A/N: Written for the Waymeet "Shards of Memory" challenge. Thank you to Gryffinjack for the beta. Someday I hope to write a Very Long Story about the Tooks’ visit to Minas Tirith but for more details about young Farry’s frightening adventure there, which is mentioned briefly in this story, please see my ficlet "Found," which appears in my "Postcards From the Shire" series here at Stories of Arda.

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A gentle breeze, unseasonably warm for early November, coursed through the hillside and rustled the few leaves lingering in the high branches of the trees. Beneath one of those trees Pippin now sat, watching as his son explored the nearby garden.

Farry slowly trudged through the leaves of red and orange and gold that covered the ground, circling closer and closer to the great stone but never directly approaching it, though he often glanced at it with sharp, curious eyes.

A brightly colored ribbon lying forgotten in the grass was lifted by the breeze and Pippin watched its brief flight as it soared higher and higher before it was caught on one of the upper branches of a tree. It fluttered once and then went still, a remnant of the annual ceremony that commemorated the defeat of the ruffians, which had been held earlier in the day. Diamond had not been able to make the trip to Bywater this year, having gone to Long Cleeve to stay with her sister who was due to give birth, and Merry and his family had been absent as well, tied up with business in Buckland. But Sam and Rosie had brought their children to the ceremony, though they were long gone now, along with the other guests. It had become Pippin’s habit to remain behind after the crowds had gone, to remember that day in his own way, and with his son.

Every so often Farry crouched to rummage through the leaves, pulling a large and colorful one free from the rest and holding it up with a triumphant grin for his father to see. "Look, Da," he said as he finally approached with his arms nearly overflowing with leaves. "Do you like them?"

"Oh, very much," Pippin said, admiring the leaves. The breeze had calmed and Pippin watched as his son spread the leaves out on the ground, arranging them by color in neat little stacks. "You have quite a collection there, Farry. What are you going to do with all of them?"

"I don't know yet," Farry admitted as he placed the last orange leaf onto its appropriate pile and dusted his hands off on his breeches. His task now complete, Farry flopped onto his father's lap with a plop.

"Oof," Pippin grumbled good-naturedly. "You have an entire hill to sit on, my lad, and you choose my lap?"

“Well,” Farry grinned, “you’re more comfortable, Da.” He snuggled close so that he was curled up against his father, his head resting against his shoulder.

Pippin gently combed his fingers through his son's soft curls and sneaked a glance at his face, smiling as Farry’s expression turned pensive. They were so similar, both in appearance and in personality, that it always amused Pippin to see Farry during these quiet moments. Usually his son was extremely energetic, cheerful and playful, just as Pippin himself had been as a child.

Like his father, Farry never brooded for long and his brief moments of contemplation always resulted in a barrage of questions. Now he turned to Pippin with an inquisitive gleam in his eyes. “Da, who decided to grow a garden here? Was it you, because you’re the Thain?”

Pippin smiled a little and shook his head. “No, Farry. I wasn’t the Thain when this garden was planted; Grandfather was, but he didn’t order anyone to grow a garden here, either. It was Sam who suggested that a garden would make this a pleasant place once again, and many of us agreed that it would be a nice way to remember the hobbits who fell that day.”

Farry tilted his head and studied his father closely, almost shrewdly. “But remembering them makes you sad,” he said.

Startled by how old and wise his son's eyes looked, Pippin nodded. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It does make me very sad. But it also makes me very proud, not just of those hobbits who sacrificed their lives that day, but of all the hobbits who fought for our way of life. It is important for me to remember, so that I may then teach you and help you understand what happened that day."

"Is that why we always stay after the others have left, and read the names on the stone together?" Farry asked.

Pippin smiled. “Well, we do that now that you’re older and know your letters. When you were very small, it was enough just to bring you to the ceremony each year, even though you didn't understand its significance. But now that you're older, Farry, you do understand, and it's even more important that we come here every year so that you won’t forget.”

Farry shifted, resting his head against his father's shoulder once more. "Was it worse than the other battles you fought in, Da?” he asked, his voice apprehensive. He rarely asked about the war, not liking how grave his father’s face became when he spoke about battles and preferring instead to hear stories about the mysterious creatures his father had seen and the friends he had made, especially the Lord Faramir, whose name he was proud to share. Farry had met the tall, kind Man several years ago during a long visit to Minas Tirith and regarded him as quite the hero, especially since Lord Faramir had been the one to find him when Farry had wandered off and become hopelessly lost in the City.

For a long while Pippin was silent, his brow deeply furrowed as he sorted through his thoughts, memories that had not dulled with the passage of time no matter how often he wished to forget some of them.

"I don't know if it was worse," he finally admitted. "It was certainly smaller than others I had fought in and we, as hobbits, knew the land so well that it gave us an advantage. But it was terrible to come home and see what had happened while we were away, and to realize that there was at least one more battle for us to fight, one that would involve our families. We feared what would happen to them if we lost." Pippin’s arms tightened protectively around his son as he recalled how worried he had been to watch his father march South to fight a band of ruffians there, and how regretful he had been to leave his mother and sisters behind at the Great Smials, wondering if he would be lucky enough to come home to them a second time.

“I was the only hobbit inside Minas Tirith during the siege, and again at the great battle before the Black Gate,” Pippin continued. “Even though I wanted to do my part and represent the Shire, it was still very difficult to be alone. At Bywater, I was surrounded by hobbits, and Merry fought right beside me.”

“You and Uncle Merry were the Captains,” Farry said proudly, remembering what his father had taught him.

“We were,” Pippin replied. “But many other hobbits helped to save the Shire that day. Sam was there as well, and even those who didn’t fight served an important purpose. Frodo never drew his sword, but he made certain that the hobbits behaved honorably and that none of the ruffians that surrendered were killed.” Pippin paused for a moment to glance to the West, and Farry recognized his sad, reflective, yet joyous expression as the one that always crept across his father’s face whenever he remembered Frodo.

Once he had collected his thoughts, Pippin spoke again. “It is not a day that I remember happily, but it is a day I hope never to forget…and I’m so grateful that I am able to share my memories with you.”

“I don’t want to forget what happened either,” Farry said earnestly.

Pippin kissed his son’s forehead. “I hope you never do and that someday you will bring your own children here and share the story with them.”

“I will, Da,” Farry said. “I promise.” He glanced down at the leaves he had collected and then back up at his father with wide, hopeful eyes. “Do you think it will be all right if we leave these by the stone, Da? Since we don’t have any flowers to leave for the hobbits that died?”

“I think that is a lovely thought, Farry,” Pippin said with a proud smile. “These leaves are nearly as colorful as flowers. Here, let me help you, my lad.”

Together, Pippin and Farry gathered the leaves and stood, and together they arranged the best and most colorful ones around the great stone, securing them in place with small rocks that they found nearby. Then father and son sat together for a while longer, reading the names and remembering.