back a sob of his own, wrapping his arms around Merry, turning him back around to
face him.  

"Well Merry!  Thank goodness I have found you!"  

He couldn't give voice to the grief that was inside, couldn't give face to them, because
to do that would be to give them substance, deepen the lines of care and fatigue around
his friend's face, perhaps even add more tears to those beautiful grey eyes.  And him
without a handkerchief even.  

He tried to explain to Merry where the others were, tried to make light when Merry
started to tell him something and suddenly shuddered and cowered against him.  The last
thing he could tolerate right now was Merry speaking of death.  Bury him?!  "No indeed!
No, we are going to the Houses of Healing."

Merry was so dazed, and it was so hard getting him back to the Houses.  Pippin had to
focus on little things:  the smell of Merry's hair (even if it was mingled with horse and
dust from the field), the sound of his breathing.  But his arm was cold.  So cold, just
like Frodo's had been, when that Nazgul stabbed him.  Mustn't think about that.  Bergil
appeared and helped Pippin get Merry to the Houses, then Pippin was ordered to stand
guard.  He didn't know if Gandalf had arranged it so that he could keep his mind off
Merry's condition, or if they'd just remembered he was after all a guard and should be
guarding something.  

He nearly leapt with joy when Strider came into the Houses.  Strider had helped Frodo,
that terrible night on Weathertop.  Had Merry been stabbed too, Pippin wondered?  Would
he need elven medicine?  Or would Strider's lore be enough to help his dear loved one?  

It was hard to wait while Strider tended to Faramir--and how could Pippin forget Faramir?
Everything had narrowed down now, in his brain, to that small figure in the third room,
wearing the child-sized armor of Rohan, murmuring in his sleep.  He was glad of course,
when word rang out that Faramir had woken, was cured.  Glad also, when the fair Eowyn
came to.  But his heart was all bound up with Merry, and what would happen to Merry.
When he followed Strider into the room, and saw Merry ashen-faced and still, he couldn't
help the stab of fear, couldn't help running to the bed and taking that hand, that cold,
cold hand into this own, futilely trying to warm it.  He never should have left Merry!
It was all wrong; it had all been wrong from the moment they were separated.  Merry
needed him.  As Pippin needed him.  As hard as he had tried to get along in Minas Tirith,
there was no escaping that fact.  

"Poor old Merry!"  he cried, but Aragorn entreated him not to be afraid, telling him
Merry would still grieve, and not forget--much like he himself would never forget the
madness of Denethor.  But if Merry could recover, that was all that he cared about.

"Merry," Strider called, and just as if waking from a dream Merry opened his eyes and
asked for food.  Pippin could have laughed.  He could have shaken dear Merry.

"I daresay I could bring you something, if they will let me."

Merry asked for his pipe next, but then wavered, suddenly sad, and Pippin realized he had
grown very close indeed to King Theoden, and the people of Rohan.  Not unlike his own
closeness with Faramir.  Pippin swallowed, suddenly full of guilt.  Merry had nearly
died.  And he had been so foolish as to . . . 

Once Aragorn left, he let his mouth run away with him, to cover up his nervousness.  "Was
there ever any one like him?  Except Gandalf of course.  I think they must be related.
My dear ass, your pack is lying by your bed, and you had it on you when I met you.  He
saw it all the time, of course.  And anyway I have some stuff of my own.  Come on now!
Longbottom Leaf it is.  Fill up while I run and see about some food.  And then let's be
easy for a bit.  Dear me!  We Tooks and Brandybucks, we can't live long on the heights."

Merry surprised him again, making a speech--Merry, a speech?!  It was final proof to
Pippin of what he must have gone through.  He gripped the edge of the bed hard.  If he
hugged Merry right now as his senses were screaming at him to do, he'd surely break down
and cry.  And that would upset Merry.  He couldn't upset Merry right now, so near back
from the brink.

In the end, they talked of old times in the Shire and smoked their pipes.  Merry didn't
ask him about Minas Tirith, nor did he ask about the journey or the battle.  These things
could wait.

Merry was back safe with him now.

***

"What do you mean, I have to ride out with them?!"  Pippin looked incredulously at
Gandalf, standing over him, dressed for battle and with Pippin's pack ready to go.  

He'd had a lovely morning with Merry.  They'd talked about simple things--their
childhood, running around the Burrow and the Smials, pranks they'd played on others,
their favorite foods, while they smoked and sat in the sun.  Trying to ignore the after-
stink of battle and the sounds of cleanup in the city and fields below.  Gimli helped,
and Legolas, talking about their own childhoods, telling tales of the Greenwood and life
in the Lonely Mountain.

For a while, they forgot all about Sauron, or Rings, or Nazgul, or war.  Pippin held
Merry's hand the entire time, afraid to do more.  But it was enough.

But then from below in the city there came the sound of something crashing down, one of
the towers badly damaged by a catapault shot, and Merry suddenly turned gray, and
trembled.  Pippin clutched his hand to his chest, feeling the slight chill in him.  

"Merry, are you all right?"

Merry smiled, but wanly, without much strength, at him.  "I am fine, Pippin.  Only
tired."

"His spirit is yet weary.  We should let him sleep a while.  There will be time enough
later for more tales,"  Legolas said in a calm voice, before Pippin could panic, before
he could worry.  Gimli and Legolas helped Merry, and together  they returned him to his
bed.  Merry smiled up at Pippin, raising a hand to caress his cheek.  Then he closed his
eyes.  Soon after, he was fast asleep.

Pippin wanted to sit by and watch over him, but at that moment Legolas and Gimli were
called away to a meeting of some sort, and Pippin was set on guard again.  The next
person he saw was Gandalf, calling for him to follow.

It seemed every able man was packing up to march upon Mordor.

"You must ride; you are a soldier of Gondor, Pippin.  You gave your life to the service
of the Steward and the City, and as current caretaker of the city, I am telling you to
pack your belongings and ride out with us.  It is time to make our last stand, before the
gates of Mordor.  I would like to see every race represented."  Gandalf gave him a hard
look.  "It is for Frodo.  He needs our help, to complete his task."

But Merry needs me, Pippin wanted to say.  What would Merry say, when he woke up, and
heard the news?  Would there even be time for a goodbye?  And they had just reunited; how
could he bear to be torn apart again, so soon?  For a last stand?  He blinked back tears,
and looked Gandalf in the eye.

"Will we survive?"

Gandalf stared at him for a long moment.  There was darkness in his eyes, but not
overwhelming darkness, not the depths of madness that had been in Denethor's eyes.  But
they were dark, just the same.  "I do not know.  It shall depend on Frodo, on whether he
can fulfill his mission, and destroy the Ring.  If he can do so, if we can give him
enough time, then yes, I will make sure as many of us survive as possible.  I suspect
your fellow members of the Fellowship will also be keeping an eye out for you."  He
frowned, looking suddenly old.  "But if Frodo fails . . . . "  He sighed.  "Then no, none
of us will survive.  Including Merry.  For the wave that overcomes us, will break upon
these walls, and destroy everything."

Pippin chewed his lip, as they climbed the last stairs, and came to the expanse of green
at the Citadel.  "So in a way . . . I go to protect Merry.  And Frodo?"  He was still
trying to figure how that second part worked out.

Gandalf smiled, and nodded.  "We want the Eye to be fixed on us, Pippin.  To be blind to
what Frodo is doing.  So yes, we will be protecting them.  Trying to protect all of
Middle-earth."

Pippin fell silent.  They entered their chamber, and he went to his little pack by the
bed.  There wasn't much to pack; he was already wearing his armor and cloak for guard
duty.  His scarf he carefully wrapped in the pack; a present long ago, from Merry.
Closing it up, he hefted the comforting weight on his shoulders.

"All right, then.  I suppose I must go.  Fulfill my hobbit honor, or somesuch thing."  He
tried to make light of it.  As he did of all things.  As he had of Merry's recovery.  It
was better than falling apart, at any rate.

It surprised him, when Gandalf dropped to his knees, and pulled him into a solid embrace.
"That's the spirit, Pippin.  I promise you, we will do everything in our power to make
sure you make it through, to return to Merry.  You have my word."  He smiled, and his
smile seemed to light up the whole room, more even than the old Gandalf's smile had.
"I'm so proud of you.  You've come a long way indeed, Peregrin my lad."

Pippin tried to smile, and feel brave.

But inside, he felt like crying.

*****

TBC

*****


Title: For the Battlefield
Story:  "Honor"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing:  Merry/Pippin, Pippin/Faramir
Warnings:  interspecies
Category:  Drama, Romance

Disclaimer:  All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit
from this but give me feedback and I'm a happy lass.

Summary:   Pippin thinks of a way to prove to Merry he's all grown up


*****

Chapter 6:  For the Battlefield


Traveling this time was quite different from all the other legs of the journey Pippin had
made thus far.  The greatest difference was that he was alone; all right well maybe not
alone, as he was in the middle of the Gondorian Guard and Beregond was nearby (but not
close enough to really talk to), but alone in that there were no hobbits, Gandalf and
Strider and Legolas and Gimli were all on horseback at the front of the army . . . and it
was quiet.  So quiet.  

He remembered when riding with Treebeard in the march of the ents, the stamping of their
feet, their 'hrooming', their singing and psyching themselves up for battle.  There was
none of that in this army.

Every soldier knew they were probably going to die.

There was the ringing of metal on metal, the slow thump of boots hitting bare earth, the
creaking of leather and occasional nicker from the horses.  But almost no talk among the
soldiers, no chitchat.  No singing.  Gandalf had told Pippin they were doing this to gain
time for Frodo, to make a chance for all of Middle Earth, but only now was it really
sinking in just how they were going to do it, by fighting orc and troll and evil Men, by
dying in battle.

He hadn't even said a proper goodbye to Merry.

Pippin looked back over his shoulder, but he couldn't see any sign of Minas Tirith; they
were a few days out, having crossed the Anduin and now moving steadily north, through the
territory where Faramir had run raids and run into Frodo and Sam before, up to what men
whispering called the 'Morannon', the Black Gate.  Pippin shuddered.  He'd never thought
he'd really be seeing it himself. 

At night, it was only worse.  He laid there, imagining Merry lying in that white bed in
the Houses of Healing, alone as well, wishing he were lying beside Merry, arms around
him, lips pressed against the side of Merry's neck, erection pressed to his hip . . .
Merry might protest.  But then Pippin would move down his body, working open Merry's
breeches, dragging his lips up Merry's cock to lick the head . . . 

The sounds of Mount Doom grumbling in the distance didn’t do much for enhancing
fantasies.  Pippin sighed and rolled over.  But he found little sleep.

The next day brought the dreaded sight they had all been waiting for.  There was nervous
murmuring among the Men, but to Pippin's slight surprise (and silent pride), Gandalf
pulled him out of ranks to come forward with Strider and the rest of the Fellowship as
they neared the frightfully imposing walls of the front gates of Mordor.  Gimli was
standing on the ground, so Pippin stood next to him, fidgeting as they waited for what
would probably be hoards and hoards of Pippin's worst nightmares to come flooding out the
gates.

Nothing came.

The army behind him fidgeted, and Pippin thought that they may have come all this way for
nothing, when a figure emerged on a horse more hideous than anything Pippin had seen.

He spoke things.  Terrible things; Pippin could feel his heart quailing, Frodo alive but
captured, doomed to unspeakable torture for the rest of his days; he was half expecting
Gandalf to give in and march the lot of them back in defeat--especially when the man
brought out--dear stars!  Frodo's mithril coat.  Sam's sword.  Pippin could not help the
cry that tore from his throat, and he would have rushed forward to run through the fellow
with his Westernese blade, grab back the only remnants of his two dear kind, but Gandalf
cried, "Silence!" and with a firm thrust of his staff, shoved Pippin back.  Pippin could
not help the tears though.  They were doomed.  The quest had failed.  He would die here,
without having ever told Merry he loved him, and Merry would die as the forces of Sauron
broke over the city in wave after wave.  He fell to his knees in despair.

Dimly, Gandalf's words rang out above him, "These we will take!  But as for your terms,
we reject them utterly.  Get you gone, for your embassy is over and death is near to you.
We did not come here to waste words in treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed;
still less with one of his slaves.  Begone!"

Pippin had time for a few wishes, a few thoughts, as the messenger fled back through the
gates, thoughts about his sword, which he hoped to bloody on something worthy before he
died, and on the sheer amazement at the numbers of orcs who now spilled out, surrounding
them like an island at sea, capped by the hideous occasional troll, taller and fiercer
creatures than even that thing they had faced in the depths of Moria.  

There was a mire between Pippin's company and the orcs; this deterred the evil creatures
little however, as they simply chose to release arrows instead.  Pippin flinched as they
fell around him and men cried out, pierced by the accursed missles.  Some fell down, and
worse, did not rise again.  But before Pippin could really take in the horror of that,
the trolls were upon them, swinging great hammers and that was even worse.  Pippin
cringed as men cried out, tossed like toys or wheat being sheared.  

Beregond was beside him.  He must have moved forward through the ranks to get there, and
he whispered low in Pippin's ear, "I'll protect you, friend," as they ducked the arrows.

But even that little communication proved costly.  A great hill troll, a captain perhaps
by his helm and the standard upon his shield, came directly at them, and though Beregond
tried bravely to stand before Pippin, with a swipe of that great shield, the troll swept
him aside to fall stunned and prone, blinking dazedly.  Pippin sucked in his breath in
horror as the troll bent over Beregond, mouth opening to show terrible sharp incisors--
what was he going to do, *eat* Beregond?  

Pippin didn't wait to find out.  He took his small sword and ran up to thrust it into the
troll's jugular, tearing through the windpipe, splashed all over with steaming blood and
the ghastly scent of the beast.

He caught sight of the look of shock and pain in the troll's eye as it reared up,
clutching at the wound, saw the troll sway and lose balance.  Things seemed to be moving
slow, far too slow, as he realized it was toppling over, right onto him; he turned to try
to run, but then suddenly things seemed to speed up, and with the force of a mountain,
the troll crashed into him, smashing him into the ground which seemed to leap up, many
sharp rocks.  He heard several cracks which he didn't want to think about, and pain
exploding through his chest.

Then he was slowly smothering, trapped under the beast.

So it ends as I guessed it would, he thought, and if he'd had breath to do so, he would
have laughed; there was no fear any longer.  Only regret, his mind's eye trying to form a
last picture of Merry before the darkness could sweep it away.  There was a shout about
eagles, and he thought about Bilbo.  Then he plunged into darkness.

***

He was lying beside Faramir.  It was dark all around, and he hurt, oh, he hurt all over.
But there was peace, and a look in Faramir's face that held the darkness back.

"You did it perfectly. Your lover will be very impressed, I am sure." 



Pippin smiled, tickled and pleased to see the soldier alight with joy. "And have I bought
comfort to you?" 



Faramir traced Pippin's cheek. 



"Yes. You have."

Darkness closed in again.

***

He was floating.  The carnage below him was incredible; sobbing, he went looking for
Beregond's body, but he didn't find it, and he stood weeping beside the carcass of the
great troll, wondering where his friend was, where anybody was.  Was he dead?  He seemed
to remember dying.

He spotted Gimli striding through the battlefield, looking down, checking faces of the
dead Gondorian guards, a pensive, worried look on his face.  Pippin tried to wave hello,
but Gimli didn't seem to notice him.  He blinked in surprise as Gimli gave a horrified
shout, spotting something on the other side of the troll, watching as Gimli called to
other soldiers behind him.  It took six of them to roll over the dead troll--phew!  What
a stink!  Better not to be breathing, Pippin thought to himself.  

He had a strange moment of vertigo then, as he looked down at a little body half sunk
into the soft earth face down, curly brown hair matted with dark blood . . . oh dear.
Was that--

Darkness overtook him again.

***

He heard Strider's voice next, but he was in such pain, he couldn't hear what Strider was
saying, only that the tone was urgent.  He couldn't breathe!  He tried to sit up, but
that only brought about worse pain bursting like fire in his chest, and something pushing
him back down, a sharp voice telling him to be still--Gandalf!  Was Gandalf dead too,
then?  

He tried to ask, but he couldn't seem to get much air, and nothing seemed to be working
right--he'd liked it better floating over the battlefield.  At least then he hadn't been
dizzy with pain.  He heard water starting to boil somewhere, then a strange crunching
sound, like grass being tread upon.  A fresh scent washed over him, and that brought him
right back to the room with Merry, and watching with worry that pale strained face and
the cold arm resting on the coverlet.

"Sleep and heal, Pippin," he heard Gandalf say from somewhere far away, the sound
battling with the pain.

He slept.

***
There was only one other dream he could recall, floating in a hazy sort of mist, the pain
coming and going like gusts on a breeze.  A hand was holding his, softly gently stroking
it, and he felt a hot splash there, as if someone had dripped warm tea on his hand; he
tried to flex his fingers though they hurt, and somebody gave a sob that sounded familiar
and strange at the same time, like a voice he should recognize but who shouldn't be
crying like that, had never cried like that in all the time he had known him.  

Soft curls brushed his arm and hand, and next Pippin felt warm lips, pressing kisses to
the back of his hand where the moisture had fallen, and that was nice, but he'd have much
rather had those lips pressed to his mouth instead.  He tried to say so, but he was still
so sleepy; it was as if sleep were a physical chain, pulling at him, and he wasn't
supposed to be awake right now at all.  His chest still hurt, a slow steady ache now, and
it felt tight and confined, but at least he could breathe a little better now, though the
air whistled in his lungs.  

"Stay with me, please, Pippin,"  a teary voice pleaded and Pippin wanted to tell Merry
that perhaps since they were both dead they could spend the rest of eternity together in
the Halls of Mandos as the elves talked about.  But his lips couldn't move.

Struggle as he might, sleep pulled him back into the darkness.

***

TBC

***


Title: For the Healing
Story:  "Honor"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing:  Merry/Pippin, Pippin/Faramir
Warnings:  interspecies
Category:  Drama, Romance

Disclaimer:  All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit
from this but give me feedback and I'm a happy lass.

Summary:   Pippin thinks of a way to prove to Merry he's all grown up


*****

Chapter 7:  For the Healing


Pippin opened his eyes.

That was a curious thing, because as he lay there, blinking at the white canvas ceiling
of the tent, he didn't think he was supposed to be able to open his eyes, because he'd
been dead, hadn't he?  And this just didn't look elven or grand enough to be the Halls of
Mandos.  Wherever had he gone wrong?

"Where am I?"  He asked the ceiling.  Which was ridiculous, he knew, because ceilings
didn't talk.

"You are by the field of Cormallen, in Ithilien.  And it is the 13th of the new Year, or
the 7th of April in Shire Reckoning."  The voice chuckled.

"Gandalf!"  Pippin exclaimed, and sat up.  Or tried to.  He got about halfway up before
all the muscles in his chest complained, then he laid flat again.  "Oh yes.  I broke
several things, didn't I?  I thought I was dead.  I dreamed of Faramir.  And Gimli.  And
Merry."  A thought came to him.  He rolled over so that he could look at Gandalf, who was
looking merry himself, and resplendent in white.  "Is Merry here?  I dreamt he was
weeping over my hand."

Gandalf nodded, and walked over, taking a closer look at Pippin.  Apparently he liked
what he saw, for he smiled, a little sparkle in his eye.  "He's around.  He's been
skipping meals, watching over you, and after his little run in with the Witch King, I
felt it best to order him to grab a bite."  He chuckled.  "I should have told him to grab
enough for two hungry hobbits, if I'd known you were going to wake up."

"Oooh,"  Pippin said with fervent agreement, hearing his stomach rumble.  How long had he
been asleep?  It was most unhobbitlike for Merry to starve himself like that; he'd have
to take him to task for that.  Oh--but what was Merry doing here?  Seventh of April?
Yes, he'd been asleep a very long time!  "Did we win??"

Gandalf's laugh rang out in the tent, just as Merry returned with a large leg of pheasant
and some brown bread, munching on the pheasant, obviously in a hurry.  He stopped short
as he took in the sight of Pippin awake, Gandalf laughing.  "Well!"  He looked like he
didn't know whether to be angry or overjoyed.

"We did, Pippin.  Frodo and Sam completed their quest, and the Eagles saved them.  It's a
new Age," Gandalf replied, standing up and assisting Merry before he dropped everything.
The moment Merry's hands were free, he raced over to throw his arms around Pippin.

"Which you've been sleeping through, old friend!  Don't you ever scare me like that
again!"  He buried his fact against Pippin's chest, and Pippin found his throat all
swollen and his eyes welling up.  He hugged Merry back hard.  This was what he'd missed
in the Houses of Healing.  The hug hurt a little, but he didn't mind.  Of course, after a
moment, Merry realized what he was doing.  "Dear me!  Am I hurting you?  I was just so
glad to see you awake . . ."  He seemed to be foundering for words, rubbing at his own
eyes.  

Pippin grinned.  "Oh I'm all right.  A little sore in the chest.  I dreamt of you, did
you know?  I saw you watching over me."  He thought it would be best not to mention to
Merry that he'd been dead.  Merry looked emotional enough as it was right now.  So
instead, Pippin turned back to Gandalf, who was making a move to stand.  

"I think I'll leave you two to catch up with each other."  Gandalf smiled at them both,
but waggled a finger at them.  "Now don't tire him out too much, Merry.  And I'll have
them send more food.  You both could use a little fattening, I think."  He walked up and
ruffled Pippin's hair.  "It's good to have you back, foolish Took."  With that, he swept
out of the tent.

For several seconds after Gandalf was gone, Pippin and Merry just looked at each other,
unsure what to say, what to do.  Pippin's growling stomach put a stop to that; he
blushed, and Merry laughed, and offered him the other half of his pheasant, and his
bread, and for a moment they just ate together, trading smiles and blushes.  So many
things had happened.  It was like the Houses of Healing all over again--except this time
Pippin knew he had a few things to say.  He wasn't going to let Merry out of his sight
until he knew.

Pippin took Merry's hand, and held it close to his heart.  "I dreamt of you, do you know?
You were crying."  He found his throat closing up again, like it had then.  "I'm sorry I
made you cry."  

And all at once Merry was crying again, and Pip was sorry he'd opened his foolish mouth.
"Oh Pip!" Merry wailed, and threw both arms around him again, holding him close, and that
was almost worth it, though Pippin still felt like a ninny for making Merry sad again.
"I was so afraid I'd lose you.  Don't you ever leave me alone like that again!"

Well this is just plain silly; now I'm crying too, Pippin thought, but it wasn't silly at
all.  It was wonderful and joyous and he should be happy right now, should be leaping and
he was happy, which is why it was very strange to be crying at the same time.  But
Merry's arms felt marvelous, encircling him, and his heart felt like it was about to
explode out of his chest.  Pippin rested his head on Merry's shoulder, and somehow it
wasn't like old times, it was entirely new, and he loved it.  They stayed that way a long
time, just squeezing and sniffling and patting each other.  

When the tears finally subsided, they found themselves both smiling, and then even more
strange (to Pippin's mind), they started laughing again, wiping tears from each other's
faces.  Merry leaned over and kissed Pippin's cheek, his jaw, and then finally his mouth.
Pippin sighed as a shiver moved through him, kissing back.  He was too tired to do more
than kiss.  But . . . it was a wonderful start.  

"I missed you so much," he told Merry.  "It was awful having to travel without you."

"I know," Merry said softly, holding Pippin's eyes (as if any moment he might close them.
And he was tired, but not all <i>that</i> tired!).  "I shall just have to never leave
your side again."

"I'd like that, very much," Pippin said.  

And having said that, he couldn't bring up the other, about Faramir, and risk breaking
the perfect moment.  Later, Pippin, decided, later he would tell Merry the rest, and
hopefully Merry would still love him, and they could kiss and . . . well sleep.  Kiss and
sleep was about all he'd be good for today.  Perhaps tomorrow they could do more.

Snuggling against Merry's chest, Pippin just rested.

***

Of course, he forgot after, and then the next day something happened that quite jarred
anything else out of Pippin's mind.  Frodo and Sam woke up.  (And wasn't it funny, that
they should wake up only a day later than he?  Pippin supposed that falling trolls were
really quite hard on one, even as hard as journeying through Mordor).  They had Aragorn's
crowning, and everybody cheering Frodo and Sam, and the great feast, where Pippin was
even asked to wear his Gondorian livery and serve with his fellow soldiers, and then
Gandalf was sending him to bed . . . 

He never slept so well in all his life.

***

"So you see," Merry tried to explain to Sam for what must've been the fourth time, "We
drank the Ent's draught and we both grew--but I'm still taller than Pippin--it's quite
obvious, isn't it?"  

"You are not!"  Pippin had little to complain about really; Merry was holding his hand
like he'd never let go.  If Sam noticed anything odd about it, he hadn't said a word.  

"Oh, I most certain am; a good inch taller.  I've always been so."  Merry's hand gave a
squeeze, and Pippin wasn't sure if it was to console him, or urge him to keep quiet.  

He didn't care.  "Let's let Sam decide!"  Quick as that, he leapt to his feet, standing
straight and tall and pulling Merry up to do the same.  They stood eye to eye, while Sam
hemmed and hawed and finally said they both looked about the same to him.  By that time
Pippin had just about forgotten what the contest was about anyways.

Merry was staring into his eyes like he wanted to eat him.  Pippin's stomach was doing
odd little twists, little swirls like a whirlwind on an autumn's day, directly down to
his groin, making his breeches bulge.  He swallowed in a suddenly dry throat, feeling the
pulse in Merry's hand, that neither of them had let go in order to stand up.

He really thought Merry would kiss him just then, in front of Samwise and everything, and
maybe even more, and wouldn't that just be the most shocking thing of all!  But instead
Frodo strode up, and that brought Merry out of whatever thing he was under, and he not
only broke the gaze, but he let go of Pippin's hand as well, and that was really just too
bad, because Pippin had been enjoying the contact.  Would have enjoyed a good deal more,
in fact; he was feeling better every day.  But aside from the hand-holding, they hadn't
progressed farther than that kiss from the day he awoke from his long slumber.

"What's going on?"  Frodo asked.  He still looked over thin and worn out, but his eyes
were bright this morning, and there was a blush to his cheek that hadn't been there the
day before, Pippin could swear.  Sam shrugged and told him he still couldn't figure out
how Merry and Pippin had gotten so tall.  Merry groaned and rolled his eyes.

"I'm <i>not</i> explaining it all again," he stated, sitting down.  Pippin wasn't quite
sure what to do right now, so he remained standing, trying to catch Merry's eye, sort of
try to ask him (without asking him) what that had been just now.  He was still engorged,
and feeling very frisky at the moment.  Sam must've noticed; he wasn't looking much at
Pippin either, but offering Frodo a seat, and--Pippin blinked.

Frodo and Sam were kissing.

Pippin stared, and then aware that he was staring, tried to look away, and of course the
only place away he could think to look was at Merry.  And Merry was staring back at him,
with that 'I'm going to eat you up like a gooseberry pie' kind of look.  Pippin swallowed
again, feeling rather lightheaded with all the blood moving south.  

The kiss must've apparently ended, though Pippin would not have been able to tell if the
sky were falling presently, because next he heard Frodo give a low chuckle.  "Well look
at you two."

"What?" Pippin and Merry both asked at once, turning back to Frodo with a start, almost
guiltily.  He laughed and came forward to give each of them a kiss on the cheek, and a
hug.  

Frodo glanced at Merry, as if Merry ought to know better than to ask, but said nothing,
merely smiling, and Pippin was pretty sure he'd noticed the bulge in his breeches, and
every thought in his head besides.  There was a different air to him now, almost an elven
one.  Very wise.

The four of them got to talking after that, and eventually Pippin was able to sit down
again comfortably, wondering how he would ever get Merry alone and talk to him.

There just never seemed any chance to do so.

***

TBC. . . one last time!

***