FIC: The Thing

TITLE: The Thing
PAIRING: Faramir/Pippin, implied BrandyTook
RATING: PG
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"This is not the first Halfling to have crossed your path?" It was more of a statement than a question. I raised my gaze from the small creature before Gandalf in the saddle and nodded. I told them my tale, of meeting the two Halflings unexpectedly.

The Thing raised his face, its eyes shining with hope. It seemed the essence of innocence itself. When it spoke, it startled me with its heavy Westron accent. "Frodo and Sam…" I blinked. The Ringbearer and his servant? How could he have known?

My father's aid came to me later that day, conveying humbly that my childhood armor was to be brought to the smithy to be fitted. The Thing had pledged its loyalty to my father, and was to be Guard of the Citadel.

I uncovered the uniform from an old trunk in an empty bedchamber that had belonged to Boromir until recently. The tunic smelt of dust and was creased from years of lying folded in dark banishment. Holding it up, I wondered silently if it would fit the creature's small body. It seemed much smaller and weaker than a human child.

But with proper alterations, the uniform fit the Thing finely. It had happened that the creature's frailty and thinness were due to hunger and fatigue. After a few square meals and rest beneath a proper quilt, it seemed to fill out the armor nicely.

It quivered a bit, bowed before my father as it recited the oath of Gondor. It flushed sweetly as it stammered and clenched its small fists in the black velvet of my old tunic. My father was oddly patient with it, and offered his ring to be kissed with small trembling lips.

Its name is Pippin. He is a Halfling; a hobbit.  He is a relation of the Ringbearer, I believe. He is older than I, but I am nearly twice as tall. He has the most curious features; ears like an elf, eyes like the new greens of spring, a small mouth that is sweetest when he smiles, but that is seldom. His hair is unruly and curly, and hair of the same rusted colour grows on his bare feet. He says his people do not wear shoes. Such queer creatures these Shire-folk must be.

I spend all the time I can with him, learning about him. Mostly this is at night, for during the light hours, he is in the great hall, being used as a jester by my father.

He comes to me some nights, and begs to be let into my bed. He is plagued with night terrors, and his sleep is wracked by frightening visions. I comply, because what choice do I have? I've grown to adore him. He clambers up beside me and curls into a small trembling ball and weeps softly.

I comfort him the best I can, but the tears are unending. He weeps with fear and homesickness, but also in anxiousness for the return of the Ringbearer. He cries out the name of another in his sleep, perhaps a lover he lost. Her name is Mary, and the way he fusses in his dreams makes my heart ache to think that they are separated. He weeps for Boromir, and I weep with him.

Some nights he awakes with a small cry, his body trembling. He sits and holds my shoulder, shaking me awake, his face damp with cold sweat and his flesh raised with goosebumps. I hush him back to sleep with a soft Gondorian song. I do not tell him it is a song of mourning.

Some nights he pleads to be held. He begs, his voice quavering, saying the feeling of a Man's arm about him helps him to sleep. Boromir would hold him and his companion close many a dark frightful night in the wilderness.

And I kiss the top of his curly head, willing him to bed. Visions of my brother swim in my head, and as Pippin's body still against me and his tears quiet, I can see why he was so fond of these humble creatures. So far from home, lost, afraid and forsaken, they were no different than he.

Some nights Pippin sleeps soundly.