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Faramir glanced down at the small figure, perched rather tensely upon the palomino pony.
“Relax, Master Baggins. The pony senses your unease and will become skittish.”
Eyes reflecting the same clean deep blue of the summer sky above them glanced up at him and Faramir sensed a storm gathering.
“It has been some time since I last sat a pony and my most recent efforts do not carry very pleasant memories.” The small pointed jaw jutted forward, fine lips narrowed to a thin hard line as he challenged the tall man.
“My apologies. I had forgotten, for a moment.” Even as he spoke, Faramir cringed. This small person had saved the whole of Middle-earth from Sauron’s reign and Faramir had just told him that his actions were not worth his remembrance. For a moment the blue eyes intensified, but then Frodo paled and the huge eyes faded to the softness of a periwinkle petal. The small face ducked, turning back to study the landscape around them, and Frodo finally settled into the saddle and loosened his grip upon the reins.
Faramir had expected the hobbit to berate him, but this reaction confused him, causing the further apology that was sitting so close upon his lips to disintegrate before it could be uttered, and leaving an uneasy silence between them. The more he saw of the Ringbearer, the more he found him difficult to understand.
Frodo was like the other hobbits and yet unlike. The other three would talk for hours but Frodo was, more often than not, sitting back listening rather than joining in. To be sure, there were times when his merry laugh rang out or his soft words wove among the others. And it was at those times that Faramir saw hints of the Frodo Baggins that may once have been. All the hobbits had changed, or so Gandalf had said, but the wizard had hinted that Frodo had gone through more than physical hardship. Faramir had felt a brief touch of that accursed Ring upon his mind and could not begin to imagine what it had done to Frodo over all those months.
His concern for Frodo’s health had been what had prompted him to suggest this picnic to the hobbit. Whilst all the other hobbits were regaining their pink cheeks and round bellies, Frodo was almost as pale as the gleaming walls of the city, his body as thin as the tall spires that climbed the sky. Long used to the green scented Ithilien, Faramir too longed to leave hard stone and enclosing battlement.
Hobbits seemed such frail creatures to carry the burden that Frodo Baggins had shouldered. They were a strange people that had no care for wealth or position and gave more honour to a well-roasted joint than to a gem-encrusted crown. Faramir could not understand why they would have become so deeply involved in the great deeds of battle and politics. And yet all four had done so, even taking up arms at need. Those small hands had seemed more fitting to the raising of a pie than the raising of a sword. Their voices were more familiar with tavern song than battle cry, or carefully worded discourse with the great and wise.
The two were beyond the fields of the Pelennor now and the air was growing sweeter. Faramir had wished that there had been some other way to lead his companion and had fretted that the destruction that they were forced to ride through would be too much for the hobbit. All the bodies had been removed long ago, but the ground was scarred and pitted and great mounds had been raised over the ashes of the enemy dead.
Saying nothing, Frodo had drawn his pony as close to Faramir’s horse as possible and his knuckles had whitened as they clutched at the reins. The man had not dared to speak, knowing that such a landscape would be all too reminiscent of that which the Ringbearer had encountered in Mordor. Faramir could only lead them through the wounded land as quickly as possible.
The ranger of Ithilien had wondered at the strength of that small body when they had first met. Frodo had withstood a long march and intense interrogation and his body had only betrayed him at the last moment. Faramir remembered well how light that body had felt in his arms as he had carried him to bed, as though all beneath the skin had been burned away.
Faramir led them South now, through whispering grasslands untrammelled by battle, towards a small valley that he and Boromir had shared long ago, before the darkness had overtaken their land and lives. The rock here was soft and one of the tributaries of the Anduin had carved a deep channel over aeons. Nature had colonised this cool, shady place in the otherwise arid and flat landscape and trees grew tall and close, their roots ruffed with fern, all flourishing in the damp air.
The first time Boromir had shown his younger brother this place he had insisted that Faramir wear a blindfold and had not let him remove it until they stood in the cool green darkness. Faramir remembered thinking that he must have stumbled upon some ancient hidden kingdom of the elves. The new Prince of Ithilien had decided against a blindfold upon this occasion, mindful of the last time that he had used one upon the hobbit, and so it was that Frodo had time to see the valley unfold before them as they travelled downward.
The trails here were narrow, weaving between tree and rock step, and they were forced to travel single file, Faramir leading the way. Several times he glanced behind, to check that Frodo was coping with the rough terrain but the hobbit appeared to be managing well, even though he seemed lost in thought. Perhaps this valley reminded him of Rivendell. Faramir had heard the others talk of that valley and wished, not for the first time, that it had been he that had been sent to consult Elrond. Would history have taken a different turn? He put such thoughts behind him. Boromir was gone and no amount of dreaming would bring him back. Their father had warned him often of the folly of dreams. Strange that it was one of Faramir’s dreams that had sent his brother to his fate.
Finally, the man led them aside, to a small glade by a stream. There he dismounted and began to unsaddle his steed. Frodo blinked and looked about him, as though seeing the place for the first time, climbing stiffly from the saddle and Faramir turned back to his horse, hiding a smile. He knew exactly which muscles were sore and pitied the small rider. The first time back in the saddle after a long absence made one rediscover forgotten sets of muscles.
Frodo uttered no complaint however and when Faramir turned back, he was standing by the stream, his eyes closed and his head tilted, listening to birdsong and water. Faramir watched as the small figure took a deep breath and curled his toes into the loam, and the man suddenly saw . . . a hobbit.
The greens and browns of the clothing hobbit’s habitually wore blended well into the colours of earth and foliage. They were so small that it was easy for a man to overlook them, for men strove always to search the horizon and hobbits were a part of the earth. No boots separated them from the soil and those broad feet seemed to anchor them in the land. Standing there, Faramir held his breath, imagining for a moment that Frodo had sprung from the ground like some strong seedling.
Frodo Baggins was no frail child to be protected and hobbits were no afterthought of the Creator. Hobbits were a living symbol of Middle-earth. They may not hear the music of their Creator, like elves, but they were tied to it and their bare feet touched the ebb and flow of life within the soil and plants. Theirs was a relationship of intimacy and love that flowed through veins, like a plant drawing up water from the earth. Hobbits did not walk above the land, like elves, or bury beneath it, like dwarves. They did not walk on it, like men. Hobbits were a part of the land. They moved within it.
And Faramir at last saw why four small hobbits had left their quiet fields and country life to come against the might of Mordor . . . and knew why they had succeeded.
THE END