Chapter Two: From Potatoes to Turtles

When Merry returned with supper, Pippin was still off soaking in his bath but Faramir greeted the arrival enthusiastically.

"Oh, Uncle Merry, are those sausages?!"

"Yes," Merry laughed, setting the tray on the table and pointing out various items with a fork, "and cheese and bread—salty-dough—and butter and apples and boiled cabbage and potato-leek soup. That’s a very special soup, you know. You can only make it if you find a potato that’s sprung a leak."

Faramir obliged him with a polite smile, but his attention was clearly focused on the food rather than Merry’s attempts at humor. "Um," he started uncomfortably, staring at the tray before him, "Do we have to wait until Da’s ready to eat?"

"Not at all," Merry said and promptly began filling a plate for the little Took, "and if he comes out and finds that there’s nothing left to eat then that’s just too bad for him and he’ll have to get his own. In fact, that seems to be a quite likely thing to happen, as I feel so hungry I could eat eight trays like this."

Faramir grinned. "I could eat ten."

"Really? Perhaps I could eat fourteen then."

"No, I don’t think so."

"You don’t think I could?"

"No. Maybe thirteen. Maybe."

"Thirteen but not fourteen, eh?"

"Yes."

"Mmm," Merry nodded and buttered his salty-dough bread, "I think you might be right. I wouldn’t want to look greedy, after all."

The two ate in companionable silence for a while and Merry watched Faramir thoughtfully. The lad had nice table manners (no doubt courtesy of Diamond or Eglantine, as Pippin had never had them) but it didn’t disguise the eagerness with which he ate and the fact that this was the first real meal he’d been given all day. Merry wasn’t sure why this of all things bothered him so much. Faramir certainly was not starving or lacking for affection—he was the apple of his father’s eye and much doted upon, but when it came to what Merry felt were the fundamentals of being a parent—making sure your lad got proper and regular meals, bedtimes, baths, schooling, discipline—well, he thought that Pippin was far too cavalier in his handling of this.

‘It’s just because he doesn’t realize how lucky he is,’ Merry thought to himself. Lucky in that Faramir was Faramir: a clean child who took his baths and washed his hands without ever being told to, a smart child who taught himself to read before his parents had even thought of getting him a tutor and a quiet child who stayed out of trouble and seldom raised a complaint, even if he’d been dragged half-way across the Shire with nothing but a couple of apples to tide him over.

That was the problem. Pippin took for granted that Faramir was an exceptional lad—so much so that he was hardly allowing Faramir to be a lad. Like with bedtimes. There had been quite a few occasions when Merry had been visiting at the Smials and the adults had stayed up talking long into the night, reminiscing by the fire and when at last they headed to bed, a light would still be burning in the study or the play room and when Merry peeked in to investigate, he’d find young Faramir, wide awake and reading, or playing alone with his toys. Now, Merry couldn’t put his finger on just why exactly he felt this was an inadvisable thing, but, well, it just didn’t seem healthy somehow for a little lad to be raised with so few restrictions.

‘But it’s none of your business, Merry Brandybuck,’ he told himself firmly, ‘and Faramir’s such a good lad, maybe Pippin does know what he’s doing after all. How would you know anyway?’ And, yet…

"Faramir?"

The lad looked up, an apple poised in one hand and a skewered sausage in the other. "Yes?"

"You ought to say something to your father when he forgets to feed you."

Faramir blushed. "Oh, it’s all right."

"No it isn’t. You shouldn’t be making jam and bread suppers for yourself at your age. That’s your Da and Mum’s job."

"But my Da is Thain. He’s quite busy, you know."

"Yes," Merry smiled wryly, "I realize he’s dreadfully important."

"He is. He’s Thain and the Took and, and well that makes him twice as busy as…well, as other lads’ fathers. I…I…really, I don’t mind." Faramir seemed embarrassed and bowed his head slightly so that he was no longer making eye contact with Merry. His ears flamed all the way to the tips.

Merry tried to soften his voice at the sight of this, though it made him no less determined to say his piece. "Farry, I think he’d be rather upset if he heard you say that. You’re far more important to him than any silly job or title."

Faramir nodded morosely.

Merry sighed. "Promise me something, all right, Faragrin?"

At the gentle use of his nickname, Faramir offered a small smile, Pippin’s bow-shaped lips heaped with far more patience than the elder Took had ever possessed.

"You promise me that the next time supper or dinner time rolls around and you haven’t been sat down with a plate before you, I don’t care how busy your Da is with his work or how wrapped up your Mum is in her sewing or chatting with Auntie Pearl or whoever, you go up and you tug on his sleeve and you say: ‘Da, I’m hungry and you need to make me supper.’ Or you tell your mum: ‘Mumsy, I’m a growing lad and it’s time to eat.’ You got that?"

Faramir nodded and then giggled.

Merry smiled. "What do you find so amusing?"

"Mum hates Auntie Pearl."

"Does she?"

"Yes," Faramir nodded and then shrugged and took a bite of his sausage and spoke around the mouthful, "But then, Mum doesn’t like anyone. Except Da."

Merry laughed but said no more. He was not going to touch that subject with a ten foot pole.

~~~~

Faramir lay awake that night, watching the fire from his place on the big bed and thinking. He wasn’t exactly worried about the coming day, but he wished he knew what to expect. Da had said they would be traveling to Stock but he hadn’t said what they would do there. They always stopped in Stock whenever they were headed to Buckland and they would eat at the familiar inn there and Da would have an ale and Faramir would be allowed a sip and there was a serving lass there who knew them and always smiled and cheered Faramir on when he and his Da played darts after their meal. But this time, Faramir didn’t think that would happen. He didn’t think they would go to the Stockbrook Inn or see the pretty serving lass with bright red curls. And for some reason, this thought made him uneasy.

He sighed and turned over to look at his Da, who was sleeping to one side of him (Uncle Merry was on the other). He studied his father’s face, the turned-down line of his lips, the shiny skin of his closed eyelids. He knew something had happened in Hobbiton. He had heard the grown-ups talking about it before he left and Auntie Pervinca hadn’t wanted his Da to take him.

"You’re jumping into more trouble than what you’re escaping, Pip," she’d told him.

But she’d given Faramir a quick kiss goodbye anyway and told him to be good and he had done his best. But his Da was worried about him. He asked him all the way whether he was feeling too hot or too cold, sleepy or chilly, whether he had spent an awful lot of time in the same room with Auntie Pervinca’s daughters after they got sick.

Faramir didn’t think he was sick. Anyway, he didn’t feel sick. He mainly felt bored. He wished he’d thought to bring some books with, or a game, or something. But they’d left Whitwell in such a hurry and Faramir had been more concerned at the time with the wild look upon his Da’s face, wild with worry…and fear.

Faramir swallowed hard and turned over again, this time facing Uncle Merry.

He’d felt better when Uncle Merry showed up. So had his Da, he could tell. Uncle Merry always seemed bright and confident and certain of what to do next. And he never talked to Faramir as if he were too young to understand things unless he phrased them childishly. Faramir liked that a lot. He also liked the way his father changed when Uncle Merry was around, becoming more relaxed and silly, as if any responsibility had been handed over and he was allowed to be nothing but the younger cousin again, carefree and immature.

Uncle Merry must have felt the weight of Faramir’s eyes on him, for he woke slowly and smiled at him.

"Can’t sleep, Faragrin?"

"No."

"Are you chilly?"

"A bit."

"Well, come here then." He lifted his arm and picked up the blankets, motioning for him to move closer.

Faramir scooted over and burrowed himself contentedly against him. Uncle Merry felt exactly how Faramir thought fathers ought to feel: soft and round and friendly and pipe-smelling. While Faramir’s father was friendly and pipe-smelling, he certainly wasn’t soft and round.

And sometimes, sometimes late at night when Faramir couldn’t sleep, that seemed like the most terrible crime of all.

~~~~

Faramir awoke to the sound of Merry and Pippin talking in hushed voices. He opened his eyes and sat up just in time to see Merry throw on his cloak and head out the door.

"Why did Uncle Merry leave?!" Faramir demanded, suddenly wide awake and struggling to get out from beneath the covers.

"He’s only gone to check on the ponies. And maybe find us some tea if he’s worth his salt," Pippin yawned and stretched. He was sitting at the table but still appeared half asleep.

Faramir made his way across the small room and stood beside his father’s chair. "So he’s coming back?"

"I certainly hope so."

The look on Faramir’s face was heart-breaking so Pippin smiled and brushed the curls off the lad’s forehead gently. "I’m only teasing. Of course he’ll come back. You take your old Da too seriously."

Faramir nodded and crawled into his father’s lap. "Are we going to Brandy Hall after Stock?"

Pippin put an arm around him to hold him more securely. "We might."

"Might?"

"Well, we might go to Crickhollow instead. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?"

Faramir scrunched his nose. The house at Crickhollow stayed locked up and empty most of the time. He’d been there on holiday with his father and Uncle Merry before and the place always smelled musty and un-used, like the rooms at the Smials where the Old Took had lived. Faramir didn’t like those rooms either.

"Are we going to play darts with Peony?" he asked hopefully.

"Peony?" Pippin cocked his head, confused, then remembered the serving lass, "Ah, yes, Peony. Em, no, Farry, I don’t think we’ll be able to see her this time. Next time, though. I promise."

Faramir sighed. Things were not looking up.

"How’re you feeling?" Pippin asked then, eager to change the subject.

"Sleepy."

Pippin laughed lightly. "It is quite early, I’m afraid. But Merry thinks we should be off before the sun’s up. Unfortunately, I think he’s right."

They sat quiet for a while, just the two of them, each thinking their own thoughts of what was going to happen next, each considering the possibilities of this uncertain future to come. After a bit, though, Faramir tucked the thoughts away and turned his focus to more immediate matters.

"Da?"

"Yes?"

"I’m hungry."

Pippin was surprised, though he couldn’t put his fingers on exactly why. It seemed in itself a reasonable enough statement. "Are you?"

"Yes."

"Well…well, all right, then, let’s see what we’ve got left from last night’s feast here." He leaned forward and began rummaging through the dishes, lifting off lids and inspecting with his nose.

"Ah. Looks like leaky potato soup. Cold, though. I suppose we could heat it up."

Faramir turned to face him and their noses bumped tips. Faramir giggled. "Make the soup, Da."

"All right." Pippin set Faramir on his own chair, then stood and took the soup to the hearth. "If it’s soup my lad wants…" He paused, scratched his head at the odd set-up of the fireplace, then knelt and began to heat the pot as best he could, "Then it’s soup you shall get."

Faramir smiled with contentment, laid his head upon the arm of the chair and watched his father make breakfast.

~~~~

Merry returned from the stables to find Faramir finishing his breakfast and Pippin sound asleep once more on the bed. Merry sighed impatiently and yanked his cousin up-right by the collar.

"Up, Pip. Now."

"Oh, Merry, certainly the ponies can wait. It’s not even yet light. Hobbits are not creatures of the night."

"Don’t make me pinch your ears, Pippin. We’ve got to be off and we have to do it now."

Pippin made a face and rubbed his untouched ears as he began to drag himself from the bed.

"Are you ready to go, Faragrin?" Merry asked, crossing his arms as Pippin stumbled about, gathering their few belongings.

"Oh, yes, I suppose."

"Good," Merry smiled, "I’m sorry that we must hurry so, but we’re to meet a friend in Stock."

"Who’s that?"

"Opal Frogmorton. Do you know her?"

Faramir considered it for a moment, then shook his head.

"Well, she is expecting our arrival and I’m anxious not to make her wait. Is that all right by you?"

The lad frowned and set his spoon down neatly on the saucer. "If it’s all right by Da…"

"It’s all right by Da," Pippin muttered impatiently as he re-buttoned his weskit, having done it incorrectly the first time and ended up with an extra button and an uneven line at the end. "There," he sighed with relief, inspecting his reflection in the still-black window of the room. "Come on, then, Farry. Merry? Are you ready to go yet?"

"Watch your nose, Peregrin." Merry replied curtly and reached out, pulling his cousin’s hood down roughly. "There may be other travelers about at this time and I don’t want them recognizing you."

"You too, dear," he nodded at the lad, "I’m sorry."

Merry caught just a glimpse of Faramir’s smile as he lifted the hood of his own cloak and shadowed his face. "I don’t mind. It’s better than another old day at the Smials."

~~~~

Merry successfully lead his two cloaked charges through the back hallways of the inn and out to the stables where they were pleased to find he had acquired a small carriage with curtained windows. Faramir was delighted that he would no longer have to ride scrunched up in the stuffiness beneath his father’s cloak and Pippin breathed a sigh or relief for his poor back, which had become dreadfully achy being bent so the previous days.

It was still a tense passage getting out of Frogmorton without being noticed overly much although the sight of Master Meriadoc driving a carriage not of Brandy Hall was certainly going to arouse a bit of gossip come afternoon. The three remained completely silent until they had passed the far-reaches of the town. As they headed south into the countryside, however, their mood lifted and they began to relax at last.

Merry drove the ponies placidly and watched the sunrise idly around them, turning the autumn grasses a glorious range of golds and green. Unable to hear the conversation inside the carriage due to the steady clopping of the ponies’ hooves, he allowed his thoughts to drift into their own private direction.

He would send word back to Estella, once they reached Stock, he decided. He would have to, no matter what the outcome of Opal Frogmorton’s examination. If the lad didn’t have the pox, he would have to send word to expect them and to make ready accommodations. If the lad did…well, then Merry wouldn’t be returning to the Hall. He would have to join them in Crickhollow and wait out the sickness, for better or for ill. He certainly could not bring his own exposure to the pox with him back to the Hall, not back to Estella and not at a time like this.

A time like this. Oh, how he had been loath to leave when Pippin’s message had arrived at the Hall. ‘Not now,’ he had thought irritably, ‘any other time, Pip, I could deal with your mess, but not now.’ And Estella had been angry as he knew she would be, and rightly so, but she had allowed him to go, as he also knew she would. She was a good lass, a fine one, the only one he could ever imagine himself loving so. And she was understanding. She had finally given her blessing for him to go, only out of care for the lad and sympathy for Pippin’s predicament, he knew. But she trusted him to make things right and take care of it all. As everyone did. Meriadoc the Magnificent, Master of Buckland. Learned of all things wise and Knower always of exactly ‘what is to be done.’

He sighed and sat back in the hard wooden seat of the carriage and twitched the ponies in a slightly more eastward direction.

Sometimes it was awfully difficult to try and live up to ‘magnificent.’