Rating: PG/R
Pairing: Frodo/Faramir
Summary: A bit of quest and post-quest angst peppered with hope.
A/N: I didn't write the Frodo learning something new, BUT, if I come up with an idea (since the Muses were really cranky), I'll write and send it on to you, since you did ask for that, but this was how the Muses played. Hope you understand. Poem inspired by "Tired of Being Sorry" by Ringside.
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.

The first time this happened, it was because of the Ring. Faramir could tell that the Halfling was, for lack of a better word, "damaged." He'd heard about the wee folk and their propensity for joviality. They would spend the days in mirthful, carefree happiness. They were a people who lived simply and were rumored to drink anyone under the table. Faramir laughed to think that these wee Hobbits could even hold their liquor, let alone drink a Man under the table. He hoped that someday he'd have the opportunity to see that realized; a raucous drinking game that lingered into the early hours of the morn. This Halfling, Frodo, dancing gaily on a table, singing off key and kicking up his heels as he tipped the ale back and begged for a fresh mug to accompany the second verse.

Faramir sat with his pouch of mead and took another swig as he watched the Hobbit sleep. Frodo wasn't peacefully slumbering, rather, thrashing, fighting the unseen foe of the dark underworld of shrunk death; the nightmare tearing at the youthful face of the Hobbit. It was the eyes that betrayed the once innocent life. Frodo's eyes, blue as a hidden cache of fresh water, the ethereal blue of some exotic bird, the blue of a newborn before the color of the father's sin can cloud the babe's eye, the blue of a spring sky with no hint of a world marred by the ravages of war. Faramir could see the looming shadow of despair behind the eyes, crouching on all fours like a rabid dog. He shuddered to think of the Hobbit's new sorrow which hung so weightily about his neck. If only he could offer comfort. His heart ached to provide some escape, some peace even if it were just in the space of this stolen moment.

Faramir was sure the Hobbit would wake and see that he was being observed. So he slunk back into the shadowed crevice of a rock and sipped quietly on the warm wine, the numb feeling creeping slowly into his tired muscles. A bit more wine and perhaps he could be drunk enough to shut down the day and find a little bit of sleep himself; a bit of sleep with the Hobbit swimming through his dreams.

Faramir turned towards the wall, willing his mind to quiet. If he was to get any sleep he would have to stop thinking about Frodo. The cave was silent. Many of the men chose to sleep near the entrance, that nagging fear of not being trapped, having an escape route, not feeling that they would be buried in the inhospitable bowels of the earth...too much like the cold reminder of death. The life of a soldier is a thankless existence. No one celebrates them until they are dead. It was as if their death became the justification their birth. A sorry, sad, miserable fate. If that is indeed what propels one into this destiny, one cannot escape. Was he born simply to die at the hands of an enemy which didn't exist until the fullness of his manhood. Stripped of his youth, a stain on his father's blood, living in the shadow of the older brother he adored, yet the brother who received both sons' share of the father's affection.

Faramir refused to let his mind dwell on this. He didn't want to think about his brother anymore, not when he ached for the battle, its end or his own. He didn't fear death any longer. It was as if it were a lover awaiting his return. Many times, too many perhaps, he'd whispered in that strumpet's ear and closed his eyes to the blinding white of that final expanse of road.

More mead, he resolved. More mead to drown out the Hobbit's labored breathing. When he gave in, choosing to sleep in the same chamber and watch over the Halfling, he noticed only the dark outline of one... Sam, snoring.

Faramir searched for Frodo, but could not find him. He gave up the search and let it be. He wound his way through dark passages, ending up in the one place he loved in this emptiness, the lookout. A natural opening carved from the rock face. Faramir didn't post a guard to watch from this vantage point. It was his custom to come here nightly to sleep, regardless of the day's demands. He knew that the men may well need the comfort of a night sky and the glowing orb of the moon, but many were superstitious and as the enemy gained in strength, the sky darkened. No star could be seen. The dark hand of Sauron lay forbiddingly over the land. The moon struggled to find a foothold in the sky, but too soon that would also be a distant memory.

No one sees me in the silver moon, Faramir thought. He was quite alone, a situation that felt familiar. He leaned back into the comfort of the rock, cold arms that cradled his loneliness, and stared out at the welcome fellowship of the night. He reached down, his hand stroking his cock and shut his eyes to the things that would never be in his life. The look of disappointment on his father's face replaced with the pride and admiration of a father's love bestowed with rich reminders. His brother coming home to join him in the fight, or better yet, the defeat of Sauron and the reunion of the brothers. The feel of the Hobbit in his arms.

What he wouldn't give for even one of those things to be realized.

Faramir's hand continue to move, vehemently struggling to give credence to something real, something measurable, something reliable, something substantial. His thoughts were full of the Hobbit. The eyes seeing through his pain, through all the lies he told himself everyday.

The Hobbit would comfort him. Frodo, ah, to say the name aloud. It would be Frodo who would lie beside him, whispering gently. The horrors of war, this soul-less existence would fade. There would be tenderness and kisses, and Faramir could finally say things about his brother, confessions, speak of his love, the dark clouds dissipating. All spoken to this Hobbit, who would be able to understand, who would offer things no other could begin to touch within his hollow heart. That look, that look that Faramir alone was sure he saw in the Hobbit. Frodo would stay with him. Their companionship would be as natural as the breaking of the new day.

But, the new day didn't begin with a sunrise. No herald of the morn would proclaim the hope of another day. There was only darkness and the stark realities of his shortcomings in the eyes of his father. And this Hobbit saw him only as a benevolent enemy. He would be taking that burden, that understanding that might lie in their future, with him on this quest that was most assuredly killing him, bit by bit.

Faramir's hand began moving insistently faster, but the release wouldn't come. He wanted to cry out, "not even this?" He wanted to rail against the night. He stifled a silent anguish, massaging the frustration from his brow. When he opened his eyes, he was startled to find the Hobbit standing there watching him.

Faramir wanted to look away, ashamed that he had ruthlessly imagined the most intimate yearnings for this Halfling with the innocent eyes, the same innocence evidenced in the young. But no shame could force him to turn away.

Frodo didn't move, keeping his gaze fixed on Faramir. Their look lasted in that fantastical long-lost moment, when conversations happen in silence, where declarations are spoken loud enough for the stars to rejoice, when things happen according to the fates.

The Hobbit silently slid next to Faramir, invitation accepted. They slept there for hours, each holding the other, invisible tears brushed aside as their lips tasted the quivering insistence. Faramir's hands explored the small body lying in his arms. The Hobbit guided his hand and Faramir let the imagined happen with nary a word passing between them. Two lovers caught into discovery of skin and cock, to give into the abandon which released them both momentarily from the sorrows they each carried like a token in an inner pocket.

As the sky lightened, the Hobbit pushed up on one arm and said the only acknowledgement of their coupling, "I wish it were spring in the Shire. The smell of the clover and the taste of berries, and you."

In the mid-morning dawn, the Hobbits packed and continued on their way. Faramir knew he'd never see the Hobbit again. A single tear begged for him to offer some sacrifice, but instead he turned his head and steeled his resolve to bury all tenderness in the wake of what must be done.

Springtime in the Shire was a thing of joy. With the shadow over the scarred land banished, the Earth was timidly peeking out again. New grasses and tiny bluebells shyly nodded at the sunshine's coaxing. Frodo looked out the round stained glass window of his study. The morning sunshine streaming in and leaving the colored patterns all over the floorboards like tiny rainbows scattered on the parquet flooring. Color can be the singing of the soul, a hope for the beauty of the day lingering on into the night. Sam had planted out the new flowers and many were beginning to bloom in Frodo's front lawn. He cracked open the latch and the inviting smells of renewal, of spring, drifted in, as he sat down to write in his red book.

He couldn't think of the Darkness or the Ring today. He wanted to remember happier things. Sam knocked, bringing in a vase of daffodils to set on the small table.

"Morning, Mr. Frodo. Rosie sent these with some warm zucchini bread and sweet honey butter." He set the bundle down beside the vase. "Would you like me to fetch you a plate and a fresh cup of tea?"

"Thank you, Sam." He looked down at his book. Today, he would write outside. "No, wait, Sam, that'll be alright. I'll get some later. I'm just on my way out. I'll have some when I return. But thank Rosie for her thoughtfulness. You and she should come for supper tonight."

"Thank you, Mr. Frodo, but she and I are leaving this afternoon for her sister's until the baby comes."

"Of course," Frodo answered.

"I also fetched your mail and there's a letter come for you. It bears the mark of Gondor, the White City. Perhaps it's news from Pippin."

"Yes. Pippin, surely." Frodo said, not thinking of Pippin, but of another. He took the letter and said goodbye to Sam.

He picked up the little green journal that Bilbo gave him years ago. The small pocket-size journal had remained empty all these years. At one time, he'd thought to copy poems or perhaps write his own verse, but all that lay in a past that didn't exist anymore. With a pencil and Pippin's letter in his pocket he left to find a good place to while away the remainders of the morning.

The old oak that he used to love to sleep in, was gone. Many of the old trees were gone; leaving only blackened stumps, or replaced with young saplings. No promise offered with the planting of saplings could still the dull ache in his chest to be in the Shire of his youth. He chose instead to sit beneath the stone bridge and hang his feet in the water. The green journal winked at him; a blank page asking to be filled with verse.

He began with a small drawing, a red bird singing its own song of spring.

red song carry a note along the wind's road carry a message to...

Frodo stopped. What would he write?

carry a message to... my beloved? carry a song of how I miss him? of how he fills my thoughts?

He took out Pippin's letter. That would cheer him up. Pippin might even mention Faramir. Frodo shook his head, trying to be more sensible and reminding himself that Faramir had married and his wife expecting a child. What had happened was as far away now as the White City was from the Shire. All those desperate times were now buried with the dead. He should follow Sam's lead and move on, begin life again. Find reasons to go on. He spent too many days in his study, writing. All those dark shadows creeping in on him, coaxing sleep from him, rain continuing to fall in his heart. And no Faramir. He was alone now. All, that had once meant something to him, was now gone. The Shire had been infected with the reminders of what would never be again. He wanted to look out and see the carefree green, the wildflowers blooming, the birds nesting, but instead he saw the destruction of the Storm. Perhaps he should just focus on the one flower blooming in the midst of all the barren. That one flower was hope.

The letter sat unopened in his hand. Pip would have said, "an adventure begins with a good laugh, a few pints of ale, and a song." Frodo smiled. Pip was right. It was a good place to turn the proverbial corner. He turned the letter over, breaking the wax seal, folding back the edges.

My Dear Frodo,

This letter is long time in coming. I don't know why I haven't written before. Somehow, the thought that such normalcy as writing a letter, sending it on to you, and having you read it, doesn't seem in the realm of reality. After all these Dark times, we all seem to have left our innocence behind. Nothing seems "normal" anymore.

A delegation of Elves came to our city bearing gifts and asking to stay. Many Elves have gone on to the Grey Havens, but I find it a sign of Hope that some chose to stay with us and become part of our city. There are people here who are rebuilding, replanting, starting over. Many new babies will be born this year. I take that as a sign as well. I am told that Sam and Rosie are expecting their first baby this spring.

I write in the hopes that I may see you soon. I don't suppose that you would be interested in traveling here, so I suppose I am writing to ask if you could stand a visitor in that Hobbit hole of yours. Pippin talks often about it and I would like to see it for myself.

Dearest Frodo, I often think of our encounter. You are never far from my thoughts.

He took out the green journal and wrote. He filled page after page about Faramir. He wrote what he remembered, what he felt then, how he felt now. His words proclaiming what he was too timid to say aloud, even to the red bird.

Frodo sent three letters, but no other letter came from Faramir.

Through the weeks, Frodo wrote. The world inside his head became as dark as it had been; the pervading sense of hopelessness, leaching onto the page. Sam didn't return even after the baby was born. He and Rosie stayed in Bywater. The isolation was good for the writing, but Frodo could feel himself sinking into the dark waters of his own memory. He was sinking, without Sam's hand to hold, as he'd had before. And of course, there was no Faramir to rescue him at the very brink of despair.

Spring was slipping by. The rains turned into the thunderstorms of early summer. In the afternoon, Frodo watched as the blue sky turned black. The reminder of those dark days sent him into frenzied panic and he hid in his bed. He waited for the evening, when he came out to eat a little bread and cheese and then crawled back beneath the covers, begging for the morning light to return.

The little green journal was nearly full now. On nights when the nightmares broke his sleep, he'd stay up by the light of several candles and write.

Beneath the silver moon

All I had...
my demons, my despair
til you slid between
then and now
in the hushed shadow
a hidden refuge
the gentle coaxing sang a silent song,
our hunger, our grasping hands,
our secret dance

the moon was our witness,
the stars beat out our rhythm
our wordless conversation, longing for life,
beyond the silver moon

to share, for the thousand
reasons I know,

I long for the gift to restore,
the kiss to soothe,
another stolen moment, a healing calm.

I lay down the sorrows
though, still I carry your sanctuary inside
while I wait,
to place the blind stone in your hand
and beg to have you breathe life
back into my broken heart,
as you once did...

only now,
when I could be next to you,
you are not beside me in the dark
though all is safe and still,
my need, my hope
calls out to you,
in a voice you can no longer hear

the stars cannot sing
no one sees me
but the silver moon.

The sting of the fire burned his face, the dull throb of his damaged hand, the faraway dream of one night with the young prince of Gondor. Frodo was ready for death. Death, that didn't come. He went on, without any of those things. He thought again. He did have one letter. One letter that said all the things he wished he could hear Faramir say. It would have to be enough.

He set out the single plate, fork, knife, and cup. The soup bubbled, the bread still sat cooling. The knock on the door was unexpected. Frodo went to the door, expecting Sam, come to show off the new baby. But it wasn't Sam.

The door stood ajar, as the two embraced.

"Do you have room for a guest?"

"I'll set out another plate and the bed's big enough for two."

The End