Unlikely Places                     by Elanor Gardner                      Illustration                       by Daffodil Bolger

For Lorie

(The story of who Lorie is and why I wrote this story is found here,  If you enjoy this story, please consider donating to the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund in Lorie's name.)
 

"Merry will have my head.  No, like as not, he will have some other part of me that I value more dearly than my head.  For my head often betrays me when I--"

"Pippin."

Frodo's voice was quiet and strained.  Wonderful, Pippin couldn't even berate himself without causing more trouble. 

"Yes?" Pippin responded meekly, wringing his hands.

"I just need to rest here a while.  That's all.  It is just--" Frodo took a deep breath.  "Just a bit warmer down here than I thought it would be."

And noisier and dustier and altogether not really living up to its name at all.  The Silent Street indeed.  Pippin glared toward the source of the noise, subdued as it might be as the workers attempted to be respectful and solemn in their tasks. 

"I am sorry, Frodo.  I didn't realize they were already restoring the House of the Stewards.  I suppose it makes sense.  Not proper, really, to have all these--" he waved at the huge stone structures.  "These--"

"Kings?"

"Yes, well, Kings and Stewards, lying about amidst all the--" Pippin waved his hands again.  "The--"

"Debris?"

Pippin sighed, and went back to the hand wringing.  "This was a terrible idea.  I am so sorry Frodo.  I can help you back up--"

"Please, Pip--" Frodo looked up from where he sat, with his back to the wall and his arms resting on his knees.   "Just give me a moment or two out of the sun and I will be fine.  You aren't healed enough yourself yet to be lugging me about."

Pippin frowned, "But--"

Frodo lowered his forehead to his knees.  "Sshhhh." 

Pippin gazed anxiously back at the workers swarming over the dome of the House of the Stewards, swift at work repairing the damage done when Denethor -- previously his lord and Steward of Gondor -- had met his fate inside its walls.  It appeared from here, although he and Frodo were still some distance away, that they had nearly finished restoring the great dome and were just doing the finishing touches and clean up -- which resulted in all the aforementioned dust and noise.   Perhaps one of those fellows could help him carry Frodo back up into the city. 

"Pippin," came Frodo's muted voice.

"Yes?"  Pippin knelt down on the stones beside Frodo.

"Whatever it is you are thinking of doing -- don't."

"But--"

"And stop wringing your hands.  You remind me of old Aunt Agatha."  Frodo lifted his head wearily.  "I just need to let my stomach settle for a bit."

Pippin clasped his arms behind him.  "I knew it!  It was that spiced sauce we tried at the market, wasn't it?" 

If it were possible, Frodo turned even paler and Pippin could see sweat beading on his upper lip.

"No.  Just a bit overheated is all, Pip."  Frodo turned his face back down to his knees. 

Oh dear.  This was dreadful.  He had dragged Frodo halfway down the side of the city, in the heat of mid-day, after they had sampled every strange and unusual delicacy the merchants at the fifth circle market had to offer this morning.  But that spicy red sauce with the peppers and onions had been absolutely-- His mouth watered.  Well, obviously it had been too much for Frodo's stomach.

There was an odd sound and Pippin looked down in horror.  If that noise was coming from Frodo--   He scrambled back on the pavestones and looked around for a source of water.  Something.  He needed to get a nice cool dipper of water from somewhere -- and a damp cloth, from the sound of things.  Frodo, despite his insistence to the contrary, was still not fully recovered from his ordeal in Mordor.  Merry would have Pippin's head if he somehow managed to make Frodo ill again after all this time.  And, of all things, just from eating.  There had not even been any good drinking involved.

"Bad idea all the way round," Pippin muttered to himself. 

Frodo grunted in assent, or perhaps it was more of a moan, but Pippin stood up once more and looked around.

It was no use.  Although the renovation of the city had apparently included building new planters bursting with flowers and trailing vines and rows of small blooming trees along the walls of the Hallows and down the Silent Street between the Houses, he couldn't see the source for the water obviously needed to keep them blooming. 

Well, he could always run up to the sixth level and bring back some nice cool water and then assist Frodo back to their house very slowly, with lots of leaning and half-carrying -- his hip ached at the thought -- or perhaps he would walk quickly up to the sixth level and get the Porter to send around to their house for someone to come help him get Frodo home.  He grimaced.  Merry wouldn't let him live this down, especially if he couldn't even manage to help Frodo home by himself.  And Frodo-- Well, Frodo would be furious with embarrassment at needing any help at all.

Pippin, on the other hand, would love to have someone fuss over him and pick him up and carry him now and again.  Frodo insisted it was because Pippin was still a tween and he decidedly was not.  And apparently, once you came of age, you simply did not like being "hoisted up and carried about like a sack of flour". 

He smirked.  Well, that was what made Frodo, well, Frodo, and him, well, Pippin.

The bell in the tower of the citadel began to ring in its sweet silvery voice -- counting out the strokes for mid-day -- audible even over the constant hum of rebuilding everywhere in the city.

Nothing for it.

"I am going to go up to the Porter's and get a flask of water for you.  Is that all right, Frodo?  I will only be gone for a bit."

Frodo grunted.

Pippin supposed he had to take that as assent.  "I will be back before you can-- burp." 

Frodo made a sound that could have been a growl.

Pippin headed for the walkway up to Fen Hollen and out of harm's way. 

***

Faramir walked to the front of the mausoleum and gazed up at the sweep of Mindolluin rising precipitously up behind the last House of the Kings then looked at the empty basin of earth where, eventually, the withered White Tree would be positioned, in this place of honour in the Hallows.  And, arranged around it in a careful design, a newly finished reflecting pool and fountain -- not yet running -- but completed and ready.  He had seen the drawings, and the ancient tree would fit seamlessly into the design.  

The decision to build a fountain here was just another that had fallen to him whilst King Elessar was overwhelmed with other affairs of state.  He reminded himself that Gimli the dwarf needed to be recognized for his work in designing a way to get water easily from one of the mountain's many springs down into the Hallows.  The newly found scion of the Eldest of Trees did look to be on the verge of blooming up in the Courtyard -- and what a joyous day it would be when they would have reason to move the old tree to its new home here.

He managed a smile.  It felt odd to smile in this place, especially with the smell of ash still in the air.  His smile faded as he turned to gaze up at the newly renovated dome on the House of Stewards.  But ashes would not be the only memory of Denethor, son of Ecthelion.  Even now a sculptor up in the city was hard at work finishing the effigy for his father's tomb -- and Boromir's as well.   

Hopefully the sculptures would be ready by the time the House of Stewards was finally restored to all its former glory -- all traces of the fiery inferno that had cracked the roof gone -- and before the White Tree bloomed as well.  All of it -- transplanting the Eldest of Trees, interring his father's ashes, and placing the cloven Horn of Gondor in Boromir's tomb -- could be done in a single ceremony -- full of pomp and tradition -- as was right and honourable -- but also full of thanksgiving.  There would be no Shadow lurking over the Hallows on that day.  It was close to midsummer and the sun would shine down into the resting place of Kings and glint off of white marble, and flowing water, and blooming plants -- a celebration of life -- life that goes on against all the odds, in spite of misunderstood prophecies in murky dreams and twisted visions in seeing stones -- life that goes on because of, and sometimes in spite of, the men in these tombs.  

Shielding his eyes with one hand, Faramir gazed down the Silent Street at the trees and flowers that the workers had already placed there.  They certainly had changed the whole atmosphere from one of silent dusty decay to one of verdant life -- somewhat like a delicate plant fighting its way up to bloom valiantly amidst blocks of grey stone.  Life that goes on -- large and small. 

He squinted into the distance through the haze of dust then walked forward, trying to determine what the small dark blob against the wall next to the entryway was--

A child?  Down here?  Had the Porter lost his mind?  Surely he would not allow a little one to wander about the tombs unaccompanied.  Many of Minas Tirith's inhabitants had been demanding entrance to the Hallows of late -- something unheard of before, virtually forbidden.  The Closed Door had always remained closed -- the tombs silent and barren and sterile.  But now, there was a steady pilgrimage of those wishing to leave tokens -- flowers and all manner of items -- at the House of the Stewards and at the House of the Kings, where rested the body of Théoden, late King of Rohan. 

Faramir strode forward.    The poor thing was huddled against the wall, in the shade -- well, the sun did pound down at certain hours of the day near midsummer, but the mountain's bulk ensured that the Hallows was usually shadowed and cool.  He stopped in his tracks.

It wasn't a child.  It was the Ring-bearer -- the colour of his curly hair, the cut of his clothing -- Faramir smiled -- the fur on his feet -- unmistakable.

The Ring-bearer -- sitting on the pavestones, head bowed, arms wrapped around his bent knees -- alone.  Faramir looked around anxiously.  Certainly his companions couldn't be far.  They rarely left him alone for long.  But he couldn't see or hear anyone nearby -- just the noise of the workers behind him.

He hurried forward and quickly went down on one knee.

"Frodo?"

There was a start and the dark head lifted -- white faced and wide-eyed -- the Halfling hero gazed back at him.  Dull spots of colour appeared on his pale cheeks.  Then those unbelievable blue eyes closed and Frodo sighed in resignation. 

"Steward.  How very nice to see you," came the whispered and quite odd greeting -- considering that Frodo had quickly laid his head back down on his knees.  "My apologies, but something I-- I ate seems to have disagreed with me -- rather violently."

Faramir fought back the desire to smile.  Frodo was always so unfailingly polite, no matter what the circumstance.

"Indeed.  I apologize deeply on behalf of our food -- whatever it may have been.  How can I be of assistance?"  He was not going to ask how Frodo had made it down the winding walkway in this condition, considering that he had made it up the side of Orodruin in much worse condition.
 
"No need for assistance.  I simply need to remain still until-- until things settle," came the muffled response. 

Faramir shook his head ruefully.   "I hesitate to point out that we are coming up on that very short time of day when the sun slants into this little corner rather strongly, and I think you need to get cooler, rather than warmer.  Am I correct?"

"Mmmmm."

"The mausolea are very cool and quiet -- and not so dusty.  And you can sit on a bench.  And I will fetch you a cup of water from the spring." 

"Mmmmm."

Faramir struggled to school his expression, just in case Frodo did manage to raise his head.  Frodo clearly just wanted him to go away and it would not do for Frodo to find him smiling.   But Frodo's insistence on decorum and dignity, even in the most undignified and stressful circumstances, had been something that had stayed with Faramir long after Frodo and his companion had walked out of his sight in Ithilien.  Now to see it here -- now that they were all out from beneath the Shadow -- well, it was a relief and an odd joy of sorts, despite Frodo's discomfort.    

"May I-- assist you into the nearest building?"

"I don't want to be any trouble.  Really," Frodo whispered into his knees.

"Frodo."  Faramir sat down next to the Halfling.  "I have longed for a chance to sit and talk to you alone since you came to Minas Tirith.  But, in point of fact, you are never really alone.  And now that I do have you alone, I really don't want to sit on these hard pavestones in the hot sun to converse, even if the conversation is rather-- one sided."

There was a sound distinctly like a snort -- a weak snort, but nonetheless, a promising noise.

"I would rather not embarrass myself in front of the Steward of Gondor -- or on him, as it were," Frodo responded.

"Please call me Faramir.   Unless you want me to call you Ring--"

"Please do not."

"I thought not," Faramir responded, smiling.  "So, if I assist you into that building there in such a way as to guarantee that you will not embarrass yourself on me, may I do so?"

Frodo sighed once more.  "I assume this involves carrying me in some fashion."

"With great dignity and decorum, I assure you."  He leaned close to Frodo's ear.  "Besides, no one will see us and I give you my word that I will never reveal it."

Another snort.

"With your permission?"

There was a long pause.  "Yes--"

Faramir assumed a crouch and gently slid his arms under Frodo's knees and shoulders, hefting him up slowly.  He felt the hobbit flinch and tense warily.

"But only if you agree to allow me to return the favour, should the occasion arise," Frodo continued.

Faramir smiled for a moment, until he remembered the heavy burden Frodo had carried for so long and considered the slight weight in his arms.  He cleared his throat.  "Of course." 

He walked, as smoothly and swiftly as he could manage, toward the nearest mausoleum -- the oldest in the Hallows. 

His father had once accused him of walking too lightly for a true warrior -- of being too graceful, his gait too smooth.  His sword master had told him otherwise.  The skill stood him in good stead today as he felt Frodo relax against his chest.  Navigating the door was not an issue, as it swung open easily with a nudge of his foot. 

The air inside, rather than being stale, as he feared, was softly scented with flowers.  A huge bouquet adorned the central tomb -- that of Tarondor -- and it was blessedly cool and quiet.  He carefully placed Frodo on a bench strategically placed in a recessed alcove between two tombs -- propped against the sidewall with his feet on the bench -- then stooped down beside him.
 
Frodo had his eyes closed and was still quite pale and clammy, but his lips were no longer pressed tightly together and his whole demeanour seemed more relaxed.  Apparently the embarrassment he had so feared was not imminent.

"If you are comfortable here, with our young king, I will go fetch you some water."

Ah, a flicker of interest.  Those uncanny eyes fluttered open and blinked, adjusting to the dim light.  "Young king?"

Faramir did smile then.  "Indeed.  Tarondor there--" he nodded toward the central tomb, "was the longest reigning of all Gondor's kings.  Ascended to the throne quite young."

Frodo squinted at the distant pale marble tomb and sculpture. 

"You rest here and I will be back in just a moment."  Faramir strode away, breaking into a run the moment he cleared the doorway -- a totally undignified gallop, quite unbecoming the Steward, but quite appropriate considering the subject of his task.  He had a flask tucked into his jacket, but it was half full of sweet wine.  What was needed here was sweet, crisp mountain water, and he knew just where to find some.

There was a shout from the direction of the House of Stewards, but Faramir ignored it and headed for the mountain wall, pulling out his flask and uncorking it.  The workmen had just put the finishing touches on the redirected spring, creating a lovely waterfall that meandered down the wall and out a specially designed overflow, the whole surrounded by a veritable garden of blooming vines and plants, with benches placed strategically around the basin at the bottom.  He quickly poured his wine onto the stones, then rinsed out the flask and filled it from the flowing water. 

"Is everything well, sir?" the foreman was running toward him, cap in hand. 

"One of the Halflings has taken ill, but he will be fine with some cool water."  Faramir ran past him, holding up the flask as he corked it once more.  "Nothing to fret over," he added when the poor man looked stricken.   

No fretting or fussing.  Not around this particular Pheriannath -- fascinating creature that he was.  Faramir smiled. 

Doubtless the new Steward's sprint across the Hallows would be the topic of conversation over some pints tonight.  He slid to a stop just beyond the doorway, took a deep breath, straightened his coat, and walked into the mausoleum, pushing the doors shut behind him.

Frodo still sat as he had left him in the dim alcove and there was colour now in his lips, even though his face was still too pale.  Faramir knelt and held out the flask, uncorking it as he did so. 

"I think you will find this to your liking -- it is sweet and cold."

Frodo opened his eyes and gazed at the flask doubtfully, then up at Faramir.

"Just water -- pure spring water.  Likely from the snows at the very top of Mount Mindolluin."

Frodo took the flask.   "I thank you very much for your trouble."

"No trouble at all.  You must see our new waterfall and pool at the edge of the Hallows."  Faramir was relieved to see that Frodo's hand did not shake as he lifted the flask.  "Your friend Gimli has worked a marvel."

Closing his eyes and sipping carefully, Frodo sighed.  He licked his lips and sipped again.  "I shall have to thank him as well."

Faramir crouched contentedly beside the bench.  They could hear the faint sounds of the workmen beyond the doors. 

"I am taking the entire bench.  Please sit--" 

He turned back to find Frodo attempting to sit up.  "I am fine, Frodo.  Stay still a while.  I insist--"

"I  insist.  I will not lie here while the Steward--"

"There."  Faramir sat on the edge of the bench.  "I am seated."

Frodo's right eyebrow rose sceptically.  "If I twitch, I will kick you off."

"Indeed.  So please do not twitch.  I have decided that the feet of the Halflings are formidable weapons."  And fascinating as well.  In fact, this was as close as he had been to them, and he knew he was staring. 

"Do you mind?"  He looked up at Frodo, gesturing toward his feet.

The colour was back in Frodo's cheeks once more, and Faramir wondered, too late, if hobbit feet were not proper topics of conversation. 

"Certainly not, but I fear they are quite dusty."  Frodo lifted one foot for Faramir's inspection.  "My cousin insisted on touring half the city this morning.  My foot hair could undoubtedly use a good grooming."

Faramir looked up just as he was reaching to touch the curling hair.  "Grooming?"

Frodo smiled -- a wonderful thing in itself.  "Yes, well, it is quite thick and tends to get tangled and matted if you don't take proper care." 

Looking down, Faramir touched the dark curls.  "Just like the hair on your head, and yet you do not grow a beard." 

"No.  And I am thankful for that.  It would be too much to have to groom both foot hair and a beard."

"And the bottom, does it not get cut and bruised by rocks?"

"No.  The bottom is quite thick and horny."  Frodo lifted his foot to show the bottom to Faramir.  "It may get cut or scraped or even burnt, but we cannot feel it."

Faramir moved closer, peering at the thick callus on the sole, and noting the indentations and cuts that started at the edge of the sole and turned into pink scars on the more tender skin.  The quest had done damage even to tough hobbit feet.

"Go ahead.  I will take no affront."  Frodo was smiling at him. 

Startled, Faramir looked up then grinned back and poked at the sole of Frodo's foot carefully.   His face must've shown his amazement, for Frodo laughed out loud.

Now that was a delightful sound.   "It is good to hear you laugh, Frodo."   

Careful not to get dust on Faramir's breeches, Frodo placed his foot back on the bench.

"It is not a sound I thought to hear again when I left you in the woods of Ithilien," Faramir added.

Frodo looked around the tomb.  "Likely not a proper sound in such a place as this."

Faramir looked over his shoulder.  "Oh no, indeed, quite the proper sound in this tomb, of all places I think."

"Well, my Uncle Bilbo would say that sounds like a story that needs telling."

"Indeed.  I would like to meet your Uncle Bilbo.  Mithrandir has spoken of him often."

Frodo's face was suddenly solemn once more.  "Yes, I-- I wish that he could be here to see all this."  A sweep of his hand took in the entirety of Minas Tirith. 

"He would be quite proud of you," Faramir said softly. 

The hot spots of colour were back in Frodo's cheeks.  "I-- He would enjoy all the history, the tales and songs -- of Gondor and Rohan.  He will likely be disappointed that I have not returned with a lengthy diary and scribed copies of--"

"But would he not take pleasure that your name is sung in the streets?"  Faramir interrupted, finally coming to the thing that had been troubling him for a while.  "And rejoice that the courage and faithfulness of his kinfolk have brought an end to the Darkness threatening our world?"

Frodo closed his eyes again but gave no answer.

"Frodo?"

Faramir frowned.  Well, he had known -- hints from Mithrandir and bits of overheard conversations -- he had known that Frodo had not just been physically damaged on the quest.   But more than that, in his heart -- even in Ithilien -- he had felt it.  How one could even touch It -- he shuddered -- and Frodo had carried It, had possessed It, for years.   Yet, there was no hint of darkness in those striking eyes -- only pain. 

"I was terrified."  It was barely a whisper.  "Could you not see it there, in your-- in Ithilien?"  Frodo's eyes opened and he leaned forward.  "Every step, I was terrified.  Every step.  There was never anything of courage.  Never."

"Frodo--"

"And is it faithfulness to have broken the trust of the council?  Of those who sent me there to cast it into the fire?"  Frodo's hand -- his maimed hand -- flew to his chest as if grasping for something.  When he glanced down at his fingers then lifted his gaze to Faramir the look in his eyes was devastating. 

Frodo folded his left hand over his right and pulled it into his lap, shutting his eyes quickly.  "I-- I am sorry."  He leaned back against the stone once more.  "I am not myself." 

Oh, Boromir, Boromir.  If It did this to one such as Frodo, what did It do to you? 

Faramir realized he was clenching his fists in frustration, and yet the object of his anger was long since destroyed. 

"No, I am sorry.  I never intended-- I would never--" Faramir stopped and bowed his head, breathing deeply. 

This must be told, and told well.  He might not have another chance.  Looking up at Tarondor's tomb, Faramir was resolute.  "I must be forthright and honest with you my friend.  You in particular, must hear the whole of this tale."

There was no acknowledgement of his words from the hobbit, not even a twitch, but at least Frodo did not appear to be in any distress.

Faramir turned on the bench, facing Frodo, one leg folded beneath him, leaning forward earnestly.

"Frodo, son of Drogo, I have a confession to make," he said.  He tried to remember the words he had rehearsed time and again, over countless nights.  "When I allowed you to walk out of my sight in Ithilien, I immediately regretted not going with you and attempting to guide you over the mountains -- not following you and ensuring your safety.  My dreams over the many nights following that fateful day, such as they were, were of you and your loyal gardener, struggling through the horrors of Mordor, and my own-- and my own lack of courage--"

There was a noise from Frodo, but Faramir dared not look up.

"My lack of courage in not accompanying you, in not guarding your steps on the quest.  When I did finally awaken here, in the Houses of Healing, long after my own futile battle, I was-- well, I was ashamed.  To permit you and your Sam to-- I had been certain Gollum was treacherous.  And I knew there was something evil -- something ancient and terrible lurking in the pass of Cirith Ungol." 

Faramir rubbed his hand across his face, trying to erase the vision that had haunted his dreams since he heard of Shelob and her attack on the valiant hobbits that he had sheltered for so short a time.

"When I heard that, against all hope, you had not only survived but triumphed over the evil that nested in Mordor--"  The memory of that day brought tears to his eyes once again.  To think that the two exhausted companions he had sent off into the wilderness had conquered such-- it was inconceivable.
 
"So, I sought out my old teacher -- Mithrandir -- and I confessed my error -- my lack of courage and, indeed, my own faithlessness-- in allowing you to go into Mordor without guidance or strength of arms."  Faramir smiled in remembrance of the ancient wizard's response.  "He told me that I was still a 'wet-behind-the-ears youngling' and that 'Elessar should look elsewhere for a Steward of worth'."

There was a noise of protest, but Faramir raised his hand and shook his head and Frodo subsided, being the polite creature that he was.

"I was just a child when Mithrandir introduced me to our young king there."  He looked back over his shoulder.  "And -- when I told him that I had failed you in your quest -- he reminded me once again of that story." 

"You see, Tarondor should not have been king at all.  He was a scholar -- a studious fellow who spent his time in the libraries of Minas Anor -- here in Minas Tirith -- rather than at Osgiliath with the court.  Tarondor was more interested in scrolls than war craft or strength of arms."  Faramir met Frodo's curious gaze.  "I think you can see now why Mithrandir used this particular story with me."  He smiled, and Frodo answered with a tentative quirk of his lips. 

"In addition, Tarondor was not in direct line for the throne, being a nephew, and with so many sons of the current king bound to inherit.  But a dark plague came out of the east and many of the people of Gondor succumbed, including the old king -- Telemnar -- and when he died the White Tree withered as well.  As Mithrandir tells it, when the last of Telemnar's children was taken by the plague, the counsellors went out desperately seeking for Tarondor.  But he was here in the libraries, with one of the healers, searching the scrolls for some way to save his people
-- his family."
 
Frodo rested his chin on his arms, listening intently. 

"At first Tarondor resisted accepting the throne, saying that he was no warrior -- that he was young and untutored in the skills needed by a King of Gondor -- that they should find someone more capable."  Faramir smiled.  "And, finally, in desperation, he confided to his old mentor that he was afraid.  He was terrified.  Gondor was in dire need and he feared his rule would only bring ruin and further devastation."

Faramir watched as Frodo looked toward the tomb, compassion in his gaze.

"His old mentor told him that fear was the root and heart of courage -- without fear, any act of valour is simple foolishness.  Then Tarondor asked if he should take up the sword and become a warrior." He turned to look back at the shadowy effigy, remembering the first time Mithrandir had told him this tale -- and when he had reminded him of it not long ago.   

"Tarondor's mentor told him that -- sometimes -- where you are meant to be is precisely where you are and what is expected of you is precisely what you can do -- no more, no less.  If you go to look closely at our young king there, no sword rests in his hands -- he holds a scroll and a quill."

When he turned back, Faramir saw that Frodo was staring at his hands, not bothering to hide the damaged finger.  He seemed to be looking for something else that was missing as well. 

"So Tarondor inherited the throne -- quite young and untutored in anything but history and lore -- as Mithrandir said, 'an unlikely king from an unlikely place'."

Frodo looked up at that, but Faramir went on when he made no comment.

"Our young scholar king had an odd habit of reciting old verses and tales to support his edicts.  And I will explain why laughter is appropriate -- even welcomed -- here.   Tarondor had a rather unusual tactic with his advisers and his court." Faramir leaned forward, smiling. "Whenever discussions or negotiations became heated and it seemed swords might be drawn, he would force them, in all seriousness, to listen to a humorous, bawdy tale.  I believe your friend Gimli uses this tactic quite skillfully."

Frodo's lips quirked ever so slightly.

"So Tarondor slowly nursed Gondor back to health, moving the King's House and the court here to Minas Anor, shoring up what strength Gondor had remaining -- and planting a seedling of the White Tree in the citadel."

Frodo's eyebrow went up at that, and Faramir nodded quickly.  "The very one that stands today, next to the new sapling, waiting to come here, to the Hallows, to rest when the new tree blooms at last."

Hoping that Frodo would not take offence, Faramir reached out to touch one of the hands clutched on his knees.  "I believe my friend, that what Tarondor's wise advisor said then, and has said so many times since, is true, though we struggle constantly to believe it.  We are where we are needed and we do what we can do, and courage is simply in being what we are and doing what needs doing.  In what little aid I provided to you and your valiant Samwise--"

"Far--" Frodo attempted to protest, but Faramir's voice was stronger.

"--I was playing the role of Tarondor -- renewing your strength, allowing you to rest -- however briefly -- providing you with whatever little support I could--"

"And proving your quality," Frodo whispered -- gripping the hand extended to him firmly. 

Faramir shivered at the memory, looking at the hand that held his, dizzied with thoughts of destiny and chance meetings -- and the deceptive strength in the smallest of things.

"I had almost forgotten what someone very wise said to me not long ago. 'Courage is found in unlikely places'," Frodo said softly.  He looked up, his eyes shining. 

They sat for a moment silently, lost in thoughtful companionship.  Then Faramir covered Frodo's hand with his other hand and smiled broadly.

"It appears that you are much improved.  Am I correct?" Faramir asked. 

"Yes, much.  I thank you.  I feel quite renewed and refreshed."  Frodo managed, somehow, to execute a half bow while seated.

Faramir grew solemn.  "Perhaps one day before you leave our fair city, you will, as you said before, 'return the favour'."

Frodo smiled broadly.  "Well, perhaps I should allow my cousin to take you on a tour of Minas Tirith's numerous food vendors.  I am assured that you will require my assistance soon after."

Faramir laughed and Frodo grinned, turning to swing his feet off the bench.  "I would very much enjoy getting a bit closer view of the tomb of your young King Tarondor." 

"And I would be honoured to take you on a tour of the entire Hallows, if you are feeling up to it once more -- the sun will have passed the mountain by now and the entire street will be in cool shade," Faramir gestured at the doors.  "You must see the resting place of Elendil and the--"

There was a shout outside the doors and Frodo winced.  "My cousin has returned with reinforcements, it appears.  He likely fears that I shrivelled away to dust in the heat."

Faramir leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially.  "Perhaps his is the role of Tarondor as well."

Frodo looked up, startled, then turned thoughtful for a moment before the huge doors swung in and Pippin's pale face appeared in the opening, the red-faced Porter just behind him.

"Frodo!"

***

"I must bring Merry here," Pippin exclaimed from his perch above the pond looking down to where  Frodo sat on a bench beside the rippling water and Faramir stood behind him attentively.  "I am afraid I painted a rather dismal picture of the place when he wanted to come offer his respects to Théoden."

"That is understandable, since I am certain your memories of Rath Dínen were not pleasant," Faramir said.  "Of course, I hope you will come to the ceremony when we place the White Tree here in it's final resting place."

Pippin watched as Faramir and Frodo exchanged another one of those 'looks'.  Something had happened between the two while Pippin was up running about in the city.  He looked up at a noise from the workmen, still scuttling about on the dome of the House of Stewards.  Well, it wasn't his fault the fool of a Porter had chosen that moment to go off to the market or that the stupid door had decided to close behind him or that it would, inevitably, lock behind him as well.  'Closed Door' indeed.  He felt his face go hot again at the memory of his ineptitude and turned to look out at the sunlight glinting off the Anduin and the frantic bustle of activity in the port below.

"I would especially like for you and Meriadoc--"

Pippin grimaced and turned.  Frodo was lucky that he didn't have some long formal name that Faramir could throw about. 

"I beg pardon -- I would especially like for you, Pippin, and Merry -- to be guests of honour when we inter the Horn of Gondor in Boromir's tomb, and put his effigy in place."

"And your father's," Pippin swept a formal bow.  "I would be honoured.  And I am certain Merry would as well."

"As for now, it is getting on to what I think you refer to as 'tea time' and I believe I hear the rumbling of voracious hobbit hunger -- a thing much to be feared."  Faramir looked down at Frodo, smiling broadly.

Pippin scrambled down from the rocks to join them.  "Wonderful.  I am starved."

"But-- We have not yet seen the effigy of Eärnil, where the crown lay until Gandalf--" Frodo stood up, protesting.

Faramir raised his hands.  "We will return, my friend, I promise.  But you must be warned.  There are enough tales and stories here to fill many, many books and scrolls.  Besides--" he gestured toward the distant entrance.  "I am told that Pippin here is quite well-versed in the culinary delights of Minas Tirith and I am eager to benefit from his expertise."

Pippin watched, somewhat bemused, as the two exchanged another of those looks.

With a last glance around him, Frodo sighed and headed reluctantly toward the street.  As they walked companionably between the rows of trees and flowering plants, Pippin tried to decide which of the eating establishments he had found would be best for Frodo's stomach, but still impress the Steward. 

"Speaking of books and scrolls, Faramir," Frodo finally spoke up as they came to the last House on the long street.  "I was wondering if Pippin and I could have permission to visit the libraries you mentioned.  I should like to find out more about the history of Gondor, especially of the Kings and Stewards."
 
"Certainly," Faramir responded, smiling broadly.  "I am certain that King Elessar will have no problem with granting you access.  He would be delighted in fact."

"And Pippin, we must go back by 'Amon Dîn'.  I want to pick up some quills and ink and paper," Frodo said quickly.  "Perhaps Maridan will even have a bound journal I can purchase."

Pippin turned and stared at Frodo in amazement.  His cousin's eyes were bright, his cheeks almost rosy -- or as close as they came to it these days.  And Frodo hadn't expressed an interest in picking up a quill since they arrived.  In fact, he had shied away from the idea the one time Gandalf had suggested it. 

Pippin looked over at Faramir curiously.  If Faramir had done or said something during their interlude together in the Hallows to make his cousin want to pick up a quill again, he certainly wouldn't complain.  And he could call him Peregrin all day long. 

But, considering their surroundings, Pippin wondered at where this magic had been wrought.  What a very unlikely place.
 

*****

FINIS

Thanks to my wonderful betas Merry B Esquire and Daffodil Bolger! 

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