Title: Only a Dream
Author: The fair one
Author's E-mail: Lottie_83uk@yahoo.co.uk
Pairing: Faramir/Pippin
Rating: NC17
Summary: The darkness grows, and in Gondor comfort is in short supply.
Disclaimer: The characters, names, places etc. are obviously Tolkien’s. 
The inspiration for this piece is a couple of stunning moments in Peter 
Jacksons ROTK; I don’t own that either. So consider this a poor tribute to 
their combined genius. I am, as always in awe of their work! Oh the 
quotation is a Mary Chapin Carpenter lyric (and I prefer to say quotation 
not lyric because that makes it a normal piece rather than a song fic!)
Authors Note: Thanks to Lilith for all her help, I really appreciate it! Other 
than that I'm a creatively starved medical student so I live for feedback! If 
you liked it, let me know.

=====================================================

“I can recall the sound of the wind,
As it blew through the trees and the trees would bend.
And I can recall the smell of the rain on
A hot summer night coming through the screen.
I’d crawl in your bed when the lightning flashed,
And I'd still be there when the storm had passed.
Dead to the world till the morning cast,
Its light all around your room.”
=====================================================


 Relief, and fear. The two emotions raged in his mind, vying for his 
attention. The courtyard around him was alive with noise; frightened 
horses, women crying, groans of pain. At one time his garrison would 
have spilled out into the surrounding streets; now it barely filled this small 
space. His sleeve was wet with blood, the dull ache of the injury beginning 
to creep into the fringes of his mind. Yet he ignored it; instead looking 
around desperately for the white rider who was the sole reason so many of 
his men had returned. For some reason he felt desperate to explain what 
had happened; hoping Mithrandir would understand, that he would help 
shield him from the steward's wrath. The old man had heard his cry, 
turning his horse to address the desperate young Captain. 

In that moment Faramir forgot his compulsion to explain, transfixed 
instead by Shadowfaxs’ other passenger. For a second his mind was filled 
with the events of the past few days. Of another halfling who carried such 
a serious burden, of a seemingly childlike figure telling him of his 
brother's strength and of his weakness. This halfling was unlike the two he 
had encountered before. He was undoubtedly younger, and slight where 
the gardener had been heavy. His chestnut brown hair fell in soft curls 
about his face, which in itself was delicately boned, small nosed, sweet 
mouthed. He met Faramir’s gaze shyly, and the Captain was struck by the 
incredible apple green of his eyes. So intent was he upon the study of the 
creature, he did not at first acknowledge Mithrandir’s question. The old 
man was gazing at him intently, the need for an answer clear upon his 
face.

“This is not the first halfling you have seen?”

He shook his head dumbly; refocusing his attention rapidly as the small 
person came alive with excitement.

“You’ve seen Frodo and Sam!”

He nodded, noticing the inflection in the hobbit’s accent, and the almost 
infectious nature of his joy.

“Where?” Mithrandir’s voice was stern, demanding.

“In Osgiliath, not two days ago.”

So caught up was he in the pleasure of their reaction that he almost forgot 
the most important details. These wiped the smile from the old wizard’s 
face instantly; and switched off the light he had seen in the hobbit, until 
only confusion was evident on his small face.

“You must tell me everything.” The old man stated. He nodded grimly; 
not relishing the telling, but vaguely relieved that it would delay the 
explanation for his father.

=====================================================

The full tale took a long time to tell, and it was dusk before he was 
allowed to return to his rooms. Mithrandir had excluded the halfling 
(Pippin, he’d learnt) from their meeting. Faramir had found himself 
disappointed at that. There was something infectiously alive about the 
slight creature, an attractiveness he felt compelled to be around. He shook 
himself at that thought; trying to dismiss it as loneliness, as displaced 
longing for his brother.

The women of the tower had drawn him a bath. It stood before the fire, 
steaming with sweet oils. Contemplating its inviting warmth he was 
suddenly aware of how dirty he was. His tunic was stiff and stained with 
blood and river mud, and he felt the grit of accumulated dirt abrade his 
skin. Gingerly he began to peel back his tunic from where the congealed 
blood had glued it to his forearm. The wound beneath was caused by a 
knife slash, and as such was wide but not deep. He was just contemplating 
whether to have it sewn closed by the healers, when he was roused by a 
knock at the door. The knock itself puzzled him, seeming as it did to come 
from the base rather than the top of the door; almost as if the person were 
knocking with his knees rather than his hands. Retaining his bemused 
expression, he carefully opened the door, to find the corridor empty. He 
leant out slightly to look in both directions, startled then by a touch upon 
his injured arm.

“Lord Faramir?” 

He looked down, and met the startling green of Pippin’s eyes.

“Pippin?” 

He asked surprised, more for something to say than to confirm the 
halfling’s identity. The hobbit looked down shyly and shuffled his feet. He 
had been quite put out when Gandalf had kept him out of his meeting with 
Faramir. Frodo and Sam were his friends; he had a right to know what was 
happening to them. It was this conviction that made him seek out the 
young Captain of Gondor; but now standing in front of him, his courage 
failed a little. Faramir was quite like Boromir and yet not so. Pippin had 
initially been quite afraid of the tall, dark man of Gondor; though time on 
their journey had taught him better. Yet where Boromir had been dark and 
severe, his brother was fairer and softer. There was amusement and 
vulnerability in the man’s mild blue eyes, and meeting them Pippin found 
he wasn’t quite so afraid anymore. Faramir looked tired and lonely. One of 
his arms was pulled out of his tunic, and Pippin noted with concern the 
large gash in the smooth skin. The man followed his gaze and smiled 
weakly.

“It’s all right, it’s not deep.”

There was an awkward moment before Faramir remembered himself, and 
stood aside to let Pippin in. Pippin shuffled in obediently; watching in 
fascination as Faramir stripped off his tunic completely, standing in 
nothing but his leggings. Though he had seen the bodies of men many 
times on his journey here, they never ceased to fascinate him. He 
remembered the lines of Boromirs torso; thickly haired, smooth muscle, 
and ragged pink scars. Though the brothers were so alike in other ways, 
Pippin could see their differences now. Just as Faramir’s face showed a 
vulnerability that Boromir’s could never have possessed; so his flesh was 
smoother, infinitely more inviting. The young Captain’s muscles showed 
strong and firm beneath his smooth skin; the hair of his body finer, fairer. 
The most startling difference though was in the nature of their scars. 
Boromir’s were numerous; marks of battles hard won, the nature and 
length of the blade traceable in the lines of raised tissue. Faramir bore 
some of this type too, but upon him such scars were newer; barely fading. 
Beneath them, criss-crossing the curve of his spine were much older 
marks. Long, thin lines of keloid flesh; white, shiny, ugly. With the man’s 
back to him Pippin felt no shame in starring, wondering what horrible 
event could have left such scars. It was only when the future steward 
turned, and he had no time to hide his interest, that he flushed. 
Faramir watched him warily, his fingers gingerly touching the lines upon 
his back as though they still pained him. Uneasy beneath that intensely 
blue gaze Pippin smiled gently. For a moment Faramir seemed to be 
contemplating something very far away; then he returned the smile, yet it 
was such a fragile gesture that Pippin’s heart ached to see it.

“The battles we fight with those we love are sometimes the hardest,” he 
said slowly.

Pippin frowned, not understanding the cryptic nature of the statement. 
Faramir sat down upon the edge of his bed and smiled weakly.

“I’m afraid in my youth I gave my father much cause for anger,” he said 
resignedly.

For a moment confusion still clouded Pippin’s small face, before horrible 
realisation dawned. He looked at Faramir with a new awe; respect and pity 
for the pain he must have borne to wear such scars. Unbidden an image of 
Boromir’s flesh flashed before his eyes, and he frowned again.

“He did not beat Boromir?”

“Boromir did not displease him.” Faramir answered firmly, as defensive of 
his brother as Pippin would be of Merry. Anxious to change this line of 
conversation Pippin turned his attention again to the wound on Faramir’s 
arm. A day beneath his tunic had dried and congealed the blood to a 
blackened mass at the boundaries of the cut, which gaped wide and ugly.

“Let me clean that for you Lord Faramir,”
he offered; tentatively taking the injured arm by the wrist and turning it in 
order to look more closely. Faramir withdrew his arm quickly, cradling it 
against his chest with the other. Pippin rocked back on his heels to take in 
the full length of the man before him. Faramir was watching him like a 
frightened child;  Pippin marvelled at such a reaction to affection from the 
sensitive young man.

“I thank you for your kindness, but it’s unnecessary.” Faramir said slowly, 
finally lowering his arm to his side again.

“I promise I won’t hurt much.” Pippin answered firmly. Turning his back 
he crossed to the table to collect water jug, bowl and cloth. When he 
returned he found Faramir sitting, arm outstretched; and apparently 
resigned. The hobbit couldn’t help but smile.

“Don’t worry, I've done this lots of times,” he said brightly, dipping the 
cloth in the warm water. “When Merry and I got scrapes doing something 
we shouldn’t,  it was best to see to them ourselves. It saved lots of difficult 
questions!” He laughed, beginning to cleanse the wound, from inside 
outwards as his mother had once taught him. There was more blood than 
he’d expected, and very soon both cloth and water were stained deep red. 
Faramir was silent throughout, watching the small hands working 
diligently over his broken flesh. Only when Pippin went to change the 
water did he speak.

“Merry?” he asked.

Pippin turned, jug in hand to regard the young steward; his bare flesh 
flushed in the firelight.

“My cousin, and my best friend,” he said slowly, and Faramir saw the 
flash of longing on the hobbits kind face.

“He’s always looked after me, ever since I was little....just like....”

“Like a brother,” Faramir offered, and Pippin could see the reflection of 
tears in his eyes.

“Yes” He smiled slowly. “I think this is the longest time we’ve ever been 
apart.”

He moved back to Faramir’s side as he spoke, resuming his careful 
washing of the wound.

“Why did he not come here with you?” Faramir asked, wincing as the 
cloth ghosted over open flesh. Pippin was quiet, his cheeks red as he 
remembered the stupidity of his actions.

“Pippin?” He felt Faramir’s hand in his chestnut curls, brushing down his 
cheek to raise his head. The man was watching him, his eyes soft with 
tenderness. Pippin swallowed hard.

“I did something really stupid,” h’e said softly. Faramir’s wound was 
clean by the time he had finished telling him of the incident with the 
Palantir. When he’d stumbled over the words; remembering the last 
moments with Merry, he felt Faramirs hand, warm and comforting on the 
back of his neck. Finished, he put the cloth down and contemplated the 
wound. It was still wide and tender looking, but it would heal, even if it 
did scar.

“It was a mistake Pippin, just a mistake. Merry will forgive you, just as 
Boromir would have forgiven me.” 

To his surprise, Faramir drew him into a gentle embrace; he could feel the 
smooth skin and soft hairs of the man’s chest against his cheek. He 
couldn’t help but weep then. For his own loneliness without Merry; for 
Faramir’s grief for Boromir; for Frodo and Sam out there somewhere in 
the dangerous dark. So he barely resisted as Faramir raised his chin and 
began to softly kiss the tears away, his lips like a balm to Pippin’s aching 
soul. He let his eyelids flutter closed as Faramir continued to caress his 
face with his mouth, leaving him finally with a ghost of a kiss upon his 
small nose. Pippin stood still a moment, eyes still closed; letting his body 
shudder at the affectionate contact. When he finally opened them, it was to 
find Faramir watching him with tender concern.

“Boromir used to do that for me, when I was small. Sometimes I'd wake 
up crying in the night from a nightmare about the mother I could scarcely 
remember, yet was never able to forget. I never had long to wait in that 
frightening darkness, somehow Boromir always knew. He’d come to my 
room and hold me, kiss away my tears, and with them all the terror of the 
night. He would always stay then, and I'd fall asleep to the comforting 
warmth of his body against mine. Even when we were both men and 
Boromir returned from Osgiliath, we would spend nights that way. There 
is a part of me that will never again be whole now he’s gone; I sometimes 
feel I might break apart with the grief of it.”

Pippin crawled up upon the bed besides the hurting man, leaning his 
chestnut coloured head upon Faramirs strong shoulder.

“Merry was always there for me,” he whispered softly “He’s older than 
me, so when I was little he’d sit up on hot summer nights to read me 
stories. Or when we had spring rain, and he’d snuggle me close so we 
could listen to it falling on the window. Then when there were storms, and 
lightning. I was so scared of lightning.” He paused and sighed. “I’m still 
so scared of lightning. I’d go to his room and crawl into his bed. I was 
always too afraid to sleep while the thunder came, so he’d sing to me. In 
the morning I'd wake up to his cuddles. There's nothing quite like being 
warm with Merry.” 

He was weeping again, assailed by memories and the unspeakable horror 
that he might never see his beloved friend again. Faramir held him close, 
rocking him idly, though Pippin could feel the man’s tears fall in his hair, 
and the hitch in his normally tranquil breathing. 

They were quiet together until their tears ran dry; then still a moment 
more, collecting their respective reminiscences. Suddenly Pippin 
remembered the purpose of his visit and turned in Faramir’s arms to look 
at him.

“Did you really see Frodo and Sam?” he asked. 

“Yes. They passed through Osgiliath not two days ago. I took them for 
Orc spies.” 

Pippin giggled.

“We hobbits must have orc stitched upon us somewhere. Would you 
believe somebody thought Merry and I were too?” 

Faramir looked down at the delightful little imp leaning against him and 
shook his head.

“No, I can’t believe anyone could mistake you for something so 
disgusting.” He ruffled Pippins hair affectionately.

“So where are Frodo and Sam now? Gandalf looked afraid, and I don’t 
like it when he’s afraid. Where is it you said they were going?”

Faramir looked into the beautiful, trusting, hopeful face. He couldn’t tell 
him the truth, not now. Not when he was separated from the only person 
with whom he felt safe. He would not put Pippin through the pain he now 
suffered without his dear brother. The hobbit was so sweet, so young, so 
small. He smiled gently.

“Into Mordor Pippin. It’s an awful place, but it’s a great thing they go to 
do, and everyday takes them closer to it. There is much strength in your 
friends; we must trust to that.”

Pippin looked doubtful a moment, before his face smoothed out with 
sweet acceptance. He suddenly became aware of his situation, and 
Faramir’s bath still unused before the fire. He got up quickly, smoothing 
down his tunic.

“I’m sorry, I've kept you from your comfort and your bed. I’ll go now, but 
thank you for telling me about Frodo and Sam.” He had reached the door, 
and Faramir realised he didn’t want the halfling to leave. Yet he wouldn’t 
ask him to stay, not simply to hold off his own grief.

“It was my pleasure Pippin. I hope we’ll have many more chances to talk 
while you are here.” Pippin nodded happily, and opened the door. With his 
hand upon the handle he turned to look back at Faramir.

“Merry calls me Pip; if you’d like you can too.”

Faramir smiled.

“I would like that very much.”

Pippin nodded again, and then he was gone.

=====================================================


It was the light that woke him. Filling the small tower room with blinding 
whiteness, no less frightening for all its briefness. Instinctively he tensed, 
pulling the blankets tight around him, counting the silence between light 
and noise. It came before he’d reached two, echoing around  the streets of 
Minis Tirith. Unbidden he felt the tears begin to run down his cheeks, their 
saltiness tainting his lips. He was so small here in this city of men; so far 
from Merry, so far from home. Away from all that felt safe and reassuring. 
Almost lost in the huge bed Pippin sobbed, unable to appease the tide of 
loneliness that moment by moment crept higher and threatened to drown 
him

=====================================================


Faramir too had heard the thunder, but it bothered him only with 
memories. Echoes of the past that had him and Boromir standing at the 
window and watching the sky fire illuminate Osgiliath. He was standing 
there now, gazing at the blue white forks stabbing down into the earth. 
The plains below were thick with rain and he could not see the border city, 
but his memory supplied what his eyes could not. He hoped the enemy 
suffered out there in the rain, but his heart knew that such creatures were 
not concerned with the cold or the dark. So instead he willed the 
lightening to strike. It would sadden him to see Osgiliath burn, but perhaps 
that was what was needed now; a cleansing fire to purge the evil stink 
forever from Gondor’s land. Cities could be rebuilt, but deep hurts could 
not be fully undone.

Sighing he turned back to his bed. It was then he remembered the halfling, 
and his heart fell still further.

“Poor Pippin,” he said half aloud to himself; knowing what it was to suffer 
your fears without the comfort of those who loved you most. He hoped 
Mithrandir was with him, though he held no great faith in the comfort an 
old man could offer the sweet Hobbit. He knew Pippin would be easier for 
another’s presence. So, filled with quiet concern for the gentle little 
creature, he lay back down to sleep.

=====================================================


He had tried to lie quiet and be sensible, but his fear had won through. He 
shook with the terror of it; that and the knowledge he was entirely alone. 
He thought of Merry and the comforting warmth of his embrace. Then, 
slowly the image changed, becoming the strong, sure warmth of the arms 
of Boromir’s brother. Calm spread through him as he remembered the 
gentleness of his touch, the softness of his voice. Almost without realising 
it he was out of bed, pulling his cloak over the smooth linen of his 
sleeping shirt. Only then did he pause to think. He wanted to be near 
Faramir, to have him soothe the ache of his fear. Yet Faramir was not 
Merry. He could not expect the Captain of Gondor to coddle him as his 
dear cousin would. He remembered Boromir’s lack of affection, his 
distrust of warmth; and then he remembered that Faramir was not 
Boromir. Trusting to the softness of the young man’s gaze and speech, he 
set off for the man’s room at a run.

=====================================================


Faramir heard the knock through a haze of sleep; he rose, still not quite 
awake and struggled into his britches. 

“Coming ,brother, coming” he mumbled. He threw open the door, his 
dream mind desperate for the image of his brother, and was woken cruelly 
by his absence. In Boromir’s place he beheld the sleep ruffled figure of 
Pippin Took. The hobbit wore an expression of hopeful apology, though 
Faramir could see his tension in the tightness of his jaw. He didn’t speak, 
but simply stood aside to allow the small figure access to his room. He 
watched expectantly as the hobbit shuffled from foot to foot 
uncomfortably, carefully avoiding his gaze. He was about to speak when 
the room was once again set ablaze by the light of the storm outside. There 
were no words needed then; as Pippin, startled by fear, rushed against him, 
burying his sweet face in the folds of Faramir’s sleep shirt. Faramir’s 
placed a hand on Pippins trembling back, soothing his terror with soft 
noises which had no meaning. This felt strange to him, to be now the 
protector and not the protected. Yet perhaps he thought this was as it 
should be. He was the Captain of Gondor now; and where better to start 
than defending this sweet creature against the terrors of the night? 
Gradually Pippin’s body stilled against him, and the man was suddenly all 
too aware of the comforting heat pressed against his thigh. He drew back 
carefully, breathing hard. Pippin looked up at him shyly, his bright green 
eyes shiny with un-spilt tears. He dragged the sleeve of his shirt across 
them roughly, and gave Faramir a weak smile.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I'm doing here. I’m supposed to become a 
guard of the citadel tomorrow, and here I am crying like a lamb because of 
the storm. It’s just that I  was so scared, and this city is so strange, 
and,...and.....and I miss Merry.”

Faramir knelt down so that they were face to face. Calmly, without 
speaking he opened his arms to the other lonely being. Pippin hesitated a 
moment, regarding the man with uncertain eyes; then he went to him, 
allowing himself to be enfolded in the comforting arms of Gondor’s 
youngest son. For a moment they were silent, Faramir rocking Pippin 
against him with consummate tenderness. Pippin clung to his shirt with 
small hands, his cheek pressed against the firm flesh of the man’s chest. 
Faramir inhaled deeply, catching the scent of Pippin’s hair; he smelled of 
new grass and cinnamon, and he could not help but bury his nose in the 
mass of chestnut curls. Pippin in turn nuzzled him back, placing a delicate 
kiss against the skin of his breast bone.

“I miss Boromir, too,” Faramir whispered against the soft curls, “but 
where I shall never see his dear face again, you shall see Merry. I promise 
you that Pip. If it is within my power, I shall bring you two together again. 
I will not see you broken by the grief that tears me so asunder.” 

“I’m sorry, Farmir,” Pippin breathed against his chest, and he could feel 
the halfling’s tears hot against his skin. 

Only when they had  been that way for some time did Pippin realise the 
storm had long since ceased. Reluctantly he broke from the man’s 
embrace, smoothing down his shirt with vague embarrassment.

“Well I'd better be getting back to my bed” he said hurriedly, making for 
the door. Faramir’s hand upon his arm halted him.

“Pippin.” He turned back to face the young man, whose eyes showed the 
openness neither of them dared to voice.

“You don’t have to leave,” There, it was said, and Faramir did not regret 
it. His father would have deplored such emotional weakness, but his father 
was mad, and Gondor all but lost. What did it matter if Pippin shared his 
bed that night, or any other for that matter? Not that he held out any hope 
for such a thing. He knew full well that on the morrow he and his men 
must ride out to try and regain the fallen city, though there was all chance 
that they would all die in such an attempt. Yet it had to be made, he owed 
his brother’s memory that much. 

The halfling was watching him, his wide, clear eyes mysterious in the 
shadowy half light. They flicked between Faramir and the bed and then 
back again, an unspoken question distinct upon his sprite like face. 
Faramir caught the meaning of his glance and smiled softly.

“You may sleep upon the bed. I shall take my blanket upon the floor 
should you prefer it that way.”

Again the uncertainty Pippin’s features, though the language of his body, 
betrayed him. There was longing there, a need to be once again held by the 
strength of another’s arms.

“Would there be room?” he asked slowly, his eyes fixed upon the gap in 
Faramir’s shirt where the laces had remained undone. Faramir laughed 
then, a soft and gentle sound that had none of his father’s mocking in its 
tone.

“I think there may be, Pip, though we may have to squash.” He reached 
out again for the smaller creature, but Pippin did not move.
“And you wouldn’t mind?” That he was still so doubtful fascinated 
Faramir, but then he remembered; Pippin had travelled with his Boromir 
and as such would have become wary of the rapid mood swings of men. 
Faramir knew too well than in that respect his brother had taken after their 
father.

“No, Pip, I would not mind. In fact, your company would be very 
welcome, especially upon this night.” Pippin raised his eyebrows 
questioningly, and drew close to Faramir again, running his small palm 
down the slightly rough lines of the man’s cheek.

“It wasn’t your fault. There were too many of them, and the black riders. 
You were right to retreat. Gandalf said so.” Faramir smiled against the 
tender touch, marvelling at the hobbit’s trusting innocence.

“Tis not today that troubles me, but rather what will come with the dawn.” 

He sighed, resting his head upon Pippin’s small shoulder. He felt the 
hobbit’s small fingers lace themselves into his hair, tugging lightly at the 
roots. 

“What comes?” he heard him ask, feeling the vibration through the small 
body. 

“Lets not talk of this now,” Faramir answered, drawing Pippin onto his 
lap, and hugging him close. He felt the halfling breathe against his neck, 
then the heat of a small tongue lapping against his skin. The touch was 
intoxicatingly sweet, spreading heat throughout his entire frame.

“I’m cold,” Pippin whispered, the sound cooling his skin as it dried it, 
though the words dissolved into a yawn as he spoke them.

“And sleepy?” Faramir laughed. “Let’s to bed, for the night is not nearly 
so long as I'd wish.”

Pippin nodded, his soft curls brushing Faramir’s face. He allowed himself 
to be carried to the huge bed in the man’s arms, just as Merry would have 
carried him as a child, though he was long passed that age. Yet Faramir’s 
arms bore him as though he was no weight at all, and so they should; he 
could feel the muscles of the man’s shoulders move beneath his own small 
hands. Faramir secured him beneath the covers before crawling in beside 
him, wrapping him up in an embrace more complete than one of Merry’s 
could ever be. He felt guilt for such a betrayal of his dearest friend, yet it 
was true. Merry could never wrap him so completely in his arms, for he 
had not the size of this man of Gondor. Pippin had never felt so safe in all 
his short life; surrounded totally by the warmth and scent of a man who 
needed him there as much as he felt the need to be so. Perhaps that was 
why being held by Faramir felt like coming home. Why, in this strange 
bed, in this alien city of men, he felt more at home than if he had been at 
Bag End. For they needed each other, needed to fill a void left by the 
absence of one so dear to their hearts, and they had for now found solace 
in one another.

He turned in the man’s arms to look at him. Faramir’s face was partly lost 
in the shadows of the room, though no lack of light could hide the nature 
of the beauty he beheld there. Closed now the man’s eyes were as lovely 
as they were open, veiled behind pale lids and sandy lashes. The bones of 
his face were slighter than his brother’s, more definitely refined; unspoilt 
by the roughness of his beard. Then his eyes looked upon the man’s lips, 
their smooth, infinitely inviting fullness. Pippin had never felt so 
fascinated by the physicality of another before. Again he wished that 
Merry were with him, to tell him what was right to do next. Yet he was not 
with him, so he must decide on his own. Acting as he always did, upon the 
full nature of his instinct he pressed his lips to Faramir’s.

Faramir felt the ghost of the kiss through the haze of ready exhaustion; for 
a second he hesitated, then succumbed, plundering the sweet mouth 
beneath his with a hunger born of desire denied too long. He rolled the 
other beneath him, rubbing the evidence of his growing arousal against 
their yielding flesh. He felt the other hesitate under him, and his mind 
struggled to remember which kitchen girl or man of his garrison he had 
brought to bed that night, as to what reason they had to tease his aching 
need. The remembrance hit him like a shower of ice water and he broke 
from the kiss, leaning back to study Pippin’s face in the darkness. The 
halfling looked frightened and tearful. He cursed his needy body, no doubt 
aroused by the heat of the beautiful being lying besides him. He reached 
out to him, but the halfling shied away from the touch, retreating across 
the bed.

“Pip?” He asked in a desperate whisper, trying to coax him back; all the 
while ignoring the insistent throb of his cock against the laces of his 
britches.

“Did I do wrong?” Pippin’s voice was small and shaky in the darkness. 

Suddenly Faramir understood; it had not been disgust that had driven him 
away, but supposed rejection. Oh how wrong he was. Did he not know 
what his beautiful eyes did to his touch starved flesh? No he did not, for he 
suspected Pippin had not been touched that way by any other, let alone 
one who shared his sex. He reached out for the hobbit again, and this time 
he came all be it reluctantly, back into his arms.

“No Pip. You merely underestimated the power of your touch.” Much to 
his surprise, Pippins hand wandered down and caressed the bulge in his 
britches through the soft fabric. He gasped and heard Pippin mirror the 
gesture.

“What happens now?” he heard Pippin ask. Faramir paused, shifting until 
Pippin’s weight was comfortable against his side. He could feel the 
halfling’s need pressing against his hip, and the quickened nature of his 
breathing against his skin.

“What would you have happen?” he asked slowly, knowing he was 
reaching the point of no return and scarcely caring.

“I would have you love me, and let me love you,” Pippin answered
simply, beginning to press kisses all along the length of Faramirs chest.

“Are you sure?” he asked, knowing that it was too late anyway; that even 
if Pippin were not, he would have great difficulty in stopping what that 
sweet kiss had started. 

He received no word in reply. Instead the sweet mouth covered his own 
again, and a small tongue ravaged the confines of his mouth, probing him 
so completely he felt as though Pip were trying to draw his loneliness out 
through his lips. He allowed his own hands to wander beneath the hobbit’s 
sleeping shirt, caressing, exploring; even as two smaller ones stroked his 
own flesh as far as they were able within the confines of his shirt. He 
found the delicious curve of the halfling’s buttocks and cupped them 
briefly before drawing his shirt above his head, and so off. Pippin emerged 
smiling, his cinnamon curls in disarray; his body naked and smoothly 
perfect, erection pressed to Faramir’s stomach as he bent to kiss the man 
again. The halfling’s kisses were so sweetly intoxicating that he could 
have drunk of them forever, but his body was demanding of more. He 
disentangled himself from Pippin long enough to remove both shirt and 
britches, sighing as his aching cock was freed to the cooling air. Pippin 
gasped, his impossibly green eyes wide with wonder. Faramir lay back, 
quietly pleased as Pip regarded his manhood from all angles. He could 
have watched the beautiful sprite forever, but when he laid a small 
tentative hand upon his weeping need he almost bucked them both off the 
bed.

“Lady’s mercy, Pip,” he gasped. Pippin recoiled as if he’d been burnt and 
Faramir berated himself for forgetting how innocent the hobbit was. He 
urged the smaller being down beneath him, proceeding to bathe the sweet 
skin with his tongue, taking in every line and curve of his body. 

Remembering the taste of him, the scent, the feel of him shuddering 
beneath the tide of affection. He had heard whispers among the serving 
women that he was a better lover than his brother, for the all consuming 
tenderness he showed to the creature in his arms. He did his best to be 
worthy of that whisper now, but not through any sense of misplaced pride. 
No, in the short time he had known him Pippin had begun to fill the empty 
space in his heart he thought would haunt him forever. Being with him felt 
like coming home; he knew deep inside that he would rather see Gondor 
fall, than have any harm come to the wonderful creature shuddering in his 
arms. Such knowledge made the tears come and he let them fall, knowing 
he had nothing to fear in showing weakness before Pippin. He kissed up 
the small thighs, licking softly at the place where they joined to his body, 
feeling his manhood weep against his cheek. Pippin arched off the bed 
with a strangled cry as Faramir’s beard brushed his already overly 
sensitive flesh. In his heart, Faramir hoped there would be times after this 
to torture his new lover with touch, but the night was already too old and 
they were both too tired for more. So in one smooth graceful movement he 
bent and took the hobbits erection in his mouth, engulfing it from root to 
tip. Pippin cried out, what may have been a word, but could just as easily 
have meant nothing. He began to suck gently at the hard need in his 
mouth, caressing it with his tongue, drawing it just far enough from his 
mouth to make Pip sob before consuming him utterly again. It did not take 
long. He felt the blood throb in the organ between his lips, felt Pip’s 
fingers tighten in his hair. Then he was coming, crying out Faramir’s name 
as he flooded the man’s tongue with the taste of his seed. Faramir 
swallowed quietly, placing one chaste kiss upon the tip of Pip’s spent cock 
before gathering the sated hobbit in his arms. 

Pippin kissed him lazily, licking his lips thoughtfully as they came apart.

“Is that me?” he asked with interested surprise. Faramir nodded and kissed 
him again, letting Pip taste the concept of his essence in his lover’s mouth, 
and knowing the sense of trust such a thing conveyed.

“What about you?” Pip asked finally, conscious of the achingly hard heat 
pressing against him.

“Alas, your size prevents what would be sweetest, dear Pip, but perhaps 
grace allowing we may find ways around that. Yet for tonight, it would be 
more than enough to have you touch me.”

The hobbit looked doubtful.

“Would that be enough for you? Though I don’t think I could manage 
what you just did for me. Not yet anyway.”

Faramir smiled and led Pippin’s hands down to rest upon his weeping 
need, he gasped at their sweet pressure and coolness. 

“See,” he gasped, “you have me so close already. Do as you feel right. 
Take me home, sweet Pip.” Pippin did not need to be told twice, using 
first one hand, and then two, he caressed the hot, smooth flesh. With every 
stroke he drew Faramir closer, feeling the blood pulse beneath his palm, 
catching each pearly drop as it formed and slicking it down the impressive 
length. Faramir could not help but thrust gently into the surety of the 
caress, crying out Pippin’s name in full as he came hard and long, coating 
them both with the sticky bliss of his release. He watched sated, and 
dreamy as Pip dabbled a finger in the rapidly drying seed and licked it off 
thoughtfully. He crawled up to kiss Faramir again, the salty taste strange 
upon the honey like sweetness of his tongue.

“That's you,” he said with a smile, drawing back to cuddle into the crook 
of Faramir’s arm. The man sighed sleepily; leaning over he retrieved a 
cloth from the table and used it to wipe them both clean. Pippin had lapsed 
into a somewhat sated doze, but the sight of the cloth urged him awake 
again. Carefully his fingers sought Faramir’s injured arm, examining it 
with a gentleness which made the mans heart ache.

“Does it hurt?” he asked softly 

“A little perhaps, but then the ache of all hurts are easier with you, Pip.” 

The hobbit was quiet a moment, his breathing deep and easy.

“What's going to happen?” he asked finally, his voice no longer filled with 
the hope that had first called to Faramirs heart.

“I don’t know,” the man answered honestly, drawing Pippin still closer 
against his body, and pulling the blanket up about them.

“Don’t leave me, Faramir.”

“I won’t, Pip, even if all Mordor should try and stand between us.” He felt 
Pippin nod, apparently happy. Moments later he was asleep. 

Faramir watched him awhile, wondering at how such beauty and 
sweetness could exist in such times. Then, lulled by the soft rhythm of 
Pippin’s breathing, he too succumbed to the gentle oblivion of sleep.

=====================================================


“If I should return, think better of me, father.”

With these words Faramir turned and walked away, and Pippin was torn 
apart by the duty to his new position and the overwhelming need to 
prevent his lover from pursuing his death. With all his being he willed 
Faramir to stop, to realise that his father’s affection could not be won, that 
all he sought out there was defeat. 

For a second, he thought he had succeeded; as Faramir stopped and turned. 
Their eyes met, a look meant only for Pippin; a look that said, “I won’t 
Pip, even if all Mordor should try and stand between us.”

Then he was gone; and Pippin was left with nothing but a memory and a 
prayer, and the heart shattering feeling that he would never see the gentle 
warrior again.

=====================================================


The end. Oh, please don’t be upset you all know it works out okay in the 
end. In fact I may be inspired to write a sequel; let me know if you would 
like to see one.