First, I put Aragorn as a character because he has a *cameo* at the end...he does not have a huge part--sorry.

I wrote this for Marigold's 23rd Challenge:

Sentence to include: It was miles yet to _____, and ____ was already exhausted.
Four things to include: A yellow waistcoat, a stuffed animal, a near drowning, a blackberry tart.
Character to include: Any Eagle or Falcon

Disclaimer: I don’t own hobbits or Middle-earth, they belong to JRR Tolkien. Nobody in their right mind would pay me for this.

Summary: Faramir struggles to understand why his father left the Shire to spend his last days in Gondor.

Beta: Marigold

Faramir Took 61/54 (flashbacks), Kalimas Brandybuck 69/62.

Note: this tale contains flashback scenes--for ease in following the story, these parts are in italics and begin with an *asterisk.

Warning: Character deaths toward the end of the story.

NOW, you can enjoy... :-)

Mountains.

All I see for miles are land, rocks…and mountains. They line up in a towering cascade to my right along the Great West Road as we travel through the Eastfold. There is the occasional copse of trees, however, for the most part, the one thing that fills my vision from morning until twilight are these enormous…mountains.

There was a time when I was enchanted by this view--even more so the stories, though ages ago it seems now. I would listen intently as my father eagerly pointed out various places of special significance while travelling on his first Journey. I have lost count of the many times my father would retell the story of how he and my uncle were given a special draught by the Ent, Treebeard, growing three inches taller than when they had first started out on their journey. I smile at the memory of my father’s storytelling, and then burrow myself deeper into my pensiveness until I am lost within.

And then I hear him.

I look up into the fading blue canopy, my eyes searching for the invader of my thoughts. I spy him circling overhead as we ride upon the road. His mournful cries echoing in my head…my heart.

* * *

*I wake up to the sound of a shout; my paternal instincts pause to listen for my children…but it is not any of them. After another cry, I recognise my father’s voice--weeping from yet another one of his ugly dreams. I am into my dressing gown and off to tend to my aging father as the nightmare unfolds in his dreaming.

Upon entering his bedroom, I find my father trembling beneath his blankets with his hands over his ears, rocking from side to side in order to find comfort. He whimpers, “No…please don’t die, Merry…” This has almost become a nightly ritual. My father has always been beset with nightmares for as long as I can remember, but never to this extreme.

As I approach, I call to him. Taking my father into my arms, I rock with him until he is fully awake. “Shhh,” I softly tell him, “Uncle Merry is very much alive and in Buckland; he’s coming for a visit next week.” Hearing this seems to comfort my father. “It was just a bad dream, Father,” I tell him. I try to hold his gaze, but he looks away. I wish for the hundredth time that my mother were still alive; she had always been able to draw my father out of his sorrows.

* * *

As I look up into the deep hue of the twilight sky listening to the doleful calls of the falcon, I now realise how painfully I miss my father.

* * *

*My father, the Took and Thain, is sitting in his large leather chair at his huge desk that is made of walnut wood. I look about the room; everything is cleaned and organised, save for the few documents upon his desk. I silently wonder at this because my father is not known to be tidy. His green eyes fill with tears. Again, I wonder at what is about to take place, as he is the one who has summoned me here.

He hands me a leather case tied with a thin cord. “What is this?” I ask him. He answers through his tears that it contains his Will, letters to each of his children, and the heirlooms that represent the family’s titles. The heaviness of the case confirms this, as the combined weight of the medals of the office of the Took and Thain sit in my grasp. The effect of my father’s announcement does not hit me at once. He further explains to me that my Uncle Merry has conferred with him about returning to Rohan to be with the King of that land during his last days. I reckon that this meeting took place during my uncle’s visit two weeks previous.

From the grief-stricken features on my father’s face, I know that there is much more to this. He goes on to say that after their visit with King Éomer, that he and my uncle will continue on to Gondor…to find rest.

To find rest? Could he not find it here in our home? As my father’s news sinks in, I flush with anger. Surely, my father would not go off like that with barely a thought and leave his family behind to grieve! Not with the wound of my mother’s death still fresh in our hearts. Sam did this same thing to my beloved Goldilocks and her brothers and sisters. I didn’t agree with what he did then and still don’t. I express my opinion to my father, who merely sits in his chair, tears rolling freely down his face. He looks away. Nothing I say makes him relent. We both weep.

In my heart I know that he means to leave…and never return.

* * *

At present, I stir myself from my thoughts to watch our friend soar elegantly in the air in order to keep myself from plunging further into my own melancholy. The perpetrator is a falcon that we discovered following us a day’s ride south of Tharbad. He comes and goes as he pleases, and usually hovers about our camp at dawn or dusk. At first, my son Isengar thought the bird was merely a scavenger hunting for food--our food, yet he ate nothing we offered him.

Beresarn, one of the King’s Men we are travelling with, explained to us the sort of food falcons eat--which does not include wild coney roasted over an open pit. Thus, we concluded that he must have come from the Misty Mountains--his hunting ground being the smaller fowl at Swanfleet.

“There he is!” I hear Kalimas shout. He slows down his pony to ride beside me. “That bird’s timing is flawless! He always appears just as we’re about to make camp for supper. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a hobbit with wings!”

I smile absently at his jest. I have found that Kali is rather amused by the creature. “Keeps my mind off the present”, he told me not long after the bird joined us on our journey. We surmised that it was the same bird that we saw every day because he seemed to have a bit of a limp when he walked. Most likely obtained while stooping for prey.

High up in the sky, I watch as he aims for a small bird flying heedlessly in the blue sapphire sky. Our falcon misses. The bird flies to safety in the shelter of the darkening mountains. I watch the falcon continue to soar higher and higher toward the lofty heights of Halifirien. That far up, I imagine that we must appear to him as ants do to us.

After we set up camp just west of the Mering Stream, I sit by the fire contemplating our journey and eating my supper, though I hadn’t touched much of it. I must have seemed a complete portrait of gloom to my cousin, for he came over to join me.

“Long day?” he asked after taking a seat beside me. The firelight gave the yellow waistcoat he wore a deep golden hue. In wearing that waistcoat, he reminds me so much of my uncle. I often speculate how Kali felt about his father leaving to die elsewhere.

I break the silence, giving a long sigh. “It is miles yet to Minas Tirith, and I am already exhausted.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kali chuckling. “I’m eight years older than you, cousin, so I don’t feel a bit sorry for you.”

“Why am I doing this?” I ask him, though I am not really seeking an answer. “My father was quite obvious about his wishes before he left. He drew his last breath as far away from home as he could get. So I wonder why I am going to all of this trouble to render my last respects. He did not want to spend his last days in the Shire…nor with his children.”

“So that’s what this is all about? Here all this time I thought you were mourning your father, and all along you were mourning yourself.”

I have never known Kali to be subtle with his feelings on any given subject, but his response to this surprised me a bit. “I beg your pardon?”

“Our fathers did not leave their families because they yearned for something more than us--they left because they needed peace and healing that was not available in the Shire.” I watch as Kali grows sombre, then continues. “When my mum passed away, a part of my dad went with her. The one person in this world who knew everything about him was gone. He tried his best to carry on as well as he could, but…” Kali paused, “the nightmares grew worse. There was nothing I, nor my brother and sisters, could say to ease his pain. My mum was a balm to my dad’s heart--to his internal wounds from the War. When the letter came from Rohan inviting him to stay there before the King died, it gave my dad an idea…and we talked about it. I am the one who encouraged him to go through with his plan.”

I cast a hard gaze at my cousin, who then quickly adds, “He would have been miserable in the Shire, Faramir. And you cannot deny the fact that you also saw this in your own father.”

“If he had troubling thoughts before he left, he never mentioned them to me,” I reply coolly, however, his nightmares rang clear in my memory.

“‘Troubling thoughts’ you call them?” Kali gaped at me in disbelief. “Between the nightmares and his horrifying memories, my dad was cracking under the strain of it all. Don’t you see? It’s all from the War that they endured as young lads. My dad--nor yours--never saw this coming. Not until the moment came upon him did Uncle Pippin know that he would go away, cousin. Say it how you mean it, Faramir--you believe that your dad planned it all--plotting for months to leave you behind.”

Tears well in my eyes at the stark truth, recalling the day my father handed his titles over to me. “I still needed him, Kali,” I whisper, then wipe away a falling tear.

Kali put an arm round my shoulder. “That feeling will never go away, Faramir. Ever since you were old enough to peer over his desk, Uncle Pippin was training you in how to be Thain,” said Kali. “If he didn’t think you were ready for it, he would not have done so.”

I find it a bit difficult to shirk seven years of hurt and anger, however, Kali’s words find a secure place in my heart. Why wasn’t I as observant with my father as he was with his? Now anger is mixed with guilt…shame. I say nothing in response to my cousin’s last remark, though he takes my silence as it is intended; a request for time alone.

“Where is Isengar?” he quietly asks of my young tweenaged son. I understand his question to be a gesture to look after Isengar while I consider our conversation.

“He’s with Rory,” I answer, “trying to coax the men into fishing before sunrise tomorrow.”

“That sounds splendid!” says Kali, getting up from his seat and taking his empty plate. “I think I shall join the lads in that effort.”

* * * *

In the wee morning hours, I feel so exhausted, but I cannot sleep. I lie upon my back with my hands interlocked behind my head--eyes wide open, and in more than just one fashion. I have done nothing but toss and turn ever since I returned from a short jaunt to relieve myself. The reasoning my cousin gave for my father’s well-thought-out disappearance kept my mind far too occupied for slumber. In the midst of my thoughts I hear Isengar stirring about inside our tent. I close my eyes to feign sleep, and then hear the tent flap open.

“Where’s your line at, lad?” I listen as Kali speaks to my son in a low voice.

“I left it outside with Rory’s,” Isengar whispers in reply.

I lie still as stone, as they are trying their utmost to not disturb me.

“Come along, then,” Kali whispers back, “we don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

“We’re going to have fish for breakfast!” Isengar whispers with delight. Even with my eyes closed, I could tell Isengar was smiling at the prospect of something other than wild rabbit.

Once the others had left, silence reigned inside our tent. I again allow my inner musings to take over my consciousness. Without realising it, I fell asleep, as tired hobbits are oft wont to do.

“Uncle Faramir!” I startle at the proximity of the voice inside the tent. It is Kali’s son, Rory--and he is out of breath. “Come quickly! Isengar fell into the deep water!” At once, I am up and running behind the lad.

Upon the banks of the Mering Stream, I stand dumbfounded at the sight before me. My son lies unmoving upon the ground while Beresarn is gently pushing upon his stomach, and then rolls him over to do the same for his back. My son’s life is uncertain, and all I can do is stand there with my knees quaking. Kali is instantly beside me, arm round my waist for support. No sound is uttered while this is going on…and neither does my child breathe.

The one thing that momentarily grabs my attention is the call of the falcon from high above. I lift my eyes to watch his form flit across the dawning morn. I hear gurgling and the sound of my son choking. In the blink of an eye, I am staring once again toward Isengar, lying in Beresarn’s lap. He is gasping for air while spewing stream water all over the man. I rush to Isengar’s side to take him in my arms.

“That is a good lad,” Beresarn says to Isengar, “coughing is a good sign. Do not try to rise--Mirthoron will bear you back to camp.” It is Mirthoron who puts a blanket round my son’s shoulders then carries him to the campfire to get warm and dry. There, I sit with my son resting in my arms until he falls asleep.

As I watch him breathe, a pleasant memory comes to me of my father and me snuggling in my bed at times when I was sick and taking turns reading passages from our favourite books. To my dying day, I shall never forget the sensation of feeling secure and loved upon my father’s bosom. Which is why I feel confused to no end about why my father felt he had to leave in order to find peace. Why could he not find it with his family?

* * * * *

For the remainder of our journey to Minas Tirith, nothing out of the ordinary presented itself, with the exception of one curious falcon perched nearby our camp at dawn and at dusk as if offering protection.

My cousin and I, along with our sons, and the King’s escorts who brought the sad tidings to the Shire, arrived in the City before supper and then were immediately shown to the house where my uncle and father had lived. The men took a moment to point out the various inns and shops nearby before carrying our luggage inside. I nod politely at their directions, however, I am quite familiar with this old house and its neighbourhood, as I trained for a year with Gondor’s army just before I came of age.

Inside, it is a very simple house my father shared with my uncle; it has a kitchen, dining room, parlour, two bedchambers, a bathing room, and a privy. However, one of the things that is not simple is the furniture, which has been tailored for hobbits. It is not the same house my father and his companions stayed in just after the War, though that house isn’t far from here. This house was reserved for my father and uncle upon each subsequent visit, whether for duty or pleasure. It sits against the outer wall within the seventh circle with a beautiful view of the City below from the balcony in the upper storey--that is, if one has a mind to climb the stairs as I sometimes do.

As we walked inside the dining room, we discover the table is laden with a sumptuous feast; meats, breads, fruits, various cheeses, blackberry tarts, and a pitcher of fresh water. Kali and I smile together when we see a large bowl of steaming mushrooms in the middle of it all. I ask the men if they would like to join us, but Beresarn merely smiles politely, saying, “I thank you, and I thank you on behalf of my men, however, we have been parted from our families for a very long time.” Beresarn then bows low, taking his leave with the others.

As we remaining tired hobbits make ourselves comfortable, I spy a small scroll upon the same table addressed to Kali and myself from the High King. I break open the large red seal to read the message. The King greets us warmly, and then correctly predicts that we are outworn from our travels and should like a warm supper and then bed soon after. However, he expects to have luncheon with us tomorrow before accompanying us to the Hallows in Rath Dinen--where our fathers lie in state.

Later on, once our corners are filled and sleep is on the horizon, I take a stroll out to the balcony to take in the fresh air and the grand sight of lanterns filling up a multitude of windows as twilight descends over the City. Upon stepping outside, I see Kalimas leaning against the balustrade, also taking in the splendorous view, so I am not alone as I had hoped to be.

“Breath-taking, isn’t it?” I ask thoughtfully, testing the waters to see if my cousin is in a talking mood.

“I suppose.”

’Tisn’t much of an answer; I try once more. “What are you thinking about?”

A long moment passes before he replies nasally, “My dad--and how I miss him.” He takes out his handkerchief to blow his nose, then he smiles. “Do you remember when they took us, our brothers, and sons to Crickhollow for a ‘lads only’ holiday?”

I nod, recalling the horrendously long ride to get there. “My father tried to light up one of his homemade firecrackers and nearly lit up the house in the process.”

“I remember that,” Kali laughed, and then continued his musing. “I was so happy to see my old dad smile.”

“I should think he would,” I answer cynically. “I should also feel light at heart if I had made a decision to pass my burdens on to my son, and then go off on an everlasting holiday.”

“Stubborn Took! Seems to me that you will never forgive your dad--nor mine, and so you shall always remain bitter. Have a care that you don’t pass that to Isengar, or you shall be burdening your son with your sullenness.”

“Tell me, cousin,” I ask in response, “how you can so easily sway your father to leave his home and family, and now weep in regret at his death?”

Kali whirls round to face me, eyes filled with anger and tears. “Don’t presume to understand the bond between my dad and me. I’ve missed him from the onset of his final journey--and I don’t regret sending him on his way. At least I know how to look beyond my own nose to understand that my father was never going to feel completely at peace while he lived in Buckland. I loved my dad enough to let go. Do you love your dad enough to do the same?”

I hesitate to make comment on Kali’s words. In fact, if I wanted to, I could not find the right words to express my sentiments. Instead, I retreat deeply into my thoughts in order to escape a reply to myself. Why do I hesitate to let go of my father? I wish I knew the answer to that perplexing question.

Without warning, we hear a flutter of wings and the ear-splitting cry of a familiar bird. We both cover our ears at the falcon’s greeting and then watch as he hobbles across the rooftop below us. It is, indeed, our falcon. It appears he has “found” us.

“He’s followed us all the way here,” Kali says with awe.

“I wonder why,” I say.

An uneasy moment passes when Kali speaks again. “You know…we never named him.”

“Name a wild bird?” I chuckle half-heartedly, relieved at this diversion.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“It is not,” Kali replies, eyeing the falcon. “Come here, Peregrin,” he calls to the bird--as if it should answer in obedience.

“No--any name but that one!”

“But he is a peregrine, Faramir. So, why not name him what he is?”

I couldn’t argue with that reasoning. “Very well,” I say, yielding to my cousin’s wishes. “I am for bed, though. We must be up in time to eat luncheon with the King.”

Inside the bedchamber that my son and I will share during our visit, he looks at me red-faced as I enter, as if he’d been caught in the act of doing something naughty. I see a half-eaten blackberry tart sitting on his night table, though that couldn’t be the reason for giving him a start.

“What are you concealing? Have you been into any mischief?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what is it behind your back?”

I can tell young Isengar is indecisive, so I help him along. “I don’t have time for games, young hobbit. I am tired and cranky--and I want sleep.”

Isengar slowly brings out from behind him what I recall being my youngest daughter’s favourite toy from years ago. She has recently turned thirteen so I thought she outgrew it. “Isn’t that Marigold’s stuffed rabbit?” I eye my tweenaged son holding the tattered plaything. “What are you doing with it?”

“She gave it to me.”

“To keep you from getting homesick?”

“No,” the lad answers, “to give to grandfather.”

“Son, your grandfather won’t…” I start to object, but then think better of it. Isengar turns to his pack sitting upon his bed, digging further into it, it seemed. “Pearl embroidered a pocket-handkerchief, Elanor knitted a scarf to keep him warm, Marigold gave Hopper, and Andobras gave his favourite shooter.” Isengar held forth the treasures that he bore for my father on behalf of his siblings. I reach out to touch the items in his hands, instead, I pull my child into a firm embrace, kissing his honey brown curls.

He is so like my father; the spitting image of him, inside and out. I have my mother’s chestnut curls and features, however, my green eyes are all that I inherited from my father. The longer Isengar is in my arms the more I find how much I painfully miss hugging my own father.

“Bring them with you when we go to the Hallows tomorrow,” I tell him. Then with a playful swat on the bum, I tell him to get into his nightshirt and off to bed.

Once again I lie awake in my bed, sleep evading my tired body. Thankfully, I did sleep most of the night, at least. Pale light outlines the heavy drapes that normally shields the brightness of the setting sun. I hear someone stirring about the house, so I rise from my bed, rub my weary eyes, and then pull on my dressing gown. I shuffle out to the kitchen to find my cousin putting the teakettle on to boil.

“Good morning,” I greet him in a sleep-deprived voice.

“G’ morning,” he returns the greeting in the same tone. “Couldn’t sleep, either?” He reached inside the specially made hobbit-sized sideboard for two teacups and saucers. “Tea?”

“Yes, please. I always have trouble my first night in the City.” I step into the larder searching for a sack of oats to make porridge for breakfast.

“I don’t,” Kali replies, then goes out the front porch to fetch the fresh milk and eggs left by the milkmaid.

After breakfast, we decided to start sorting through our fathers’ things, as it might help us to move on. There were bundles of letters I found in my father’s desk individually addressed to me and my brothers and sisters. In another drawer, I discovered a leather-bound book with pages filled with my father’s script, which was never really very neat. I flipped through the first few pages reading bits here and there. I discover that this book was my father’s journal. The first entry I read is from Solmath 2, 1484, S. R.:

“…dark dreams prevail whether I am asleep or not. I despair even in my waking hours to see images that have long ago taken place, yet I see them even now with utmost clarity. Sam has long gone; almost two years ago--the last of the Ringbearers to sail over the sea. The last meeting of the former Conspiracy took place at Bag End shortly before his departure. Sam invited Merry and I to Bag End to say his farewell, so we knew of his intentions before the rest of his family did…so at the risk of breaking their hearts, we keep this information to ourselves.”

I turn the page for yet more. This entry is dated Rethe 23, 1484, S. R.:

“This has been my longest spell of nightmares--six months without relief, most likely brought on by the death of my dearest, no doubt. Nearly every night I wake up in the arms of my son, who dutifully consoles his aging father until he can stop quaking in fear. Not a day goes by without me wondering why my precious Diamond had to pass on before me. Why could it not be me? The Valar must know how much I am plagued with these ugly thoughts and dreams. I wish there was an escape such as Sam’s, though without shattering the hearts of my dearest family.”

My vision blurs with tears, though I wipe them away so that I can delve further into my father’s mindset. There are other journals that I look at, but the latest one I read is from just over a year ago, and I smile to read the date. It appears that while making Gondor his home, my father was unswerving in which calendar he used. Date, Astron 12, 1490:

“…it feels strange to be 100 years old. On the inside, emotions aside, I feel as I did when I was a strapping young hobbit of thirty. On the outside, however, I am feeling my age quite well. Merry’s health is beginning to fail. His memory isn’t what it used to be, and I have to repeat nearly everything I say to him whether or not he uses his ear-horn. Strider, or I should say, the High King, makes his daily visit usually at elevenses. If court duties keep him away, then he sends Beresarn to see to our needs. I cannot get over how much Beresarn looks like his grandfather, Beregond. Unfortunately, Beresarn is not the balm to our souls as is Strider. Underneath the King’s regal bearing, his hardened Dúnadain surface, lies a man who, like Merry and I, needs a release from the unnatural, horrific, and guarded memories that have stolen a piece of our lives. During his visits we speak openly of what frightened us the most in those days, or how we managed after our return to ‘normal’ lives. I must laugh because nothing was ever ‘normal’ again, though some chose not to acknowledge it…”

I sit upon my father’s bed with his journal in my lap, numb from head to toe. How could I be so blind? Kali read the signs from his father--why could I not see them in mine?

Later in the afternoon, I am standing with my cousin and our sons inside the Hallows. Our fathers appear the same as they had while living, save for pallid colouring of their skin. They both lie with a fur coverlet over the lower half of their bodies. I look to the King who gives Isengar a nod. Evidently, both sets of children had planned this, because Rory brought forth his own sack filled with small gifts for Uncle Merry. I watch as Isengar places Hopper right under the crook of his grandfather’s arm. I surmise that in later days, after we leave Minas Tirith, the gifts will be placed elsewhere upon the beds--not so much in the open, yet with reverence, considering the wishes of both families.

As for myself, I take out a sealed envelope and slip it into the breast pocket of my father’s waistcoat and pray that he somehow is aware of the contents.

“My dearest Father,

What can I say that would take back all of the hurt that I caused you with my untoward behaviour upon your leaving? I wish there was a way to take away all the inner pain you hid throughout the years. It seems all of your adult life, you dealt with folks who rarely welcomed your experiences, viewing them as ‘unnatural’, and so turned their noses at truly knowing the most wonderful person, gracious hobbit, and loving father that the Shire ever knew. For seven years, I was one of them. I hope that you can forgive me.

All my love,
Your foolhardy son,
Faramir Took”

As we walk back to my father and uncle’s house, the King speaks of our fathers.

“Your father was the first to pass, Kalimas,” he says to my cousin. Kali does not reply, but becomes downcast as he walks beside the King. “He did not suffer,” the King adds, “He died in his sleep. On the other hand,” he now speaks to me and I quiver. We stop walking along the Silent Street for the privacy. “Your father was inconsolable. He wept so when he could not wake his beloved cousin, and scarcely ceased weeping all that day. He would neither eat nor leave his bed. He opened his hand to me and pointed to a scar barely noticeable, saying that they had promised each other long ago that one would not go where the other could not soon follow.”

I remember that scar. Kali and I both glance at one another.

“During the course of the day I thought what to do about my young Knight.” I see a faint smile appear on the King’s countenance. “He may have been 101, but I will forever consider him as such.” His grey eyes cloud over as he continued recounting the deaths of his dear pheriannath. “I sent word to the Queen and stayed the rest of the day and night with Peregrin. We hardly spoke, and wept not a little. I know not how else to explain it, but his eyes…they grew distant, far away it seemed. Pippin eventually dozed, falling deep into an exhausted slumber. I remained in the chair where I kept vigil, hoping that everything would somehow be fine, though I knew with dear Merry gone that I hoped in vain. As the stars prevailed in the night sky, I, too, began to drift off to sleep. In the early morning hours, I was jolted out of my slumber, hearing a distinct sound in Pippin’s breathing. I knew that sound all too well. Not long after, I held his hand while he took his last breath. I do not know how long I sat there, still holding his hand, before I sent for those who would prepare his body for the Hallows. Feeling utterly alone after losing both of my dear companions, I walked out to the balcony as night turned to dawn. While I stood there, the strangest thing occurred, though I shall save that tale for another time.”

I hold Isengar in my arms as he quietly sobs, I whisper soothing words to him--and that the King’s report was something I wanted to hear. I look up at the King, “So, my father succumbed to his grief at the loss of my uncle?”

“That is what I believe,” he answers, “Their souls were so entwined that life for one without the other could not be borne. And if Peregrin had been the first to pass on, I firmly believe that Meriadoc would have done the same. They lie beside one another because they would not be parted in life, and I would not part them in death.”

Just as we begin walking again, the familiar cry of the falcon can be heard not far above us. We turn round, shielding our eyes from the bright sky while the falcon alights upon the gable of the edifice where my father now rests.

Kali smiles. “That’s our falcon, all right. He’s following us again.”

The King’s face becomes pale. “That is the same falcon that I saw upon the balcony after your father died, Faramir. The strange thing that I said that I would speak of later.” The King looks directly at me. “He has a limp, does he not?”

“He does.”

Peregrin the Falcon cries out one last time and then takes flight; flying higher and higher toward the peak of Mount Mindolluin, never to be seen again.

The End