Title: A Ceremonial Position 
Author: Stewardess 
Author's Email: bocagrande6@aol.com 
Pairings: Denethor/Pippin, Denethor/Boromir implied 
Rating: NC-17 
Summary: Pippin kissed Denethor’s ring in the ROTK movie, and the 
challenge bunnies howled like banshees. High squick factor. Maybe an 
eight out of ten.
Warnings: Implied incest, non-con, hobbit/man sex. 
Author’s Note: In answer to LOM ROTK movie challenge. Some of 
the cut scenes from ROTK, the movie, include: Faramir giving Pippin his 
uniform from when he was a boy, and Denethor learning that Faramir let 
Sam and Frodo go. This is based on those cut scenes (sure to show up in 
the EE) as well as the ROTK theatrical release. 
Archive: Please ask. Like to know where it goes. 
Feedback: Yes
 
***
 
After rescuing Faramir and his men from the Nazgul outside the walls of 
Minas Tirith, Gandalf urged the young man to come with him and Pippin 
to their rooms in the Citadel, to tell them all he could of Frodo and Sam. 
Although Faramir was shaken, he agreed. 
 
“You will have to tell your father of this,” Gandalf said, when 
Faramir had finished.
 
Faramir rubbed his eyes. “Can you blame me for putting that off as 
long as possible? You do not know, Gandalf, that Denethor sent Boromir 
for the ring.”
 
Gandalf fumed, his beard and eyebrows bristling. “You father is a fool! 
Sorry, I should not have said that to you. But it has been a day of 
foolishness from beginning to end. This young hobbit, for instance, has 
sworn fealty to the Lord of the City! It was ill-advised, to say the 
least.”
 
“I did it to honor Boromir,” Pippin said quietly. Faramir smiled at 
him. “Besides, I doubt I will serve in earnest. Where could a uniform 
be found that would fit me? Perhaps I’ll be given kitchen duty, 
instead.” At the mention of kitchen duty, Pippin’s stomach let out a 
growl. 
 
“I may be able to help you with a uniform, Pippin,” Faramir said. 
“There was one I used to wear . . .” His voice trailed off. “Come 
to the Steward’s quarters after supper, and I’ll see if I can find it 
for you.”
 
***
 
Pippin watched Faramir dig into a wooden chest in his bedroom, removing 
many items before he found what he was looking for. “Here it is. I was 
ten when it was made.” He held up the unusual black mail coat.
 
As Faramir helped slide the chain mail over Pippin’s head, Pippin felt 
excitement grow in him. He had long admired Boromir’s and 
Aragorn’s skill in battle, and wearing the armour gave him a vicarious 
thrill, although he knew he was no warrior. Faramir pulled a leather 
surcoat over it, the black suede embossed with the White Tree of 
Numenor. It had ties at the side, so the fit was easy to adjust. Pippin held 
out his hands as Faramir slid on the gloves and buckled on the vambraces. 
 
“They look just like Boromir’s!” Pippin said of the vambraces.
 
“Here’s the helm,” Faramir said. He lifted it out of the chest. It 
was wrapped in a cloth to keep it bright, although the mithril it was inlaid 
with never tarnished. 
 
“Take a look at yourself in the mirror,” Faramir said, a smile at last 
on his face.
 
Pippin grinned at his reflection. He looked like the Prince of the Halflings, 
as he had heard the folk of the city call out to him. Faramir placed the 
helm on Pippin’s head, then helped Pippin strap on the sword belt. 
Finally, Faramir draped a black cloak in fine wool around Pippin’s 
shoulders.
 
 “Where are the others?” Pippin asked.
 
“The others?”
 
“The other uniforms. You must have had one made for you at least 
every two years, as you grew. Did you give those away, as well?”
 
Faramir shook his head, avoiding Pippin’s eyes. “I wore this 
uniform from the time I was ten until I was eleven. No others were made. 
When Boromir came back from his first campaign, he put a stop to it.”
 
“Put a stop to it? Why?”
 
Faramir swallowed. “He did not think children should play at battle, 
after seeing a battle for himself. He told me, and our father, that I should 
be allowed to remain a child as long as possible.”
 
Pippin nodded in approval; in the Shire, hobbits were not considered fully 
adult until they were the ripe age of thirty-three. “Boromir was right. 
There is no place for children in war. Though I am sorry all the women 
and children have left the city; it is dreadfully quiet without them.”
 
Faramir smiled. “A few boys remain, to serve as errand runners and 
pages. Beregond’s son, for instance. I’ll introduce you to him. But 
first I shall teach you the oath you shall take tomorrow. Repeat after me: 
Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward 
of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to 
go, in need or in plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour 
henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world 
end.”
 
***
 
Pippin joined Gandalf in the room they shared. He spread his new 
treasures out on a table and gloated over them. “Will this be a 
ceremonial position, Gandalf? They won’t expect me to fight, will 
they?”
 
“You are under the command of the steward now, and you must do his 
bidding, Peregrin son of Paladin, Guard of the Citadel.”
 
***
 
The next day, Pippin donned his new uniform and hurried to the throne 
room in the White Tower, where he had been told to attend to his lord at 
nine in the morning. When he arrived, Faramir was finishing a brief 
account of meeting Frodo and Sam in Ithilien. Denethor’s wrath was 
terrible, and Pippin looked away as Faramir fought to control his grief.
 
Turning his back on his son, Denethor motioned for Pippin to kneel to take 
his oath. Pippin stumbled through the words under the amused glance of 
the Steward and the encouraging gaze of Faramir. 
 
Denethor spoke with a smile. “This I do hear, Denethor son of 
Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget 
it, nor fail to reward that which is given.” Denethor offered his hand to 
Pippin, who took it hesitantly. Denethor turned his hand until his ring was 
under Pippin’s lips. Awkwardly, Pippin realized he was meant to kiss 
it, and did so reluctantly. Denethor’s hand took his chin and raised his 
face so that Pippin was looking into Denethor’s eyes for his final 
words. “Fealty with love, valour with honor, oath-breaking with 
vengeance.”
 
Pippin rose, feeling vaguely ill. Had it been his imagination, or had 
Denethor caressed his chin when he had said *love*? He may have 
imagined it, but he had not imagined Denethor’s cold stare at Faramir 
when he had concluded with the words *oath-breaking with vengeance*.
 
Then all doubt was removed swiftly; Pippin listened in horror as Denethor 
told Faramir he wished Faramir had died in Boromir’s place. Faramir 
left the throne room, tears spilling from his eyes. 
 
At Denethor’s request, Pippin sang a song while the steward ate. As 
the song ended, his face crumpled. He felt Denethor’s hand on his chin 
again.
 
“Faramir does not deserve your tears, Peregrin son of Paladin,” 
Denethor said. “But if you are concerned for him, follow me.”
 
Pippin followed the steward up a winding stair to the top of the White 
Tower. They were both breathless by the time they reached the top of the 
stairs. The room at the top stretched the full breadth of the tower, which 
narrowed as it grew in height, yet the room was still large, nearly fifty by 
fifty feet. Tall windows looked out over the Pelennor.
 
“Look out that window, Master Peregrin, and you will see my son do 
my bidding.”
 
Pippin went to the window, but his chin reached only to the wide sill. 
There were benches along the walls, and he turned to drag one close, but 
Denethor lifted him up. Pippin felt a sudden revulsion at the touch of his 
hands. *I will never not listen to Gandalf again*, he thought. *I should 
have kept my mouth shut when I met the steward. I should not have spoken 
at all.* 
 
But he did not regret it; he would never forget Boromir dying to protect 
him and Merry. Although the Uruk-hai had been under orders not to kill 
the Halflings, one had been about to cut them down with an axe when 
Boromir arrived, his sword drawn.
 
“What do you see?” Denethor asked. 
 
Pippin looked out. The view he had seen from the battlements on the 
seventh level was nothing compared to this; he was another three hundred 
feet up, nearly a thousand feet above the plain. He could see Faramir and 
his company halfway across the Pelennor, approaching the smoking wreck 
of Osgiliath. *I see men going to certain death*, Pippin thought, and did 
not answer the steward’s question. 
 
Denethor set him down again. “Where did you get this uniform, Master 
Peregrin?”
 
“Lord Faramir gave it to me. My lord,” Pippin said. He heard anger 
in his voice, and attempted to control himself. Pippin had realized it would 
do Faramir harm if Denethor thought Pippin admired his youngest son. 
“Why does he hate him so?” Pippin thought. “It cannot only be 
Boromir’s death, for it seems he has always hated him.”
 
Denethor looked at him with an intensity that made Pippin squirm. 
“Did he tell you the tale of this uniform?”
 
Pippin shook his head. “He told me it was the only one that was made 
for him, when he was growing up, my lord.” 
 
“Yes, the only one. It was Boromir who objected to Faramir being 
garbed as a warrior,” Denethor said. “Not the first time, and 
certainly not the last time, that Boromir sacrificed himself for his 
brother.” The steward’s eyes glinted. “Do you think a boy of 
eleven too young to know of war?”
 
Pippin considered dissembling, but knew he was incapable of it. “I do, 
my lord.”
 
“And yet you look to be a boy yourself! Surely you would not say you 
are unfit for war, merely because of your stature -- or lack of stature, we 
might say. Why then would Faramir at eleven be unfit?” 
 
“I am nearly thirty, my lord. I am not a boy,” Pippin groaned 
inwardly as his growing dislike of the steward crept into his voice again.
 
“Faramir was not a boy at eleven, either,” Denethor said softly. He 
put a hand under Pippin’s chin again so Pippin could not avoid his 
gaze. “*Fealty with love*. Do you think that oath is carelessly given, 
Master Peregrin? I offered Faramir my love, but he would not accept it. 
But Boromir did, in his stead. His first sacrifice, perhaps.” 
 
Pippin was alarmed, knowing that he should understand the steward’s 
words, and yet he did not. 
 
“Are you saying Faramir broke his oath to you . . . my lord?” he 
said, and once again the disgust stole into his voice. Faramir was no oath-
breaker, no matter what Denethor might say! Pippin would forever be in 
Faramir’s debt for aiding Frodo and Sam in their time of need, and not 
bringing them back to Minas Tirith to this . . . Man. 
 
Pippin’s eyes flooded with tears, for the Sons of Gondor would fall for 
the Halfings; first Boromir for Merry and himself, and now Faramir for 
Frodo and Sam, for Pippin knew that Denethor had ordered Faramir to 
Osgiliath in retaliation for letting the ring of power pass out of the 
steward’s reach.
 
“Yes, that is what I say! Faramir promised to serve me but did not. I 
would have had my vengeance then, but Boromir gave himself in his 
brother’s stead. Would you sacrifice yourself for Faramir, as Boromir 
did?”
 
Pippin fought nausea as the steward’s hand caressed his neck. *Am I 
dealing with a lord, or a madman?* His thoughts chased each other 
frantically. The steward slipped his hand below Pippin’s chain mail 
and surcoat to caress his spine. 
 
At last Pippin understood why Boromir had put a stop to Faramir’s 
service as a Guard, and how Boromir had sacrificed himself. His hand 
drifted towards the hilt of his sword, and he realized with a pang he had 
not yet had it sharpened. It was nothing more than a ceremonial toy. *A 
ceremonial position.* He nearly gagged. 
 
“Sacrifice yourself,” Denethor whispered in a low and urgent voice, 
“and Faramir will be spared. Disobey me, and I shall send him out 
again and again until he does not come back.” 
 
Pippin clenched his teeth as Denethor knelt before him and put his hands 
on his shoulders. 
 
“I could not have asked for better,” Denethor muttered. “This 
uniform . . . it is a perfect fit.” He stood and pulled Pippin by the hand 
to one of the benches that lined the walls below the windows. He picked 
Pippin up and placed him on the bench, then sat down next to him. 
 
“Well?” Denethor said. “Are you obedient?” His fingers 
ruffled Pippin’s curls.
 
“I would not have him die,” Pippin whispered, and closed his eyes. 
He fought back a cry as Denethor’s mouth closed on his. 
 
Pippin thought of the fallen son. Countless times, Boromir had put a 
reassuring hand on his shoulder. He had carried him through the snow, and 
saved him from the chasm of Moria. He could not even recall all of the 
times his life had depended on Boromir’s strength and courage.
 
Pippin had admired the lordly and kindly man, and had loved him. At 
some point during their journey -- after Moria, he thought --  his hero 
worship of Boromir had changed to something warmer. He had dreamt of 
Boromir kissing him, chaste kisses of friendship. But for a man to love a 
hobbit . . . it was grotesque, and Pippin knew it. All he had wanted was 
Boromir’s friendship and affection, and that the man had given him 
freely. Once, Boromir had given him a friendly kiss, a brief wet smack on 
the mouth. He thought Boromir knew how he felt, and he was grateful that 
Boromir had never made him feel embarrassed by it. 
 
Boromir had loved the Halflings; Pippin knew it, in spite of Boromir’s 
attack on Frodo. It was the ring controlling Boromir’s mind that was at 
fault for that, Pippin thought, not Boromir himself. Boromir would have 
died for Frodo
 
He kept his thoughts on Boromir as the chill tongue stole into his mouth. 
*I would not have him die.*
 
The kiss ended and he heaved a sigh of relief. Something cold and hard 
pressed against his lips, and he opened his eyes. Denethor’s ring. He 
kissed it, as he assumed Denethor wished. 
 
“Suck on it,” Denethor whispered, and pressed the jewel on the ring 
into his mouth. Pippin sucked on the hard round stone, his stomach 
fluttering. He wondered what the steward would do if he was sick on him; 
the chance of it was looming ever closer. 
 
Denethor pulled the stone from his mouth and pushed Pippin flat on the 
bench. He sat astride it, between Pippin’s legs. He slid Pippin’s 
chain mail and surcoat up, then his hands worked on the laces of 
Pippin’s breeches. He pulled the breeches open and tugged them 
down, then bent over him. Pippin could not stop a cry when the 
steward’s mouth touched his belly. 
 
“You swore to speak, and to be silent . . . and now you will be 
silent,” Denethor hissed against his stomach. Pippin bit his lower lip as 
the steward’s tongue lapped at him. He was completely limp, but the 
steward was not discouraged by his shrinking flesh; his mouth closed 
around Pippin and he sucked hard. His hands ran swiftly over Pippin, 
feeling the uniform, then Pippin’s hair, then touching his lips. 
 
A large finger pushed into his mouth, almost acting as a gag. Pippin 
sucked on it, now knowing what Denethor wanted when he put something 
in his mouth. 
 
He looked down at Denethor and shut his eyes tightly to block out the 
sight, squirming from the intense feeling; the man’s mouth was so 
large, Denethor’s tongue could caress his entire length. And did. 
Pippin cried out softly, realizing he was hardening. *Gods no . . . if I am 
hard he won’t stop . . . he won’t stop . . . *
 
He writhed in earnest, no longer fighting to stay still. Denethor pulled his 
finger out of Pippin’s mouth and stroked the cleft of his buttocks with 
the sopping finger. Pippin bit his lower lip again as the finger pushed in. 
The finger circled inside him and his hips moved up, thrusting himself into 
Denethor’s mouth. 
 
“No!” Pippin cried. His hands had been gripping the sides of the 
bench. Now they went to Denethor’s hair, and he pulled on it 
desperately, trying to move the mouth off of him. Denethor laughed 
around him. The finger moved inside him again and his hands went still as 
his hips thrust upwards again. 
 
“He liked that as well,” Denethor whispered, his mouth gone for a 
moment. Then the mouth was back and for a moment Pippin was glad. He 
gripped Denethor’s hair but he could not tell if he was trying to push 
the steward away or hold him close.  *Let it end!* He imagined 
Boromir’s kindly face. *Pretend it’s him. Boromir . . .* He cried 
out, his climax sudden and sharp. 
 
He breathed heavily as Denethor sat up, wiping his lips. “And now for 
me,” Denethor whispered. He pulled his robes apart. Pippin saw with 
surprise that the steward was wearing chain mail underneath. The long 
mail coat was slit nearly to Denethor’s waist, and was no obstacle, 
however. The steward bared himself and grabbed the hair on the back of 
Pippin’s head, pulling Pippin down to his lap. 
 
Pippin gagged, and Denethor pushed his head away. “You will have to 
use your hands, then.” He reclined on the bench as Pippin had done, 
and pulled Pippin to kneel on the bench between his legs. Pippin wrapped 
both hands around the steward’s cock and closed his eyes. *Pretend 
it’s him.* Tears coursed down his cheeks. *Boromir, I will not let him 
die . . . your brother will live, I swear it . . .* 
 
The steward, who had been unnaturally silent,  breathed loudly. His hands 
grasped Pippin’s curls, but not roughly, sliding through his hair 
caressingly. Pippin grimaced when the man’s come spurted out, 
drenching his hands, some of it on his sleeves. He let go and wiped his 
hands on the inside of his cloak. His chin trembled and he fought hard to 
keep from weeping. 
 
The look Denethor gave him was mild. “I shall reward fealty with love, 
Master Peregrin, as promised.” He took a corner of Pippin’s soiled 
cloak, carefully cleaned himself, then stood. His eyes were remote. 
“Come. We have tarried here too long,” Denethor said, as if they 
had come up simply to enjoy the view.
 
Pippin took a last look out of the window and choked back a cry. Soldiers 
were bearing a man into the Citadel. He could not be sure from this 
distance, but . . . no, there was no mistaking that red-gold hair. 
“Faramir!”
 
***
 
Epilogue, four days later
 
***
 
Pippin sat on Faramir’s bed in the Houses of Healing. It had been two 
days since Aragorn had healed the new steward of Gondor, ending his 
fever. 
 
“I shall ride tomorrow with Aragorn to the Black Gate,” Pippin said. 
Faramir took his hand. 
 
“I am sorry you are leaving,” Faramir said. “I wish that I could 
go, as well.”
 
“Merry will keep you company,” Pippin said. “You will look 
after him?”
 
Faramir nodded, and smiled. The Halfling was so transparent! He was sure 
Pippin had told Merry to look after Faramir. 
 
“Pippin, I wish to thank you. Do not consider yourself in Boromir’s 
debt. Any debt you thought you owed him has been many times 
repaid.” Faramir squeezed his hand.
 
Pippin smiled, then frowned. Aragorn and Gandalf had given him strict 
instructions not to speak to Faramir about the manner of Denethor’s 
death -- not yet, for Aragorn feared that Faramir would suffer a relapse if 
he knew of Denethor’s madness and his attempt to murder Faramir. 
He was not sure how to respond to Faramir’s words, for surely they 
eluded to the pyre . . .
 
Faramir watched Pippin struggle with himself, and took pity on the young 
Halfing. How could he tell Pippin that his brother had come to him in his 
dreams and told him of how Pippin had saved him from the fire? It was 
too soon to speak of it, and there were the other dreams, the ones he must 
fight not to recall until he was stronger . . . if ever.
 
“I know much of what happened, Pippin. I saw it in my dreams. I know 
you saved my life.” 
 
Pippin clasped Faramir around the neck. “It was no trouble,” he said 
in the absurdly light way of hobbits. 
 
“Pippin, I know that you tried to serve Denethor as best you could; he 
was not an easy master. Do not regret that you could not save him from 
the fire, as well.”
 
Pippin sat up. “You must be joking! I’m glad he’s dead!”  
He winced when Faramir covered his eyes as if a sharp pain had shot 
through his skull. “I’m sorry, my lord . . . Faramir. I did not mean . 
. .”
 
“I’m glad he’s dead, too,” Faramir whispered, putting a 
hand on Pippin’s shoulder. 
 
They stared at each other. Pippin’s heart pounded. He was afraid of 
what Faramir might say; he was not made to be the confidante of stewards 
and kings. He was just a hobbit.  
 
“He deserved to die,” Pippin said, and wondered at his audacity. 
“For what he did to you and Boromir. When you were young.”
 
“I feared that might happen,” Faramir whispered. He closed his eyes 
and sunk back onto the bed. “The uniform . . . It could have reminded 
him.”
 
“It did.”
 
Faramir sat up, and the pain in his expression made Pippin’s heart 
sink. He would have to fetch Aragorn; Faramir was going to be ill again . . .
 
“You were not hurt?” Faramir asked. 
 
Pippin shook his head. “You came back before anything could 
happen,” he lied with a cheerful expression. 
 
Faramir slumped in relief. “He never touched me, you know. Boromir 
stopped him.”
 
Faramir did not know how Boromir had stopped Denethor, Pippin 
realized. *I won’t tell him.* He wept while Faramir held him. 
 
Pippin thought of Denethor’s last moments. The flames. The seven 
hundred foot fall. *So help me, I wish he had died again, and again.*
 
***
 
The End
 
***
 
Submitted by Stewardess, 12/26/2003