Briefly references “It’s All Relative.”

A/N: Thanks a bunch to Ithildin from the Stories of Arda Yahoo group and Christopher from the  rec.arts.books.tolkien board for the Elvish translation, and to Dreamflower for helping me with the search.
 
 
 

A Humble Gift
 
25 Thrimidge 1419 SR
Minas Tirith

The kitchen attendant carried a laden tray with both hands and walked swiftly up the spiraling staircase of the White Tower to the Lord’s private study above the Tower Hall. The door warden saw her approaching and gave a light knock to announce the arrival of the food. He opened the door to let the attendant through.

Sunlight streamed through the high windows, bright rays trickling down softly to the room below. The double doors to the balcony were thrown open, adding extra light and a welcome breeze besides. Bookshelves crowded with tomes and scrolls lined the walls from floor to ceiling, absorbing a good deal of the light that poured into the room, and in one corner was a small writing desk of elegant design.

A long cedar table sat in the center of the room. Usually covered in tomes and plans for battle during Denethor’s reign, it had now been cleared of all clutter and was once again polished and resplendent, reclaiming its command as the focal point of the room with its simple beauty. At the far end of the table nearest the double doors, in high backed chairs of cedar and chiffon, sat the Steward and the Knight of the City, talking adamantly.

The Steward raised his fair hand and motioned the attendant to put down the tray and set the table. The motion took but a moment and then he was again intently concentrating on the small knight sitting opposite him.

The attendant worked slowly, taking her time laying out the food and dining ware, listening curiously and discreetly. Every time she came to this room, the Steward and knight were busy in discussion and the attendant was pleased beyond words to see the ease and laughter on the Steward’s face as he listened to the knight’s tales. Too long had the Steward’s countenance been riddled with sadness.

The knight leaned back comfortably in his chair, nearly disappearing into its silky and cushy depths, never once stopping or slowing his dialogue, though he undoubtedly noticed the arrival of the food. His high and sweet voice filled the vast room as he continued with his tale.

“Sam did a much better job explaining it than Merry did, I must admit,” Sir Peregrin was saying. “He did a capital job, explaining it very much the way you would to a fauntling. Boromir still didn’t understand it however. He pretended that he did, but he ruined it by saying his grandmother’s sister’s daughter was his second cousin once removed, which of course is wrong.”

“Of course,” Lord Faramir said, humoring the little prince.

“It’s his first cousin once removed,” Sir Peregrin went on. “We didn’t see any point in correcting him then and we simply let him think he got it correct for the time being. We figured there would be plenty of times to explain the logistics of it all later and there were. We explained it again in Moria, and again in Lothlorien in somewhat greater detail. I think he was finally grasping the concept of it all, either that or he became better at guessing.

“Then, on the Great River, we tried explaining how I’m related to Frodo three times. First through my great-great-aunt Belladonna Took, who married Bilbo’s father Bungo, who is Frodo’s first cousin twice removed. That doesn’t really make me related to him there, except distantly by marriage, though it does make me Bilbo’s first cousin twice removed. Then there’s my great-great-aunt Mirabella Took, Belladonna’s sister, who was Frodo’s grandmother, which is the most direct relation. That makes him my second cousin once removed on his mother’s side. Finally there’s my great-great-great-grandfather Baldo Baggins. Frodo’s his great-great-grandson, which makes him my third cousin once removed on his father’s side. … And that’s when Boromir threatened to toss us from the boat.”

Lord Faramir threw his head back and roared with laughter, the knight adding his higher-pitched chortle. They were soon in tears over the account, their sides aching with mirth. The attendant hid her smile and stood at attention, waiting to be dismissed, a regrettable conclusion now that the food was laid out.

The laughter gradually subsided and Lord Faramir turned to the attendant. “Thank you, that will be all for now,” he said courteously, mirth still evident in the warmth of his voice and in the shine of his eyes.

The attendant curtsied and turned to leave. She noticed that Sir Peregrin was already eyeing the food, but he glanced up and caught her eye. He graced her with a wide and toothy grin, his green eyes sparkling. The attendant couldn’t stop the responding smile.

The heavy oak door closed solid behind her, drowning out the sounds of the Steward and knight debating over which food to try first. The Pheriannath often spoke of such amusing things, and she was glad for the ease of heart the young knight brought the Steward. The times were truly blessed when those in command could laugh and reminisce at ease.  

Back inside the study, Pippin waited for Faramir to fill his plate before serving himself. He was off duty today and he was here as Faramir’s friend, first and foremost. As such, he wasn’t allowed to wait on Faramir or serve him, and he was expected to be as casual and carefree as he might wish to be. He wasn’t certain at all why he was asked to this meeting, but he wasn’t about to turn down an invitation from his soft-spoken Steward.

Faramir finished piling his plate with breads, fruits and cheeses. He was still chuckling softly at the story. “Boromir never was the studious sort,” he said now. “He would rather play at sword games or run sprints than sit still and read something. He heard only but a fraction of what the tutors told him and only that which was about the wars with the Enemy. Strategy and defense is what interested him best.”

“Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t as forthcoming with tales as the others were,” Pippin mused. “Gimli told us a few now and then, Aragorn told us many and Legolas was always good for a song. Even Gandalf would indulge us from time to time, telling us such silly things as we delighted in hearing, before Moria separated us. Boromir though, he never had any great tales. He would tell an anecdote now and again if Merry or I pestered him enough, but he was mostly interested in training us up, so to speak.”

“I am not surprised to hear it,” Faramir said. “Boromir was fair at story-telling, but his tales were all of war, of glorious battles and hard-won victories, all of them tinged with doubt and despair of more battles to come. Those are not tales that need to be heard on such a perilous journey as yours. He withheld, I suspect, so as not to cause the Ring-bearer any more distress than he already felt.”

Pippin considered this and nodded. “Yes, I believe you are right.”

“How is the Ring-bearer? Frodo?” Faramir asked cautiously. This could be a touchy subject with all the hobbits. He found that there were times they were willing to share information and times they were not. He waited to see if an answer would come.

“He’s well,” Pippin said at length, having used a mouthful of food as an excuse to delay answering immediately. “He sleeps poorly, dreams a lot, but we all do that. I dream of fires and wailing; Merry dreams of being left behind, truly left, the only living person remaining in all the world; and Sam…”

Here he trailed off. He bit his bottom lip uncertainly. This was an opportunity to get an answer to a question that had been plaguing him the last couple of weeks, and he could trust Faramir not to take these words beyond the walls of the study. He made up his mind and pressed forward.

“Sam woke up sobbing last night, convinced he was still in that spider’s lair, looking for Frodo and finding him too late, finding him dead and out of his reach. Even Frodo couldn’t convince him it was all a dream, not at first. How long, Faramir? How long will these dreams last?” he asked softly, and regarded his Steward with beseeching intent.

“There is no saying,” Faramir said, noting that Pippin had easily and effortlessly turned the conversation away from Frodo and onto the other hobbits. So, this was not to be one of those days.

Faramir sat back in his chair and considered the small knight across from him. For all their small stature, he had learned that the hobbits were capable of amazing feats of bravery. They were a most hardy folk and there was no need to hide truths from them. Peregrin was capable of hearing the truth, for all it may not be what he wanted to hear.

“There are some who do not suffer nightmares at all, others who do so for only a brief while, and still others who will have a fit take them long into their elder years if the memory should be prompted or stirred. Everyone is different, but one thing that I have come to realize is that the dreaming is good. As terrifying as they may be, you can awaken from them and realize that they are nothing more than memories and are no longer part of the waking world. Use them as a reminder of the good you have accomplished, and in that way, you might eventually be released from them.”

Pippin considered this gravely. Whenever he woke from his dreams, he found himself shaking and trembling, with sweat dripping down his flushed face, his stomach clenching in nausea, the acrid smell of burnt hair and flesh in his nostrils, the chalky white of dust in his eyes and the deafening rumble of collapsing stone in his ears. He did find waking a relief, for all that he felt dazed and disoriented, but he had never before thought of the dreams as being helpful in and of themselves. It was a simple shift in thinking, one small step further, to use the dreams as reinforcement for the peace that now resided in the world. He would have to mention this to his friends as soon as they were all returned to their apartment that night. He never again wanted to endure another night like the one before if it could be helped.

Sam had always been the sure and steady one among them, even when he was worrying over Frodo. He had always been the one they turned to for hope through the dark hours. Seeing him in such unquenchable and engulfing despair had driven home at last just how terrifying his and Frodo’s path had been. After that first night of tale-telling at Cormallen, they had spoken very little of their journey, and even then they had skipped quite a lot of their own accounts. They preferred instead to listen to the tales of himself and Merry, especially of the Ents, and Pippin had let their silence be as he grappled with his own horrors.

Faramir allowed Pippin to be alone with his thoughts through the rest of the meal. It was little wonder to him that the hobbits were having difficulties adjusting to post-war life. Hobbits were peace-loving creatures who knew little of the world outside their comfortable borders, and they knew even less about war. For these reasons, it was all the more astounding that they had accomplished all that they had. To say that Faramir respected them would not come nearly close enough to what he felt for these courageous hobbits.

The dreams were not the only effects of war that were plaguing the hobbits. Faramir had noted other signs of distress and unease among them: Frodo’s careful solitude and absorption in his writings; Sam’s watchful silence and general distrust of anyone who approached Frodo too swiftly; Merry’s obsession with detail and insistence that he knew where his friends were at all times; and Pippin’s reluctance to sing.

Since that distant night when first they met, Faramir had never again heard Pippin’s fair voice raised in song, and other than the morning on the field of Cormallen when praise had been given to the Ring-bearers, the hobbits had never heard it again either. It greatly troubled them all. Pippin had told him once that he was hesitant to sing in the city, remembering the Lord Denethor’s request for a song and never hearing one, putting it off for later when time and pleasure permitted. Pippin felt now as though the Lord was waiting even in death for his song, and Pippin’s voice was unwilling to come under the scrutinizing gaze of his imagined audience.

When the meal was over, Faramir had the door warden call for the attendant before returning to the earlier conversation. “So, my brother would tell stories, anecdotes you said.”

“Oh yes,” Pippin said, jumping back into the dialogue with ease and relief. “Mostly stories of his training here in the White City as he went about training us, but sometimes he would tell us more enjoyable tales. There was one tale in particular that he was fond of telling and that we were fond of hearing, about his friend Vaclar dangling upside down from a tree by his breeches.”

Faramir laughed, remembering the night Boromir had told him the tale. “I remember him telling me about that,” Faramir said now. “He had been so proud of himself, for it was an older boy, one with whom he was constantly competing. He had waited until Father was asleep and then tiptoed down the hall to my room to awaken me and tell me in hushed and excited tones about his victory. I remember the window was open and the moon was full. The pale blue light came streaming in through the window and across the right side of his face, his left side cast in shadow, yet both his eyes sparkled with his enthusiasm. Of course, Vaclar later got his revenge, but he was not able to take that night away from Boromir. He had won.”

Pippin smiled, finding it sadly comforting to think of his lost friend as he must have been in childhood. “It must have been fun growing up with him.”

“It was. He was a good brother,” Faramir said, grief in his own voice. Then he swallowed his tears and went on to tell of Vaclar’s revenge and Boromir’s unceremonious dive into the Anduin in an attempt to get away from him.

They continued on this tangent of meaningless conversation for a while, until the kitchen attendant returned. She cleared the empty dishes and piled them upon the serving platter, and if she noticed the strain behind their joy, she made no indication of it. She only offered them more drink and they accepted heartily, so she poured into their goblets a fine wine, tart and sweet. Her task completed, she curtsied and left.

When she was gone, Faramir turned to Pippin, a whisper of a smile upon his lips. He lifted his glass and waited for Pippin to do likewise. They had now come to the point. “A toast,” he said, “to the Ernil i Pheriannath, who served my father’s true intent to the very end.”

Pippin blushed and lifted his glass a little higher before bringing it to his lips for a long and slow sip. He did not trust himself to talk.

When first he met Faramir, he had loved the captain immediately, for reasons he still could not name, except perhaps that the captain reminded him of Boromir, whom he had liked from the start and for whom he still grieved. On that long ago night, he had raised his voice in song with the others of the Tower Guard, with no other desire than to give praise and honor to this noble warrior, so loved and highly regarded by all.

He had then stood back in quiet anticipation and listened earnestly as Faramir gave report to his Lord Denethor in the echoing silence of the Lord of the City’s private study, this very room in fact – so easy to forget, so much it has changed since that dark and hopeless night. Then unlooked for came news of Frodo, but the news was grim and the thrill that ran through him was that of fear as he gazed upon Gandalf and saw that the wizard was greatly troubled.

Then Faramir was gone and Pippin, busy with his duties to Denethor, had not seen him again until he returned from Rammas, wounded and ill. The harsh words of Denethor, spoken in despair and bitterness prior to Faramir’s departure, now melted on the Lord’s lips and Pippin stood guard in the shadows of the sickroom, watching as Denethor silently wept for his fallen son, hoping still for a final word to pass between them before Faramir’s life failed. Pippin watched, forgotten, his heart breaking with sorrow and fear, as the Lord of the City slipped into madness from his grief and guilt, watched helplessly as the captain grew weaker with each endless hour.

Pippin did not care to remember what happened next: the fearful flight to find Gandalf, his hasty words of pleading to Beregond, the chilling grip of hopelessness as the Black Captain rode forth, prepared to strike down the White Wizard with flaming sword. He did not care to think of the reckless ride back to Rath Dínen and the Houses of the Stewards nor anything that transpired there. That was the darkest hour of that dark day, and even the sun emerging from the gloom above did little to lift the clouds that had settled over his heart.

That day now seemed an age ago, when in truth it was but two months. His friendship with Faramir had grown swift and strong since the Host of the West first returned to the city from Ithilien, and the captain, now Steward, had spent many hours with him, learning all that he could of his people. Merry often kept them company when his own duties allowed, for he had become acquainted with Faramir during his convalescence in the Houses of Healing, and it was Merry who soon became the topic of their current conversation.

When Pippin trusted himself to speak, he swallowed the crimson liquid and lowered his glass to the table. Faramir was watching him kindly, waiting patiently.

“I am no prince,” Pippin said. “I am merely the first hobbit the fair folk of this city ever saw, and I suppose arriving with Gandalf made quite the impression. Had it been Sam, they would be calling him ‘prince’ instead, and wouldn’t he be in a fit over that. No doubt he’d say it was all improper and not fitting a hobbit of his station, though he isn’t as preoccupied with proper as he used to be, and that’s a blessing in itself.” Pippin forced his mouth shut then, realizing his was babbling in his anxiousness.

Faramir allowed the silence to settle calmly about them once again, then he set down his glass on the wooden table and regarded his friend with clear eyes. “It is you, and you alone, who made the impression, or so I have gathered from all to whom I have spoken,” he countered at length. “Are you not also the son of a Steward, whom your people call Thain?”

“I am,” Pippin answered, “but my father is more a farmer than Thain, us hobbits having no call or reason to raise the Shire Muster from their breakfast tables for more than 200 years.”

“That is not the impression Merry gave me.”

“Merry likes to speak rather grandly of things, saying ten words where one will do,” Pippin said, a small smile on his lips. “No doubt he listed the Thains all the way back to Bucca of the Marish, listing all their descendants and legendary quirks, along with their most favorite foods and famous idioms. Give him a willing audience and he’ll go for hours and hours on anything, until you even begin to think of dirt as a godly thing.”

Faramir laughed. He indeed had learned quickly during his time in the Houses of Healing that Merry could be long-winded, though the chatter had been a welcome distraction from his despair while they awaited news of the Host of the West, gone to battle with the last of their hope.

“For all that may be so, you are still the son of the Thain, who holds the seat of the King in your lands until such a time that the King may return to rule the realms of Arnor.” Faramir stood and walked to the nearest bookshelf. On the topmost shelf was a long, wooden box of cherry oak, inlaid with silver molding. This he lifted from its perch and carrying it with great care, returned to sit at the table. “It also came to my attention, as you were honoring Merry the other week, that you too celebrated a birthday recently.”

To this Pippin only nodded. His twenty-ninth birthday had been the day of the siege, though he had not remembered this fact until just a couple of weeks ago, when they celebrated Merry’s thirty-seventh. It did not bear thinking on, and even now it filled him with sorrow to think of that dreadful day, when so much was lost and so many were slain.

“I am afraid I do not have a gift for you,” Pippin managed to say, keeping his voice light and carefree. “I was rather preoccupied at the time and hadn’t had opportunity to shop for anything fitting.”

Faramir shook his head, a fond smile quirking his lips upward. He had also learned that hobbits preferred to jest about serious matters and that the jesting did not mean the matter was taken lightly. More likely it was their way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation in the most familiar way possible. He did his best to accommodate his friend. “As is just as well, as I wasn’t up to receiving gifts at the time,” he said and was rewarded with a laugh.

Then he sat forward slightly and grew serious again. “You gave me a mighty gift, Peregrin. You gifted me with my life by your deeds, and for that gift you owe me nothing more for as long as you may live. It is I who am in your debt.”

“Such deeds are expected in war, and no less would have been acceptable on my part. You owe me nothing,” Pippin said, touched by the Steward’s heartfelt words. “Besides, that all happened the day after my birthday, which was incredibly rude of me to be so late.”

“Nonetheless, it is the custom of my people to give gifts to the one whose birth is being celebrated. You gave me a gift in your custom, late though it was, and so now I give you one in ours. I apologize for its own lateness, but it has been finely crafted by the most skilled in this city and has only just been finished.” Faramir slid the box across the table to Pippin. “Merry told me of your recount of the siege and how you stood at the Gate as the Black Captain rode forth and the sun broke through the clouds and the horns of the Rohirrim trumpeted clear and heavenly into the distant sky, bringing much hope and lifting the hearts of all Free Peoples who heard them.”

Faramir motioned for Pippin to open the box. The hobbit reached for it with trembling hands. First he ran his fingers along the silver encasing and the lines of silver thread etched deep in the lid of the Seven Stars and the White Tree. Then he opened the latch and lifted the lid and gasped with surprise and delight.

Inside, resting in a bed of black velvet, was a horn of ivory, carved and hollowed from one of the great tusks of a fallen mûmakil. Flowing lines of Elvish runes were etched along the inside curve. Pippin recognized his name and the title Faramir had used earlier, but the rest of the elegant script was a mystery to him. The rest of the horn was plain and glorious in its simple, polished beauty, and strapped to it by rings of silver was a baldric of softest leather, it too decorated with the crest of the City in silver thread.

“It is serviceable,” Faramir said softly.

Pippin gave no indication of hearing him. He sat motionless for many minutes staring at the elegant horn, tears streaming unchecked and unheeded down his fair face. Then at last he touched the smooth pearly white surface of the tusk and ran his fingers along the runes. He fingered the leather baldric, like silk to his touch, and gently, reverently, he lifted the horn from its case.

The horn matched his arm in length and he was required to use both hands to handle it properly. He wrapped his right hand gently around the neck, steadying the body with his left, and brought the mouthpiece to his lips. With an encouraging nod from Faramir, he gathered a great breath and blew with all his might.

He was never able to describe the sound it made, not then or in all the years to come; it was beyond his ability. He knew only that the trumpeting sound that blasted from the horn lifted his heart and filled him with joy. The blast reverberated through his fingers and up his arms, until his whole being was humming with its glorious music, until he could almost imagine he was a part of that music himself.

He ended the note and lowered the horn back to its case and still the echoes of its single note could be heard in the room, and outside in the courtyard, unknown to him, many faces were lifted upward to the wide-open double doors and they too were smiling.

Pippin fingered the horn one last time, then gently lowered the lid. “Thank you,” he said. “I shall treasure it always.”

Then Pippin was out of his chair and he ran over to his friend, hardly giving Faramir enough notice to stand before he wrapped his arms around him in a mighty hug. Now Faramir was overcome with emotion, but he held it in check and held his friend close.

“What do they say?” Pippin asked, his head buried into the man’s broad chest. “The runes? What do they mean?”

“They say, ‘Peregrin, Ernil i Pheriannath, Mellon Vuin a Maethor Beleg; Gliro a garo ‘lass eraid bân cuil lín’ and it means ‘Peregrin, Prince of the Halflings, Dear Friend and Mighty Warrior; May you sing and have joy all the days of your life’.”

“I do not deserve it.”

Faramir loosened the hobbit’s hold on him and held him at arm’s length. He knelt down to look him solemnly in the eye. “No, you do not. You deserve much more than I could ever bestow upon you. Will you accept this humble gift?”

Pippin sniffled and wiped his hands across his tear-strung face. “Of course I do, you silly Man.” And they laughed and hugged again.  

Later that night, alone in their apartment, Pippin proudly showed his horn to his friends. Sam was delighted as could be expected and Frodo beamed with pride. Merry clapped his little cousin on the shoulder. “It is well earned and well given, my friend,” said Merry.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?”

“Yes and no. I knew Lord Faramir was wanting to give you something, but I didn’t know what it would be or when he would give it,” Merry said.

“Why don’t you give it a blow, Mr. Pippin,” Sam said.

“Yes, let us hear the White Horn of the Pheriannath,” Frodo said.

So Pippin lifted it to his lips once more and blew it long and steady, to the delight of all present. When the echoes died away, he put it back in its case and latched the lid tight and sure. “I shall not use it again, except in times of great merriment and celebration, as is its true purpose,” Pippin declared.

And so it came to be that hearing the White Horn at weddings and births, feasts and balls, and other great celebrations, became a tradition in the Tookland of the Shire, and the White Horn became an emblem of the Thain, and was passed down the generations until its true origins were nothing more than folklore.
 
 
 

The End. 
 
 

GF 7/16/05