They played the game often, the race to see who could reach the fence on the far side of the woods first. He knew the other would not go beyond the fence so did not worry when his competition ran out of sight on the winding path through the trees. He slowed down a bit, in fact, to let the other enjoy the moments of wild abandon . . . flying on happy feet through the silent woods with no one else around. But he began to grow concerned when the usual whoop of victory was long in coming. He picked up his pace.

As he rounded the last curve in the path, Pippin pulled to a staggering halt at what he saw on the trail before him. His lad, his baby, sat staring at a stream of blood that ran from his left knee down his shin and on either side of his calf. Soaking into foot hair. Soaking into the ground. One would have thought it would hurt horribly to have the knee bent, yet the seven-year-old child just sat there in the dirt, staring at his damaged leg. Pippin’s knees went weak as Faramir looked up, his face a pasty shade of white.

“Blood, Da,” was all the lad said in a small strangled sounding voice.

“Yes,” Pippin swallowed hard then continued speaking while walking toward his son. “Yes, that is indeed blood, Faramir.” Pippin had seen blood and death but this was different. He could not let his son know how shaky he felt, it wouldn’t help things a bit. “A nice bright red color as well. Means you’re a healthy young hobbit.”

Pippin had already stripped off his shirt and now roughly tore it apart. He had to bind the gash.

“Blood, Da,” Faramir said again while pointing to his knee. “And something white, Da.”

“Yes. There now, all covered up and bound with Da’s shirt.” Something white; the lad’s knee bone showing between the edges of torn skin. Faramir looked very near to swooning. Pippin picked his shivering child up with strong, gentle arms and turned to walk as briskly as his long legs enabled him back down the path toward the Great Smials. He feared bouncing the lad too much if he ran. “You’re a silly lad, wearing a shirt on your leg,” he said as lightly as he was able. Faramir giggled weakly as his head jostled against his father’s chest.

More nonsense was spoken, trying to distract the son, keeping the father from panicking, until the Smial was gained and the healer called for. It wasn’t that Faramir had never hurt himself before, he had, but never as badly. It would be found out later he had also winded himself when his stumble landed him first hard upon his knees then flat upon his chest. A frightening combination for a young lad. Pippin prattled on while lying the lad down, while waiting for the healer, while waiting for the sleeping tonic to work. Then all was quiet as silent prayers were said in the hearts of worried parents, prayers that their lad would stay asleep while the gash was cleaned and stitched. Thanks were breathed out when the healer said the bone wasn’t broken nor chipped, though the lad’s left leg was splinted, just the same, to keep him from bending the knee and straining the stitches. Then Diamond held vigil as Faramir and Pippin, exhausted from the strain of the afternoon, both slept.

It was a few weeks later that Pippin stopped short just past the door of the library at the Smials. He slowly backed up to see if he had seen what he thought it was he saw. He had. Faramir was sitting alone on the rug before the hearth. He was staring at his left knee while touching it gently with his forefinger.

“Didn’t say it would be ugly,” the lad muttered softly. “Said it would get better. Didn’t say worse. Didn’t say ugly.”

“Who said it’s ugly, Faramir?”

The lad jumped and looked up at the sound of his father’s voice, but he simply hung his head instead of answering.

“Faramir?” Pippin sat down cross-legged on the floor across from his son. “Has someone teased you about your scar?”

“ ‘S not a scar.”

“Not a scar?”

“No,” Faramir said forcefully as for the first time he looked his father in the eye. “No. It is red and wrinkled and even though it don’t have no scab no more . . .”

“Doesn’t have a scab anymore,” corrected the elder Took.

“Doesn’t have a scab anymore,” Faramir repeated impatiently. “It looks right close to bleeding again, ‘n it still hurts, ‘n it’s ugly, ‘n it’s not a scar!”

“Well . . .” Pippin looked at his son’s knee. In all honesty, the scar was ugly. It was as Faramir so aptly described; the line across the lad’s knee was red, puckered and had a row of red dots above and below from the healer’s stitching needle. “I do promise you, Faramir, that it won’t bleed again. It really has healed up quite nicely and the scar . . .”

“ ‘S not a scar, Da! Those are scars.” Faramir angrily pointed at the scars on the back of his father’s left wrist. “Those are scars, you’ve said so. Scars are whitish and . . . and . . .” Faramir swallowed and glared at Pippin. “And they aren’t ugly like . . .” He was too hurt, embarrassed and angry to finish. He hung his head and stared at the floor between his feet.

“Faramir.”

The lad knew better than to not respond to his Da, but all he did was grunt.

“ ‘Tis a scar, Faramir. Most scars start out reddish like that, when they are new and the scab is not long off the wound. It will turn white after a time.”

Another soft grunt.

“Truely.”

“How long a time?”

“A while, son. I’m no healer, but as bad a cut as that was, well I’d say a goodly long time. But it will lighten . . .”

“How long did yours take?” Faramir’s voice was quiet and he still looked at the floor.

That stopped Pippin short. How could he say that it took no time at all? That he and Merry hadn’t even noticed until later that wounds that should have taken weeks to heal and months to fade had been healed and faded from one time’s washing in the Entwash? Poor encouragement that would be to his lad. Yet, he strongly disliked lying to his child.

“Eh, well. Months, Son, it took months.” He was glad Faramir had not looked up as he was sure the sensation he had of a nasty taste in his mouth showed on his face.

“Oh.” There was a long pause. Slowly Faramir’s head raised enough to watch his right hand reach over, to watch his fingers gently caress his Father’s scars. “Did that hurt, Da? Was it cuts like mine? Did you get stitched? Did you fall? How did you hurt both hands, Da?”

The questions came soft and slow from the lad, the memories they churned up came hard and fast. Pippin could hear the orcs grunting and arguing. He could smell their stench. He felt the ache of his shoulders as he hung by his arms. He could feel the rubbing of ropes against and through the skin of his wrists.

“Da?”

Pippin shivered as he came back to himself, opening his eyes to see his little lad’s eyes, large with concern, upon him.

“Did it hurt?” Faramir asked again.

“Eh . . . ah,” Pippin began to rub his right wrist. “Yes. It hurt, Faramir. It hurt quite badly, like your knee hurt you.”

“How’d you hurt them, Da? Did you run too fast and fall?”

Pippin closed his eyes as he smiled wryly, after all running too fast and falling had been a factor in the scars upon his wrists. “Yes, I ran and fell while I was on my long journey.”

“I don’t see them all the time,” Faramir said as he watched Pippin rubbing the old injuries. “Sometimes I can’t see them at all, but I can see them really good today. Will mine be like that? With the skin kind o’ shimmery white like that?”

“Yes, it’ll be like that.”

“That won’t be so bad, Da!” Faramir hopped up, hugged his father tightly, saying before he ran off, “I’m going to find cousin Isengrim and tell him that he better look now while he can see it. I wouldn’t want him to forget I got hurt and had to be sewn.”

Pippin sat on the floor for a while before he went on to his office and the day’s work.

************

The day was grey and sodden. Not raining but wet none the less. Two figures walked the ridges of the western Green Hills where the grasses grew high, the trees were few and wind-bent. They were heading east toward Tuckborough and the Great Smials.

Pippin had suggested the walk home after the funeral luncheon. He knew his son well, a long walk with just the two of them was what Faramir needed. He had been there a day ago when his cousin, Isengrim, had fallen from his pony while they were hunting. Faramir had been the first to Isengrim’s side. He had been the first to know that his cousin was dead.

They were nearing a place where a bench sat beneath a tree upon a hill overlooking the valley that ended at the hill into which Great Smials had been delved long years ago. Pippin had noticed as they climbed the hill that his son was favoring his left leg.

“Shall we sit a spell and let an old hobbit rest?”

Faramir pointedly looked about. “I don’t see why. There aren’t any old hobbits about.”

Father and son laughed as the elder waved them both toward the bench.

“You’re wrong there, but I thank you. How would it be, then, if we sit to let a young hobbit who’s knee is aching rest? Does it hurt you often?” Pippin asked as they sat down, Faramir being cautious of bending his leg as he did so.

“No, it only hurts on days like this when the air is damp and chill, as an old gaffer’s would.” He looked over at his Da. “I am nineteen, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Then I wish my leg would stop acting as though I’m one hundred and nineteen.” The nearly tweenaged lad leaned back against the bench. “Though today I feel the part,” he sighed. His eyes caught some movement and he glanced at his father’s hands . . . he was rubbing his wrists. “Aches of your own, Da?”

Pippin stopped his unconscious movements, placing his hands on his knees and spreading his fingers. He stared at them, pale against the black fabric of his breeches. “Yes, but only on days like this when the air is damp and chill.” He raised his eyes to meet Faramir’s, and he winked. His son nodded before looking back at his own achy knee.

“Will it ever quit hurting, Da?”

“Do you really want it to?”

Their eyes met once more. Both knew they had ceased talking about physical hurts. They each looked away.

“Yes,” the lad eventually answered.

“I lost dear friends and kin, the year of my journey and for a long time I felt as you do right now. I wanted the pain to go away. Mind you,” Pippin looked at Faramir for a moment before looking away once more, “it helped a great deal that your Uncle Merry and I had things to keep us busy. It helped to be away from the familiar parts of the Shire, off helping to roust out the Ruffians and their supporters.”

There was quiet for a bit, then Faramir heard his father speaking softly.

“Boromir. Alagrim Took. Young Bandogrin Took. Robin Banks. Foldo Hayman. Isenbold Took . . .”

“From the battle,” Faramir interrupted. “Boromir of Gondor and some of the Hobbit Heros who died at the Battle of Bywater.”

“Yes.” Pippin sighed. “Yes, son, and it hurts still to think of their lives cut short. But . . .” Their green eyes met again. “Boromir had a laugh that made the woods echo, and he could sing. He had a pleasant deep voice the likes of which no hobbit could have. And he had great care and patience when teaching the arts of weaponry that he long had studied.”

Faramir tried to interrupt but was stopped by a sharp shake of his father’s head. Pippin continued.

“Alagrim Took always out-ran me. Always. Young Bandogrim could best Merry at chess and there aren’t may who do that nearly every game. Robin Banks was a tough lad, yet always fair and honest in all he did. Foldo Hayman,” Pippin chuckled softly. “Foldo dared me to get my very first kiss. He challenged me to my first drinking game, whilst his brother kept Merry busy.” The chuckle became a laugh. “He most likely would have been the ruin of me, but like Merry, if anyone else tried to have a go at me, Foldo would have none of it. And Isenbold. Well . . . he was your cousin Isengrim’s uncle and as good a friend to me as his nephew was to you.”

“But . . . but . . .” Faramir stammered as tears ran down his face. “Doesn’t it hurt, Da? Don’t you ache at the thought of them all? I hurt so thinking of Isengrim.” The lad broke down in sobs.

Pippin gathered his son in his arms and let him cry out his hurt, saying nothing until the sobbing had lessened.

“It hurts every time I think of them, son. But I do think of them, you see. And the thinking of the hurt leads to the remembering of my friends. All the good things I just told you and more.” Pippin gave Faramir a hug. “So many more good memories.” He took hold of the lads shoulders and put some space between them so they could look at each other.

“If it didn’t hurt, I might not think of them at all anymore and that would be a terrible thing, Faramir. I would truly lose them then.” He looked deeply at the lad. “Can you see that?”

Faramir nodded.

“When your knee aches, what do you think about?”

“I think about how badly it hurts, and why it hurts, and . . .” A smile started to shine through the tears. “And I remember our old game of racing through the woods and I think of all the times we spent together outdoors, Da. Fishing. Riding. Hiking and camping.” Faramir’s smile grew as did his excitement. “And when I hurt it, you played games with me and read to me so that I wouldn’t be driven mad from staying in bed or in a chair.” The smile glowed. “That was when you taught me to knit!”

“Yes, and you’d best keep quiet about that, m’lad.” The father gave the son another strong hug before once more pulling back to face him. “And so I’ll ask again, Faramir Took, do you really want it to quit hurting?”

“No, Da. Scars may fade, but they show enough for the reminding, and I don’t ever want to forget Isengrim.”

Pippin looked carefully at his son. The lad was growing into a fine young hobbit. “Then let’s see if you and your achy knee can make it home. ‘Twill be nigh to supper time by then and we wouldn’t want your Mum to be worrying over us.”

“And you can tell me more about Boromir, Alagrim, Robin Banks and all as we walk.”